Rain and rain and rain and the familiar sight of rural Rajasthan seemed almost foreign with its green stillness reminding me of my train ride to Prague from Berlin where nothing happened except silence,
where I saw, perhaps for the first or a second time, the shape of my own face mostly because there was little else to do and mirrors were everywhere but today I continued to look outside even though the repetitive landscape made me sleepy and I thought how much more melancholic the desert looks in rain
and how beautifully Charles Rosen played Bach’s Goldberg Variations and how much poetry the world needs and how I would have loved to photograph the hands of the unnamed artist who embroidered silver flowers on my mother’s pink saree and how much and how much rain and
She is dead, the driver tells us.
and I saw two men running on the streets trying to stop ambulances meant for other people and then I saw a woman lying on the street. No one stopped and I kept on walking. I thought maybe I should stop but I don’t know the language and I don’t know how Paris works. I don’t know, I don’t know.
I don’t know.
Maybe the woman didn’t die. Maybe no one died. Maybe nothing happened.
Maybe I stopped.