Their footsteps echoed unnaturally loud to their own ear. But that wasn't the only noise that set their hearts racing. The mewl of a disturbed kitten, the subdued screech of tires as someone took advantage of the lack of traffic, a pebble displaced by a careless foot...each one of the natural noises made them jump. But the real reasontheir hearts were racing was because the night had finally come. Planning. Investment. Lies. Creativity. All cumulated tonight.
Three shadows in the night, six cans with the colours of freedom, the city as a canvas ad the need to express.
As they flitted from one alley to another they wondered collectively the consequence of something like this going wrong...horribly wrong. But it was just a passing thought that one discarded as quickly as it had been formulated. Because the reason they were here in the first place dominated. The need to express burned in them. But were they expressive? Or were the vandals? Were they the voice of the oppressed? Or were they just petty criminals? It depended upon a point of view. But their role isn't what we want to debate.
As they closed in on the ir first target a multitude of thouhts crossed their minds...only to be replaced by a single word. TAG. A way of life. A form of art. An act of vandalism. An adrenaline rush.
Their first target was a traffic police control booth. More than an important art piece this hit was symbolic. It signified everything they believed against. Corruption. Abuse of power. Bureacracy. Inefficiency. So they marked it. Marked it as an act of defiance against the authorities. Marked it as a gauntlet thrown at oppresion's ugly head.
As each of them wielded those colours that they held in their hands as well as let flow through their veins, they let their hands be guided by the emotion they felt. Each of them had their own unique style....one left a skull, another left a rude hand gesture, while the third left a heart with an arrow through it...but more than anything each of the three of them left a little bit of their souls with the paint that dried even as they melted back into the shadows.
A tiny twinge of satisfaction passed through their minds...their first hit had been a successful one. As they moved along the shadows there was a new spring in their steps... A confidence brought on by the adrenaline that lowed through their veins. A cockiness which had its origins in the faint traces of colour that stained their hands.
A need to express.
---Akash Basu
