The crowd is maddening, people walking in chains, talking loudly, laughing and exposing their throats, eating as they have never eaten before, some blowing the instrument deaf, which they have bought for Rs.10, women clinking their bangles while trying out, so much light that the night shames the day, giant wheels turning round and round, children giggling with joy, loud sound boxes roaring the offers, advertising their unique magic shows, death well is making people swallow their tongues, cheering for the teenager who can stand on a bike while the bike is circling its way on the wall.
There is a little boy in a checkered t-shirt and shorts with eyes wide open, while his tongue is just touching the pink cotton candy in the edge. He is looking so terrified of the surrounding that he is holding his mother's loose end of the saree tightly, you can see his nerves on wrist bulged out.
He is looking at the giant wheel like it is going to roll out of the frame to chase him down.
I call that boy Peter because it feels like he is going to respond to this name alone. Since childhood, I call him Peter, and every time I call his name, I feel like he blinks from the painting on the wall.