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Monday 31 October 2016

On Diwali night,

strings of lights try to lift
the darkness, but they don’t mitigate it
quite as much as the smoke from the crackers
that makes the sky purple
and silvers the air
prematurely,
something about the way
the lights are hung up over houses
that doesn’t reveal
their sadness or happiness
reminds me of people,
bright stars of smiles
like facades decorated with rangoli powder,
that could scatter in a second
in a breath of wind
or lit with diyas burned out by tomorrow
and as we pass
on a road
filled with celebratory trash
winter air combined
with the ash we can’t cough out
for a year
there’s a house in the corner
that’s under construction,
uninhabited yet,
and on its side
is a jhuggi
like a forgotten child
that will never not be
under construction
that can’t keep out
the bitter ash in the air
but it’s lit as much as the house on the corner
and for one night
on a festival
both houses will light
a candle to their gods
pretending to smile
for
as long as the wick will burn. 

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