India is a large country.
Harboring more than 2 billion people, it'll soon break records of overpopulation held by China. The men here are said to be brave, kind and chivalrous. The women considered, traditional, learned and hospitable. The cities here are abundant in whatever they sow and breed stupendous cavalry to charge. The rich bring in fine money to buy fine luxuries for the eyes of fine people.
Democracy prevails. The unwanted die. The important live.
Each state highlights its accomplishments, power and internal unity.
“For those who are lost, there will always be cities that feel like home.” For one such soul, a desolate, lonely and broken soul, that city was the City of Joy.
Rawdon Street, contrary to popular belief, usually succumbed to slumber after the dim of the eight-pm show. Windows would be pulled close, cars disappearing towards a more lit up and cheery enclosing, shops would turn out their flashing lights leaving the wheel scarred tar to the mercy of a derisory streetlight. Even the street dogs, the same ones who would complete this brightly lit, over populated day path, seemed to disappear into infinity after a single call from darkness.
Trailing along Robinson Street, a newfound abandoned walking stick in hand; I traced the cracks of the concrete pavement. The gloomy, shambles of thatched houses felt, in a strange way, a reflection of my own despair inside. I felt empty. Someone felt forgotten. Something felt lost.
Minutes away from a right turn, one that would drag me into Rawdon Street, I could only anticipate the forthcoming gloom this extinguished street would bring me.
As I neared in, the peeping stars seemed to light up and abandon their cover of dark blue. The sounds, which on a usual night would remain untouched and unheard, cradled the entire stretch. Paper planes flew into the ceramic surrounded trees, cars honked at the flashily dressed pedestrians, who carried their procession of never ending...
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