With the rain forcing its way into the room through the cracks in the window, the dupatta lay stretched and drenched right under the sill. I dripped through the wound chiffon weaves till the puddles underneath were full of me.

"It looks like blood," she whispered.

The dupatta complained of being left fluttering there in the filtered cold winds as I struggled to leave it to release it of its weight. Its corners had started to take on a hue of lighter shades as I flowed on relentlessly.

I heard the yellow borders of the photo frame cry out under the pain of being left unattended. The former persistent care bestowed on it made the transformation painful.

There, bowed down under the weight of the rains, I realised what I had denied for so long. The despairing monotony of black and white came with the privilege of permanence. We, on the contrary, were doomed to the human condition of transience. The choicest colours picked up for the weddings, chosen for adorning the photo panes, were abandoned just as much as the relationships themselves. We slipped away from the iron grip of emotions just as human arms unwound the threads of togetherness. We were colours of no colour at all, just chameleons in the rainbow of permanence.