What do Frisbee tosses, knock-down games, ping pong activities, fleeting tic-tac toes, candy flosses and writers’ meets have in common? They are holy, rich with ultimate delight, hyperbolic jollification, and an overflow of gaiety and recreation. Apart from these, the only difference that yells is the level of maturity. Mr. Abercrombie was mature enough to drive out the little specks of dust from his ginormous machine that everyday bent at the curb with shiny, lustrous glass panes that had the capability to encapsulate the entire world. He was surrounded by humans that preferred dilly-dallying over a bottle of crass alcohol rather than flying through a seamless cloud of work and diligence.

I hated him for that, “Sure!”

Look at the people that brush shoulders with him. The people who wouldn’t give an actual damn about him and now that he’s dead all the society coruscates regrets and speeches of condolences. But for how long? Maybe a week? Three days? A day, perhaps?

I’m pretty sure the society’s dead too. Dead while basking in the wrongdoings; misogyny, rapes, thievery, deceit, lies, massacres, hate speeches… 

The succeeding moment jolted me awake from the imaginary episode I was found myself lost in when I couldn’t find the antenna piece to the radio set I was working on. A session of peek-a-boo maybe? I looked at the dismantled piece of audio exuberance and thought of paying Mr. Abercrombie’s dead body a visit and whispering in his lifeless ear that the antenna’s gone before the hearse sings a song of morose of its own.

“After all, it was Mr. Abercrombie’s idea to exact the set. It’s his. Not mine. I’m just a mechanic. I repair Marconi’s vision. Not broken and dejected heart if the idea’s stands impossible.”

 Let bygones be bygones.

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