esta tarde, this afternoon

Watching the kids play at the swings in the park that afternoon, she became conscious about all that she had missed upon. Growing up had been a hurried business and she had taken her time in rushing through childhood. Feeling stupid about how enticing the notion of being grown up sounded, she wondered why people talked about it as a perfect state of being, something to be achieved.
She had often thought about things like these only in public places, the danger of them overpowering her senses in the surroundings where the vicinity comprised of her alone, was too big a risk to be taken. Many a times she had abandoned herself mid-way, trying to get lost through the happenings of her life. But with age had come the knowledge that life would not cover what eye-lids could hide.
Her view about the world had been altered at different stages of life but the notion had stuck all through. The only change was the reason that she adjudicated for the ways of the world, the end was always her contempt for it.
There were moments in time when she felt that life was beautiful. She did not however, linger on the topic. She recognized it only to the point of feeling it. She never tried to stay with the thought. Grandmothers, on sunny Sunday afternoons had put forth a thought,
“Things talked about lose their beauty in each word uttered, each syllable spoken, emotions flowing out with words. “
And so at instances when she did feel positive without dwelling on the positivistic way of thinking, she just kept it close to herself, ignoring it beyond the flash of its discovery.
That afternoon, the sun had been particularly friendly- shining its glory on people who would otherwise be swept in the cool sensation of the winters, imbibing the cold with such sincerity as was hard to emulate. The grass seemed more fresh than green. The clouds had given way to the chirping birds which had migrated away from home, much in the same way as her. They had found this place as a recluse only to fly away to another place which seemed better still.
Shabnam!
Someone from a distance called in her direction. Swiftly shifting her stance she looked searchingly for any trace of familiarity.
To her disappointment a young Indian girl passed by with a child holding her hand. Trying to attempt a smile was difficult; it had been centuries since she last puckered her lips for anything other than condemnation.
There weren’t enough reasons to make her smile anyhow, not even few, not even any.
She remembered the day that she had arrived in the city. It seemed to have been the perfect recluse, the place away from home- a land of opportunities and unparalleled freedom. To top it all she would have a high-scale job to match her undiluted interest in the work with which she was involved. Being appointed as an artist with one of the most exclusive galleries in the world, it had been her dream-come-true. Being called to be a member of highly acknowledged and reputed artist’s brigade, she had not only proved herself but to herself too. She had always had inhibitions about what people acknowledged of her abilities, she had always accepted criticism with much more warmth.
It was like all other things in her life-both welcoming and pleasurable, initially. That’s where it ceased to exist, nothing beyond the word ‘initially’. It was at that point when she wanted to rush back to the comfort that could only be attached with one place on earth, her home. She knew that that had been an abstract perception way before she even thought about an attempt at preparing to pack.
She stayed where she was, accepting all that came her way. Most of it was absolute criticism, which had been her domain, which had been the place where she most felt at home.
Thereafter she had never toiled with anything other than work, which felt like a pleasure only to the extent of being the reason that kept her from herself. And it had been reason enough.
In the first few years she let doubt interrupt her estimates about life, she let life prove it to be something better. Gradually she derived happiness from the fact that her estimates had begun to take shape of theories, which were being proved at one time or another. Finally there was so much conviction in her theories that she constantly searched for ways to prove them faulty, even malicious. It was as if she had become obsessed with loopholes. Each conversation every idea, all interactions had revolved around her fixation.
Her work no longer reflected a new concept; art was repetitive, no more art, just an embodiment of her spirit. Those who had stuck around her found her menacing, insulting or insinuating. People would always have better business to look after. Wasn’t everyone looking for an escape? Why would they indulge themselves in whiling away free time in getting laid by the burdens of thoughts from which they too had sought shelter?
Now, when she had grown old enough to understand only this-that there was no escape, that life was but a yearning for better, a reclusion from it and a search for newer concepts, which after all evolved from the same mind that hunted it, she tried to escape again.
Except that now, she was escaping, flying with the birds, figment by figment, thought by thought breath by breath; soul from body, life from mind. She smiled, realizing that the means to the escape had not failed her. She had been an achiever, at last.

What were they thinking?

"Soul of India. Women of the world" ?



Either I'm creatively challenged or Indians have developed a good digestive system to bolt any form of trash!

Hallucinations

There was a flutter in her heart. She knew what she was thinking about. Nothing else could have brought the same depth of emotion. She wished she could reminisce without being haunted; she wished for life to be the servant, not the served.

Laila yearned for escape. Not as much from her surroundings as much from herself. She wondered whether she would always be a prisoner of her past, guarded by her mind- the cell keeper. Despite the eight months that separated her past from the present, she had not learnt to befriend the night. Each hour that she had spent facing the dark reality of life, she had contemplated the imprisonment of her being- her body as also of her soul.

Tonight she could feel her anxiety surging towards higher skies- the aboard of unfriendly angels. She knew that what served as the catalyst was her knowledge about the direction in which her emotions were being consumed. She acknowledged the abyss towards which she was being shoved.

Embracing her legs within the protection of her arms, she cuddled into a petite bundle of lose fitting, shabby remnants of cloth. Everything was coming back, the good times and the bad. The only difference was that the bad times could not draw away her love for the good ones, they could not swathe her from the longing that had gripped every inch of her flesh, pinching every tatter of her injured soul.

Past was not the only thing that was returning to her tonight, it had brought with it, the accomplice whom she most dreaded- the ghosts from the future.

In the two hundred and forty four days, she had just about managed to look up into the eyes of her past which was manifest in her being despite the distant feeling that was attached with it.

“Life is more unforgiving than it is cruel.”

The words echoed in her mind as she gasped for breath. She felt a salty tear enter the tunnel that she wished would serve as an outlet for the wails that were bringing down the walls of her weakened heart. Opening her mouth in a vain attempt at rescuing herself she realized that she was incapable of even a slight whimper because her mind had already served as the tombstone of her sorrows.

When flashes from an intangible future presented themselves, she gave up the slightest hope that might have dwelled in the receded caves of her mind. The cold floor was no longer the reason why she shuddered; she was in awe of everything that she was now a part of. Enraptured in the world of nightmares, she was merely a puppet. She knew that she was hallucinating about things that were not and might never be, but the intensity of emotions which her past had brought forth was much stronger than the will to escape.

Fighting was not an option, since the enemy was still lurking behind the recess of her own being, protected by the fragility of her emotions. Laila tried to make an attempt at getting up, of shaking herself out of the cataclysm that was emanating from her insides. As she supported her left hand on the wall she figured that she could only manage to sit on her folded legs. She tried to wipe her face in order to stop the sequence of events that were chewing away her sanity. What she found instead were her hands wet with tears and self-pity approaching to traumatize all that was left. In absence of any form of life, in want of a comforting feel, she threw her chest on her thighs and drew her arms as a resting plinth. A fresh pool of tears escaped her eyes and she found herself begging the infinite space where the existence of God was highly improbable.

As if to present a gift from one in whose existence she had no faith in, she found a blade lying next to her. Probably it too had been discarded on the street after being used, much in the same way like her. While extending her hand in its direction acknowledging the fate that tied them both she thought about what she might lose and that which she might not gain. Inadvertently the absence of loss was sufficient excuse as against the absence of gain.

Sin

“There is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft.

When you kill a man, you steal a life, You steal his wife’s right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone’s right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness.”

These few lines seem to be the most sacrosanct and pure utterance; the most blissful thought to have ever hit the face of earth.

But even as I use the word sacrosanct, I’m confused about its existence. What is sacrosanct? God? Humans? Or the faith that they show in the almighty?
The highest praise bestowed on humans is by emulating their existence with that of god.

Who is god?
Most of us define him as a supernatural power which exists as a support; even as a guiding light.
If this is true, then it means that he is flawless. Devoid of any sin.

There are millions in this world of billions who pay heed to him every second of their merciless life. Ones who pray to him endlessly, to bestow his glory on their respective lives, even if for just once. Are these prayers always answered?
If the answer to this question is always in the affirmative, then how do you explain the existence of atheists? Are they individuals who were born with disbelief, are they the ones who can only be born to atheists?
No.

Then, what follows from this, is the fact that atheists too were believers who were let down not once, not twice, but time and over again.
If god is considered a parent who is trying to teach his children about varied aspects of life, then why does he compel his children to touch such extremes of disdain, humiliation and disappointment that they not only loose faith in self but in almighty too?
Do parents and teachers make a maniac of their wards while teaching them lessons of life; do they too, like god, force their children to drift away ?
The answer is in the negative.
Does this mean that humans are better teachers than god? Is god’s plan a defective one? Is he himself as human and as capable of sin- of letting people down, as humans are?

The underlying fact is that atheists exist.

If almighty is as kind and giving as he is supposed to be, then why does he force any of his subjects into submission to a phase where everything is dark, where they loose all trust in him.

A tough situation as an excuse of a test is one thing, but when repeated time and over again, without momentary relief is another. And that’s exactly why individuals turn into atheists. They are forced into a situation which is no different than the latter case.



Theists often use the excuse of “paying for sins” when it comes to unfairness in life situations.

I ask:
“What of those who are born on the streets and die there?
What wrong would you hold them guilty of, if they are compelled to rob in order to sustain life?
Do all their sins overcome the sin of god for not answering their prayers?”

The theists, smile and reply:
“it is their past sin, the sin of previous birth, that brings them to their present life.”

Can I ask once more?
“people might be re-born, but with re-birth, does god recreate the same individual, with the same mind? A person with the same thought process? If not, then how do you explain misfortune to one of good deeds?”


The greatest sin is theft.
To each widow, god is the thief;
To each atheist, he is the liar;
And to each man on the street, he is the cheat.