In some twenty minutes to another year there comes a bicycle ringing, panting, between true intent and some real terror of losing a day's income; on it rides one of those dark eyed guys we never care cursing on; one of those steel handed men who was denied navigation by a celeb who, at her turn, refused to act as the doorkeeper; one of those curly haired men whose beads of sweat await rest with his family. One of those whose daughter, now five, is still awake to hug her dad at the new year's stroke. That night is today. He is the one. One of those men who is different from you and me at the cool rooms around the automated teller machines. One of those who differs just by a thread or a cap or a cross. One of those who still wishes you on the new year's eve to hurry back on that old bicycle; it's wheels as old as his youthful legs. He scuds past men like you and me in a whiff. Back to his daughter , to greet her with a cake or a toy car, before she would sleep.
- ayanchakraborty250