The story

For Zee.
There are two sides to every story, there’s mine and then there’s reality, there are three sides to every coin, two you know of and a third that never did exist, there are four corners on a triangle the three that you see and one just around the bend.
I live in a world of fantasy, where it’s all love and hate, fast cars and machine guns, where the sun sets on scenic beaches and I fight villainous characters in dense marshes. Where love is in the arms of the first beautiful woman that you lay your eyes on and success scales dizzying heights. I’m the bastard love child of a growing economy, Hollywood and Scandinavian death metal , I’m a victim of IT and offshoring .
Today, the day before Diwali, the day when Hindu good won over Hindu evil, the day when we light up our skies with the blood sweat and tears of a million children, we celebrate, I celebrate, (I raise a toast to you my dear friend), fuck, we are in a frenzy of hell fire and brimstone. Rockets, rain down from the skies, bombs leave ear-drums ringing, dogs squeal, children yell and nothing can stem the flow of consumerism and the ostentatious display of wealth.
I’m living the dream of the nouveau kitsch, markets crash and I don’t care, I applaud myself for never earning enough to save, to invest. I applaud the government and the opposition, a standing ovation for the left. Kudos to Mamta, way to sock it to big industry, India on the moon, India lying drunk in a drain, kill some more Christians, their own damn fault for being a minority, it makes me want to cry.
I ride, the October night flies by, frigid at the speed of ninety-seven. A green streak illuminates the sky and I look up as it disintegrates into an umbrella of reds, blues and yellows, another in red flies up from behind me and fizzles out midflight. I slow down, peak traffic, Audis, Mercs, Beamers, bloody hell, where are all these cars on normal days. I feel like such a pauper, dead if sample some paint with my handlebar.
But that’s enough on that, this is the festival of light, a time for celebration, a time of family and god and that kind of stuff, the Hindu Christmas. Is it all in my mind or is the city more beautiful all of a sudden, I see smiles where I only noticed sullen frowns, I see lights, strung up and blinking and merry where till today, all I saw were dark and dusty, cob-webbed corners. I am happy, really I am, it’s only the alcohol that’s getting me down. Is an atheist allowed to enjoy a religious holiday? Strictly I don’t think so, but if you don’t tell anyone, neither will I.
I’m on the roof, I’m floating fifty feet above the city, I’m a bird and I’m a snake. Who am I as an individual as an Indian and a citizen of the world, insignificant? Or is that giving me too much credit.
Flying high, buffeted by the wind, coasting through clouds, a festive city burns of its own volition, I pull out a torch, light it up and lean back on the breeze, dig my heels into a patch of smog, twist and release. The flaming torch describes a neat arc as it falls through the night sky. As it reaches the earth, a burst of flame and seven rockets fly back toward me, converging and exploding, the rainbow, a chameleon sky and then all that’s left is the smoke trails.