Monday, March 22, 2010

A harried week, a horrid weekend

Before I type anything else let me affirm that while deciding to create a blog or even while creating it, I never intended to share events which I find are purely personal or close to me as an individual; incidences to which people other than me cannot relate. 

But this one, I might add, I feel is an exception to all rules.

Last Saturday was the worst day of my life. The week following that was the worst week of my life.

That I’m saying this in as straightforward a language as I can summon at this moment and that I haven’t tried to use fancy English vocabulary in saying so is clear proof that I’m in no sense of the word lying or manipulating facts to create a rosier or in this case a darker picture in the readers mind.

It was the week where I saw my mum being admitted to the hospital; it was a week when I realized that I don’t like to see my father in any sort of tension or apprehension (purely because he’s a jolly good fellow); it was a week was when I realized that I can actually get frustrated on petty things unlike what I used to think about myself in the past . . . . . . .  could compete with J.R.R. Tolkien if I wished to continue the list.

It was Saturday: I stood there, not knowing what to do, on my mum’s bedside watching her writhing in pain as the effect of the local anesthetic given to her during the surgery was slowly wearing off. I was aware that the pangs were impermanent. I already knew that she’d be alright within days. But it made me lose my mind nonetheless. 

If I were to be granted even one of the three wishes that Genies keep wasting on white skinned fake paupers in stupid little fairy tales that are then remade into big budget movies, I’d definitely wish that I never face such a scene again, ever in my life.

Mums alright now, sitting right behind me doing her chores as if nothings happened (that’s what I’ve gotten used to seeing since childhood: her unending energy and her zeal totally concentrated towards making me chubbier and rounder in shape, although I don’t share her enthusiasm in doing that anymore).

Well there’s a positive to every negative. I did face a lot of the latter. But on the brighter side, after all that happened, at least I am aware now that I do house emotions in me!

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Verbal Delight

The Darker Side of you

The night is misty,
Every light burnt out,
Thy ambiance in gloom standeth unfrail and stout,
‘tis the shadows of secrets, of unfulfilled vows,
Of lies, of deceit, and of questions and doubts;

Yet why art thou blissful o’ warrior?
What maketh thee rejoice?
Stand I at thy doorstep, knowing thou hath no choice;
Let me in o’ warrior, and I shall lend thee my aid,
Kingdom after kingdom, for thy victory, I shall raid;
Open thy door now o’ warrior and thou shan’t repent,
 I shall make the world bleed till thou breathe in content;
I am waiting . . .

Riddled with memos of honor and peace was thy word and thy thought,
Set in the path of the righteous and the good, was thy soul and thy heart,
‘Pursue what truth is’ was thine humble oath and thine simple pledge,
And for truth what earth and sea did thee not seek or dredge?

To make an owned mark, was thine selfless wish, thine modest desire,
To carve your own boat, to scorch your own fire;
What err doth thee o’ warrior?
Why the world mocketh thine vision?
What mirth find they in thine thought of kind, nonviolent submission?    

Yet why art thou blissful o’ warrior?
I am waiting . . . 

The world is unkind; the world is unfair,
‘Thou shan’t surpass me’, her tyranny and egotism declare,
On brotherhood, on kinship on family and love speaketh her disciples,
Seldom at their swarmed gatherings, in licentious meetings,
Lustful assemblies bustling with self centric cackles;

‘Right is us’ and ‘Wrong is the paltry rest’ shouteth from the dais that hollow voice,
Men and women, necks filled to the brim with pride, blithely rejoice,
The entire herd breaketh in applaud, making noise.

 Foolish, inane creatures of Sin they be, my Sire,
Bingeing and savoring on the fear, the dread upon unspoken minority that their acts inspire;
Why do thee care for them o’ great warrior?
What hath their misdeeds shown towards thy nature but ingratitude?

Yet why art thou blissful o’ warrior?
What maketh thee rejoice?
I am waiting . . .

Off my dark haired stead I’ve slid onto thy soft, moist ground,
 I’ve seated myself at thine doorway, hearing closely, waiting for a voice or sound,
Hairy knuckles dressed in metal glove, I knock on thy door;
As thinketh thee of evil towards thine selfish kith and kin, and many more;
My blade shimmers from between these red blotches,
A silent testimony to my victory in many a blood bath and death matches;
  Shaketh the rusty axe hanging safely within my shield, on my belt,
As thine faith in good departs from where until now it had dwelt.
The armour hiding my burnt skin and flesh ist at thy service, my Sire,
It shall withstand more blood and gore, more metal and fire.
To those who oppose thee there shall be instant death,
I shall make them kneel for thee, a kingship they shall upon you bequeath.

Yet why art thou blissful o’ warrior?
What maketh thee rejoice?
Stand I at thy doorstep, knowing thou hath no choice;
I am still waiting . . .

PS: It is at the darkest hour that men must keep their faith in good. Evil sounds enticingly rewarding, but only for this moment.