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  • the_nameless_creed 184w

    I have been long gone. It's been a long time, since I last posted in Mirakee. But I hope to undo my erratic schedule.

    The piece revolves around the thought that life revolves around money. The circle of life swings on the power of currency. I have tried to put these thoughts in my piece.

    The post is long. Please bear with me.

    I'm a tagging a couple of my fellow mirakeeans. I hope you like reading the piece.
    @strikhedonia @nightwriter_i

    @writersnetwork @readwriteunite

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    Wheel of Currency

    Wrapped in a fabric
    Pristine white
    The cry of a tot
    Reverberated in the corridors
    Of the maternity hall
    Surrounded with an overjoyed audience
    The infant was adorned with jewels
    And blessed with papers
    Donned with myriad hues
    From a shocking pink
    To a eccentric blue
    Each with its hefty denomination
    Every party loosening the wallet
    To achieve rightful representation

    The little prince's
    To his majestic walk
    Every motion
    Was captured in galore
    In a branded camera
    Worth a few hundred dollar
    One that came
    At the expense of prized trawler

    Living quarters
    Turned into a garage
    For trucks, buses and cars
    Owing to varied demands
    Of, now a two year boy
    The toy shop
    His go-to place
    Meant increased blood pressure
    And dwindling cash balances

    The hunt for a school
    Was fiercer than the world war
    Whose end saw the victor
    Paying damages
    In the form of
    Books, uniforms and backpacks

    The little prince
    Now a charming hunk
    Aimed at a college
    Increasing the deficit baggage
    Fees at a million dollars
    The dad at fifty two
    Paid the amount
    Selling the ancestral land
    For a million two

    Graduating from college
    He landed a job
    A look at his ailing father
    Made him sob
    Adorning a tuft of white hair
    The guardian nearing his expiry
    Handed over the helm
    To the young lad
    Burdening him with finances
    And future expenses

    Sitting in a hotel room
    The bridegroom
    Shivered with excitement
    As hundreds of people gathered
    To see the spectacle
    Investing his last penny
    The old geezer
    Had made the circus huge
    Standing in a beeline
    The spectators
    Awaited seeing the groom
    Each with a fat envelope
    Brimming with freshly minted notes
    Gawking at them
    The old geezer took charge
    Humming a music
    As he counted the votes

    The ship
    Finally docked
    At the last port
    The ex-captain departed
    Final rites were somber
    Sobbing incessantly
    The father of two
    Sprinkled money generously
    Bidding adieu to his maker
    In all its glory


  • the_nameless_creed 189w

    The life of a tribal boy marred with strife and injustice is one filled with vengeance and anger. It promotes a cycle of hatred leading into continued conflict. I have tried to weave these thoughts in this poem.

    @writersnetwork @readwriteunite #pod

    I'm tagging some writers. I hope you liked the piece.
    @strikhedonia @nightwriter_i

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    Crimson Childhood

    The howl of a lad
    In the far reaches
    Of the dense jungles
    Inaccessible to mankind

    With eyes teary
    And trembling hands
    He held on
    To the shredded remains
    Of his deceased mother

    Smeared in red
    His frail legs
    Under the weight
    Of immense pain

    The symphony of death
    Was a verse
    He was painfully familiar with
    Waking up to skies red
    And sleeping on death bed
    He witnessed killings
    Every hour of the living

    His loved ones
    Liked a stack of cards
    One following the other
    The year's beginning
    Brought his father's end
    Summer wind
    Took his sister's soul away
    A month later
    His mother left
    For a place far away

    The cleansing programme
    Happened without notice
    Once in a month, a fortnight
    Or every other day
    No one knew
    His last day

    He still remembered
    The dance of death
    And all he lost
    In its sway

    They came in droves
    Scavengers uniformed in green
    Armed with ammunition
    They marched in like thugs
    Without a warning
    Firing incessantly
    Killing men like flies
    Abusing their widowed wives
    The preachers of justice
    Hammered injustice
    Into the lives of tribal beings

    Harnessing angst
    Deep within
    The boy trained
    Day in and day out
    In an attempt
    To punish
    The perpetrators of death

    A well baked rebel
    The boy
    Now in his teens
    Holding on to a gun
    Looked with eyes blood red
    And face
    Lightened with anger
    As he marched
    To the battlefield
    Into a killing machine


  • the_nameless_creed 190w

    Every classroom has a kid whose very identity is rubbed off from the minds of fellow classmates. Devoid of identity, such an individual becomes a loner being left out on all occasions. This poem centers on the psyche of such a person.

    @writersnetwork @readwriteunite

    I'm tagging a couple of fellow poets. I hope you like reading the piece.
    @nightwriter_i @strikhedonia

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    The Faceless Man

    The clang of the brass bell
    Echoed in the arched hallways
    As the monotonous school
    Was set in motion
    Trudging up the stairs
    The sleepy sixth grader
    As he entered his homeroom

    A quarter after the bell rang
    The classroom came to life
    Giggles here and there
    Paper planes being launched
    From the corner of the eye
    Bundled with elixir of energy
    Every being
    Was engulfed in
    What, where and when

    Sitting solitary
    In the front row
    The spectacled guy
    Stared blankly
    At the pitch dark blackboard
    In an attempt
    To shove away
    The feeling of being bored

    The tutor
    Finally made an appearance
    After the ritual roll call
    Came the lessons
    Expert at picking favourites
    He diverted his attention
    To the popular few
    Letting out a gasp
    The frontbencher
    Looked with eyes disinterested
    Knowing well that
    Being left out
    Was nothing new

    The lunch break
    Rerun the same script
    Gulping on instant noodles
    He was left alone
    As others scavenged
    On delectable cuisines
    Right from the mother's palette

    Cycling his way
    Back to home
    He was usually greeted
    With averted glances
    And hushed questions like
    Who could be he?
    Glaring at them
    He thought
    I'm their classmate
    How could they not know me?

    A loner
    In the world of animated beings
    He indeed was a cog
    Without a name
    Caring less for fame

    Sitting on his study table
    His thoughts would
    More often than not
    Into reasons
    For his existence
    Clueless about
    His past, present or future tense
    A drop or two
    Would roll down his cheek
    Increasing his sadness
    With every passing tick
    Broken to the core
    He would let out a cry
    Filled with pain
    Slowly but eventually
    Turning him insane


  • the_nameless_creed 190w

    It's been over a month, since I last posted on Mirakee. Semester exams had withheld me from picking up my pen in the time being. I will take the effort to pour my thoughts into words more often starting today.

    Today's poem revolves around a person who has finally made out time to revisit his homeland after decades. What's his reaction when he finally sets foot in his native place? The poem answers it all.

    @writersnetwork @readwriteunite

    I'm tagging a couple of poets. I hope you like reading this piece.
    @strikhedonia @nightwriter_i

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    Home Calling

    Leaving his cubicle
    For the last time
    The bald geezer
    Had tears in his eyes
    Brimming with joy
    He was elated
    Of having left
    The marketplace of despair
    Meant for puny beings

    Humming a music
    Under his breath
    He flew past cars
    And darted acquaintances
    In an attempt
    To shove away
    Soot ridden faces
    He once worked with

    Having reached
    The end of the road
    He sat under the lamppost
    Unzipping his prized possession
    A tattered journal
    His unscripted travelogue
    Housing yellowed pages
    With the date earmarked
    Fourteen, Four, Twenty Eighteen
    It said
    Was the day of freedom
    The day
    For his much awaited trip

    The journey
    To his homeland
    Was what he yearned for
    Having bogged down
    With work
    Round the clock
    He had opted
    To journey
    At the end of his league

    Boarding the train
    He felt giddy
    His eyes sparkled
    Like a lad lured by a candy
    He didn't sleep
    Reliving his childhood days

    Alighting from the carriage
    He landed on a decrepit platform
    And was taken aback
    The picturesque station
    Where he once smoked cigarettes
    Gave way to a carcass
    With rusted iron beams
    Protruding from its being

    Stepping outside the station
    He was greeted
    By the familiar brick road
    That connected the village
    Every step he took
    Brought him closer
    To a world decades old
    The sweet shop still in business
    Despite having a new owner
    Satiated his sweet tooth
    Looking at the barber shop
    He passed a smile
    Remembering the days
    When he emulated Bacchan's style

    Lurking deeper into the habitat
    He could feel a change
    From how things used to be
    Gone was the well
    Replaced by the tube well
    The earthly shacks
    Substituted for houses
    Brick and mortar
    Gully cricket
    Which he thrived on
    Was not to be seen
    No one was an acquaintance
    Who ended up asking
    "How have you been?"
    He felt every bit a foreigner
    In the land of his dreams

    Confused and aggrieved
    He broke into a run
    Leaving behind
    Memories from his childhood cassette
    Gasping for breath
    He boarded the the train
    Headed for the castle
    Encased in grief


  • the_nameless_creed 195w

    Anger is the single most unadulterated emotion that people express the most vividly. People suffering from severe anger management issues frequently get into squabbles.

    Today, I have connoted a poem based on the life of a hot-headed person. It embarks on his journey from unrestrained anger to controlled and well-channelled anger.

    The post is long. Please bear with me. I hope you like reading it. Feedbacks are most welcome.
    @writersnetwork @readwriteunite
    @madmysterymagic @shabnoor_rahman

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    Hot-Blooded Masochist

    A street brawler
    An incorrigible goon
    The filthy nuisance
    He was synonymous
    To a multitude of names
    Meant for proverbial scum

    The tussle over the black lead
    To feminine catcalls
    Early days saw him squabble
    Over petty issues
    Undeserving of attention
    By the common folk

    The home wasn't sweet either
    Neither was it warm
    Food served cold
    Or switching off his favourite toon
    Would ensue wrath
    On people
    Irrespective of how old

    Skirmishes got brutal
    And his rage got flashy
    With every step
    He embarked upon

    Branded as a problem child
    He lived his growing years
    Warped in isolation
    Seldom bunking classes
    And cycling to the fields
    Where he found peace

    Expelled from school
    A dozen times
    He always found his way back
    With his father's backing
    Feared by colleagues
    He was the boy
    One shouldn't be friends with

    If school saw him
    As a misfit
    An eyesore
    College did the exact opposite
    Hailed by the crowd
    As a badass
    He formed a gang
    And took over
    As an official bully

    Amidst this glory
    And newfound recognition
    He was broken
    Of having lost a cause
    A just cause
    For venting frustration
    Anger which was once pious
    Was now a medium
    To broadcast fear
    And belittle the weak
    Heartless acts as such
    Crippled him from within

    Back in those obscure days
    He met a person
    Guide, friend, love
    Were words synonymous with her
    Like a nurse
    Treating the wounded
    She poured kindness from her sachet
    Seeing him as a human first
    And a bully later
    Like an angel
    She stashed away the tar of insanity
    And replaced it with love
    Which he so long awaited

    Day, months, and years have passed
    Since he graduated
    The boxing club
    He proudly boasts of
    Is overflowing with children
    Does he get angry?
    He often does
    But this time it's the other way round
    The anger
    Which once haunted him
    Is now a close companion
    Well channelled
    Well appreciated


  • the_nameless_creed 196w

    I hope my friends at mirakee had a fun-filled Holi. May the colours deepen the ties between every being.
    Today's poem revolves around the nightlifer's foray into the unnatural dimension. Sleep paralysis is a phenomenon in which a person is temporarily paralyzed for a period of two to three minutes. Sleeping at wee hours for a prolonged period induces this disease. The topic is unconventional and the poem is long. Please bear with me. I hope you guys love reading it. Feedbacks are welcome
    @nivu_13 @madmysterymagic @reshamthegreat @_yugen_

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    Having fended off the blazing sun
    I was captivated
    Watching the horizon
    Shed its pinkish hue
    Turning a tad violet
    Before giving into pitch darkness
    A ritual
    I had followed since childhood
    The onset of night
    Was what I waited for
    Wrapped in silence
    It transported me
    To realms unknown

    That night was different
    Eerie to say the least
    Covered under a blanket of smog
    I missed my usual companions
    Irritated by my mate's spooky catcalls
    I reverted back
    To the world of animated beings
    Halfway I gave up
    Dozing off
    Around quarter to two
    Way too early
    For a nocturnal being

    Sleep descended pretty soon
    For a cramped boiler room
    With a measly fan
    To tend the sweat droplets
    Covering the length and breadth
    Of my plump frame
    Rocking from left to right
    In search of a perfect posture
    Contended with finding one
    I smiled sheepishly
    Dreaming of a forbidden being

    The game of snake and ladder was set
    My dice rolled the wrong way
    Unbeknownst to the turn of events
    I, the prey tried to sleep
    Through this unbearable heat
    The parched tongue
    And the sweaty brow
    Pulled me out of my dreams
    Stubbornly shutting my iris
    I chose to cling to my bed
    Only to be defeated by the invincible thirst

    With an effort
    I tried getting up
    But nothing budged
    I tried again
    And a few more times
    All ended in vain
    Peering into the darkness
    I could see a hand
    Come down in a parabolic motion
    Slitting my wrist
    Was it a scythe or a blade
    It no longer mattered
    The injured hand lay numb
    Oozing blood
    Turning my mattress into red
    I screamed my lungs out
    But no one came to my aid
    A gash on the chest followed next
    Coughing blood
    I could barely keep the pace
    As the intruder
    Did his handiwork unfazed
    Losing his consciousness
    The prey looked with eyes
    Riddled with questions unanswered
    Well it didn't matter
    As I left the portals
    Of the living

    The bone-dried throat
    Stung like a bee
    Thirsty in afterlife
    How could this be
    Hoping against hope
    I opened my eyes
    Only to find me on my bed
    Peerless white
    The clock said half past four
    And the lights were still out
    My bones creaked
    As I stood up
    Gone were my wounds
    Without a trace to follow
    Did I just return
    From the Satan's hollow
    A smack on my cheek
    Followed by smash of water
    Brought me back to senses
    Only to be left confused
    Thinking about the events
    From the night before


  • the_nameless_creed 198w

    The idea of writing an ode for praising oneself is quite admirable. I thank @reshamthegreat for coming up with this novel idea.
    It's my attempt at describing myself. I hope I did justice to this topic.The post is long. Please do bear with me. I hope you enjoyed reading this piece. Feedbacks are most welcome.
    @writersnetwork @readwriteunite @loving_reverie @aamy_ameya @aragorn @nightwriter_i @ivy_words @madmysterymagic @nivu_13 @_yugen_ @soumyaa_@scribbler_sampada @shabnoor_rahman

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    One who writes

    Looking at the mirror
    Staring at the lens
    I have questioned
    For times
    I have lost count of
    "Do I look good?"
    And all I hear
    Is silence in return

    A man of average looks
    Devoid of charm
    A retiree
    From the fairness programme
    I still feel good
    On the way, I look
    Far different
    From the ideal man's book

    The jet black hair
    That adorns my crown
    Gently covers my scalp
    As it's strands
    Dance in tandem
    With my comb
    Creating an outline
    Worthy of praise

    My eye
    A shade of black
    Is my best chum
    A guy with broad shoulders
    And endless stamina
    He clicks photos
    Day in and day out
    While holding me up
    When I'm down

    The proud nose
    That stands tall
    Narrates tales of brave men
    From times yonder

    Velvety moustache
    That outlines my lips
    Is a haughty individual
    Whose confidence knows no bounds
    Determined he stands
    With a will
    To extinguish
    All that comes his way

    The lips
    A timid creature
    Who at times
    Isn't well watered
    Never complains
    But accompanies me
    In making friends

    The star cast of my visage
    Mr Beard
    Whom I sportingly flaunt
    Is an elite
    Who looks down on others
    Living a life secluded
    Yet connected with the folks

    How can I forget
    Mr Skin
    Tanned in colour
    It forms the backbone of the troupe
    The go-to person
    He happily protects his friends
    Without a dime in return

    I for one
    Am a person
    Nestled with individuals
    Differing in colours, shapes and sizes
    Yet unified under one roof
    How I look
    Doesn't matter
    For what I am
    Is what really counts


  • the_nameless_creed 198w

    If you had to rewrite your past, what would be the parts you were likely to write off. In an attempt to answer this question, I tried to jot the parts a wimpy kid would probably erase. I hope you guys enjoy reading it. Feedbacks are welcome.
    @writersnetwork @readwriteunite @nightwriter_i @ivy_words @nivu_13 @loving_reverie @_yugen_ @madmysterymagic @soumyaa_ @shabnoor_rahman @aamy_ameya @aragorn @scribbler_sampada

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    I wish
    To write my tale anew
    A tale
    Buried under the debris
    Of lost childhood
    Caged in a cell
    Stifled with endless volumes
    Of faceless characters
    Whom I barely knew

    I wish
    To write my tale anew
    A tale
    Of the wimpy kid
    The pushover
    Meant to entertain
    The heartless fiends

    I wish
    To write my tale anew
    A tale
    Of unsaid words
    Unexpressed emotions
    Misjudged feelings
    Letting go
    Of my only love

    I wish
    To write my tale anew
    A tale
    Of my bloated self
    Binging on junk
    Every now and then

    I wish
    Oh, how I wish
    To fill my mundane tale
    With colours fiery
    And write anew


  • the_nameless_creed 200w

    It's been long since I last visited this platform. Times have been hectic of late. Picking up my pen seemed impossible amidst juggling between files. I apologize to my readers, who wondered where did I vanish.
    This is the last part of the story titled "Chasing Dreams". It's about a disabled child who dreams to cycle. The story tracks his journey through multiple twists and turns. I strongly recommend the readers to go through the preceding parts before reading this piece. Do share your precious feedback.
    @writersnetwork @readwriteunite @nightwriter_i @aamy_ameya @scribbler_sampada @ivy_words @aragorn @madmysterymagic @nivu_13 @_yugen_ @the_moon_door @soumyaa_ @shabnoor_rahman @bluebird @loving_reverie

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    Chasing Dreams (Part IV)

    The summer sun shone brightly in the boundless sea of blue. It's iridescent beams resembling the spokes of a cycle, left Akhil in deep awe. Since childhood, he had a thing for the sun. To him, it looked like a wheel. A luminous wheel encompassing the length and breadth of the skypiea. "Chote Sahab, Chote Sahab" calls out Vitthal, the house help. Lost in the train of thought he had almost missed his breakfast. It had been over a month since Akhil shifted to the mansion. Having bid adieu to his nightmarish abode, he now found solace in the spacious quarters of the village head. Gajendar, his newfound parent looked at him like his very own son. He strived hard to make good his promise to unite Akhil with his love. He had already dialled the right numbers and persuaded the collector to ensure his kin's entry into the Sports Academy at Gandhinagar. The would-be cyclist was due to leave in a fortnight.

    Leaving his village for the first time, Akhil hummed a pleasant tune as he made his way through the narrow lanes of the hamlet. A throng of people had gathered to see him off. They applauded enthusiastically, cheering for the homegrown champion. With eyes teary and a thumping heart, he gave a final glance to his decrepit settlement as it disappeared into the horizon. Sitting at the back of the bike, Akhil sweated profusely as the blazing sun tested his resilience. After five long hours journeying through the bumpy roads, they finally reached Gandhinagar. A city with broad lanes adorned with multistoried buildings and vibrant bazaars. It indeed was worthy of being the state's capital. After a flurry of inquiries, the duo briskly approached Akhil's new abode.

    The Sports Academy at Gandhinagar was huge. Akhil gaped looking at the campus. Boasting it's indoor tracks and courts, the facility was a land of dreams for any athlete. Thanks to the recommendation of the collector, the formalities were over in a jiffy. His new mate, the handcycle waited in earnest. A tricycle with two rear wheels accompanied with a steerable front wheel, it indeed was meant for the differently abled. Trying the cycle for the very first time, he shivered at the touch of the steel frame. His eyes glinted, at finally riding a cycle. As the sun went down, it was time to say goodbye to the angel who changed his life. Embracing him tightly one last time, Akhil waved off Gajendar .

    Beginnings were marred with difficulties. He frequently fell from his cycle, ending up in cuts and bruises. Battling his posture, he strived on with an intent to master the machine. Days gave way to months. Akhil had come a long way from the initial jitters. He had finally tamed the machine. Now he consistently clocked record times in the pool of cyclists. Hence it was not much of a surprise when he was selected for the nationals.

    The night before the Nationals, Akhil felt uneasy. Beads of perspiration accumulated on his brow as he tried to sleep. Shifting from left to right, he mulled over his journey. He still couldn't believe having made it so far. Morning took ages to come. By the time sun rose over the horizon, he had already bathed and changed into his uniform. Now all he did was wait. Wait to take flight. After what felt like an eternity, the moment arrived. Standing on the starting line with his trusty cycle, he eagerly waited for the whistle. The humongous crowd chanted his name in unison. Shutting out the background noise, he tried to focus. It was the moment he lived for. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he clenched his fist and waited for the call. 3,2,1 and off went the whistle. With lightning speed, Akhil pedalled his way.


  • the_nameless_creed 204w

    Here's the third part of my short story. Please do read the second part titled Chasing Dreams (Part II), before giving this piece a read.
    It's a story revolving around the life of a disabled athlete.I hope you guys enjoy reading it. Feedbacks are always welcome.
    @writersnetwork @readwriteunite @loving_reverie @aamy_ameya @nightwriter_i @aragorn @lost_forever @ivy_words @madmysterymagic @nivu_13 @_yugen_@nivu_13 @the_moon_door @soumyaa_@shabnoor_rahman

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    Chasing Dreams (Part III)

    The days marked with the habitual to and fro from the school is at times disrupted by the arrival of Akhil's uncle. Popularly known as "Shehri Babu", he is hailed as the mascot of change. A clerk by profession, his favourite hobby is to brag. Deviant from the usual adulation, Akhil looks down on him for his baloney. Oh, how much he wants to give him a piece of his mind. Unfortunately the nephew's thoughts aren't shared by his parents, who tend to worship the shamster. The prospect of the poor soul turns bleak, as the con constantly persists his guardian to abandon him. A piece of trash, that's what he says. Taking his words verbatim, they blindly followed his footsteps.Unknown to their devious plans, Akhil walks right into the trap only to be saved by the wheel of fortune.

    Days later after the departure of his crooked uncle, he wanders in the verandah late at night and ends up hearing his death sentence. Putting an ear in the door's crack, he hears his father negotiating prices with a dealer. At first the conversation doesn't make any sense, but later on he finds himself is the commodity of exchange. Affected by the impact, his body feels rigid and he crashes to the ground. Letting out a muffled scream, he wipes his wet visage. The darkness, just like his long dead granny caresses his very being. It speaks almost in a whisper. All it says is "RUN".

    In the cold December night, Akhil leaves his cozy hell wearing a tattered shawl. The torch, his all weather aide guides him through the moonless night. He falls a dozen times, only to stand up back like a soul possessed. The occasional hoots of owls accompany him through the silence. Walking for a while, he finally reaches the main road. Seeing an incoming motorcycle, he attempts hiding behind the bush. Alas, his efforts all but fail. A person clad in white kurta, ambushes him. Frightened, Akhil frantically tries to run out from the predator's reach. To his surprise, the man embraces him tightly. After coming to senses he recognises the man as the "Sarpanch". Looking up at the sky, he thanks God for being saved by a man of virtue. Overwhelmed with emotion, the poor soul narrates his story in between sobs. The man in his late fifties, breaks into a torrent of tears listening to his grim tale. He promises to bring a smile on his sullen face. Clinging to his life saver, Akhil boards the bike heading for the mansion.

    The next day is earmarked for punishing the culprits. Perpetrators are lined up in a row, displayed in the front of the village crowd. The Panchayat comes to session at the strike of ten. Listening to the heinous plan of selling their offspring straight from the horse's mouth, the crowds goes into unrest. Pebbles are hurled at the offenders. The council tries it's best to cool down the situation. Finally after silence prevails, the head speaks. He blatantly criticises the duo for even deliberating the idea of trading their lad. Banishing them from the village, he strictly warns the villagers from attempting such mischief. The aggrieved person, Akhil is congratulated by the folk., "Since your parents are gone for good, what will a freeloader like you do now. Drink our blood for a change?" asks a old man, attempting to dampen his spirit. With a smile on his face, the disabled curtly replies "Do you have a cycle to spare?"