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?
It was a beautiful day. An amazing company. Shared laughter. While one conversation was leading to another, he asked: “What plans do you have for yourself?” “None”
Plans. Unknowingly he had now touched the raw nerve he talked about a few days earlier. Plans. What she wanted to do with her life. Which direction she wanted to choose. What paths did she desire to walk?
Very few people had bothered about this. Her desire. What she wanted to do with her life. And yet, amongst those few people, her family never featured. It was twice that someone wanted to help her. That the destination had been fixed, so let’s find the path together. Let’s walk together.
There couldn’t have been any sound better than that sentence. “I will show you how to.” And it still remained a mystery to her. Was it her naivety or was the person too convincing? Or was she too desperate to arrive that she drank from all cups offered? Never differentiating, never trying to probe whether it is water or poison.
A part of her did feel poisoned. Cheated. Like being promised of a dessert and getting a toffee. The path promised did exist but it lead elsewhere. Her desire, her dream, her destination was too far from the path she was trodding upon. A part of her always grieved. Maybe she should have probed more. What fun was it walking with people who wouldn’t even understand? Who mocked her? Her passion? What did they know? Had they themselves ever yielded anything from their labor of love? Just how could they?
And here she was, with another hand to take her there. The path seemed better. Familiar. Things she should have been doing for long now, but wasn’t. But a part of her was still hurt. Still afraid. Still wondering where this rendezvous would take her to.
Busy, bustling, daily chores
A life full of demanding more’s
Ah! The clock goes too fast
Just can’t do enough!
With hands full, I hear a call
A familiar, cherished voice
somehow it felt different
So wrong, painful
I look back, the source of the voice
Dad crumbling, drenched in sweat
something seems utterly wrong
the panic on his face
I run, trying to get a hold of him
save the fall, the anguish
But midway something hinders my run…
A chain round hand.
I try jostling it away
breaking free and going over
somehow seems too strong
Ah! What do I do…
Somewhere I comply, negotiate
I get timeouts and return back…
like a dutiful slave!
That will to do something. Achieve. Be.
That something you aren’t ready to negotiate upon.
That lack of will they said I had. That lack of pure passion that fuels success. That I didn’t want anything done.
Days when I actually lacked everything else. Just breathing because it doesn’t need a voluntary will. No efforts.
Sometimes the will to give up too. That done for feeling. That I didn’t belong and it all was a farce.
The thing they said, maybe just to disqualify me.
The times when you so want to curl up and cry, to hide somewhere, run away from everyone….
The times when you feel like giving up, like everything is worthless, like nothing is working in the way desired…
The times when the world comes crashing, when the skies fall, when the earth bursts open, when even the closest ones leave your side…
The times when you lose the purpose of living, when nothing makes a sense, when even the next breath is a burden…
Don’t give up! Look up into your eyes, re-ignite that fire, visualize your purpose. There’s an answer to everything…
Everyone has phases in life. Childhood, school, tuitions, college … Every phase has different people associated with it. Different bonds, different relations. Expectations. Aspirations.
And somehow sharing a part of life turns insignificant when a new phase is introduced. Somehow everything associated with a phase is let go. Maybe to make a place for new things. Maybe it is an escape way… who knows!
The only remnant we let ourselves have is a piece of paper signifying the time we spent, toiling.
Why was it so difficult to give people some space in life? To give time to people we once so cherished? Who meant the world to us at some point of time. Are our schedules actually so busy? Do we care so less?
From another perspective, we hold images of people we have met. Some memories. Some traits. And over time we tend to idealise them. Maybe we are afraid we won’t find them the same once we reconnect. Maybe they refuse to recognise… Maybe the place we had in their lives has been replaced. Maybe we fear the change in them.
Many times our dreams, our goals are just one step away from us. We just have to extend our hand and grab it. But more often than not, we are afraid of thatfinal step. That last brick in the wall.
Though we say we desire so and so but we never really yearn for it. Because if we did, we would grab it even if it were miles afar.
It is this last step that discloses whether that dream, that goal is really sought. Whether we really crave for it, yearn it.
All excuses, delays, time, blah blah come forth when we do it half hearted, as a compulsion. Else nothing would or could stop us.
On another level, maybe we are afraid to complete the journey. Once this dream, this goal is achieved, what would life be like. There won’t be this goal to work for. Would life lose its meaning? Would there be nothing else to look forward to? Would it be the end of everything? Would it invoke the feelings of lost?
We all come across posts trying to make us realise how blessed we are. How we should not whine because someone is deprived. How we should be content and satisfied and how the presence of such deprived souls should make us live humble.
But sometimes I wonder why do we want to stop our growth because someone is not so well to do? Why can’t we grow and instead of being upset and pitiful, help these people up too? Why can’t we work so as to benefit them as well?
Giving them a share of our earning doesn’t help. They remain dependent. Showing sympathy and being pitiful does not help either. Our getting content with whatever we have doesn’t matter. because in all this, the question of their betterment remains unanswered.
What is it that we should do, as a collective society, to improve the condition humanity is in? What way leads us to a blissful garden?
But before we find answer to such questions we have an obstacle to tackle.
When do we erase the boundaries and consider all humans one?