Sort of story..

It was one of those nights, all over again. For him, it was one of those nights. He believed that there are two types of nights a person can have, one is the everyday monotony, the usual ones with the same repetitious progression where he'd be a normal person and trudge through the movement of time either reading something or glare back at the phone screen, aimlessly scrolling up and down, absently clicking on something not even noticing what is on the screen until sleep is considerate enough to arrive. The second one is one of those nights - the vague one.

Kolkata gets really quiet, really fast. It's 11.30 at night and already the locality around his PG has fallen silent, or almost silent, excluding the incessant chirping of the crickets.. 'stridulating', it is called, he had read it somewhere once. A pack of dogs bark somewhere, letting the others know of their turf and their dominance, somewhere someone unfortunate enough was making his way home at this late and ungodly hour, ringing the bell on his bicycle in sheer frustration. For the unaccustomed, days and nights of the city of joy are bipolar.

This would be his 10th or 11th cigarette now, he had lost count, and as a matter of fact he had lost the sense of time too. The orange street light unsuccessfullyy tries to illuminate his room, obstructed by a flailing cheap curtain, creating a strange shadowy, noir like essence. One can actually hope for a sharp scream from the corner of the damp alley and a whole hard-boiled sequence of a cheap detective novel. He fiddles a burning cigarette in one hand and his pen in the other one, which has led to small inked poke marks on his palm. A single A4 paper lays in front of him, tired and waiting, either to be torn apart or be scarred with whatever his patron feels like. Already a number of his own had been crumpled and thrown, some in the waste bin, most on the floor. They both exhale an exhausted breath, one with smoke, other with the weight of being a blank surface.

Stubbing out the cigarette, he makes up his mind. How difficult can it be?

Leaning dangerously over the paper as if trying to drown himself in the ink, he writes -

"Dear Mahamaya,
It is one of those nights...".

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So I wrote this.. if anyone reads this, I would like to have an honest opinion..

Regards.