The Odd One In

Mr. Nobody leaves the building; he is too timid to glower at the sun. He trudges on the fluorescent white road with aching eyes. A female cricketer under the sweltering shed carefully studies her unpadded legs. ‘Look how shameless she is!’ he can barely contain his disgust, ‘A teenage girl without a hint of reservation, sharing her love for the game with street urchins.’ The thought suddenly gains consciousness and knocks every door of his empty mind. He pays no heed- he never negotiates with the abductees.
With his thumb on the mouth of a cigarette lighter, he gets dragged again. There he is, taking a tour of the fake edifice- commanding righteousness with his incredibly loud voice. He looks clean- there isn’t a single blister on his body- the wads of secrecy are gone. In this colossal establishment, nobody challenges him for his crown. Under the deposed firmament- he is not a sexist; he is not repelled by the tar on human skin, he has got no fear of catching the virus and- in the group of progressive ideologies- he is the odd one in.