* the friend *

Amid the constant chattering of the rain, alone in the impeccable black of the night, he was walking hastily down the road. The mild breeze of the evening had succumbed to the violent air currents in the night. Nevertheless, he kept wading through the restraining tumult.
It was 2 years ago that he had embarked on his journey to pursue his dream of becoming a writer, to personify those lifeless words in his heart to peer at this subtle world.
He would spend hours carving stories out of the world. Sometimes, a gazillion of thoughts would assail his mind and he would lose his story in the delirium and sometimes mere endings to a story would flag off a quarrel. Yes, there were stories on his papers depigmented of their endings.
But this did not deter him; it did not portend of any despondence in him. He would ceaselessly fumble with the blending of words to embellish every sentence, to stuff every sentence with the marrow of life, the feelings. For two years, he reaped stories and etched parts of his incomplete tales together.

-- The road had come to an end. His watch was poised at 11.30 pm. Drenched completely; his jacket was dripping the rain water it had gulped. The street light above him needed urgent repair. Ironically, it colored the night even more raven. He was standing in front of his old friend’s house, a friend who was more than a brother for him, a friend who was both a benign critic and an ardent applauder and a friend who was the ubiquitous observer of every story scribbled onto those pages.

He again looked at his watch. It was late.

Nevertheless, he rang the bell.