Posted by In a small, rundown village, the old man’s weary ears caught the familiar sound of a pressure cooker coming from his neighbor’s house. Oh, how he longed to have a big pressure cooker of his own, one that could ease the burdens of his poverty-stricken life. But alas, he was the epitome of destitution, and his dreams seemed forever out of reach.
Driven by a desperate hope, the old man ventured towards the house adjacent to his own, in search of vegetables and nourishment. As he made his way, he noticed a group of revolutionaries proudly waving a vibrant red flag near the town square. The sight caught his eye for a fleeting moment, but he quickly dismissed it, as the struggles of his own existence outweighed any political ideologies.
Lost in his thoughts, the old man continued his journey, seeking solace in the humble offerings of nature. Among the remnants of discarded produce, he spotted something unexpected: a pressure cooker, larger than life itself, resting just a few steps away from him under the dilapidated doorway. A spark of possibility ignited within him.
In that moment, with no one in sight to claim ownership, the old man saw a chance to seize this miraculous opportunity. His trembling hand reached out, gripping the handle of the pressure cooker with all his might. But fate, ever unpredictable, intervened with a cruel twist. His feeble grasp couldn’t bear the weight of the cooker, and it slipped from his hand, crashing to the ground with a resounding thud caused by the explosive device concealed within.
The revolutionaries had strategized it against the national police, armies, or security personnel. It was their battle with the nation, but who ultimately became the victim? With a lifetime of hardships weighing heavily on his heart, the old man’s final beat echoed, as he took his last breath right there, a victim of his own desperate aspirations or perhaps something else. Like a weeping art of a painter, everything remained unanswered – silent, painful, and deeply touching to the core.
And so, the old man’s story came to an abrupt end, his dreams forever unrealized. The pressure cooker, now a symbol of both hope and tragedy, lay forgotten on the ground. As the village carried on with its daily struggles, oblivious to the loss that had occurred, the old man’s spirit became yet another ghost haunting the margins of poverty, a testament to the inescapable grip it held on their lives.