With the moon shining on them, and a sea of people around them they sat at the sea shore lost in the steely ribbon like waves. The air was heavy with the smell of savories prepared on the beach. Little children, students by day and vendors of sundal by night incessantly nudging visitors to the beach had found their new victims; them. Beggars and hawkers like lingered around them like the mist on a cold Delhi winter. The man selling balloons made that irritable noise characteristic of balloons that caught attention of the children on the beach. He was doing what he was best at, entertaining a bunch of noisy kids. They still sat where they were; at peace with the world around them that was moving. Tucked away in a little bubble that showed them a rather unique picture of a world that they belonged to and still did not. A world that was speaking money, sweating, working hard; a world far more different than their own.

They sat.
Silence.

In a little world they had whittled out for themselves from the clouds. Floating above the real world, that was conspiring to pull them apart. They were special. Different from the rest. They laughed. Smiled. Played. Cried. For each other; to each other, not for the world, but for themselves. A little world that was theirs. Unique. Colourful. Bizzare. Peculiar. Yet Extraordinary.

The your-common-stray-rabid dog was chasing a little polythene cover that was dancing to the mild breeze that lifted the whittled out cloud and held it suspended in the air. The breeze ruffled his hair, she ran her fingers through his hair to set it right; to see his eyes that spoke volumes.

A whittled cloud floated.