By Rajat Sikchi
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh
The streets are isolated, echoing a troublesome incarnation of a peaceful lilac, a moonlit avenue, traversing the generational echoes of sampled human behavior. Any sound of footsteps will create a massive reverberating sound, throwing the empty streets and desolated homes into the wilderness. Any such ruckus would be asking for unwanted, undeclared trouble. The gentle touch of the feet against the well tuned, rock solid concrete will leave the lungs exasperated. The stillness of the night is almost suffocating, the only movement coming from the occasional rustling of leaves in the cool breeze. The darkness seems to swallow any hints of solace. The stars seem to dance their ways out of the gentle backdrop of the night sky.
The sound of a strong, gutsy wind permeates the air, encircling the view around. The wind creates an unfamiliar, unlike rumbling sound. The streets are filled with empty barricades, indicating the intense struggle that evolved the city in a while. The eerie atmosphere is heightened by the sense of abandonment that lingers in the air. It feels as though the city has been frozen in time, trapped in a moment of uncertainty and unrest. The wind continues to howl, carrying with it a sense of foreboding and unease. The night stretches on.
The street lamps are lit across the streets, glimmering their neon orange on concrete, throwing around a buzzing sound at regular intervals, leaving an eerie, starry, dark reflection of reality. The colors entangle themselves into prisms of glow, dark, and grey—everywhere, all at once. The shadows seem to dance and flicker, playing tricks on the mind as they twist and contort in the flickering light. As the night deepens, the sense of unease grows stronger, enveloping everything in its chilling embrace. It is a night like no other, where reality and illusion blend seamlessly, creating a world that is both beautiful and terrifying.
Whoosh, whoosh.
The clock tower stands upright right at the center of the city's main street, Avenue 42nd of the Almighty. The architecture reminds the onlookers of the Great Wall of China, or Petra to name a few. Nah, the clock tower is not the wonder of the world; far from it. Its important though; maybe seeks a greater perhaps after all. Rest in Peace, the holy shrine of the faithless and foolish. The Time. Awestricken, which is the hummingbird that pokes his beak out of the hour alarm shovel every hour the minute hand strikes sixty, is now being looked upon by none, which is ironic because the people marshalled the authorities to get rid of it; bloody innocents didn't know, the hummingbird will get rid of each one of them, tracking their souls to hell and back. The clock tower, with its mysterious hummingbird guardian, stands tall, a silent witness to the folly of mankind.
The tower is surrounded by boulevards; glued and tied to it are the isolated homes, which were ones bustling with activity a time back. The curtains of most of the houses are still undrawn; a few are drawn to an extent, which allows you to have a greasy look at the television sets that were turned on most of the time. The screen pops out some insane characters reciting from a teleprompter, maybe reading a script, reading boring reports, out of curiosity or boredom; they too need to have something to live for. A few called them journalists, some called them madmen, and some called them dealers of faith. Irrespective of their behavior, people considered them impotent and important. All this becomes even more important, as they reported from the war torn countries, kept an eagle eye on the activities, and held a microscopic view of everything. At least, that's what they thought.
The curtains of few houses boast carvings and prints that you see in un-interesting soap operas. We live in a crazy rich world; what you have and what you don't have matter less when you are flawless at flaunting and have the caliber of a great storyteller; in short, you are a trader of lies. Only a few things matter more; oh, life matters less, opinions more. Peace less, chaos more. Love less, greed more. The wall texture paintings around the houses look less like paintings and more like nobility; nobody cares about the loans and interests; people fall for the cascading effect of debt. Luxury holds the nobility and factors you out in the crowd. People here understood it less; it's okay they couldn't survive more to understand it better, or else the human flesh would have taken a broad sphere of caste-ism and class conflicts to their graves.
Whoosh.
Certainly the most important part of the town lies 2 miles eastward of the main square. Spread out on dozens of acres of land, it spawns a huge Gothic-style city library. People believed it to be cursed. The legend had it, the one who entered the premises would change its outlooks and views, social, geopolitical forever, nothing stayed constant, fulfilling few, encouraging others to have a one time pleasure of feeling that change is the only constant. But the world doesn't like the change. They expect the world to evolve at their own comfort—no inch here, no inch there, no inch anywhere, few inches everywhere.
The city library kept with it every kind of political, social, and beautiful words of wisdom disguised as books. People of different sections, communities, religions, and classes arrived here and stood united. Authorities cannot take this piece of sh*t. Even in our story, they couldn't. Education holds the power to intellect, holds the power to unite. It holds the power to stand against oppression, above every class conflict, above every enemy, but what about the enemy within? The city library was a symbol of unity and knowledge, but even there, there were hidden prejudices and biases that needed to be addressed. As people of different backgrounds came together in that space, they were forced to confront the uncomfortable truths within themselves. The true power of education lies not only in learning from books, but in learning from each other and challenging our own internalized beliefs.
Nothing goes beyond human greed. No matter what, it boils down to democracy, democratic beliefs casually regarded as of the people, by the people, for the people by few. One great from the United States boiled this democracy definition to everyone. Poor man got shot. But his words lived on, inspiring generations to fight for true democracy and equality. The city library stood as a symbol of hope, a sanctuary where all were welcome and free to educate themselves. The authorities may have tried to suppress the truth, but the power of knowledge and unity could never be extinguished.
Then came some thunder, some hurricanes, and some shit.
Whoosh.
When you are at war with someone, the internal conflicts can blemish the hopes of winning. Many realize it, but few countries act on it.
Whoosh, whoosh.
Corruption,
Class Conflicts,
Unwanted Misery,
Oh recipe for Disaster.
DISRUPT, before the start
The clock struck 3 am.
The hummingbird wasn't ready for the ordeal.
The enemy aircraft shit the city.
Hydrogen bomb, a few madmen on the television said.
Stupid fellas, a few argued,
The hummingbird stayed on,
The library premises destroyed.
The avenues burnt to hell,
The homes left isolated,
The people killed,
The authorities blamed,
The internal conflicts lived on,
The class conflicts, taken to grave,
The Power of education doomed,
Oh thy!
Greed above everything.
By Rajat Sikchi
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