I don’t cry, why? I don’t know, should I? Maybe it will make them happy. They don’t give a damn, I guess, listen! You have to repent some day–when the voices will thunder over my concealed coffin, when I will be a loser no more, the hero they had waited for, they will shoulder my weight with pride and honour shall sprawl over my streak. They will know me then, not a coward, a fighter they feared. My story is short not that short to vanish like you would, it would stay more than your life in the hearts of those, for whom I have fought against the tyrant. Don’t laugh just look me in the eye, see the storm brewing, the birth of rebellion. Just be there when they prepare me for the journey, feel the aura of emotions, you will drown in that sea, you tormenting soul will escape with the crowd, the look on your face will make your mother frown. Just leave the place and save your filthy life.
Have you ever seen a butcher slicing a steak? Do you think it is possible that it feels pain when cut, like the living do? Sounds like a vague question, doesn’t it? The dead don’t feel anything, be it pain or any other emotion, right? But wait! We never really asked those pieces, did we? What if they do feel everything but aren’t able to convey that to us. Or may be we aren’t just good enough to be able to listen!
Two months back I hadn’t a faintest idea that one day I could be lying motionless inside a small, suffocating chamber called coffin, wearing not my colourful clothes and valuable accessories, wrapped inside a plain white cloth instead. The relation that pain bore with death wasn’t known to me at that time. I was so busy making my life work that I’d see no end to it. I was living in a bubble and the fact that death is the ultimate destiny for everyone alive was not more than a bizarre idea to me at that time. But here I am now, a prisoner of death and there is no going back.
I wouldn’t have any regrets only if I could thank my mother once for giving me the gift of life, or tell my brother who leans against that wall debilitated, tears dried up against his pale face, that he was the best of them all and that he tried every possible course of action to love me and that was always more than enough for me. I wish I could embrace my weary father one last time. All this happened so suddenly that I barely got time to prepare. Seems like the messenger of death took away my senses before he captured by soul. “May be this is how death is, ruthless and unforgiving”, saying these words I try to console myself as I lie there still as a stone. My mother who wouldn’t leave my body even for a second, I wish I could tell her not to indebt me any further for I won’t be able to pay back. And as soon as she brings from inside a tray full of toffees to throw upon my body, within no time a handful of children arrive from nowhere to collect them from over my body, unaware of the demise that’d befallen on my family. I don’t feel like complaining, for I know of human nature, that it possesses the quality of being opportunist. However, I am taken aback by the sight of a few unknown faces who happen to grace my funeral by their presence, their faces clearly showing the anxiety they try to hide. May be I am no more than a social work to them, that they want to deal with in as little time as possible. Now that it’s time to go, to anyone who’s listening (I really hope there’s one), all I want to say is whenever a good thought crosses your mind please don’t ever be like, “I will do it later on”. Don’t waste even a second to turn your good intentions into actions. Spread joy whenever and wherever you can, who knows if there’s a tomorrow written in your name.
Thanks Naad http://naad15.wordpress.com