A murmuring breeze echoed off the tin walls of the empty pandal. The frigid air was decorated with the fragrance of flowers whose yellow petals adorned the street. The idol had been ceremoniously extracted and carried away to the main road. The once-populated lane lay isolated; save one.
This little creature was a young boy wrapped in raggedy cloth. Messy hair, thinned out limbs; he hobbled down toward the pandal. He had been in awe of the once bright and well-lit structure. It had been a happy place. There were rituals and prayers, there had been singing and dancing. Now it was silent; the cheer had move on. The little boy had seen them out on the road― all in colourful wear. Some played drums of sorts, some danced in synchronisation. Others revelled in song and dance of a random nature.
They had gone. They had once been here. And when they were there he was always looked down upon, sneered at. He was not allowed to play the festive games with them, much as he wanted to. However, when the celebrations for the day had ended, the old priest or a couple of volunteers would offer him a generous amount of prasad. And for those ten days he had enjoyed those sumptuous homecooked meals and sweets. Now they were gone. Perhaps they would never return.
He stared at the hollow darkness in front of him, the latter perturbed only by a diffuse beam of yellow streetlight. Slowly, unsteadily he stepped ahead; then crawled up the steps. The floorboards squeaked with the occasional odd step. He was now inside the home of the Lord.
After His departure, all that was left behind occupied just a little space towards the back. The child felt drawn to it. A small watercan stood there. He picked up a paper cup and turned on the tap. He took a sip of it. Clean, fresh drinking water. He gulped it down.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a red cloth-bag stashed clumsily under the stool that held the watercan. He bent down to peek inside. There were fruits. Plenty of them. He reached out for an apple. He then scurried off to the warmest corner of the pandal, crouched down and held the apple with both his hands. A red, shiny apple. He took a small bite out of it. Delicious!
Albeit for a short time, the little one now had a cosy place to sleep in, fresh fruit to eat and litres of drinking water all to himself...
Moments ticked past. The residual scent of mogra and incense soothed the boy to sleep. The apple core slipped out of his hands and rolled onto the floor. The hands, still in position, now apposed as if in a crude namaste, and the head drooped down to bow. The Lord had left, but not without leaving him what he had for so long desired: a paradise.
The creator of happiness, the defeater of sorrow― Sukhkarta, Dukh-harta.
Cover Image Credit: S. Hermann F. Richter from Pixabay
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