I do not wish to own a clearer lens to capture skies that flare into a multihued spectacle just before turning dark. For, these lens, with cold and robust bodies, fed into existence by man’s vile hunger to claim ownership of anything material and mark his territory only furthers that very cause. He calls it “optimum utilisation” for land (and people), “preservation” for buildings, “raising awareness” as he draws fences in zoos and “protecting” for when he sets up refugee camps to later turn a blind eye towards it. Must be nice knowing he can chase spaces, change geography, mutilate history, freeze time and engineer existence as per the mould that suits him. 

Must be nice living with hope for more. 

The last time they raised the resolution of the lens by numbers measured in nonsensical scales I didn’t hear about the sirens stopping or the human shaped monsters being hanged. 

There was no news of the headless children finding a way back to their mothers’, or no headline saying “In a monumental turn of events, the culprits have decided to hand themselves in!”- for then, we would all be behind bars. Perhaps then we’ll notice the blood trickling down our elbows. 

“But we didn’t make the bombs!”, shouted one. But you sure did buy the camera; and then maybe a better one, which stopped the miracles from happening lest you tried to capture it in a frame, culture them in a lab, package them, put them on a leash, train them to dance on your tunes, and sell some in lots. 

Nonetheless, the miracles linger on. They hide cleverly in our young. Simmering with a mild hum inside a delicate body that can be carved into a lamp that holds a dozen candles and a soul that can be shaped into its firm base like wet mud does on a potter’s wheel. Yet we find the carriers of miracles lying lifeless in trenches, hanging helpless by chords (sometimes forced, sometimes chosen), dishonoured in death— all that miracle dribbling into the soil as it meets its end. 

Hence, I will let the sky make its glorious exit as I sit watching the obscure horizon with a few miracles (living or dead) as company while I tell them to not be too cross with the world, that owned sharp lenses and honed a thieving heart that stole magic from its rightful place. They had no magic left. They didn’t know any better.

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Esha is a part-time introvert and a full-time dreamer. A finance undergrad and a writer at heart, she sees the world through the lens of her favourite authors and filmmakers. She often seeks refuge in her “mind place” and music while figuring out life in all its chaos and glory— with a head full of stories to tell and a book in her bag, for company.