It was dark.
The bulbs hung tirelessly from the ceiling, their presence today was felt more than any other day. It was on days and nights like this that they actually existed. Today their existence had a meaning.
Today they were dead.
Kashiv was perched on the plastic chair he so rarely used to sit. And in front of him lay a book by Orhan Phamuk, The Black Book and some blank and half used pages and a pen on the table.
There was a table lamp too.
It was dark inside the room and so he could not read or write and so he settled himself comfortably on the otherwise forgotten chair and stared at the lamp.
He hoped and wished the current would come back and give the bulb a life. The current makes the bulb what it is. It is when the bulb feels the life within it, then it glows. Who cares for the bulb!
Kashiv smiled when he thought all this.
To actually glow and make itself meaningful the bulb has to be receptive, the current is omnipresent and it runs through every bulb. Just like the soul. The current is in constant effort to burn the bulb, is in constant effort to make the bulb glow. But, only the bulb which yields and answers the call of the soul will ever be remembered, will have the brightness to change the world, and will ever light the darkness within and without.
And this message appeared on Kashiv’s phone. And at the bottom was the sender’s phone number, Kashiv’s number.
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