Signed,
The Pessimist
I will keep this short and straight-forward.
It was a still night, and the smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air. Mixed with the luring scent of 'yakhsi pala' tree (Alstonia scholaris), it was pleasantly nauseating. The blasts would have been numerous, and frequent. There was no one to be seen around, those who wanted peace had left the place long back, the rest... A child was crying somewhere, and I heard some unsuccessful words to pacify the child. The street dogs joined the cacophony. Dark stains on the sidewalk, I did not want to think about anything. I was trepid about stepping on the wrong foot or... hand. The torn pieces of colourful cloth and paper strewn on the road almost made me wonder if it were some festival.
This place and time used to be one of the best of my life. Walking under the moonlight with my two friends, this was once my rejevenation path after a hectic work day. Humming some nice melodies, laughing to the calmness of night, we used to stroll the path. There never was any traffic, and the dogs seemed benign. Dug-up roads were fun to cross. College memories brought smiles to our faces, even those which were mortifying once. Life was peaceful. Life was a festival.
I walked on, alone. Life had changed, the critical moment gone past unnoticed. Further ahead, the road curved to the left, leading to my house. The sound of my shoes crunching the gravel broke the stillness of the deadly night. The dug-up road was probably a death-trap. A shadow turned the corner, and its hooded limping owner came into view. I was, to be honest, scared. The path behind me was long, and unfortunately straight. I had to walk on. He was close now, and he was holding something. He raised his hand. I was numbed, stood staring at him.
"Happy Diwali", he said, and moved on.
