[ WP ] Every person you pass on the street reminds you of a certain loved one in a different way .


 
 I remember it starting like any other commute, the air was cold and the fog hung heavily in Soho as I plunged from the station to the streets. It was a dense fog that felt dirty, heavier than the sea fog I had known as a child and the usual masses seemed more uniform because of it. 
 
 I ’ m tired…. And I ’ ve made this trip now too many times to count. Seven days a week since I arrived here, in this city a million miles from what I used to dream of. 
 
 Amongst an ocean of people, the pull of the tide slow and steady I sailed forward sleepily and further from the warmth I craved. I remember seeing my breathe that morning as I walked and thinking any promise of an early spring seemed out of the question. 
 
 Suddenly I saw a light, a beacon so unmistakable amongst the crowd that I dropped my tea and stopped dead in my tracks causing a small pile up. On the other side of the road, walking in the opposite direction was a face I hadn ’ t seen in 20 years. 
 
 I was in a humid classroom, head propped between my hands, somewhere between sleep and a daze. A bead of sweet ran down my neck. Two desks in front of me and in the row to the left sat Saanvi, with long hair finer than silk down to her waste. I smelt her clean perfume, subtle and like a gentle breeze as I dreamed once more of her wrapped in my arms and slowly falling into slumber. Too long I have dreamt and desired with no action, I wanted to extend my arm and reach out, no throw my desk aside and kiss her like a man free of fear or anxiety, a free man with nothing to lose and the gods ’ entire world to gain! 
 
 But I sat. I sat still with heavy limbs and a long sigh, starring, waiting and over the year ’ s course of english lessons the only words we shared were lines of written dialogue from a sheet as we practiced for class. 
 
 My heart sank as I realised it wasn ’ t her, she was of similar complexion, but the girl walking across the street was not the same not Saanvi, just another face amongst the crowds and gone as suddenly as she had appeared. 
 
 I was left hollow and small. Theres more than 6 million people in Greater London and there were around a thousand on that street alone but the busy, bustling world felt for that moment still. felt stranded on an island with Saanvi stretched far over the horizon. 
 
 I moved on, a new sense of purpose filled me and was soon out breathe as I rushed through the streets, hungry for one thing. It ’ s funny memory, but after years of slow erosion and dampening I ’ d lost all sense of myself, who I had been before the move, and who I ’ d left behind. Saanvi was my match and my kindling and now I saw those faces I ’ d shelved out of cold necessity once again clear as day. 
 
 The cry of a child as a pram passed by was all it took, and again I found I was huddled in a circle as my grandmother held my sister who was born earlier that day. A slight smile in my direction, with her warm brown eyes that told a truth of simple love, reminded me that I was but a part of a larger family. 
 
 And My nose! Reborn from depression and stagnation sipped at the sweet burst of tobacco as i passed a fat and hunched young man, cigarette in one hand and coffee in the other. My father, the complete opposite in size and stature was a true man who stood proud and strong. And yet I was once more in his smokey garage as he taught me fix a motorcycle from spare parts and scrap and listening to his stories of business men in Mumbai. 
 
 I was caught off guard as an elderly woman ’ s scarf in front me of was blown in a sudden gust of wind right into my hands. 
 
 I wasn ’ t ready for the lull the smooth fabric brought as I felt like a child for the third time in as many minutes. The woman asked for her scarf back but stunned I said nothing, lingering for a few seconds too long with the cashmere between my fingers. I passed it back without a word and continued, I remember holding back this particular memory at this point as my eyes began to water in the wind. 
 
 I worked like a machine throughout the day and like a dam, held back the great flow of memories that scarf had brought. Without realising it, I was cleaning faster and more thoroughly than I had in weeks attracting a tip as well as my pay package that afternoon. 
 
 It was only that evening, as I placed paper notes within an envelope ready for international postage, that the dam finally burst and I thought of the elderly woman, wrapped in cashmere to whom these notes would provide ten times the value in India that they could in London. As the floodgates opened I heaved and sobbed like a child as I thought of my mother, a distant light like a star above the sea.
