Blank.

He stared.
Stared at the whiteness that was his vision.
As if his surroundings understood him and responded to him their own way, the speakers blared a song that suited his mood.
Mera jeevan kora kaagaz,
kora hi rah gaya

He sniggered at how diaphanous his routine, his lines, his mannerisms had become.
Living in Bombay could do that.
Living and loving Bombay; long enough and strong enough.

Now every time he saw a real life situation unfold in the most normal RKN-esque way, he correlated it with a movie situation and imagined background music.(Violins, prominently)
When he was in Bangalore, a place he still called home, he would think of a book that presented a situation such as it. He liked to believe he was a displaced bhadralok.

He believed himself to be too many things.
He believed it was possible to stand out.
He believed newer cities meant newer possibilities.
He believed possibilities meant no roadblocks.
He believed.
Not so anymore.

Hours had passed since he was staring out the window. He loved windows, metaphorical and otherwise. The horizon that looked all white was now glimmering.
A faint orange.
The clouds seemed to take in the hue too.
The sun was almost to set, but left indelible faint orange tint where he was to dip.
A light, soothing orange.
Tangerine, that was the colour.

The horizon that had since remained blank ushered in a catamaran, swaying but holding strong.
Netting many fish, and possibly not.
Possibilities.

It looked a pretty picture.