Blatant, Naked, Basic
I am
a forty year old man. I am God’s son. May His reign on this earth prolong until
my heart ceases to beat and then beyond.
I
speak no lie.
My
religion forbids me from lying. It has taught me that God knows everything that
there ever has been to know of me. For, as His messengers assure me each
passing day, He has resided in every decision I have taken and every deed I
have committed, since the beginning. I have nothing to conceal from any living
creature as I am answerable to Him and only Him for all. And so I speak now,
with neither veil on my thought nor falter in my voice. I speak with you as
truthfully as I would have spoken, had I, by my good fortune, been asked by His
self to speak.
I
have blood on my hands.
I
have killed. And for that I am honoured.
The
hordes of lines, so coarse yet so innate; running scuttling scurrying
across the face of my hand, these Seers of Morrow, as other men I know
consider them to be, offer me silence, solemnly definite, disturbingly grim
silence when I ask them of the days, years and decades yet to come. They know
nothing of the unknown; of the unhappened.
Instead,
unlike the ones drawn across other hands, mine speak of the past; of the known;
of the truth. They are a mirror, not a projection.
I
look down at them, watching them as a whole. And I know for sure that these
lines, these Prophets of Destiny as other men call them, cannot hold more than
what has already been etched into them in red. They are full.
For
I have blood on my hands.
I
have killed. And for that I am honoured.
It
is here, tonight, now, at this very moment, with this starless sky gazing down
on me, observing me so silently, with its one good eye, the pored dense goat
milk white moon, that I sit down on my throne of rock, lay down my sword and
rifle by my side, and speak with you as truthfully as I would have spoken, had
I, by my good fortune, had God as my audience.
Truth.
Blatant
truth.
I
have waged countless wars. I have massacred hundreds and set their vile houses
on fire. I have attacked villages and towns alike with a belligerence so strong
that they may not be built again for decades to come. I have tortured, shot,
beheaded and burnt men; men who praise a God other than mine; men who speak of
my God, the one, the only real one, as if he were inanimate; as if he were a
non entity; men who mock him and whisper amongst themselves that His life is a
fable spawned from nothing but lies and fear; men who speak of peace and love
in public and then go on to protest and debate, to challenge and question the
idea of His existence; men who term His believers as fools and our beliefs as
folly. Death is what they have received in my hands; a reply, as I am taught
each day by His messengers, truly befitting the arrogance of the arrogant and
the tyranny of the tyrant.
I
am God’s proudest son. For I have avenged His name.
And
for that I am honoured.
Truth.
Blatant
truth.
I
see my hands now and my palms have turned into clenched fists. My veins throb.
My fingers hug each other tight. The surge of rage that swells in me as I lay
on my bed is back tonight, just like every other night. . . The cruelty. . .
the injustice. . . the. . . suppression. . . the rejection. . . the mockings. .
. the killings. . . the tortures. . . the rapes the abuses the murders. . . the
rapes the abuses the murders. . .
My
fists ache as my fingernails dig deeper into skin.
.
. . rapes abuses murders. . . rapes. . . abuses. . . murders. . . my own
brothers and fathers. . . my own mothers and sisters. . . my own friends and
mates. . . murders rapes and abuses. . . bleeding leg stumps. . . chopped off
arms. . . orphans. . . widows. . . body strewn alleys. . . skull bone decked
gutters. . . gut filled mudpits. . . wailing women . . . rasping laughing
mocking hoods. . . apples and oranges. . . sticks and scythes. . . fluttering
hoods . . . the hood. . . the one. . . the hood. . .
Overpowering,
overwhelming rage it is. And I feel tiny in it. I feel miniscule. I feel like a
pawn with no medal on him, a lascar on deck with no seafaring sense other than
of mopping floors and cleaning lavatories.
I
feel guilty.
“Hundreds.
. . thousands. . . millions of our brothers and sisters. . . our own brothers
and sisters. . . His followers. . . rapes abuses murders. . . torture. . .
humiliation. . . death. . .” I hear the recordings shout out each day as we are
taught by His messengers, taught and trained to answer, to punish evil.
“.
. . Disgrace. . .” they reveal to me about the happenings of the world, this
pitiless, capitalist, perverted world.
I
feel guilty. I feel angry.
I
am God’s loyal soldier. For I have fought for the world that He once envisioned
of, a world that He once dreamed and wished to build. A world purged of sin and
sinners that His messengers speak of each passing day as I do what they have
taught me to do so well.
I
have killed for His name.
And
for that I am honoured.
Truth.
Blatant
truth.
The
surface does not say it all. The facade does not say it all. The veil shows
only as much as it wants to and hides the rest.
I
open my fists, the fingernail scratches are bleeding crimson. Surfaces hold
secrets inside. . . secrets hold surfaces together. . . surface secrets. . .
secret surfaces. . .
No.
The truth does not end there, here, now.
I
have nothing to conceal as I am answerable to Him and only Him for all. I am
unveiled to him. Naked.
And
so I dig deeper.
“Apples
and oranges. . . apples and oranges,” her gentle voice rocking up and down.
Tukk,
tukk, tukk. . . Tukk, tukk, tukk. . . her stick hitting the blackboard on each
word scribbled across its surface in crude chalk.
“Two
apples. . . four oranges. . . how many?”
“Tuuu
appppulssss (Tukk Tukk) . . . Foore oorenges (Tukk tukk) . . . “
“Very
good,” stick making a circle in the air above us. Biri and I sitting in front.
. . looking at each other. . . and then at her. . . stick still circling.
. .
“Two
apples (tukk tukk) and (tukk) four oranges (tukk tukk) . . . makes?”
“Siiiixsssssssss,”
all ten of us answering, in tandem, not one willing to stop with the last
syllable. . . “ssssssssssssssssss” . . .
“Ok
ok. I got it. Shhhh now,” Her smile on me and Biri.
“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,”
one syllable sacrificed for another sounding merrier.
Tukk
tukk tukk tukk tukk tukk. . . the slaps on the board harder than before.
“Badmash
bachche sab ke sab” (naughty children, all of you)
All
ten of us giggling into our palms, Biri and I, I and Biri, looking at the
teacher, her stick resting on the wooden desk now, her hands raised, tying her
silken hair behind her oval head, face breaking into smiles now and then
looking at each one of us. Biri and I, I and Biri, waiting. . . hearts beating.
. . one more question. . . we want another question. . . only the two of us. .
. best friends since birth want to answer the next. . .
“Theek
hai,” (Ok then) Her eyes narrowing at us, all ten of us, “Lets see how many of
you can get this right.”
“Hmmmmm”
“
Prize. . . Prize. . . Prize. . . Prize. . .” the others shouting in unison.
Biri and I joining them eagerly, “Prize. . . Prize. . .”
Tukk
tukk tukk on the board again.
“Yes
yes. Ok. QUIET now” Tukk tukk tukk tukk.
“You,”
stick pointing at me, “go get my bag from there,” her eye lashes thin at the
sides, thick in the middles, falling and lifting casually.
“Jaldi
jaldi. . . quick quick,” all nine of the others urging me on as I run to the
corner where she keeps her cloth bag and back to the front of the class.
“God
bless you,” her fingers warm, ruffling my hair, taking the bag, taking out the
square box of chocolates from it.
“Yummmmmm,”
all ten of us.
“Not
so fast you naughty little brats,” her.
“Ummmmm,”
chalk scribbling on the board again.
“Ok,
Ten apples aaannnd twelve oranges. . . how many?” Biri and I, I and Biri, hands
shooting in the air even before her chalk has stopped scribbling, even before
she has finished speaking.
Rest
of the ten, quiet.
“Yes?”
her.
“Twaaanti
Tuuuu” Biri and I, I and Biri in unison, hands still in the air.
Dhukk
dhukk dhukk dhukk dhukk. . . stick against the wooden surface. . . not hers, a
different one, a bigger one, with bigger hands holding it.
All
eleven of us turning to the right. All eleven of them standing at the door,
black clothed, eyeing her in the front.
“Chalo
bachcho, iskool choot gayi hai” (scram kids, school’s out) the man with the
stick shouting at us. The hood. . . the one. . . dhukk dhukk dhukk dhukk again.
Twenty
feet rising to the ground, ten half pant clad bottoms dusted, bags packed,
chalks pocketed, teacher still sitting on her chair.
“I
said beat it. . .“ the hood fluttering angrily, “Quick!”, stick hitting Biri on
his back.
Running
now. All ten of us.
Outside
the room, into the ground. Ten children out, ten hooded men in. The eleventh
entering last, door shutting behind him.
Silence,
followed by voices.
Noise
of sticks hitting wood and glass echoing from inside.
“What
do we do?” Biri helpless.
“I
don’t know” I even more.
Shouts
and noises, noises and shouts. Sticks hitting wood, sticks breaking glass. . . .
Her
wailing.
Biri
and I, I and Biri, hugging each other, weeping.
Her screaming. . . Doors open now. . . Her. . . running towards us. . . hair torn,
“HEELLPPPPP”.
. . cheeks bleeding. . .
“HELLPPP
MEE”
Biri
and I, I and Biri. Rest of the ten gone already.
Shivering,
helpless.
The
hood. . . the one. . . catching up from behind her. The stick, his stick, the
sturdy one breaking on her knee cap.
Her
on the ground, face first. Tear in her gown.
Biri
and I, hugging, shivering, weeping.
Five
black clothes carrying her back to the classroom. Her. . . unconscious. . . leg
crumpled. . . cheeks torn. . . gown ripped. . .
The
hood. . . the one. . . “Shhhhhhhhhh” to Biri and I.
“Summer
vacations have come early for you, maje lo,” the hood. . . the one, rasping,
mocking, laughing. Turning back from Biri and I, walking towards the room,
entering, shutting the door.
“Please
do something” Biri.
“What
do we do?” I.
“There’s
a window at the back”
Biri
beneath me now. My legs resting on his shoulders, us leaning against the stone
wall, me peeping in.
Her.
. . sprawled over the table. . . Surrounded. . . held. . . tied. Conscious. . .
wailing. . . screeching. . .
The
hood. . . the one. . . cloth fluttering again, rasping, mocking, laughing, the
bulge beneath his waist-belt visible. Stick resting on the ground, scythe in
his hand. . . the hood. . . the one, scythe in his hand moving over her
trembling exposed belly.
“Oh,”
Biri and I slipping against the moss-laden wall, falling to the ground.
“Who’s
there?” the hood. . . the one shouting from within.
Running
again, Biri and I, best friends since birth.
Biri
to the south.
I
to the north.
Separate
ways.
Home.
Here,
now, the present once more. My fingers have formed into fists again.
The
bleeding, cut skin does not bother me anymore. It soothes my rage instead.
Balms it even.
“Apples
and oranges”
My
sweet gentle teacher; my lone recollection of kind and good. . .
We
found her the next day on a dirt road. Sprawled naked, throat slit, blood
trickling from a hundred pores on her. My sweet gentle teacher; my only memory
of care and love. . . I retched at the sight of her mangled body, I threw up
every morsel every drop of liquid that was lodged in my stomach. My eyes my
nose my mouth became wrecked floodgates when I saw her that way. . . her. . .
my loving, kind teacher. . . For hours I ran in the gullies of my village that
day, my mind in frenzy, my eyes in tears, a rusty nail hidden between the
webbing of my fingers. . . but found no one to hurt with it.
“Sticks
and scythes”
"We
are with you", I hear again the voice that made me stop running, my savior, my
mentor, "He is with you" the firmness in it making the fumes of wrath inside
my belly subside as he fed me with his own hand. The water that I drank from
his goblet fed new life into me.
I
am God’s proudest son. For He helped me avenge what they did to her.
I
trained hard, I searched harder. . .
I
learned hard, I hunted harder. . .
I
found the hood. . . the one. . . and many more of his kind.
Before
my dagger sliced open their wretched organs, I ensured it was not mercy that
they begged for. . . before the length of my blade was smeared with their
vermin guts, I ensured it was not for pity that they pleaded . . .
‘A
quick death please’ they screeched into my ear with toothless mouths and watery
eyes. . . every single one of them. . .
But
I took my time.
And
for that I am honoured.
Truth.
Blatant
truth.
The
red dripping from my palm has become an unbroken stream now. I feel no pain in
these holes as my fingernails retract from them and straighten again. The
reason is simple. Basic. Not the lying simplicity of the facade, the surface.
No, not that.
Yet
simple.
I
have nothing to conceal as I am answerable to Him and only Him for all. My
life’s truth is in his viewing and has been that way from the beginning. The
truth, blatant truth, lies deeper.
And
so I dig.
And
so I come to the answer, the truth as I bare myself in all senses to Him and to
you.
I
feel no pain because I feel nothing now.
The
fury in me is a ruse. It is empty. The rage that surges into my veins each
night has become a mere ritual now, a habitual doing on my part, albeit a part
which cannot be, can never be undone.
The
red on my hands is unwashable. The lines across my palm are full, these Seers
of Morrow, these Prophets of my Destiny as called by other men whom I know,
have become blind and obliging to my habits.
The
voices in the tapes that are played by my mentors, His messengers, no longer
enrage me. They are within me now. I have become the rage, the fury, the anger
and in the most basic sense, a vessel of nothingness.
The
deeper I dig, the greater I feel the absence of any true motive inside me. I
see no purpose in hunting down hoods any more, I see no end to my quest.
But
the fury in me will not subside tonight, I know, as I have known that it will
not on every other night. It will not leave me, not now, not ever.
And
so I know what lies in waiting for me tomorrow when I wake up from this night,
this night just like every other where I am made to feel like I haven’t earned
the right to taste sleep yet.
.
. . the hood. . . the laughter. . . the bulge beneath. . . my own brothers and
fathers. . . my own mothers and sisters. . .
I
know what I will do tomorrow and the day after that and the days beyond even as
these cluster of lines symbolizing my destiny remain silent.
I
will kill. I will spill blood on my hands. I will kill in my God’s name.
And
for that I shall be honoured.
* *
*
