Small story.......

"DONT BE AN ENEMY OF FEAR, FEAR HIM UNTIL HE IS YOUR FRIEND" these were the lines which I was endlessly muttering to myself.
it was 8 in the evening , i was alone in the house, somewhat scared of the dark. To me, though, i was never really alone, because my breath is always my friend. However, I was tired. Tired of thinking. Tired of playing with words for a story. I did not know then that a strange story was going to happen in to me. Cycling was an activity I had enjoyed always. I loved cycling. So, I took out my old rusty cycle. (I thought that the cycle being rusty was a mark of strength, so I was always proud of my bicycle.)
It was 8:20 when i was near an unusual spot. The spot was unusual only because lots of small children were there. You might ask, what is so unusual about there being a bunch of kids?
Actually only children being present is not unusual itself, but at that spot children were holding lamps. It was not a festival time. And though the children were carrying lamps, the whole atmosphere seemed eerie. I rubbed my eyes twice and thrice, but I could not let go of the air of unusualness to the whole scene.

Being a writer, and a thinker, it was my habit to relate an incident to another incident, especially when they happened on the same day , but that i wasn't successful at all in relating that unusual incident . I moved away from that place in a pensive mood without disturbing anyone. To be honest, I was almost scared of the children.

After some reflection on the unusual event, I cycled soulfully without thinking a thought in my mind.i I returned to my house as I was tired and exhausted .
The following evening I went to the same place. But this time, I went without my bicycle. I went for a walk, and during my walk I tried to inhale every single particle of fresh air, even the smell of fresh leaves. The air was light and gentle. Like a newly freed butterfly ready to take on the world. The air was free too. And, I could not have asked for anything more that evening.

Just as I reached that place, feeling braver this time, I was confused. I saw a lamp post flickering in the most unusual manner. And right beside it were the tiny lamps that the children were playing with. There were no children in sight this time, and I was very intrigued. I had always wanted to solve mysteries. However, my fascination for nature, and a slow pace of life kept me from involving myself in detective dramas. It all happens in stories anyway, I would tell myself. But this time, I felt different. I felt like the flickering lamp post was calling me towards itself. Being curious by nature, I am always prone to investigating. This was the right time to do one. I summoned some courage and decided to walk closer to the lamp. Suddenly, the sky turned pitch, and all the other street lamps blackened. The power was gone.
The lamp, to my horror, kept flickering. At this point, I decided to get back home as fast as possible.

*****

A year had passed and I had forgotten all about the lamp. I had been sent away for six months for a painting workshop in the hills.
I was still getting used to my city lifestyle here. I woke up, and I was lazily surfing through T.V. channels. Nothing really caught my attention. Bored, I looked around for something more interesting, until I found a bunch of old magazines that had gathered dust. I noticed that the magazines were very old. In it, was a story titled 'the flickering lamp'. The title immediately brought back the memories of my unusual experiences.
I read the story like a tired traveler desperate for water. I consumed every word of it: the flickering lamp was a story about an old king who had built this eternal lamp post that drew its energy from the earth's natural oil, and volcanic forces. It was, of course, a story. The king had warned its people against the dangers of cutting trees. And like all stories, it sounded impossible. The story itself had been written by a local author some 50 years ago.

That evening I went to the same spot again. Once again I felt like the lamp was calling me towards itself. That area was always secluded, and there were no children in sight. The other lamps stared at me, almost mocking me for my lack of courage. The lamp that had intrigued me, flickered like a jewel in the sky, aware of its domination over my thoughts. I walked towards it slowly,
and went closer to the lamp. As I reached it, a small window in the lamp opened. In it was a letter. The letter read:
'Dear reader. This lamp was built in 1109 by King Nachiketa. This lamp post is very special. It draws its energy from the earth's natural resources. If we continue to damage the earth, the lamp will die'. Beside it was a copy of an article of the story I had read in the magazine.

Whether the story was real or not, I was sure of one thing: I was never going to waste electricity, or use a car or motorcycle when I could use a bicycle. I was also sure of another thing: life was sometimes very unusual. We all have our flickering lamps. They are always trying to teach us lessons, and we should not miss them.