The Trident and the Tea-seller The trident lightning arrestor looks more constant than before— besieged by discomfort, bygone joys and pain—a belief flowing endlessly into the future. The creepers cannot offer love to it—no red or yellow flowers. The tea-seller beside the closed factory never noticed it since the trident didn’t ever arrest or spear any lightning especially when the radical flags were offering a yearlong monsoon to a sneaking venomous rust. There is now a vacuum inside the gates, patches of love and strife on the trident and outside some tea for passers-by. The Biscuit Factory The biscuit factory still bears a baked aroma on its unwrapped metal. The leftovers are soil now but it failed to engulf its breath. The blurred slogans on its walls are old bruises—still longing to heal. It feeds on time to shed its colour for the br...