He was running about, in the narrow passages of the busy streets like electricity through thin copper. He was out of breath. With hope. With a world within him resistant to damage, gritty in lonely convictions. That was his only struggle. Digging oases in a crowded desert. Incorruptible. Hence, alone.
He hoped that an encounter with Beauty will obliterate the Hunger in his stomach.
Today, his goal was to catch the Parade. The sense of orderliness in the March, the Music in the gunshots, the Hope in the Tricolour.
Happy Republic Day