the life divine

"…this nation needs a wake to the dawn of reason. These are strong words but they need life. I don't know who will give them life but I hope that I am not the last and this is not the end for sure. Or may be I am a bit too hopeful and this indeed is the end. An end to the hope of millions who still have to find a meaning for their life. An end for whom the sleep is still away from eyes and may be it will be so now always and that they will sleep for now and forever. It's an end to hope for this hungry and naked nation. I don't know if anybody will come forward now. Everybody thinks we need a hero but is anybody ready to be one? Everybody needs a leader but is anybody ready to be one?

It was a dream, I had a dream. I used to have it everyday, a dream that millions here in this nation see everyday, every moment. There are two ways to break a dream, either surrender it to reality or turn it into one. This nation seems to have chosen for the first way because everybody here is a follower. They do things correctly but they don't know what it is to do correct things. Words alone are not enough my friend. There is no use trying to change the world when the world is not seeing it. Because then they would never understand the change. Words alone are not enough. Words alone make typewriters, words alone do not make man. Actions make man.

When you receive this, I will be long gone. But I do not fear it because I know there are things worth dying for. What I fear is what will happen of my dream. It was a beautiful dream and unfortunately, I woke up at the most interesting moment only to find that there still is no dawn and now I have to sleep. I hope someday you realise it and I hope you realise it before long. Sometimes it falls upon a man to be brave and great. Sometimes you can not do otherwise."

I closed the letter and looked in the envelope. My thoughts wandered for a moment. It was just a moment but in that moment I felt an eternity. My entire life went past me in that moment. My father's face swam in my view and for the first time I realised that when he died, he was smiling. "Take care of Ma." I had never understood those words.

I was feeling good. It looked good on my arm. But I knew that was not the reason why they wore it. It was not the reason why I wore it.

Concluded

'…because some of us, for sometime now, have had this somewhat big dream that may be this somewhat big nation needs a wake to the dawn of reason. We are fighting for that dawn, nothing else. It's our sole purpose. And this is all we say : wake up!'

"Good line." he said as he finished reading it. "Real good mann." He had a smile on his face. Happiness comparable to that of a child who received a big birthday present.
"Thanks," I said. "So what now? "

"Well, I will take it to the printing machine in my apartment. I will print the pamphlets and then distribute them. I think this will make impact," he said. There was childish enthusiasm in his tone. When a child has a present kept at home and he are still on the way to reach the place. That kind of impatience and enthusiasm. He always had that in him. With me however, things were different.

"SO how's it going?" I asked him

"It's going well. We are getting new members. The awareness is increasing. Resistance has spread down south. Some of us were hit today so I guess, I think four people are in the hospital. Rest are still up." he answered. There was a worried note somewhere but in his enthusiasm, it got lost.

My friend and me had been together since childhood. He was always the outgoing type. Outspoken, courageous, a bit reckless at times. I think it was in the blood. His father served the army while the mother was a renowned feminist. He got these values from parents : not to bear wrong things but to fight them. I on the other hand was the one who would like to take things as they came, never the one to try and change them. My father died in the Great Resistance. "Take care of Ma," he had said. "I will," I had replied. He never mentioned my brother that night. All he said was about Ma. He died in my lap. I still remember the look on his face. I was young but I understood things and I knew he didn't want me to join the struggle. Everytime my friend tried to set a vibrant pilse in me, my father's face swam in my view.

My friend had grown different overtime though. To me he was still the same but as the leader of the resistance he was very different. A quintessentially rebellious male, who would hide even the rebellion to look passive and then attack at the right moment. He had inspired many to join the resistance, many except his best friend and that's me.

"So you coming?"

"Where?" I asked.

"To my place. Where else?"

"You know me. I can not come."

"I am amazed at you man. I mean how can you write things you don't mean? It's good but think about yourself. Does it have any meaning?"

"I don't write things I don't mean. I mean it and I am in every word."

"Yes you are in every word. That's what it is. Exactly like you : always in words but never in action. How about coming to the greensward and shedding a bit of red there buddy?"

"Well, that's my way of doing things. You know that I can not come. I have too many responsibilities. Ma, brother. If anything happens to them, who will look after them?"

"Some excuse, huh? Mann you are not doing anything. Do not feel bad but seriously you are not doing anything. What do you think? Only morons are up there in the resistance? There are people who have a leaky pen. We need you because right now they are having leaky bodies too. You are just a vending machine which gives out words. Nothing more."

"Then why come to me? Go get someone else. Someone with guts. Look, we have had these discussions before. You know that I support you but you also know that this is all you can get from me. I can't be a frontrunner."

"That's a myth. You do not believe yourself that's it."

"I believe myself. I am NOT saying that I do not have the guts to come up. I only mean that my duties bound me to come up. If anything happens to me…"

"You are afraid of dying."

"You can put it that way. I don't care.

"There will be a time when you will realise that there are things worth dying for and duties more important than what you think duties are."

"You are carefree from the family side. I on the other hand am NOT. It's easy to speak but you don't know…"

"Shutup moron!! Don't tell me how easy is what!! You tell this too me. Hark who's speaking!! You who never stepped out to be. You are worthless. You don't even know what's it like to be out there. It's you who speak just words, NOT me. I know what it's like. And what do you think? I don't have my mother. I do care for her. But I know my priorities," he lost his patience this time.

There was a moment of silence in which his eyes bored into my conscience if there was any left. Most of it formed the cover of my cowardice.

"It's no point discussing with you. Thanks anyway for the script."

"I am sorry buddy," I said

"No, I am sorry. I got to go," and he went to the door.

"You have been up since last two days. Take a nap for sometime. You need it."

"I think that maybe this somewhat big nation needs a wake to the dawn of reason. I can not sleep until that dawn. Thanks anyway. And sorry for losing composure."

He opened the door and left. I saw it on his right arm. The saffron band. He used to wear it. Most activists used to wear it; on the right arm. A symbol of uprising, revolution. My father also used to wear it. He used to be very happy everytime he put it on his hand. I don't know what happiness they drew from it, I was never so brave to give it a try.

To be continued

Next morning Peter waited for her. He was feeling bad about what he had said the day before. He thought that she was angry with him. He waited but she didn’t come. He was sad. He even refused to eat food when the maid served it to him. Every moment he thought about the lady in white. She always said that the view from the east window was superb. Peter had never been successful in getting there and she never carried him. She wanted him to come to the window himself but he never tried with his heart. The fear of falling down and getting hurt kept him to his bed. But today was different. Peter thought differently. His mind was clear.

“Today I will do it and then I will tell her about it when she comes. She would be happy then,” thought Peter.

When the maid went to sleep in the afternoon, Peter began his efforts. He tried to move his legs. He tried to move out of the bed to reach the window. He fell down, cut his wrist at the bed’s edge, smashed his forehead on the floor but didn’t give up.

“Everybody falls Peter. Those who rise, live.” She had said this and this was Peter’s inspiration today. He crawled on all fours till he reached the wall and with a himalayan effort, he stood up! Yes he stood up with the wall’s support and with a wriggling, drunkard walk and a lot of support from the walls and the belongings he reached the east window. He looked out, the blue of hie eyes expecting to meet trees, birds, sheep and what not. But all he saw was a forlorn, forsaken cementry in the distance. All he felt was the cold wind blowing from the east.

She had lied, but why? Peter simply looked at the cementry, hoping against hope that it will turn true to her words. But it remained the same. Sometimes when we are lost in the dakness inside, often there is a silver lining in the dark clouds within us, our hope to stick around. And suddenly Peter felt, as if someone within him told him, that he no longer needed the window edge he was leaning on. Slowly, he turned and started walking in a drunkard’s manner towards the door.

It was evening already and the maid, just up from her sleep was astonished to see him walking. She froze and couldn’t utter a word as Peter started to walk ever so fast. He reached the door, opened it to see the world outside and ran, if you could call it a run. He ran outside the house, on the footpath and found his way to the cementry. Panting, he reached the cementry. It’s enormous iron gates were closed but not locked. He pushed them open and entered the graveyard. The dusk only added to the gloom of the place. As the darkness started to gather, Peter, almost as if someone was drawing him along or calling him to embrace, reached for a grave. A grave different from the rest of them. He sat down on his knees. Tears trickled down his young, unmarked cheeks. The old, unknown and unhealed wounds were healing. He cried and cried, all his questions were being answered now, realizing that the voice was not outside, but was in him. He sat near the grave and wept for a long time.

The moon reached high and new stars crossed the horizon. As the dark clouds swallowed the moon, its light shined on the grave and as the last tears washed the dust off the grave, Peter stood up and said with his head bent, looking on the grave, “Thank you Ma.”

It was a beautiful morning. Little Peter could feel it by the gusts of the breeze coming from the east window. Even Granny was in good mood. It had been a long time since Granny's last smile. It happened when Madame Maya had agreed to help Peter. He remembered the tears of gratitude in Granny's eyes when Madame had agreed to look after him. Granny was happy. But this was about an year ago. Things changed. Madame yielded to his clumsiness and stamped out of the house leaving an angry and tearful Granny and a helpless Peter behind. But Granny was happy today. They had a new house now and she had found a full time maid for him. So now she could go on her month long trip to meet her sister who lived in the next town and was sick. Granny gave the maid her instructions about the house and Peter. She kissed him and then left. "I will get you a new chair when I come back," she said and continued, " be good."

Peter was very young the day he lost control of his legs. But then it was a very bad day. Granny had told him. His parents left him that day to do some important work. They had not returned and Granny had looked after him since then.

The first few days after Granny left were very uneventful. Peter was bored. The maid was nice but she bored him a lot. She did not took him around and he was unable to move without his chair. One fine morning however, a woman visited him. She lived a few blocks away and was very beautiful. She had flowing golden hair, serene smile and was clad in white. She was probably in her early thirties. She said that she knew Granny and wanted to talk to him. She was nice and told Peter several stories. Soon it became a routine. She would come over every morning and talk to Peter; teaching him things and telling him stories. She looked after him until sundown at which time she used to go back. Peter began to like her.

He had this strange feeling about the woman. Even when she was not with him, sometimes her voice rang in his ears. Peter would look around whenever this happened to see if she was there. She looked strangely familiar but he couldn't recall any instance of seen the lady before. 

"It's a very beautiful view from here Peter. Why don't you try and come here? See there are beautiful birds, grasses and sheep out here. The whole beautiful countryside." She would say everytime she looked out of the window on the east.

"How can I? I can't walk. Please carry me. I want to see the birds, the sky and the sheep." But she always refused to carry him, just like the maid. Once, Peter tried to move but failed.

"I can't. I am afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid of falling down. I might get hurt. Besides there is no feeling in my legs," said Peter sadly.

"Everybody falls Peter. Those who rise, live. These wounds are there to make us strong. They are here to make us live up to what we actually are. Just try."

But Peter couldn't do what she said. One day the lady in the white said this again.

" The breeze is cool and it is so good outside. Why don't you try and come over here Peter? Look there is the shepherd trying to get his herd back. And the birds flying here and there…"

"Don't you see that I can not walk. I don't have my chair here. Please carry me. I want to look out of the window. Please carry me," Peter cut in between and pleaded.

"I can't. You should come here yourself," she said.

This time Peter became angry. "You are bad. I don't want to talk to you. You say that you like me but you won't carry me. You are bad! Go away! I don't want to see you again!" and Peter buried his face in the pillow. She went away while Peter wept and fell asleep.

To be concluded.

NOTE : I wrote this story because I was happy at how small the story would be but again the idea behind the story is not so new.

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The police never had a problem in mainataining law and order in Jacksville. The town was by all standard a town : compact and friendly. But this was before the dual murder at Montgomery Estate. This place was ten miles outside the town like an extension. Not many people lived there. The Police were having trouble hunting for the evidences because seemingly the cold-blooded murderer hadn't left any.

It was a gloomy evening at the police department's office when Sergeant Maybury rushed in.

"Any luck Serg?" asked Chief Davy. He continued, "You look tense."
"Yeah! The murder at the estate is not a dual murder Chief," he said, his face strangely twisted.
"We have recovered another body. The situation's not good. I suggest you have a look."

The last star had appeared when they reached the estate and the lower rung officials were already leaving the site. The police guard at the gates saluted Davy. "It's good that you are here sir we just…"

"I know, I will see. Keep your guard."

"This way Chief," said Maybury and he led the way. He walked at surprisingly fast pace leading Davy across the estate when finally they reached an old cottage looking over the fence.

"What's this place? You said you recovered a body. Where is it? Whose body is it?"

Maybury rubbed the sweat off his forehead, his eyes shining. Smiling, he said, "mine."

Davy's funeral was grim business.

NOTE : This story cropped up in my mind when I met a beautiful lady. It didn't hit me at that time that the story bears too much resemblance with the story of an Indian movie. Anyway here is the story for you to read.

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It had been a long time since they had met. The class of '95 still remebered them as the most intimate and real couple of the institute. In the days at the institute they used to be together most of the time.

The relationship had begun with him giving her a chocolate at the Fresher's Party only to find out later that they were in the same class. Days went on and the relationship grew strong. They became inseparable and indispensable for each other. Most people believed that they would continue as life partners once they graduated but not all goes expected in life and not every couple is the 'and-they-lived-happily-everafter' couple. Their trails separated at the convocation only to cross ten years later at the reunion of class of '95.

Things changed. Most people were now parents of noisy five, six or seven year old kids. He was standing in a corner with some friends, chatting over drinks. His eyes were wandering, searching the long lost soulmate when he saw the glitter of her deep blue eyes. A rendezvous was due.

They had the usual small talk and then the matters came to what they were destined to.

"Do you still love me?" she asked.

"Do you think that?All I know is that I have learnt to live without you." It was painful to see the blue of her eyes liquify but for some reason he was enjoying her pain. They talked on.

"I tried to move on but couldn't forget you. All these years, they have been hell," she said.

"You wouldn't have needed to move on but…"

"What could I have done? Was there a way?" she said and continued, "Is there a way?" 

"I am married," he said.

"You are. Hmmm," she paused for a moment. He looked at her and could see the pain she was undergoing. A feeling of envy and remorse inside her heart. He was having a strange satisfaction in seeing her in this state. "What is she like?"

"Oh she is nice, very nice. She is like an angel."

"She is not me though," she said as if to make him realise what she has meant to him once.

"I love her and I am leading a good life. We are a happy little family. Me, her and our daughter."

"You don't know how much I regret this," she said. This time the tears didn't stop. " I miss you."

"See, it's no use talking about relations and things that are dead for years now," he couldn't help hurting her.

"You have a daughter?" "I think I just told you that. There she is," he pointed to a beautiful seven year old kid dressed in pink. "She's just like her," he said and began describing how the kid resembled her mother. She listened, standing there with mixed feelings on envy and love towards the girl.

She looked at him. He had stopped speaking. No more words.

"What's her name?"
By now his eyes were moist and this time he couldn't speak anything to hurt her. It was hard to contain the love. He took her hand in his, a serene smile on his face.

"Do I need to tell you?"

She rubbed off the tears from both the faces, smiled and called the pretty in pink : "Su!"