Evenings in Dillibazar came with one intent and one intent only: to remind me of every little loss I had to endure. Like ink spilling onto white parchment-staining , seeping in-the evenings pierced into my heart with swords of that strange sadness and drowned me in melancholy.
I had a habit of drinking tea at dusk. In a rather spacious room that I darkened by pulling those heavy curtains shut together, I used to make tea while my roommate watched me do it. Her eyes followed me around the room while I talked of my home far away, of my habits that had followed me all the way to this sad city. We had a routine, almost-every evening looked the same.
I carefully crush the cloves and ginger and set the water to boil. My roommate sits up on her bed, knees hugged to her chest, her gaze distant. Both consumed by our own sorrows, we make small talk, sometimes drifting to faraway lands-places that we wish we could escape to. “Do you want a lot of milk?”, I ask her as she nods, her forehead scrunching as she recalls the bitter taste of the tea that I usually make.
We head out, searching for the only semblance of freedom that we could have in the hostel; the terrace. Leaning onto a wall, she has that faraway look in her eyes again, but I choose not to ask her. My eyes gaze off, seeking some sort of comfort in the setting sun. There is a sky tower in the distance, the colorful lights emerge, lively and free, skipping and dancing, coloring the clouds, and painting the skies, and I smile despite myself. I watch the cars, their amber lights glinting in the evening air , only deepening the sadness. She sighs, putting down her mug, the tea untouched. “It’s still too strong”, she says and I smile. “One of these days, I’ll make it right for you.”, I tell her and she looks at me with her eyes full of emotions I can\'t name. I look away-my heart hammering, I shift away -scared she’d hear.
Something shifts. The sun vanishes behind a dense black cloud, and there is a heaviness in the air that settles in our chest. The mug—hers, not mine, loaned after I’d shattered my own—wobbles in my grip.Cracks spiderwebb under its glaze, but I cling to it, as if my hands could keep anything whole, clinging to the belief I could.
“It’s getting cold, maybe we should go back to our rooms.”, she says , this time her voice is quiet, heavy, as if along with the sun, her spirit has said adieu. I nod, raising the cup to my lips to take the first sip.
I realise it\'s too late.The tea has gone cold.