It was like one of those countless films that he had seen. Or even similar to the old, very old, Pramathesh Barua's Mukti where the titles began with one door opening on to another, and yet, another. One after the other. Or Guru Dutt's Kagaz Ke Phool where that shaft of streaming light in the empty studio illuminates heroine Waheeda Rehman's face in a mysterious, sensual black and white beauty. Anirban never quite felt the need to go beyond popular filmic metaphors and images whenever he needed to describe something to himself.
The light from the first window struck the lane like a moment of sudden truth. And then, another window. More light. And then, yet another. And then, all of them.
The lane was awash with light. Yellow, goldlike, streaming across the lane, all over the frozen crows, the sleeping rickshaws, the boys whose faces were covered with cloth.
Kaka continued , trancelike, with his songs, swaying more as light after golden light, hit him like sharp rain. Anirban could not see much; he simply thought.
She needs rest.
He looked at his cupped hands.
The moon again changed sides. The Victoria glittered on the lane.
