A dark passage leads to an expanse of gloomy silence.. a painfully demotivating world of everything turned into nothing..The cobwebs with their thick bodies of silky grey hang like curtains standing tall from the ceiling.. Sounds of muffled breaths fill up the air desperate to tell stories of the times which once saw happiness, warmth and life.. As one lights a match, a circle of illumination moves around.. A dusty portrait making the images difficult to be recognized.. A grandfather clock with its two hands standing still.. A pair of black masks mocking from a wall.. A shehnai plays the heart-wrenching tune of vidaii somewhere in the darkness outside... A tear drop trickles down on the cheeks as if in disobedience to the eyes .. 'Babuji yahaan zyada der mat rukiye ..' the chowkidar warns.
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