Diwali

Round white lanterns hang from a tree like several moons landing on branches... No, I wonder they don't even remotely match the shine of the pearl earrings that dangle and oscillate when she nods. Crackers burst just like she snaps and fumes when angry. Strings of lights that hang along the walls of tall buildings are nothing as compared to the sheet of her long hair that shines when she throws her mane back. Colors of the huge Rangoli in a chowk aren't brighter than the colors of her scarf. When it comes to her naughty eyes that glitter so often with beautiful dreams, those tiny winking bulbs stand no chance of winning. And yes, she smiles just like fireworks that light up the ink black night sky, a sudden smile that secretly lights up my heart.

If Diwali were a person, it would have been her.

Saviours

HE

He fiddles with an unlit cigarette. The usual emptiness has crept in his lonely heart and spread in his house. He closes his eyes to welcome the well known feeling.

"Stop this self destruction.
Do something beautiful."

He tries to shun the voice instinctively, because he always breaks everything that tries to control him.

He can't. He puts the cigarette back in the pack like a formidable thought. His fingers play a new melody on his keyboard.

SHE

She fiddles with her pen while a blank page ruffles on wind. The familiar sadness floods her heart and it is about to drip from the nib of her pen.

"Stop this self destruction.
Write something beautiful."

She smiles to herself, closing her eyes, reminiscing the advice.

No, she won't let her pen drip the melancholy. She won't let her pages singe with grief. Her ink will smell of flowers she loves, her handwriting will embroider the pristine pages...

Such self destructive persons they both are, funny how the voice of one makes the other turn around from the edge - to meet the expectant eyes of life.

It's tough to say who is saving whom.