A day fell from the calendar of schedules and slipped from the tip of the minute-hand of the old city clock that recorded history. It fell in the dust like a drop of rain and lingered like the wetness of mud and it evaporated into the sky light coming through tiny holes in the old walls and the illuminated dust, something I had pondered over for hours all together in my summer holidays when I was a kid. The day had a story and its story was a secret. It is the secret we keep by knowing too well that it has to be erased from our hearts and minds. The day was tired in board-rooms and sleepy in class-rooms, the day was full of mischief in the prayer halls and so depressingly withdrawn in festive weeks. The day was a little confused of sometimes being hailed as good and lucky and often being blamed as bad and unfortunate. After all it was just a chunk of miscalculated time. Sometimes, it played its jokes. It quietly hid in a yesterday, making you look in all the dark corners of your life and in all your lockers and cupboards where you had kept your smiles but you could find no trace of the day. And often it escaped, secretly into some anonymous tomorrows that might never exist at all. But the day was tired of these old tricks and it was exhausted of being spent all too quickly like a cup of coffee gone cold. Gulped without any taste. Today, it fell and as I told you, it disappeared leaving only some dust behind.