The Diary
Summer was leisurely easing into the fall. The nip in the air was getting sturdier with a tincture of earthiness and the emerald sheen of the green-clothed trees was delicately fading into a caramel hue. Every time the chilly wind blew the golden rusty leaves took to the air in a graceful dance, pirouetting around in their own orchestral rustling. The night was ready to cast its spell of darkness and sew the stars on the dusky sky like pearls on an ink black curtain. “Grappy!” called someone in a mellifluous voice from the lawn. “Yes, my Zoya baby!” said Nasr looking over his shoulder at the little tot who had a small old book in her hand. ‘The Diary’, he whispered struck with pure nostalgia which zoomed him back to 80’s when he had the first rendezvous with it. 13 th October 1988 “It’s 3 already”, groaned Nasr as he scurried across the lawn. The shrill noise of doorbell was unanswered, a slight tug on the doorknob left door wide open. The living ro...