The flute began on a melancholy note on chilled morning, one could feel the hexagonal flakes rubbing off his face...
It was Sir John Binghamton's funeral.. the coffin was arranged and the aristocratic family members led the corpse to the graveyard.
In a land where a child's birth is followed by the purchase of the burial space it's well imagined how likely it is for the family to weep on the funeral of a ninety year old crook.
Street urchins gathered from there half-opened eyes and an unawake mind, that someone great was being followed by a few more of the same kind.
A boy said, "Smart men eh..? "..and went off to sleep again..
Someone among the funeral procession heard it.. " ragamuffins..huh..!! ".. he smirked.
A give and take prevalent everywhere bore no exception here…
An open space wrapped up in green.. had patches of white marble and crosses all over it..
A zephyr added chill to the environment..and a few flakes of snow as if pushed in remorse of unholy souls.. at least some felt.
An old man with a half a foot long beard and spectacles pulled down to crib of the nose region stood in a black robe holding a book by his hand..
The coffin was placed in the grave.. and everyone stood in silence..
The old man started as a cognizance of Christianity and recited a few lines before everyone said "Amen"..
A woman in mid-fifties said," Father wanted this to be read at his funeral..", she brought out a rolled paper from her pure leather Gucci wallet..
She handed it over to the priest, and he read on..
“I John Binghamton, concur that all I have done was not right for almost eighty percent of the world population and I agree to the fact that I was no hero despite the people I fooled..
Communism was like sadism to the society… I kept my collars off it as far as I could…But at times even I faltered..
But now, as I think I am breathing my last few of my life.. I feel wealth and fame goes in vain without a proper vision..
Mine was to accumulate wealth.. while I overlooked the ruddy streets as bed for millions, when I cushioned myself in nincompoop pieces of luxury..
After realization, though I can do nothing more than helping a dozen.. I would not let my chance ruin as me in the grave..
I hereby present the cash I have to the street urchins by the next lane of my house, there stays a bereaved wife with a couple of roadside angels..who often makes filthy comments to the pedestrians,
She speaks of helplessness, poverty, exploitation and many more crude realities of life..
Though I bless my sons with the heritage mansion at the Notting Hill, I want you all not to abase the less-benefitted..
As you all prayed the fake prayer for my soul to rest in peace.. please proselytize yourself to the religion of humanity.."
The priest rolled the paper as it was and tied it with the string that the writer of the same tied it with and returned it back to his daughter Anna..
A few women had tears.. they seemed non-crocodile ones..those spoke of remorse..
The man who would cast doom on the urchin stood aghast with his lower jaw pulled down..
The funeral was over.. people dispersed for their respective residences.. a few took the same way they came to the burial..
A rarely fed squeaky voice said, " Look at the man, they are rich.."
Someone from the group of five said, " Even you are! A millionaire "...
"A Slumdog Millionaire "...
