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Let’s revise, how an entire day(normal) plays out in our so-called “planet-Earth”. Dawn. Morning. Afternoon. Dusk. Evening. Night. Just a mention, Morning continues before and after Dawn; Evening continues before and after Dusk. Contrary to some popular beliefs, where “Dawn” and “Dusk” are just specific times of an entire day; the more rational opinion suggests these two are very short periods of time in an entire day’s mathematics. Way shorter time periods than Afternoon and Evening, forget Morning and Night. Short enough to get unnoticed in an entire day’s whereabouts. But this Town has its own rules. Rules that are not imprisoned in false narratives of the time. Rules that are bendable. By what forces of nature, of course, you will get notified about. But by then, get used to the pace of time. The frivolous nature of it.
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The habitants of this Town while remaining occupied in their daily drama, find as little time to stare at the sky as you do. They sense the multiple temperature adjustments and re-adjustments taking place each and every day. They sense that. Though they don’t care a bit more than they should or possibly could. They make a strange arrangement with the temperature adjustments and re-adjustments. Their senses put together an impossible coalition between themselves, like bringing centuries-old political rivals on the same stage, in staging a tacky socio-cultural drama of sort. The habitants do not seem sure about whether they are allowed to enjoy such an unnatural phenomenon or they are doomed to be matters of negligence of such a natural phenomenon.197Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHmpWxZvb6m
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People have lived in this Town long enough; their ancestors a bit more. They built tirelessly. They harvested. They planted. They nurtured. They stored, and most importantly they believed. They believed in building a community, and for the sake of that community, they built even more. This Town was so self-sufficient that at times it seemed arrogant. Over the course of time, years, decades and centuries, this Town learned to accept. Whoever came in, however they were, they weren’t turned away. The community knew the more the number the greater the chance of survival. This Town not only survived, it thrived.197Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ99jKWjKIon
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River Sanki flows through the middle of the Town. It shrinks during Summer and bloats during Winter. In the 50s, the bridge over Sanki was built. It wasn’t given a name, neither did it need one. To date, it is the only existing bridge in the Town, so everyone is super okay to call it just the “Bridge”. It isn’t too wide, nor too narrow. At most, it can accommodate two cars side by side or six motorcycles. None of which ever appeared on the bridge at the same time. It’s always Dusk at the bridge. The sky scatters a Purple-Red hue through the disobedient clouds of otherwise monotony. Sanki took its colour from the sky and its mood from the clouds. The bridge stands as a mere observer of the unknown. Standing between the Purple-Red sky and the Purple-Red river, it laughs at its own discoloured flesh. For some it separates the Town, for others, it binds it together. A speeding antique Esteem crosses the length of the bridge and disappears into the other half of the Town.197Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBAoPYff3bz
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Shylvia was going through her books, looking for something more personal. The letters, that found their way to her. The ones she collected since the time she first came to know about collecting letters. She hurries through her books as she fears. She fears through her books as she hurries. The books fall on the floor, circling around her feet. She is calm again. She tries to shake off the tremble in her fingers. Unfortunately, they don’t listen to her. Shylvia moves a few steps back and sits on the corner of her perfectly made bed, then she drops her upper body recklessly, manufacturing thin lines of resentment on the bed-sheet. She stares at the ceiling for as long as she could and then closes her eyes. 197Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0e920ZV4GF
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Unattended, the scattered books on the floor keep looking outside the window. A tiny part of the front yard is visible from there, and the stone draped hilly road bending down like a hopeless stairway. It’s always Dawn at this side of the hill. The Red-Yellow glimmer of the sky penetrates the vagabond clouds of otherwise stillness. Shylvia has always hated this unmoving nature at display, she has hated staying in the house, though she has never stayed elsewhere for more than a couple of days at a stretch. The house acts as if it is attending a religious ceremony, waiting to receive blessings. The Red-Yellow sky blesses it for a long time. Then at some point in the past, it runs out of blessings. The Red-Yellow sky is very giving in nature, so it starts pouring in the curses. Curses that left hickey marks all over the house, those marks glow in the Dusk. Those marks glow all the time. They blind whoever try to measure its irresistible charm. The house remains cruel to none but all. The screeching sound of tires on uneven stones make Shylvia open her eyes.
To be continued…
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