Any dream will do

Little pink and purple flowers lining the curved path that leads to the bleak, grey walls of the hospital. The picture of Jesus that hangs on a wall. A candlestand beneath it, on which shine a dozen or so lit candles. People, who till then did not think of Jesus in their most desperate of prayers, kneeling and praying. No-nonsense nurses in whites giggling quietly, all the pain in the world just a day's work for them. Doctors with their stethoscopes dangling around their necks, lying limp on their coats' lapels. A desolate stretcher that waits for its next occupant. A guard in his khakis, zealously guarding the entrance, weary and wary at the same time. He's seen both life and death. So what are you glaring at him for? 

In the near distance, from the church, the strains of a fervent prayer, something you would have laughed at had you heard it on the radio. The tap-tap-tap of footsteps along the corridors, some faint, some right next to you, some trying to run away from where they are leading to, some striding with a purpose to get it over and done with. Tap tap tap. Soft murmurs in the halls, a strange mixture of forlorn hope and quiet despair. Waiting to get out into the sunshine, even if it's raining outside. Waiting for a tomorrow that isn't what they want it to be, but waiting nevertheless. Silence that permeates every wall, cloistering and comforting at the same time.

Outside, tired, haggard faces, because of their loved ones inside. Not wanting to be seen, but not caring if they are. Not wanting to give up, but getting too close to it for comfort. Leaning on stone walls, because there is nothing else to lean on. Smiling at strangers, because they don't understand, but somehow they do. A slight drizzle, with the sun peeking through the clouds. No promise of a rainbow, but the eyes stealing a look skyward, hoping to see one. Or find one. A rubble of heap, stones, cement, and what have you just outside the gates. Next to the tender coconut seller. An old photograph lying on top of the rubble. Three generations in one frame. The frame, black, in prime condition, solid. The photo, yellow with age, speckled with neglect, and brown in places where water seeped through. The grandparents, seated, serene, wrinkled, gnarled; the son and his wife, standing on either side - the wife demure, the saree could have been any colour, but something tells me it was yellow with a green border, strands of fragrant jasmine in her hair, the son, hair combed back, white shirt, black trousers, proud; the grandchildren, perched on the arms of the chairs, grinning; and the unseen photographer, who, though not in the frame, was in the moment. "Smile, please". Click. There you go. So someone somewhere will know where they came from.

It must have adorned someone's wall just yesterday. Today, it lies on a mound of debris. A careless passerby threw the drained coconut kernel on it and it cracked the glass. Uncaring, no, just careless. After all, the picture is not of his family. The death knell has been sounded. Tomorrow, it will burn in a garbage dump. Just like countless others have before it.

So this is what it all comes down to, isn't it?

The staccato rhythm of footsteps.

Pretty flowers lining curved paths that lead to and away from desolation.

Hopes of unseen rainbows.

And time in a photograph that nobody remembers or cares about.

It's funny, really.