There are more cats in Alexa’s backyard.
They are all very dusty, the whites turned sooty, the gingers turned grey. None as beautiful as Bastiao in the tree, but beautiful nonetheless. Because of Bastiao, I get to meet Alexa and her husband Manuel, who is blind and plays the violin like a particularly haunting dream. I have scrambled eggs in their balcony and talk about Goa, where Alexa and Manuel’s ancestors lie buried.
Needless to say, I am very late in getting back to work. But there is a happy buzz in my heart that will surely turn into a small blue thing in Ruth’s palm. Bead, maybe. Or bauble or marble or egg.
- Amruta Patil