The city rises as an edifice made by the old gods from the dust of the magnificence which existed before. To make an example of people who steered too far away from the path shown by him. It’s hot outside, with a heat wave slowly gripping the lands as the morning matures into another summer day.
The drought here doesn’t only exist in the ground but in the very heart and soul of people. Blank faces looking into oblivion, from their shanty houses and shops, made from the dust that exist all around them, as a result, dulled on their edges, broken, with holes in between and disintegrating. Some have rented out their houses to host very large banners on the front side, in the desperate hope, for the posters to mask their dust tombs, in which they lie, dying a slow, painful death, like the rest of us. But this scheme has also proven inefficient, with the treacherous banners caving in to give us a glimpse into their gloomy world, where just a bed-sheet, bought from some cheap lahsa sale ,years ago, hangs as the last refuge against the voyeuring eyes of the world. What are they trying to hide..? Don’t they know that all of us are suffering here together..? God has abandoned us long ago, and we are living in hell with all the demons.Maybe we all are constantly,subconsciously, looking for less fortunate people than us to feel better about our own existential condition. Hence quite a few numerous ways to feel happy in the world, generally don’t guide us towards finding any meaning in our lives, but to feel grateful for what we have and others don’t .
The city is like a replica of a village with colonies divided on basis of caste /religion, with a lot of rustic looking folks, visiting it from the countryside, where, amazingly, things remain bleaker. Hell, indeed, is a pit-less hole. The flyover sprangs over this abysmal waste of filth and humans and dust and destruction and malice and all the thousands of variants of sins found in their true variance , as a hand rising out of a man on verge of death, suffocating and gasping for air. But just like that man’s effort, to breathe fully, fails… the flyover fails too to breath in life into this ever dying, but never dead, city.