Pujo Asche

While the cold slowly seeps into everything around you, in this little Northern town, reprising the inevitability of the seasons, you subtly wish for the warm familiar things that has always invigorated you. You wish to sit on the top of some tall building in your warm familiar hometown, and watch the warm plethora of people warding of each other, in the familiar warm neon lit streets, just being a part of the familiar festive you once venerated with a puerile zeal.
’Pujo asche’ – says a radio channel.
Festivals, you think were probably designed so that people forget how pointless their life was.
They make you reminiscence the warm reveries of your youth- the sense of belonging, the rush, the phone calls, the sudden plans, the inebriated nights.
You keep observing the colourful people, all with the single purpose of looking good, at accord with the notion of beauty. And if that rational crowd full of your own memories ever disappoints you, makes you feel lonely and sad you can always look up in the night sky.
The stars, you know, they never disappoint you. They are just like you- an outsider. Ancient, distant, faint, hardly ever seen by normal people, they just glow like a resolute soldier at war and you don’t feel sad anymore. Suddenly you sense the warmth within.
That’s the warmth you so crave for in these cool afternoons.

You know, that’s where you want to remain, suspended between the festive world of mortals and the starry heaven.

‘In a week’s time, may be’, you think.