Who lit up the candle under the fakir’s bed?
2118, New Delhi. Cars levitate crazily around the city, just like when there were streets for cars on the ground. Horns sound like dog whistles, annoying everyone’s ears with no noise.
There are people on every level of society, first floor, second floor, third floor and the moon.
The fakir seems a corpse with his hands crossed above his heart, lined over the rusty and sharp nails.
He is so white and tall that no one would ever recognize him as a native. And he is not indeed. He came all the way from Cambridge, Massachusetts, bringing with him all his PhD knowledge unpacked. Everyone profited from him, and now this is so old fashioned.
He tried to figure out a place in this society, but he has no caste. An affirmative policy allowed him to enjoy India on the floor.
He defied the system and now he lies on the nails during the night time. Everyone, from the ground and above, can see him on this resting outrageous condition. People get appalled by looking at him, they believe in secularity rather than science faith.

MHM
B, 04.09.2018

Listen to: The silence

*Spring, seriously? It is still snowing.