Passe-partout. Or, not.

As I progressed with my reading, I found out Passepartout didn't turn out quite anything like what the author expected him to be on their journey. 

As far as my own anticipations go, we never even got started. 

Imagine trying to take flight, and an invisible noose around your feet pulling you down just as you've filled your lungs and spread your wings? In a shared dream, the passivity or doubt of at least one of the hearts that dreamt the dream can turn into the noose. Over time I have met many more of the dreamers. I continue to share the spirit of my dreams with them, but not the burden of realizing them.

And, Passepartout (as I call you this one last time), I free you of the tag. We agreed there wasn't a need for tags and definitions. And, that's how it ought to be.

(Read Passe-partout here.)

The hand twin.

She called out to me excitedly, 'Can you believe this!'

There, under the light from the street lamp, I saw it. The identical palms. And, her hand twin. Oblivious to the traffic a few feet ahead, or the crowds flocking the pavilions behind them, they sat on the sidewalk for a long time after - talking and smiling.

It was also the day I laid my eyes on a beautiful Phanek, and thought I will own one someday.

Sometimes on a solemn day as this, I imagine the beautiful countryside that you have so often described to me, with the same flaky and ridiculously contagious excitement that I saw in your eyes when you introduced me to your hand twin. I imagine walking down the streets lined with shops selling the most beautiful Phaneks, and running into you and your hand twin.

Passe-partout.

Words are tricky, emotions chaotic and complications clearly unwanted. So we agreed that there wasn’t a need for tags and definitions between us. Yet occasionally we are confronted with uncanny parallels to our life, in the casual unfolding of a sitcom, or the pages of a book. They prompt us to dig just a little deeper into our own subconscious. It was likewise that I found the near-perfect articulation to my early impressions about you, as I read the prologue to 'Around India in 80 Trains'. Passepartout. My (prospective) travel companion.

The wanderlust - our dreams of the road (and gypsies and caravans); the frustrations and limitations against taking off, albeit not for shared reasons; and the desire to ‘get lost’ – had lend to the solidarity. I relished, connected to and had started to look forward to our conversations, the occasional scrambled eggs and coffee, and the somewhat lame yet seriously rendered downtown rendezvous. The growing camaraderie, the wish lists, the short getaways, all agreeably nurtured my vagabond dreams. And the prospect made me happy (and hopeful).

Though tags and definitions can mean no more (or no less) than our actions, I say this all the same. I think of you as my Passepartout.