Gazing back at the Cochin skyline on top of a boat from the wide-mouthed harbour is like being in a dream. The one you didn’t have yourself but perhaps someone like Shakespeare had and forgot to remember when he woke up. The droplets of the drizzle that falls from the overcast heavy sky join the vastness of the sea beneath in silent concentric circles. And the far away buildings, young and old alike, look hazy and tired from constantly gazing at vessels that float in and out the harbour. A boat passes you slowly propelled by the grumpy motor. Its through these waters, the sky and earth all stories happen. Made and unmade.No one owns a story, neither does a story own anyone. The easterly winds carry it all away to a forgettable distance of yesterdays leaving only today. So all stories only belong to today. Even a Shakespeare, therefore, cannot remember them tomorrow.
