I love that word, tradition. A bit archaic yet it settles in the lower pocket of beliefs, I've seen it escaping from hourglass almost everyday, but now it seems to fade away like clouds after raining.
When the skies were bluer we stitched confetti's on empty walls and greetings on the tip of our tongues, we filled hungry stomachs with spices and herbs like rifles stuffed with guncottons.
When I saw time being naked, the last time, it was Diwali where dull hearts and pale skin bloomed into scarlet and beige shades, hope was a little brighter while sorrows a little fainter, and humanity screamed as a loudest forever.
I love that word, tradition. Which bring our hearts closer like orchids, roses and lilies in same fence, but we are drifting apart in this pandemic, till what remains is our own selves. ~Purva