Wondrous are the ways of the world concluded Mrinalini as she walked out, willingly, and hoping, that it was for the last time, of the building which housed the worst emotions that she ever came across. It was an asylum of civil insanity that propagated privilege. It was an institution which catered to powering wings, building ambitious, housewife material girls out of degrees. Manicured wax wings. Carefully pruned by the prettiest witch possible. Inhuman tales of beautiful beasty nature were concocted here.
Mrinalini Pathak was of the other kind -- quite used to flying free and enjoying the free flight of others too. And once at home with the insanity she made it her own with designated carefulness combined with unassigned carefree flapping. The witch caught notice of her friendly flight one day and failed to approve, quite foolishly, of the colour splashes on the piece of sky floating overhead. She decided to take immediate actions. One could here ask what stopped Mrinalini from stepping outside immediately. Fuel, ladies and gentleman. Fuel that propels flight.
The pretty witch was a pretty proportionate mix of severe stupidity and ingenious intelligence. One could not fathom what went on within that mind of hers. One should not too, it is a delirious waste of time. She fed on others' otherness often. Decked in the best of wears, all she could manage to whip was an overwhelming amount of whispered disgust. Were they to become audible, they would explode her ego into flickering bits of waste not even worth recycling. She devised and assumed and acted accordingly, unfitting to her position. A witch after all can be rather bewitching, not this. She attacked Mrinalini this time, for quite some time now.
Four instances of foolishness later, Mrinalini's brave shield of detachment gave away and she began facing the brunt of useless power. She was angry, very. She would not have, were she attacked directly. However, the witch in her attempt at clipping wings, clipped few other wings as well. Those of some rare human beings who had found out how to survive the institution. She had had enough, thought she and decided to act.
As she walked out of the asylum, insanely relieved at having outlived an era, she felt raindrops of molten wax fill up the lane's end. Her armory of fuel consisted of words though. Through propaganda and posters, Mrinalini defamed and vilified the nature of the witch, and left her with her team of trapped souls. She had set the place on fire with the same fuel that had so long held her back. And from there, flew looking for the flower which could stem her flight. About the witch we do not care to divulge or discuss, pettiness deserves no more attention. About Mrinalini's steadfastness, nothing much is known except that it can be quite heady sometimes.Wondrous are the ways of the world.
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