shortest distance to heart:

It wasn’t quite a Monday morning, although it was. Leather shoes were stripped down to slippers, white collars turned festive. Cascading down to knees, kurtas joined the revelry. Sarees too crashed in.

The metro (that’s my whereabout) was frequented by handfuls- few policemen placed on duty, and apparently, no one else.

I could see sweet vendors running out of stock; bees were outnumbered as men swarmed in multitudes. Following each other, and ignoring my presence completely, the pilgrimage would visit electricians for an unpaid show of chiaroscuro, but the followup bargain on experimental lighting, would take up all the spotlight. The holy voyage, however, would end up at fireworks stalls.

You could smell festivity in shape of good dishes, being cooked all over. This is how jovial the day looked, but the real show preened itself at night.

Each end of buildings would be impeccably embroidered with oil lamps, candles. Balconies looked like a darker shade of indigo blanket, all star strewn, shimmering in a tune. For a moment, if it hadn’t been told to me about the existence of rice lamps, I’d have believed Universe had conspired.

Above our heads, in split seconds, you’d have to trace shells going off at three different places & enjoy each of ’em equally. The next moment, however, would again be smoke laden.

I wish my bowl could put on some weight.

People threw invitations, my bowl caught none. It sounded of hunger & few coins, as last night’s leftover. Diwali redefined economy, made charity homesick.

While the night was on full swing,
I spot a kid running towards me.

“This is for you”, she insists.

I could see her eyes glisten against the light. 
As if truly, galaxies valued my participation.

“Oh, really?”
How could I not take that!

But honestly, I didn’t know what to do with the sparkler, 
my stomach wanted something else.