Lanterns in the Fog

Part 1

I imagined his thoughts. Did he scoff at the young men and their fiery debates? Did he envy their youth, their certainty? Or had he learned, long ago, that certainty is a luxury, and survival is its own kind of rebellion?

A couple strolled by next, their laughter cutting through the din. She wore a sundress, her hair cascading in loose waves. He wore sneakers too clean for these streets, his arm draped casually over her shoulder. They moved as if the world was theirs, as if the city existed only to provide a picturesque backdrop for their love.

I envied them for a moment, their lightness, their ease. But then I wondered if their love was real or if they were performers too, playing a role for an unseen audience. Love, after all, is another kind of mask, isn't it? It hides our fears, our doubts, the parts of ourselves we're afraid to show.

And then there was the child, barefoot and grinning, chasing after a battered ball. His laughter was pure, untainted by the city's heaviness. He didn't care about suits or saris, revolution or endurance, love or masks. He cared only for the ball, the joy of the chase. I envied him most of all.

And yes, me? Perhaps I wore one mask too. Wandering, observing, dissecting—was this my mask? A way to keep the world at arm's length, to shield myself from the weight of truly engaging with it?

The thought clung to me as I moved on, the faces around me blurring into a sea of untold stories, each carrying their own weight, their own masks. I let the city swallow me whole, wondering if it had seen through mine.

The buildings here had their own stories, etched into their facades like ancient scriptures. Some were stoic relics of the British Raj, their white walls now grayed with the breath of a million exhaust pipes. Others were gaudy temples of consumerism, their neon signs proclaiming the gospel of brands I had only read about in magazines. The juxtaposition was almost cruel in its honesty, a mirror held up to the fragmented soul of the nation.

As the hours slipped by, the rhythm of the city shifted. The rush of the day gave way to the languid murmurs of the night. The performers packed up their props, their painted faces weary but unbroken. Vendors folded their stalls, their hands moving with the practiced grace of routine. And yet, the city did not sleep. It merely changed its face, like an actor slipping into a new role.

After walking a while I reached a street, it stretched ahead like a whispered secret, tucked far from the bustle of the Circle. The world here seemed to hold its breath, the silence wrapping itself around the dim glow of street lamps. It was there, at the edge of the stillness, that I saw her.

She walked with her back to me, framed against the pale light. The white saree she wore clung to her like moonlight, its crimson border catching the faint glow, flickering like a live ember. Her hair, dark and unbound, cascaded in wild waves down her back, swaying gently as though stirred by a breeze I couldn't feel.

She wasn't alone. The man beside her was unremarkable, his presence fading into the backdrop of her radiance. Yet, he held her hand with a confidence that made my chest tighten. The man stood close, too close when I actually saw, his hand gripping hers with an unsettling force. From where I stood, his hold looked less like an act of affection and more like a cage. At first, I didn't move, unwilling to intrude on something I didn't fully understand. But then, I saw it—the sharp, angular motion of his hand striking her face.

The sound cracked through the silence like a whip, shattering the fragile stillness. She staggered back, but instead of cowering, she straightened herself, her head snapping up with defiance. Even from a distance, I could feel the fire in her.

She yanked her hand free from his grasp with a strength that surprised him, her voice cutting through the air like steel. "Touch me again, and I'll break every bone in your hand."