Tamasha

It is dusk by the mosquitoes, around the park green bench. The kids’   shrieks come  on top of the swing’s creak.

It was an afternoon movie, a story about how we live  out our stories.  All stories work out the same . Only the characters intertwine  like tendrils in the dark green forest,indistinguishable from each other. Everything is such a mess , whether in Napoleons  Corsica or in  Ravana’s Lanka.

Each of Ravana’s ten heads  seems to tell a different story from the way the head moves but in the end each of them is  the other, the same story all over. 

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