A Contrasting Malaise

Image

The smoke fills the air in the house, the ‘havan’ has just finished. It’s supposed to be a religious ceremony where all the negative energies in the house are collected, the god’s and goddesses are prayed to. They say that, during this ceremony there is even a time when they descend down for the ceremony’s completion and sent back. Where are they?

I want to see them. I want to see the negative energies in the house and in myself and I want to see them go. I want to see god take away all these negative energies. I want him to see that everybody is a mess.

Despite the circumstances, the beautiful colours, clothes, faces, exchanges of gifts and money; what really lies?

I want him to see.

I’ll hum a tune, and you’ll never know what song it is.

I’ll wait, wait till you’re done. So you’ll come back and smile.

But you won’t.

For that I have to let you go.

I’ll walk here, and you’ll walk there. I’ll smile.

They’ll tell me, it’s a beautiful smile. Is it now?

The one that can’t reach my eyes. The pain is strong, intoxicating almost. When it’s a part of you, it hurts. But slowly, like the stream of water seeping into something, It gets into every cell of my bloodstream.

Sometimes, rushes too!

Like poison in a mortals body, as though it’s counting seconds and longing to finally turn into a vampire because otherwise, it’s just painful. Then the remorse hits you. You howl, plead and scream. Hope. Hope that this seeping pain will either go away or fill itself completely. And slowly, it fills you. It fills you like a glass being filled by a jug. It has too much to give and you, too little to take. There are shivers at first, and then comes numbness. The wonderful gift, better than alcohol or anything else. The numbness loves you, and you love it.

Pain, hurts you. Numbness, calms you.

Somehow nothing that anyone says matters and you want to smile because you’re a mess but so is the world. You realized that sooner, much sooner that your friends have or they will.

I wish I could say, but hey who’ll listen? They all say they will.

They don’t.

If you’re reading this then you already know what pain is. It’s a happy high or a constant stab in the stomach. I want to look at my foot and touch it, feel it because I know it hurts.

I know that the car that ran over it, was heavy, I know that the tier as it rolled over my gentle skin of my foot hurt me.

But I won’t look at it, because it’ll make me realize; the stabbing pain.

 

The suffering that our body goes through. These unhealed wounds, incomplete desires of beauty, cuts, aches, and fractures are they anything compared to how really hurt we are or we have been?

Do you want me to tell you? I will, I promise to write them in flowery words or just plain reality. Will you cry and sympathise or leave it to say- “How unhappy.”

I Am. I’m unhappy. Discontented. Unsatisfied.

I wanted to be, now I’m crippled. Not permanently, temporarily. I don’t like how my sickness restricts me. The fact that I’m scared of going out or that everywhere I go, I look at every man and wonder if he’d manipulate, lie and rape.

 

So as these smokes, slowly creep into the molecules of the air

The ‘havan’

I’ll ask god to take away my pain too; this suffering and maybe he’ll listen.

With it maybe, he’ll also steal away the cause of this all.

 

Amen. 

 

Advertisements

A Parallel World Of Rape- Part 1

imagesIndia is growing, from a developing country to something.

The ministers and politicians say it’s towards a developed country, like the States perhaps? What has the States got that we don’t?

 Is showing the country’s progress on sheet of paper our only aim?

Is the rise in GDP all we can ever think about?

 

‘Every drop in the ocean counts.’ Today I shall prove how. It all starts from a single entity, from one drop. One Indian.

That’s all it takes to mess up an entire nation. Yes, I am criticising. From the time an Indian is born in today’s date all he/she ever looks around to find is struggle . Struggle my friend, Is great. It makes you a better person, teaches you to stand on your own feet. But wait, what are we learning from the struggle?

We’re learning how to cheat, we’re learning that numbers and figures on a piece of paper is more important than our values, dignity and purpose. From childhood, all a child sees is wrecked houses, unorganized system, bad roads. The only feeling he grows up with is hunger instead of love.

Then he is put into a school. A school that runs on donations and the MP of the state. He shall be given free education , so to say. Hey! The country has to improve its literacy rate doesn’t it? So there he goes into school where the teachers are dominated by the principal , the principal by the chairman, the chairman by the management and the management? If you can guess, A Politician.

That’s how, one little child who’s mind is bubbling with creativity and imagination,  The hands that are capable of creating wonders and reaching the sky beyond the rules made by the selfish mortals called ‘Adults’ are suppressed. His hands are tied and his mouth incapable of expressing opinion. Oh, did I mention we have the ‘Right to Speech?’

So this little child learns his math ( Whatever is prescribed by the board and whatever the teachers are asked to complete within a given time period).

He also has to learn political science, geography and history of the country, he ‘learns’ , he tries.  His fertile imagination allows him to think of what the badly printed text has to read…”Non violence, lush green fields, democracy…”

He’s lost.

Why? Because every time he looks out of books he sees murders, guns , trash everywhere and corruption.

So this little child looks back into his books imagines the India he reads about.

That is his version of a fairy tale. A good dream, one he’s never had.

Then of course comes, ‘Language’. His mother tongue, great poets, writers print their stories. He reads but doesn’t understand. The teacher shouts at him, the exams are approaching! He’s scared, and so he leaves the text book as a whole turns to a guide and the ‘questions at the back’ .

“Learn the marked ones, she said they are important!” He learns them, goes to the examination hall.  Realizing his friend was right, jots down all that he had learnt and there,  a perfect score!

His mother is happy, his father gifts him a pen his grandfather had once owned, in the ‘British days’. The society calls him ‘Intelligent’, he’s achieved what he had to.

Twelfth pass, ninety percent. Bravo!

The little boy who now sits deep somewhere in his soul is still eager, he wonders, imagines, thinks, analyses and wants.

The ‘intelligent boy’ took over the ‘little boy’.

He learnt his ‘political science’ so now he sits in air conditioned office taking bribes.

He learnt his language well and so he is  now the speaker in the parliament and abuses anyone who raises a voice against him.

He’s great, he’s successful!

But is that him?

Because the little boy still sits, wondering, hoping, scared because his powers had been subdued and abused.

That, is rape.

P.s – This is just one kind.