I was trudging down the thoroughfare observant and scrutinizing my proximal milieu. It was early black, as the fulgid luminous took refuge behind the horizon of alpine treeline and statuesque buildings. The chroniker in my mind ticked to cinque in the eventide. I was lagging behind by an hour to reach at my workplace. As I passed the zafre and verditer tinted establishments, my guise barely passed muster in the eyes of the onlookers at my company.
As I quaffed down the jamocha from the styrofoam cannikin, I paused to look at the proletariat and common citizens around me.
A young adolescent, juvenile passed by on the other side of the road. Toting the hopes and expectations, turbulent soul and romantic heart caught in a crossfire between a flight of fancy and realism. “Indigo“, I sighed.
A few footsteps later, I happened to catch a glimpse of a gray man, wrinkled and aged. Seated, reading a gazette, he was placid and blue which was fading and slowly subsiding to gray with each passing second. An extinct raging storm. “Gray“, I contemplated on how colors incorporated into our lives.
I arrived at my destination only to be greeted with familiar faces wearing masks of disapproval as I was escorted to my superior’s office.
“Diganta, your writings haven’t been up to the scratch, we are getting a lot of negative criticism for your articles and according to many here in our organisation, you do not possess the abilities required to become a good writer. I’m sorry but we have arrived at this unanimous decision that you are relieved from the duty of content writer here at The Daily”
I had expected this coming sooner and later. And here I was without a job, walking down towards my rusty condo. Saffron, like the pastel of the empyrean when the sol outsets to ebb. I entered my room, dropped my knapsack on the mattress as I took a prolonged shower after which my daily grub of potatoes and rice. I was determined now, I couldn’t wait for the pages of my portion to unfold itself. This was my transition from saffron to achromic.
The next day the police stormed in the apartment, as the body of a middle aged man identified as Diganta Misra, was found hanging from the plafond. The racks where decorated with accolades from various writing competitions, the floor enveloped with papers and a roughly bound book. His unpublished novel lay among the ruins of his demised dreams and image.