This festival begs to be written for the memories, the color, the smiles of everyone is so beautiful. And something beautiful needs to be preserved.
Rhythm of peoples hearts. There’s so much beauty in them. From babies to old people, hearts tell a lot of lovely stories. This Dusshera, let me tell mine.
Against the dark backdrop of poverty and sadness that suck life like lice from the dirty social community tangled like filthy hair, India still has got hope.
That light inside kids who sleep hungry, that mother who bakes the rotis in swirling ashes for her kids in spite her lungs forming tears, that father who forgets the difference of sweat and blood to put food on the table, every single person who suffer for the evil are so tightly tied together in valiant threads, which weave out a proud fabric.
Reality. The fabric of life, spiced with a pinch of cruelty. The end.
Festivals don’t allow ends to be this grim, especially Dusshera.
Slum kids enjoy the songs, the fair as heartily as the rich bastards.
Sweets eaten by my postman are of same sweetness and rather more lovely and memorable than the sweets eaten by the rich bastards.
The bokeh of rainbow lights dancing in everyones irises that night doesn’t differentiate between rich and poor.
History says Dusshera is the festival where light defeats darkness. Good prevails the bad. Evil dies. Angels are born. But in the end that’s not what Dusshera is about. It’s everyone being happy equally and smiling wide.
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