It was a clear sky that day. There wasn’t any faint hope of rain. Suddenly, it started raining with a petrichor effect. The day was October the second.
A national holiday for some, a day of restriction for others. For Sandeep, it was a day to remember an unknown fatherly figure; quite like his deceased grandfather. A bald gentleman, clad in a dhoti, fragile yet stern, feeble and meek in voice. A stick in hand, stealthily he walked.
Devotional songs sung thy name, very much little to gain.
Sweets dispersed in his name, for children of hunger to lessen their pain.
25 years later, the scenario remained quite the same. Sandeep gave an inquisitive look then, now he wears a distraught look. He understood the parody. There are no great souls, only great men. No, not the one who we celebrate in our schools, colleges and universities. They don’t hang from the wall. They ear a facade, all the while battling their own contradiction. Found amongst all of us, lost in each one of us. It is the soul in us – not good, bad, better, best or great. The entity which lets us think and never slips into oblivion.
It has started raining again.
