An untitled story

The old man took his umbrella, turned around and walked away. The boy looked on at the figure hurrying somewhere in the rain and thought a hundred things. They were light years away from one another when they met and now they were moving yet many tens of meters away, the boy thought. Their lights, propagating through the ocean of lives, met for a brief instant, likely never to meet again. But what is separation? Many tens, hundreds of meters, light years the man must now have walked. He felt he himself had walked that walk once, in another life, another time, another pocket of reality. The rain fell on their earth incessantly, washing away the last starlight of a conversation.

The boy then recalled how their meeting had begun. The man wanted to board a bus and he had to tell him that there was no stop anywhere nearby. A taxi, too, was impossible to come across. He told him as well as he could the way to the nearest stop. The man then sat and undid his satin black umbrella, coercing the boy into a chat. His school, how well he studied, his parents, friends. Then he looked out into the rain one last time.

The boy now stood in his position. Looking at the white sky and the unending rain. Another river of thoughts flowed by. A current of water washed down the dust from an ancient gutter. Leaves laughed in the wind. Time passed slowly and languidly, ferrying the boy's thoughts through the valley of life.

Then the old man took his umbrella, turned around and walked away.

I was forced to write a story in 'Professional Communication' class, where engineering students learn and forget the intricacies of language and good communication. I was told that it had to end 'and then the old man took his umbrella, turned around and walked away.' —AST