Could it be black? The darkness, the blank screen in a big theatre, the dark empty room – it makes me smell death..where you find yourself lost..when you desperately look for someone. And you never get her. Suddenly you find yourself in a big big room, where you are alone. And all the lights go off. You can’t cry. Nobody expects you to cry. She won’t listen. And you feel Death. Can it be that steely blue? The harshness which cuts you through. The sharpness that hits you right there. The razor edge which is always inviting me. The ever alluring Blue! Or is it white? The white in the dumb eyes..the pale faces..the white flowers..the overwhelming white that surrounds you. Or can it be red? Look at this – a close frame, aperture opened to maximum. It’s a semi-dark room. A hand (no it’s a girl) hanging vertically from top right corner of the frame and stretches till the centre of the frame. The sharpness of the fingers (and the ring) overlooks the pool of blood, and a piece of paper flying away. There is some hint of metal lying in the ground. Damn it! Death must be red.
Showing posts with label Death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Death. Show all posts
Life
Death crossed my path too early. I didn’t react. I was a kid then.
Fortunately.
In the next few years, I started meeting him in the next door, in my relations’ faces, in my own house, in the newspaper, in the railway station, in the third rail of metro, in the condolence of my beloved teacher. I met him while coming back from school, in a garage, when one tired soul thought it was enough! He was so much tired.
Soon it became my enemy, taking my nearest one. I lost the first battle of my life. It was a meek surrender. I consoled myself - it was a traitor. It made me a pessimist. It taught me to cry aloud in between so many unknown faces. And then it made me realize tears are nothing but wastage.
You tend to get used to ‘everything’ with your age. So did I. So did you as well. But on one alcohol-influenced evening suddenly you ask yourself - what is death? Is it only the seizure of the biological pump and some chemical reactions on some nodes in your head? Doesn’t it include the face of the military on all the battlegrounds? Doesn’t it resemble my friend’s face on Nine Eleven? Isn’t it Tsunami? Yes it is! It is my motherland when neighbors in a city start thinking relationships cease to exist on religious inclination.
Death is in the history of all the uprooted refugees. On one fine day you come to know that the place you were dwelling for the last so many years has been rendered to a different country and you are no longer welcome in your own fatherland. You have to leave the place. At the age of 6 you became refugee. Before leaving your country, which is no longer yours, you etch your pet name on the trunk of a big tree in the hope of coming back one day to see that the etchings have grown up, just like you. And you never ever go back. Dead are those hopes. Death is in my voice when I stopped thinking. Death is in my inaction. Death is the last flame. Death is the ritual. Death is the formality.
Dead are my dreams. Death is in my nightmare.
Fortunately.
In the next few years, I started meeting him in the next door, in my relations’ faces, in my own house, in the newspaper, in the railway station, in the third rail of metro, in the condolence of my beloved teacher. I met him while coming back from school, in a garage, when one tired soul thought it was enough! He was so much tired.
Soon it became my enemy, taking my nearest one. I lost the first battle of my life. It was a meek surrender. I consoled myself - it was a traitor. It made me a pessimist. It taught me to cry aloud in between so many unknown faces. And then it made me realize tears are nothing but wastage.
You tend to get used to ‘everything’ with your age. So did I. So did you as well. But on one alcohol-influenced evening suddenly you ask yourself - what is death? Is it only the seizure of the biological pump and some chemical reactions on some nodes in your head? Doesn’t it include the face of the military on all the battlegrounds? Doesn’t it resemble my friend’s face on Nine Eleven? Isn’t it Tsunami? Yes it is! It is my motherland when neighbors in a city start thinking relationships cease to exist on religious inclination.
Death is in the history of all the uprooted refugees. On one fine day you come to know that the place you were dwelling for the last so many years has been rendered to a different country and you are no longer welcome in your own fatherland. You have to leave the place. At the age of 6 you became refugee. Before leaving your country, which is no longer yours, you etch your pet name on the trunk of a big tree in the hope of coming back one day to see that the etchings have grown up, just like you. And you never ever go back. Dead are those hopes. Death is in my voice when I stopped thinking. Death is in my inaction. Death is the last flame. Death is the ritual. Death is the formality.
Dead are my dreams. Death is in my nightmare.
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