"Not articulate. That takes effort. Spontaneous. Not like I would write a story. In that case I need to think. But I don't want to think. Just write." He felt his throat had gone dry. He took a large sip from his scotch gulped it down and shook his head as a shiver raw down his guts.
"And I want hope."
"Hope for what?"
"I don't know that either." He stopped and looked at the old man. His eyes were as intent and attentive as ever. And there was a hint of a gleam at the corners. Did he think Siddharth was a lunatic?
"You scare me." "What are you scared of? Life? This city? People?" the old man was talking again. He stared out of the window. The silhouette of a tree with fresh green leaves which looked hauntingly beautiful in the yellow light of the sodium vapour lamps. And through the leaves and a wide gap between two high rise buildings the moonlit night sky presented itself in a canvas. The old man stared at the sky for a few silent moments. Even the voices of the bar and the music of the band playing some strange melody at the far end had faded down into a quiet hum. And then he continued. "Look at the sky. The colour. It is blue. The clear milky blue of a spring night. Ain't it pretty?" "I don't know, I can't distinguish between good and bad. What's pretty and what's ugly." He took another sip from his whisky. His tone had suddenly become bitter. "They say the buildings are ugly. Look at them. Grey, stained and broken plaster. Pigeon shit and beehives. And the laundry on the railings. On sagging lines across those balconies. I don't know if that's ugly. Or if the spring sky is pretty. I never really look at the sky." Siddharth paused. And sighed. He wondered what he was saying. He had never talked so much for ages
