They stumbled and walked and tripped and laughed along every time one of them fell. Their merriment crackled high up in the air with the echoes of their chuckles agitating the dormant couples in the neighbourhood, sleeping in their bed of comfort- or silence. Drunk laughter wasn't pleasing to them, they said aloud. But was it ever? They asked themselves,silently. And never answered back.
The bottles of whiskey rolled from one corner of the road to another as they kicked and rolled , the clinks of the glass and the pebbles beneath somehow sounded so sweet to their ear, it seemed like the immature cry of a celebration that was yet to be born as the night was still young, still young enough to indulge in some more amusement, in some more cheer, in some more life..
The street urchin twisted in sleep, in his comfortable bed with an open luxurious top- the sky. He twisted and smiled, deep in sleep dreaming away to the world where his bare feet experienced a flat base of rubber- a sandal, an obvious accessory for the many sleeping in the deluxe bedrooms of the fancy housing complex right next to the slum.
The dogs of the street hopped along with the four drunk friends, still tripping, still falling, still laughing.... to a humor that only alcohol taught them.
....and as they walked further ahead and reached the fork where they separated each night, they mumbled friendly abuses to each other as singing ode to the night which had only begun and would end with the street sweepers cleaning away the bottles of Indian Whiskey, that would cling and shatter away into thousand glass crystals as a beautiful something is destroyed... and morphed into something even more divine in the rawest form.
And so the night mused away to the moon about these four friends who celebrated every night to a dream that only they knew, to a dream they kept imagining, to a hope that never died in those young hearts..
...and the four of them fell asleep, in their respective cubicles of unconsciousness and ended another night of high spirits ....
Awaiting feed backs!
-Nil.
The bottles of whiskey rolled from one corner of the road to another as they kicked and rolled , the clinks of the glass and the pebbles beneath somehow sounded so sweet to their ear, it seemed like the immature cry of a celebration that was yet to be born as the night was still young, still young enough to indulge in some more amusement, in some more cheer, in some more life..
The street urchin twisted in sleep, in his comfortable bed with an open luxurious top- the sky. He twisted and smiled, deep in sleep dreaming away to the world where his bare feet experienced a flat base of rubber- a sandal, an obvious accessory for the many sleeping in the deluxe bedrooms of the fancy housing complex right next to the slum.
The dogs of the street hopped along with the four drunk friends, still tripping, still falling, still laughing.... to a humor that only alcohol taught them.
....and as they walked further ahead and reached the fork where they separated each night, they mumbled friendly abuses to each other as singing ode to the night which had only begun and would end with the street sweepers cleaning away the bottles of Indian Whiskey, that would cling and shatter away into thousand glass crystals as a beautiful something is destroyed... and morphed into something even more divine in the rawest form.
And so the night mused away to the moon about these four friends who celebrated every night to a dream that only they knew, to a dream they kept imagining, to a hope that never died in those young hearts..
...and the four of them fell asleep, in their respective cubicles of unconsciousness and ended another night of high spirits ....
Awaiting feed backs!
-Nil.
