Dark Horse Arts and Sciences

Through the dark silhouette of the wet foggy Vani Vihar street, at the dusk of night, as if some faded dream had lain upon me, I was to be found recklessly wandering about the street with torn clothes and a bruised head. Seeming to be a matter of the very gravest concern, one lady, unhinged of my dressings laid a helping hand, rather a shoulder to be factual. The woman had a torn ragged outfit, muddy boots extended halfway up her calves, a black hat tilted so as to hide her facial features, a black blazer, as if she is some spy agent from some Bond movie and a black cat on her left shoulders staring at me as if I have destroyed its old dynasty. At the spur of the moment, I was grateful for she had saved me from falling down into some canal, yet upon careful reexamination of my shattered thoughts, I grew dubious over the presence of the lady at this dying hour of the night, a phase not so safe and welcoming for single women that too on the streets of the capital. Yet somehow, I restrained myself from questioning her about the same. So entrenched was I in my own thoughts at that moment that I forgot to notice the departure of that woman from that scene as if she had vanished into the thick mist of the Bhubaneswar air. However, the air was getting thicker every second and growing like some infectious disease all upon the city like a blanket. All I could see through the fog was my own hands, drifting away with it, inviting me to join them, yet I was stranded there, alone with my body, unable to get hold of the circumstances unfurling before my eyes. I was convincing myself being inside a dream, yet the very thought of it seemed to have an absurd vibrance upon so much so that I froze, at that very moment, into a limbo, without my arms, yet left only with a brain that comprised no coherence whatsoever, neither with the real world nor with the surreal.