This is a post which remained in the drafts unpublished for long.
It is a small village with about 10 to 15 homes all together, full of tall toddy/munjal trees. makeshift tents erected all over for convenience of people who came around for the function.. sound of generator fills the air.. , people sitting and chatting all over the place.. some posh kids with camcorders trying to film whatever interesting they find.
a few meters from me were some faqirs with patched jholas ...holding long needles and other instruments with which they will be performing their usual feats of piercing the needles through their body or bursting the gunpowder through the hollow sticks.
it was midnight and i sat down feeling the cold grass with my hands , the sky above was clear with the moon shining with full vigor, i felt completely relaxed and thoughts from the past took over me , started recollecting everything, moments of happiness, struggle, pain, and..... sadly of regret. life has changed so much only to become more complicated.. i realize that i never wanted to be here. somewhere i wandered off my way and lost myself in this unending labyrinth. i wish i could go back and start everything again...even if it means to burn off the luggage of so called achievements, guilt, pain or the maturity that ive achieved with these experiences .. which seem more of a burden than anything now.
someone called me and i came out of my thoughts... the faqirs had started burning dry twigs for warmth... it was getting very cold. the drummers started beating the nagara ... i got up as Abida's rendering of Kabir echoed in my mind
mann laago yaar faqiri mein
aakhi ye tan khaak milega
kyon phirta maghroori mein
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