Bhas 10.25

The sea, like a pitch-black sheet without a single crease. An ash-grey sky carrying its clouds upon its brow just this once. The moon’s delicate, pale-red bindi, like a faded tattoo, sits there with quiet elegance. Streets intoxicated by a cocktail of yellow light and dull darkness. A handful of people spill onto the streets from some theatre. Beyond them, nothing but the absolute silence of the dead of night.

It feels as though a spell has descended upon the surroundings, barely concealing some sinister dystopia. It would take only a little more time for it to claw at yet another innocent life—and then, in an instant, the entire elaborate façade would come crashing down, like Vasantasena’s jewels slipping away. The world would stand exposed, stripped bare.

And we would have to begin again, from the very beginning.