A beggar visits the street in the evening. I am hearing him for the last five years. For the last two days, he hadn’t come. Since then I have felt as it is not the same life I was living. Or is it? Has he teleported to somewhere or some other life? Why didn’t I hear the voice I had become accustomed to hearing? Is he ill? Is is no more? Or has his mission succeeded if he was a spy living as a beggar? I await to hear the voice again, a voice I don’t know whom it belongs to. But even after all odds, I don’t want to happily accept the instability of life.