'Appointments Unmade' by Shrutidhora P Mohor

“Do you always walk so slowly?”
“Nope. Only when I have an appointment to keep.”

When we met unplanned for the fourth consecutive day below the giant bust of a deity whose head had snake coils around it, we knew that we would walk together on the beach for a fourth time.
Unplanned.
I asked him what the time was.
He said it was time for the lone albatross to come home.
I asked him where his home was.
He said that depended on what time of the day it was.

At one place on the beach there ran a creek smelling of foul garbage dumped day after day making the creek a former-creek. Colour polythene lay piled up in it like the swollen stomach of a drunkard. Empty cigarette packets played peek-a-boo from behind torn slippers and used condoms.
“How do you propose to cross the ex-creek?” He asked with a thin smile on his lips.
“The same way as every day.”

Our ankles smelling of rotten rubber and cheap plastic, we arrived on the other side.
“There is a string around your big toe.”
“We have spaghetti for breakfast.”
“Everyday?”
“Most days.”

I looked at his face from the side. Strangers have a way of looking straight ahead of them when they talk. I measured with my eyes the width of his nose. His was narrower than the last week’s one.
“You said you had an appointment?”
“It got cancelled.”

“Same time, tomorrow?”

I walked as slowly as possible to the choked creek when midnight set in and the coastal town wore an empty look. Save for a street dog family of six hungry puppies and one exhausted mother, not a living soul was spotted below the deity with snakes coiled around its head.