Darkness (part 3)

Peter could faintly hear some sounds, none of them were alarming. Something felt very strange to him. He was settled in a comfortable bed but the pain was excruciating.  He could not move an inch without his whole body erupting in pain. He silently prayed for the pain to stop. But that eerie feeling wouldn't let him rest peacefully. He didn't really know where he was but was sure enough that he wasn't supposed to be here, alive. He slowly parted his eyelids. In the diffused light he saw a girl rearranging something on the desk. There was no one else in the room. The curtains were drawn but he could make out that it was day. The girl turned and saw him looking at her. She quickly came over to his side.

“How are you feeling now?”

She had a very kind voice. “It hurts”, Peter replied. 

He was busy studying her. So, she somehow rescued him and now was nursing him, he thought. She had kind eyes, but it didn't completely sooth Peter’s nerves. She carefully took his hand and checked his pulse. He examined her face closely. She didn't betray any emotion. Fear, anger, sorrow nothing. She had a round face, slightly tanned.

“What’s your name?” she asked.“Peter.”“What happened?”
Peter opened his mouth but didn't reply. He didn't know what so say. He was mourning the loss of his family, cursing the ones responsible, cursing himself for not being able to do anything. Would that answer her question, he thought. Peter gathered himself and hesitantly narrated the incident. As he spoke, he saw the girl’s expression go from, sadness to guilt to pain. 

“Who are you?” he asked, finally.
“My name is Jean. I came here with my brother a few days ago.”

“In the middle of this unrest?!Why would – “, Peter began, confused by the Jean’s words.

“Get some sleep, you’ll be in less pain”, Jean said. Peter was confused but he was exhausted. He felt as if he had been talking for hours. He closed eyes and fell asleep.

Hours went by, followed by days. Peter could soon sit up on the bed without help. As his condition improved, so did his understanding with Jean. Once he was well enough, Jean confided in him. How her brother was in the militia, how he had brought Jean along with him. She was terrified that Peter would hate for being related to someone who had caused him so much pain. But Peter reassured her. 

“I don’t know if your brother was there that day. And even if a he was, I’d hate him. Not you! You saved my life. I would never hate you!” he said. From them on, they became friends. They would talk for hours about random things, discuss the sad predicament of their country with a heavy heart and wonder how long they would be able to go on like this. The mood in the house lifted as Peter recovered. Smiles were more easily seen; sometimes even a small laugh or two. All the while, Jean kept the windows closed. The outside world was so gloomy and murky that the darkness was almost tangible. The windows seemed to separate their world from the rest. Every time the supplies started running low, Jean would have to go out. Sometimes, she would come back and report empty streets; those would be the good days. At other times, she would come back with reports of more killings, each one more horrific than the other. However, Jean never had much trouble because the “guards” mostly knew her brother. All in all, Peter and Jean managed pretty well. They grew to respect each other, and in spite of themselves, grew very fond of each other. They had become so comfortable in their own world that they both had forgotten their worst fears. One night, they were rudely brought back to reality when the doorbell rang. Joyce had finally arrived. 

Darkness (part 2)

Rain splattered down his face. Green, red and black spots danced in front of his eyes. His breathe came out in gasps as he slowly staggered along the row of houses. Peter did not hope to find a shelter but the pain was way too much. The bullet had hit him below the shoulder blades. He was till mobile so that meant his spinal cord had been unaffected by the bullet. But that deduction didn't bring any relief to him. He was still in excruciating pain and slowly bleeding to death. Peter had waited till the man was gone, then somehow staggered to his feet and started walking. He forced himself to keep walking even when all his senses begged for him to stop and fall, embrace the inevitable. But Peter walked on. He had left behind a block almost. He saw occasional corpses here and there and closed doors. No one was willing to help a stranger. Most houses didn't have any inhabitants left. The ones which did, didn't want to invite trouble. Each step reminded Peter that he was alone.

Suddenly he could go no more. He felt himself giving up. He had pushed his body to the limit and now his body was fighting back, it was shutting down. No matter how much he tried, he could not take another step forward. He looked forward. He was standing in front of a small house, with a white door. All he had to do was climb 4 steps. Just 4 steps. But his legs refused. He fell down and despite the pain pulled himself up onto the final step. The front porch was still wet from the heavy shower. He reached for the doorbell but it was too high and he didn't have any strength to get up. He could feel his vision blurring, the dancing spots grew heavier. He was getting dizzy. With the last burst of energy, he knocked on the door, twice. He knew no one was coming but at least the porch was covered, which meant he was safe from the direct rain. Not that it mattered anyway. Where he was going, nothing mattered. Maybe that’s why it was a better place. Maybe he was already there because it was dark, very dark. The pain was almost gone. Peter was finally at peace, he already like this ‘better place’.

Jean hated the world around her. She hated what the world had come to. She had witnessed the most heinous of crimes, crimes she never thought man could resort to. The rioting, the mass outrage, fighting, killing disgusted her. The only thing she hated more was the feeling of helplessness. She couldn't do anything to help the people, to save at least some of them. After all, her brother was out there; But not among the victims, among the perpetrators, the monsters leading the mob. While her brother’s prolonged absence worried her, she was thankful that at least with him gone, the house was peaceful. All she could do now was pray for the departed souls and the ones they left behind. She could only hope that someday this would end. She was lost in thought when she heard a faint knock on her door.

 “Joyce?” She called. No answer, just another faint knock.

Jean remained silent. She carefully listened for any sign of disturbance outside but everything was quiet. Finally she gathered enough courage to open the door.

There was no sign of her brother. Instead, a boy her age lay at her feet. Her clean porch was streaked with red. The boy was bleeding profusely but he wasn't moving. Jean instinctively checked for his pulse. It was there, weak, but there still. He was alive. The unexpected arrival had left her flabbergasted but she took a few deep breaths to calm herself. She quickly surveyed the street to check if anyone was watching, then she slowly pulled the boy inside her house and closed the door behind them. She locked it for good measure. She finally had some work to do.

Three hours had passed. Jean had somehow managed to stop the flow of blood from his knee which had a deep gash. The boy had a bullet wound on his back which worried her. For the lack of anything better, she had used a kitchen knife to scoop out the bullet. After she had dressed the wounds, she scooped few spoonful of water into his mouth, which, she was happy to see, he swallowed. She switched off the lights, drew the curtains together ad lighted a candle. She had made every arrangement to make sure that the house looked in empty. Then she sat down beside his bed and waited.

Darkness (Part 1)

Darkness. That’s what he saw when he slightly parted his eyes. He was supposed to be sound asleep. Then why was he awake? He looked around his dark room. Nothing was out of place. Something had disturbed him enough to wake him up. But what?  Peter blinked and slowly sat up in his bed. He suddenly became aware of some noise coming from downstairs. No, not just noise, sounds of angry voices and cries for help. He felt cold dread creep into his heart. His family was downstairs, he needed to go and help them at once! He jumped out of bed but stopped short in his tracks. He could hear foot steps on the staircase. Someone was headed right to his room! For a moment he just froze. His limbs refused to move while his brain went on an overdrive frantically trying to think of something, anything. Then his instincts kicked in. He hastily crawled under his bed, carefully hiding behind a trunk. From where he was positioned he could see the floor in front of the door. Few seconds later, a streak of light appeared on the floor, growing wider and wider as someone opened the door. He saw a heavy boot step in, followed by another. The pair of boots slowly walked towards the bed and stopped. The very slight movement told him that the owner of the boots was surveying the room. Peter was terrified. His heart was frantically beating and the dread, almost tangible. The pair of boots turned towards the door, the owner having decided that the room was evidently empty, and walked out not bothering to close the door. The noises downstairs were clearer now. Peter could hear the pleas and commands; he recognized his mother’s wail and his brother’s indignant shout. He wanted to run down and help them, but fear had paralyzed him. From his hiding place, the room in the attic, he knew exactly what the situation was downstairs. He was shell shocked but not surprised. He had his family had been living with that terror for days now. In a country torn by riots and war, Peter could only hope and pray for a better outcome but he was very sure that God was too busy to answering his prayers right now. The mob had reached his house. He had to do something. Couldn't just sit there and let his family be killed. He slowly crawled out and stood up. The voices were now outside and had somehow multiplied. The neighbors a small voice in head whispered. As he made his way out of the room and down the stairs, he felt his hand shaking. He crept out of the back door, behind the fence and looked. His jaws dropped in shock. His heart stopped and his leg gave away. He sat down and peeped out from the gap between the fences, tears streaming down his face.

The mob had dug a ditch, some paces ahead. It was almost full already, with corpses. The raid or whatever they called it was coming to an end. The country was torn with strife. Peter had heard the news, fearful whispers. They said the militia was killing people, wiping out small towns and villages but Peter had hope they were just rumors, exaggerated ones. But it was all true. All of it. He wanted to cry, to run and save his family, to kill those cold blooded murderers but he didn't. He couldn't. He couldn't see his mother anymore. She had already been “taken care of” he realized. He felt his heart break into a million pieces when he saw them put a bullet in his brother and throw him in. They then proceeded to cover the ditch with soil. Peter was numb with fear, pain and horror. He had witnesses the horrific end of his family and couldn't do anything about it. He saw the men leave but he didn't have the courage or the strength to come out from the bushes. He trembled in silent anguish. He lost count of time. He just sat there. What had the world come to? Men killed others without any apparent reason? On the basis of what religious or political belief one may harbor? These differences call for spirited debate, not mass murder! His father had always told him, “Son, always respect an individuals point of view even if it differs from your own. You never know, by listening to his side of the story, you may learn something new.” But all those words seemed hollow right now. He wondered what his father would have done… his father…of course! His father wasn't here! He was far away from him, in the city. And he was safe. Peter had received a letter from him that very morning stating that the city life, though difficult, was safer due to the strictly imposed curfews and heavy police cover. His father had promised to bring them to the city the moment he could.Peter cried bitterly. Whenever that moment came, it would be too late. His family was gone. Now he could do only one thing. Somehow make his way to the city and unite with his father. That was the only thing left of his life. Peter decided that he would start at once.

It had begun to rain. Peter shakily stood up and walked over 

to the grave. The loose soil was starting to form mud, limbs 

and faces sticking out of the ditch. He knelt down and prayed. Suddenly he heard a gruff voice, and footsteps. He turned around only to feel an intense pain in his ribs. One of the men had come back!

The man kicked him before reaching for his holster but the gun appeared to have been stuck. Peter took that chance. He pushed the man and ran. He had expected that man to follow but was surprised when he didn't. Peter had hardly gone a few meters when he felt a blinding pain on his back, near his shoulder. He was shot. Peter fell down with a stifled scream. He heard the man come over to him. Instead of killing him, the man just left. Peter was left to slowly bleed out in the rain and die.

Heart ventures, Mind considers

We are inseparable. Having grown up together, we know each other better than anyone else in this world. We have shared happiness, sorrows and memories. We are incomplete without each other. However, we are by no means like-minded. We have our differences, some of which are irreconcilable. For example, I’m free spirited, in love with the idea of love. I believe someday a guy will come and just sweep me off my feet. Our love will be perfect with just the right amount of understanding and honesty between us. I never lost faith in this even for once in the past nineteen years. She on the other hand, is very skeptical. For her everything has a downside and that is the side worth considering first. She wants to have the same dream, but is acutely aware of the fact that it is only a dream and will remain so. I tried reasoning with her but to no avail. It’s not just the matters of heart where our differences lie. We have conflicting opinions about almost everything. From waking up in the morning to finally falling asleep at night, whatever comes across us becomes a subject of intense debate between the two of us. We don’t quarrel though. We are not only well aware of our differences but also the cause of those differences. Thus both of us are justified. The problem arises when either of us has to choose the way. We are considerate towards each other, but that does not mean we appreciate each other’s dominance. She resents my idealistic nature, I resent her pessimistic one. She says I’m too caught up in my dreams and ideas to be focused and practical. I say she is too scared to even hope. Interestingly, our natures are completely interchangeable when it comes to ambitions. She wants to conquer the world (not literally of course) while I just want to lead a happy, contented life with my parents. I want to give them every luxury and happiness they ever dreamt about. This is the wish I make everyday. I throw in a request for a hot boyfriend too sometimes, I kind of deserve that. She approves of this (don’t look at me, I was surprised too!). She says it’s ok to put faith in something, to pray. It gives the person a strange kind of security. I wasn't too happy when she explained it to me this way. She took away the romance of it all.

          The bone of contention between us is probably how she takes every fantasy of mine and completely ruins it with her dry logic. I have tried talking to her, even pleading with her not to do so but she fails to see my point! I told her that she doesn't need to tell my how overtly implausible I am. Deep inside I know that already. It’s just that, I don't want to give on those hopes as they have become a part of me. They give me reason to imagine, to think of a parallel world where all those dreams came true; they allow me to have world of my own. She hates this. She keeps telling me that if I were to live in any world at all, it might as well be the real one. To imagine is but a waste of time. I remember this one time when I got really mad at her. I was talking to her about a particularly favorite book of mine. I told her I could identify with certain traits of those characters. I could see beyond the evident plot and found reason in the seemingly random turn of events and behavior of the characters. It took her but a second to negate the idea. “It’s only a story!” she said, “It only portrays the whim of the author and depicts events which in no world could be true. And the characters are just as unreal.” I hated her and was determined to prove her wrong. I, as is my nature, look more closely to the emotions of the characters. More than their actions, I like to work out the emotional reason behind it. I like to search for rationality in face of completely irrational actions and event. She, on the other hand, is characterized by very strong likes and dislikes. For her, emotions are no excuse for anything. Logic is all that matters. For her the world is pretty much black and white. There are good things and bad things, real and unreal, logical person and emotional fool; and needless to say, each time she prefers to be the former. For me, the world is grey. Well, there is silver, and then there is grey, deep and light. Every person has flaws, virtues, imperfections and good qualities, all mixed in inside them. It’s just a matter of weighing them against each other.

In spite of all there is, the differences and the support, it’s only together that we are complete. It makes me who I am.  While one can never really solve the competition between the heart and the brain, one can balance them out. Indulge a little and restrict a little, dream a little without losing touch of reality, give in a little and hold back some. After all, learning how to do that is called life.

Traditions

                                       “Every day should be mother’s day”

The sun was low on the horizon. The reddish golden glow filtered in through the window blinds into the increasingly darkening room. The door to the balcony was open. I sat on an easy chair, calmly looking at the fluffy white clouds. Somewhere in the house a clock chimed. I looked around, ready to get back to the household chores once again. Then I realized that I didn’t have any today. My husband had taken our son to the zoo. The whole day they were gone. They had found a father-son ritual of their own. This was also my husband’s idea of giving me a break. I leaned back again and closed my eyes. Today, I had the house to myself.

I belonged to an upper middle class family. I was a well educated, independent woman with modern sensibilities. I had a successful career, loving husband and a happy and lively son. I lived in a posh area in a luxurious flat. In short, I had everything a middle class family would want for their daughter. Most importantly, I was happy and content with my life.

The soft breeze washed over me. I could hear the happy shouts of children playing downstairs. I smiled to myself as I remembered how much I loved lazy evenings when I was younger. I could just sit around all day long doing nothing but reflecting on my own, or making up an alternate reality in my head where I had all the things I actually have now. The light all around me faded a little more. I got up to make tea. This thought surprised me a little. I never liked tea, my husband did. Initially I made myself a separate cup of coffee but then I took to tea as well because I was too lazy to make both. Over the years I became used to it. And today somehow my husband’s choice triumphed over my own even in his absence.

A strange thought struck me. I realized how much I had changed for the sake of my husband, not because he wanted me to, but because I wanted to. In a family, the woman is expected to adjust; to take upon the family name, the likes, dislikes, even traditions. The culture or ambience in which the woman was brought up all her life just ceases to be important. But I was always very proud to point out that I was never under that pressure. My husband and his family accepted me for who I was, the way I was. Even after marriage, my husband never imposed anything on me, all our decisions were mutual. He even gave in to my tantrums more often than not. But still, unnoticed by both of us, I had changed. I had made adjustments, changed my likes and dislikes without even realizing it. My love for coffee made way for my husband’s love for tea, my favorite colors got replaced with my husband’s and then my son’s. My favorite shows made way for football matches. My hobbies took a backseat, because I didn’t have time for them anymore. These are major changes, not that I mind much, but still. The funniest part of it was, I never realized when the changes crept in to become a part of me. I remembered how my mother taught me that sacrifices are a part of being a woman. The small things that I had given up may not be great sacrifices but they counted all the same. Women like me have come long way. Became independent, strong but at the same time, we have always preferred to keep ourselves after everyone around us, a sacrifice which mostly goes unnoticed; and when the realization dawns, we even surprise ourselves.

The sun had gone down. My surroundings had become darker. The dirty golden light had almost faded to black. The laughter of the children below had also faded, except for the occasional loud “bye”, the playground below was quiet. Smiling to myself I went to the kitchen. I looked at the small bottle of coffee which my husband had bought for me. Nonchalantly I reached for the tea leaves.

x

The One Who Survived

Music. Joyous laughter pierced the air. It was their farewell party, not that anyone really intended such an early farewell. It was just another excuse to celebrate. The last day of university was behind them. It was nearing midnight. The four friends gathered around the coffee table which now held four chilled beer bottles. They had finally turned down the music fearing complaining neighbors.

Reid uncorked the bottles, third time that evening, passed one onto his sister Monica and then his friends Drake and Skye. They had been friends since high school and had vowed to remain so forever. A promise which they had kept, till now.

                                                              

        “Its about to be one o’ clock. The highway should be empty by now. What say, Reid?” asked Monica. Reid put down him empty bottle, “sure, sure!”

“Hey, wait” – this was Skye – “I don’t think we should go on a joyride now. I mean, Reid… you’re tipsy!”

Reid burst out laughing. “Tipsy??” he laughed, “ We've done worse! By the way, I drive like this most of the time!” he winked at Drake as Monica sniggered. However, she sensed Skye’s hesitation and reassuringly put an arm around her.

“It’s just a long drive! And since when did you start worrying so much?” she said persuasively.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be fun. Just relax!” Drake said.

Seeing no way out and feeling the tiniest bit of thrill creeping into the pit of her stomach, Skye agreed.

        Speed. The wind blew her hair in all direction. The speed and the thrill felt good. But the presence of an unknown fear made the hair on her neck stand up. A fear which none of the other faces betrayed any signs of. Monica and Drake were laughing over jokes and Reid was whistling a tune. They took the empty stretch at 90km/hr. Skye thought they could compete with a train at this speed! Drake noticed the wary expression on Skye’s face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. Reid, who was at the wheel, turned around to face Skye. He opened his mouth to say something when they were all thrown off guard with a violent jerk. They had hit a speed breaker at that neck-break speed!

       

The car turned tortoise and vaulted forward before coming to a stop well ahead of the speed breaker. The screeching noise of metal scraping over the mortar stopped as suddenly as it had started. Along with it stopped the screams. Quiet. Stunned silence prevailed. A low moaning continued before that stopped too. A faint dripping sound could be heard, oil from the engine or blood of those inside, no one could tell.

A light flickered. Many voices could be heard. Some male, some female, all mixed together. Someone seemed to be saying something to him but he didn't know what to make of those meaningless sounds. He parted his eyelid a little but the light hurt his eyes. He could only make out hazy activity all around him before he closed his eyes again. Then he tried to open them once more. This time, his vision was clearer. He saw a face familiar to him bent over his own. His mother. His attention was drawn towards a steady beeping sound. The heart monitor. He was at the hospital. This realization made him fully aware of the various aches all over his body. Not just aches, excruciating pain in his head and leg, which felt heavy under layers of bandages. He slowly remembered that night. He had been thrown out on the impact. He had seen the car come to a halt before the darkness outside descended on his eyes. He focused on his mother now. She crossed herself “Good Lord! I thought I’d lose you Drake!” she chocked, tears streaming down her face. Drake blinked, the only motion which spared him much pain.

“The others?” he whispered.

His mother stared back with a closed expression. Then slowly the blank face gave way to agony.

“The doctors tried but …” she stopped. She couldn't bring herself to say those words to her son. Finally, she allowed with a deep breath, “You are the one who survived.”

The Year Gone By: Looking Back at 2012

World is gearing up to welcome 2013. Well, that’s good news because this means the world survived 2012. Lets face it, the Mayans probably ran out of rocks to carve their calendar in. But when you think about it, did humanity really come out unscathed this year? This year has been eventful to say the least. From a staggering increase in heinous crimes against women, to celebrating the death of a terrorist, to losing some of the greatest Indian iconic figures, we have experience one of the most dramatic years ever. As we say good bye to 2012, there are certain things that we hope to have learnt this year.

The year started with a gang rape in Park Street, Kolkata. This incident ruffled a few feathers but a bigger outrage was reserved for the CM’s “insensitive” remarks regarding the incident. This was followed by a spate of similar incidents all over the country. Not a single day passed when the newspaper did not report a rape or murder of a woman. This year very clearly, and unabashedly, showed that women are far from being safe in this country and the worst part was, the women were asked to accept that complete lack of security and live accordingly. All year various isolated incidents warned the people to take notice, take steps to prevent more such incidents but it all fell to deaf ears. Instead of taking measures to prevent the perpetrators and rapists, the women were told, “don’t invite rapists, don’t provoke the male gaze”. Then, the last straw came in the form of the most brutal rape of a 23-yr-old woman in Delhi. Her male friend who was accompanying her was beaten and tied up. Then the woman was raped by six men, beaten and then violated by an iron rod. All this happened, shockingly, inside a moving bus. While the woman faced this kind of inhuman torture, the bus roamed the streets of the capital city unchecked even though it was flagged due to several transgressions earlier that evening. The girl’s intestines became gangrenous and had to be removed. Having suffered two cardiac arrests and the infection slowly spreading throughout her body, she fought bravely for 13 days. She finally passed away on 29 Dec. This gruesome incident brought the youth to the streets in protest in Delhi and all over India. The intensity of the protest (which grew to include young, old, men women from every city) showed just how deeply this incident had affected each and everyone. Many policemen were seen trying to manage the huge crowd, and then firing tear gas shells and water canons to disperse the crowd. Had even one of these policemen or patrol cars (who are so busy dispersing protesters)  tracked down the flagged bus, this would never have happened and that girl would be safe today.

          Studies show that violence against a suppressed group increases significantly when they try to come into prominence. The racial attacks against blacks started only after slavery was abolished. The moment the blacks wanted rights to live in the same society, the white supremacists unleashed brutality upon them. When homosexuals asked for their rights to love, marry and adopt, various cases of gay-bashing (some even leading to murders) began to be reported. We have seen time and again, the dominant society or community does not want to be challenged. The moment they are asked to share the power or status they have, they become insecure and lash in a way they deem fit. That’s what is happening in India at this point. Women are no longer child rearing machines. They have a name, an identity, a status, and most of all, independence and respect. The spate of crimes against women re-establishes the same pattern.

Ajmal Kasab was finally hanged. The lone terrorist captured alive during the 60 hr siege in Mumbai in 2008, Kasab’s death sentence finally carried out. While most expressed relief that finally justice was served, some by their gruesome comment and open celebration of the death made the civilized society uneasy. I, however, had a different thought. We all remembered the spine chilling terrorist attack, but how often do we remember the unlikely heroes which this incident threw up? The brave NSG commandos and an impeccably carried out search and rescue operation, the Christian nanny Sandra, who saved the life of 2-yr-old Moshe whose parents (the Rabbi and his wife) were killed in the attack, the hotel staff who risked their own lives to save those of the guests, those who put themselves in the line of fire to prevent others from getting hurt, and the police constable Tukaram Omble who refused to let go of Kasab even after being shot multiple times.
 Life continues; denial, grief and acceptance come and go. If one has to go down that memory lane, one might as well send up a silent prayer for those heroes, the living and the dead.

This year also saw the passing away of the most legendary icons. From Dev Anand, the evergreen hero to Rajesh Khanna the original superstar. From Pt Ravi Shankar who introduced Indian classical music to the world to Yash Chopra who taught generations how beautiful love can be. These men touched millions of hearts all over the world. While Pt Ravi Shankar attracted George Harrison as his disciple, Yash Chopra has a lake named after him in Switzerland. These men brought a touch of peace, love, friendship in our hearts through their work. their departure have definitely left the world a darker place.

2012 has had its ups and downs. It has been an emotional as well as an educational year. We were forced to see and acknowledge our flaws, insecurities and mistakes. We need to learn to respect each other for who we are. We need to be resilient and strong and fight for the right causes. And most important of all, we need to learn to be human again. With that, lets welcome hopefully a happier 2013.