The riots had just stopped in Never-Sing-A-Song, a place no less known to you than me, a place where singing had been a crime for the last forty years.
Sixty-five year old, Hukum Singh, was looking for something fanatically. His eight-year old nephew looked curiously as he finally pulled out a twelve-inch bamboo pipe with seven holes.
A puff of dust came out as he blew into it.
“Can you play it?” his nephew asked.
“I used to but now I don’t care.”
The government and the dust had something in common. Both have eventually been wiped off his flute.
Dear Mr. Kapil Sibal, Seriously?