Terrorism : Horrors of Humanity
The Bombay sea was dazzling pretty along the lane they often brought their pets to enjoy a casual evening stroll. Every story of beggars jingling bowl full of coins and drawn faces of uneventful predicament was blotting colours on the layers of life.
The panipuri stalls which sighed round the corners of hassled, busy streets were winding up their daily businesses as the night started startling more with gorgeous discs and restless pubs.
I wrapped myself around with the cozy blanket smoking the last puff of my cigarette. Recalling the concoction of my silly, stupid, blissful, messy past.
My ex-boyfriend mailed me an invitation for his wedlock with the woman he was dating since long. Of course after he realised I could never alter to his ‘wish stick’! No, I could never cause magic to him.
Instead I preferred concentrating on my steps, getting hold of a job and flying off to a hustling city where no one knows where and when the other sleeps.
A loud cacophony with a suddenness exploded amidst the road when I was about to approach towards my dining to gobble my soup. A pungent smell began cloaking the entire space blended with rattled bullets. I looked down from my window discovering pack of helpless pedestrians springing aimless across the scandalized roads.
A ruthless terrorist attack.
Regaining back my dumb senses all I could figure out after few minutes were an immensely injured child crying her heart out, an unlucky eyeless floundering his hand haphazardly trying to grope his stick. Few women puking out blood that damaged their intestines or even more. Shameless horrors progressed to engulf them.
A repetitive noise of ambulance.
And, it was all dark again…
Tears started streaming down my cheek for every vein running through and through my body cried hatred, molded weeps within and craved to smash those brainless ducks in the very massacre they composed.
I didn’t see a revolution that night. Neither as petty as break ups. I saw innocent blood that shined Vermilion in the dead of a night. Just another night yet so breathless, so devastating.
What do you name this? War? Attack? Bloodshed?
I call this ‘animal’. Butchering lives.
Content Writing : Manjima Sarkar Original Copyright © 2014-2015 LaughaLaughi Picture Courtesy : Google