Awake?

We wake up. To what, really?

Sight.

Why did I write this?
Incomplete?
Maybe. Maybe not.

Amba.

“When not plucked, when it just is.” Amba lived alone. Not just alone, with herself. Amba was 79. Amba had been ten when India finally embraced freedom. At ten, Amba couldn’t see what this had bought, what this meant. At her little age, she had seen blood, struggle and pain. But Amba’s eyes had seen…

Parched.

Cracked. Thirsty. Years of torture had left her with a parched body. Uprooted, cleared, burnt, destructed. Her life had been a story of giving everything and receiving pain and hurt in return. Since ever. Every day, the scorching sun burnt into her skin, energy slowly ebbing away, every ounce of what she had within, not…

Masquerade.

Shutters closed down. The shopkeeper unpinned the garments and stacked them into shelves. The mannequins stood before him; bare and cold, each face painted with an expression that never changed. Some were fair, some dark. Some short, some tall. They wore garments of all fabrics, prices and colors. But their faces stood in stark contrast…