It is easy to be tired and fall asleep the moment one hits the bed.
Difficult is no sleep, and the hands free; nothing to hold. The utter need of having something to fill the gap up and be there.
The utter reminder of a missing someone.
Of the missing beloved!
This oblivion. Sometimes it is good.
Many times, like now, it is killing
Like it were alive.
Stabbing and jeering at us. As if we have been enemies since centuries
Beloved, would you ever be mine?
And for that matter, what is mine?
What would you do, or we do, that makes you mine. And me yours?
What kind of abstract thought is this? This being mine and yours?
Neither of us can possess each other and yet I am yearning for belonging.
Would a name tag do?
But I never wanted to change my name. Neither would I.
There is nothing like my name and your name together in my mind and yet I want to belong to you somehow.
What do I do?
Have I told you how I have fantasized about our kids? The adopted ones?
Nah, I didn’t adopt multiple kids. Just one. With you.
Mother and father.
And he stays with me on vacations. With you rest of the time…
Sometimes we all spend time together. Like a month or so.
I convince you to stay and school him from my place. We stay a year together…
I forgot to write about this. I told you about the letters, didn’t I?
Ah! Beloved… What have you done to make me ready to leave behind everything?
What is it that I can do away with everything in this moment?
Have you ever felt like the skies came crashing onto you? Like everything just went haywire? Like everything that one had planned was splashed with water and now all the color, the ink, the plans are washed out? Like everything that ever mattered no more exists?
What does one do? How does one fix the skies? How to put the broken pieces up there again? What glue to use? Would the pieces stick to each other like before? Would the glue be strong enough to prevent it from falling again? Would this pain be just once in a lifetime experience? Could it be?
And on top of everything, there are these people called writers. Overtly emotional. Always on the verge of tears. Broken with the slightest touch and hurt by a pinprick. What do such people do? Where do they find their solace, their peace? Is there anything like peace for them?
Is there solace?
We are told that the ladies who are the easiest to look after are the most blessed.
The question remains, do we treat them as the blessings that they are said to be? Do we treat them as they should be?
Or do we, because of their low maintenance, just neglect their needs?
Because they do not make a fuss and create havoc every time their needs or wishes are not fulfilled, do we overlook their needs? The things that make them happy? The subtle forms of care and love that could overjoy them?
Do we forget doing the things we would for other people because they might just start throwing things in our face? And because these ladies make no such nuisances, do we just ignore them? Take them for granted?
Or for that matter, any person who does not explicitly counter our ways, or do not make extravagant demands, do we take all such people for granted?
Planning things, eating out, conversations, or anything for that matter, any plan, we never consider these “low maintenance, considerate” people.
Is this what someone’s consideration is worth? Is this how they should be treated?
Or are we waiting for them to snap and move away to start looking at them and looking out for them? Or caring for them? And if we do, would it be what keeps them with us? Happy and content?
Or would they have moved too far before we realize they have given up on us?
What does one do when nothing he feels can find words?
When the agony and pain are filled up and find no outlet?
The sheer helplessness of not finding the right words, the right people, the circumstances!
What does one do? Where does one go to scream? How does one let out all this pain? This emotion? This helplessness?
What does one do?
It is raining. I am warm and cosy in my bed. A cup of coffee and some books add to the pleasure. And I guess everyone using Facebook now is equally cosy and at ease.
But some people aren’t. Some people are being thrown out or beaten just because of their identity. And the fact that something happened in their area, in their they had no say whatsoever.
Even they aren’t the reason for my post this time. The reason is the constant revenge posts in my feed. My six years of NCR gave me a lot of friends who proudly call themselves Indian. I am glad to have them. But after the Pulwama attack everyone, almost everyone is posting solitary with the soldiers and how they want revenge. From Pakistan and from Kashmir.
The 45 soldiers who lost their lives might not have deserved this. But did anyone step back for a moment to consider why a 20 year old youth would want to blow himself up? He wasn’t raised in the so called Afghanistan and told killing people will bring him to Jannah. He was raised in a village in Kashmir where I am pretty sure he was told, and it was emphasised that suicide is one of the gravest sins. That once committed, the doors of jannah are shut for him. That this suicide results in eternal hell.
Then why? Why would a person having his life ahead of him take such a step?
Why wouldn’t he consider the fate of his family after he is gone? Didn’t he know how families of militants are treated? Didn’t he know that even if PM wouldn’t say anything, army would avenge itself? Would at the minimum burn his house down. Beat all the Male members up and harass them at every opportunity? In a fit of rage, his mother and sister could be raped?
Or was it because he had had so much of this pain and trauma that he couldn’t hold back?
After all, does it not need immense strength on part of a person to just blow himself up? How many of us can survive that thought without tearing up? How many of us can could the time, the seconds till our death? And then cause our own death too? How many?
Or was it that he was already so dead inside that no heaven or hell mattered to him anymore? That he had seen enough to blow up not just himself but 40 other people too?
If he was so traumatised didn’t he know the families of these people would be in pain too? What had happened that rendered him numb to everyone’s pain? Tears?
Did anyone think, or ask for his story before asking for revenge? Did anyone even care to seek out the wounds inflicted on him? The reason that he drove to his own death?
Over the past few days, in many of our conversations, I was asked whether I was hurt. Whether what was said didn’t go well with me. Whether it was offending. Or angered me. For that matter provoked any reaction within me.
Somehow nothing anyone said had any effect, any impact on me. As if nothing mattered. As if nothing was said in the first place.
Had I attained maturity? Or is it some other level of numbness? Numb to the extent that nothing pricks, nothing causes a reaction, nothing stirs me up! Why?
I remember in my childhood my sister was not ticklish and I used to call her inert. After all these years, am even I insert? Non-indulging. Not feeling.
Have I lost my neurons?
Have I internalized and normalized everything to the extent that nothing matters anymore?
What have I done to me?
So many times we come across situations, across people to sympathize with. What happened was bad. Destructive! should not have happened. The person may be shattered, maybe in need. Of hope. Of words. Sympathy.
But whatever the events, whatever it was that created havoc, an emotional turmoil, is there anything that can be said to ease the pain? Can we tell a person who lost his guardian that it happened for good? Can we tell a person in pain that it shall be beneficial? Can we tell a person that God is teaching him something and hence the hunger, starvation and the lack of food?
What do we say to people suffering?
Are the condolences, the words all hollow? Devoid of any meaning? Any depth? Mere misused words. Rather, used words…
And some useless condolences. Sympathies!
So, when we shed tears we are removing the hormones that tend to make us sad.
We are built to vent things out, to let things go.
And yet we, a huge chunk of us, is adamant on keeping it all in. Bottling things up.
The very nature of us to go against the nature of us!