Alone again, naturally

I have a grey coat. It’s old, very warm and just the right length. I’d like to think it hugs curves sometimes, when I want it to. It certainly looks well draped in my shadow. Has a hood, a zipper and neat little black buttons. Made of just the right stuff too. It’s a brave lonely walking coat, by the way. It goes everywhere with me, on me, dangling in the crook of my elbow, or tightly wrapped around me, keeping rain and wind out. Keeps me safe inside my head, even, at 3 AM on the banks of the Thames, when I walk back from happy (but sadly expensive) evenings with new found friends. I give it a wry smile as I pass the jubilant throngs at Trafalgar Square, celebrating ‘diversity’ since they can’t avoid it, ha ha. It takes my cynical jokes and bitter one liners in its stride. Even my chilling fears about my being just one grey coat in so many. People I pass on the streets of this ‘world city’ must see me as a short figure, shrouded in grey. How will a connection be made, if everyone is inside a coat and loves it? Can a darling grey coat keep the heart inside warm forever?
I hope the coat doesn’t judge me for my ill wit... Bought it in Chor bazaar one Sunday morning in Old Delhi, out to find happiness at the Red Fort. Found it too, for a moment or so that day! And the coat is forever happiness personified, whatever I may say.