I watched as the boat sailed across the puddle created in the narrow lane. There were a few words scribbled onto it, words that were hardly readable. The shower had managed to wash away the traces of ink, which was now flowing relentlessly through the paper. Pity, how words can easily be erased from a paper, despite the precautions to preserve it and how some remain latched to the deepest corner of our soul, despite our efforts to put it into a casket. Far simple were those days, when stealthily tearing pages of our notebooks to prepare a paper-boat and preventing it from being ruined were our gravest concern. When sitting at the corridor to watch the raindrops collect were as amazing as the anticipation to get a few drops to fall on ourselves, ‘accidentally’, of course. Those paper-boats seem miles away. Those yearning for raindrops, seeming a different life altogether. Pity, how time changes. And with it, people. If only, we were not too busy to sit and watch the nature shedding it’s joy. Perhaps, with a cup of cappuccino in one hand and Segal’s Love Story on the other. Or simply, preparing a paper boat again with a page torn out of an old forgotten notebook and letting it float somewhere, to someone. Message on a boat? A message to regain the lost tick-tock.