Irony

Irony “They do not come, as sweet as they used to, these days.” Looking at the helpless fleshes of oranges produced in green Darjeeling hills, the old man says. A wind, which have once touched the peaks of north terrain, sends a shiver down the trite spine. His relative comes out on porch, glow bugs swarming; it is nighttime. The crisscrossing bugs weave the scene akin to those seen through childhood kaleidoscopes. It shakes his nerves to return to technologies. The irony is, inside, rests an old man; life supported by machines. © 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar