There are muddy foot marks on the road as he has walked a lonesome walk. The raindrops will gently slip by his ignored wrinkles. He carries an orange umbrella, an umbrella of a colour which clashes with the gloomy monsoon, almost questioning it’s existence. As he opens the umbrella, he blocks much of the water, hiding his tired and experienced body from any who might stop and ask. No one does, as headlights of cars appear and disappear one after the other. Some slow down at the sight of orange held by a tiny figure in the shadows, but moving ahead is more important than a silly man who will probably wake up with a cold tomorrow.

When salt and rainwater mix, it demands to be written about. He has flashes of all he has done and what he has not, his ups and his downs, the people he has met, the games he has played in the rain and the hands that have held his and left. He would go back if he could, but memories are as fresh and helpful to bring back pangs of joy and sorrow. With a childish impulse he takes a plunge, into a lonesome puddle. Splashing water all around him, a sight for all to see, a lonely old man dancing in the rain.

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