They are all there. They are all cheering, hands in air. Roars and Applauses. He is the light at the other end of this tunnel. They are taking His name. The one in the red turban and an unkempt beard is a bit over the board. He's joining both his hands in an inexplicable manner so as to devout himself. The lady with the slightly unhooked blouse is screaming like never before. Their hands are dirty and their hair is rough and messy. The legs are weak and the feet are bare. Its scorching hot. They do not feel an ounce of heat. These are the winds of change.
"What the blip happened to the the picture quality?"
They are all there. Some new as well. Some did not make it.
He's blurry eyed. He can't see them clearly. The noise has risen like anything. They need their rights. They need their dreams fulfilled. They want back a part of themselves that they gave to Him. They do not seem to get it back. Why does this always happen?
They are all there. They are a JPEG image from this high. They are colours. The red crowd there - in the middle of the left row: He has to take care of them. They keep Him happy. He loves being happy. Everyone loves being happy. The chamiya loves the pearls, too. They have wild sex, every night. Its wild for Him at least. The blue in the right row do not even know the red are there. They have their own deals. They have their own ideals. They need to be listened as well. Do you have a friggin's clue what how many pixels they are and what their pixel size is? Be wise. Be calm. Be careful.
They are all there. They have assembled again. Long time back. Many centuries back in time. They are silhouttes. But not silent. They have voices, equally strong, equally shrill, equally loud and equally clear. The heroes are in white neat robes, fresh from their burial, not a long time back, together, all at once. They are taking Him to the gallows.
"Plug the earphones out, you bugger."
Its silent as death. Am I deaf as well? Its dark. Am I blind as well?
"Achcha, match shuru hone wali hogi na"
The above post was written and saved after six glasses of bhang. There were patterns in my mind. Of crowds, of cheers and of a hero. This is how I interpreted them. This is an unedited copy (punctuation and italicisation aside).