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mountebanks
caparisoned
bedizened
eldritch,
sortilegious
As he opened the door of the shack, a pariah dog departed through a hole in the back. The mud floor was partially covered with planks. “You can put more pieces of wood if you like,” suggested Navalkar. The walls were a patchwork, part plywood and part sheet metal. The roof was old corrugated iron, waterproofed in corroded areas with transparent plastic.
their lives would be full of hope and happiness once more, like the time before he was sent away to boarding school. But pretending only worked in the world of childhood, things would never be the same again. Life seemed so hopeless, with nothing but misery for everyone …
triturated
Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain. So what was the point of possessing memory? It didn’t help anything. In the end it was all hopeless.
Their laughter acquired a touch of brave desperation after a while, like slicing a loaf very thin and pretending that bread was plentiful. Then
pullulated
peregrinations
Maneck studied Beggarmaster’s excessive chatter, his attempt to hide his heartache. Why did humans do that to their feelings? Whether it was anger or love or sadness, they always tried to put something else forward in its place. And then there were those who pretended their emotions were bigger and grander than anyone else’s. A little annoyance they acted out like a gigantic rage; where a smile or chuckle would do, they laughed hysterically. Either way, it was dishonest.
it’s a beautiful sight. You will come away feeling good, feeling that Shankar has been properly seen off on his continuing journey. And, I hope, not needing a platform anymore. That’s the way I always feel after watching a burning pyre—a completeness, a calmness, a perfect balance between life and death.
