Me and My Muse

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Nights are dark; Days are darker…

It all started that sudden morning when the boy was only eight. It was three in that cold morning. The sudden quake of two little hands has forsaken not only his sleep but also his senses. Was it perpetually? Well, time had to tell.

He couldn’t speak a word until he saw his mother in an unknown tremendous pain. The sleep flung to senses in less than a blink and never came back. He was only eight then. That cold, lonely morning, not knowing what to do, he held his brothers hands and ran out of the house, shouting, not knowing for fear or help.

The words of this mother, “Son, it's my time...” kept beating his veins. He and his brother did not find any help that morning when the world was in their deep, deadly sleep. Forced by unknown knowledge he led himself back to the little house. It was raining by then. The sky could no longer hold its tears any longer. But it did not matter.

His mother was still in pain. The light of dawn with unknown hope would take a lifetime to come. It was 1991. It was dark. The little boy was scared and kept crying till light came.

The dream ended after a long wait in dark, fear and uncertainty. But the effect of that cold, wet and helpless morning kept worsening every step he took from then.

His mother died in her brain. She woke but never to be called his mother. She lost her mind, became mad and no longer could be called a mother of two children. The finger, which he once held to walk, could no longer life enough rice by it. But how did that dream become so real is still a quest.

The graceful dreams of an eight year old got culled behind responsibilities, fear, school, books, cooking and cleaning. He never complained because he never found those ears and kept fighting. The child in him got lost in the pathway of life He never did grow up from then. He was already too big for an eight year old.

From that lonely night, sixteen years have passed, and he did grow up but only in size. But then, since he never could live a child’s dream, he could never play as other kids, the child in him keeps peeping out at un-right places and occasions. Obviously, he is/was never understood.

He had no charm. He has no charm. No, neither in looks nor in actions. His shabby appearance, which remained as crooked as the child in him, was repulsive enough to hated by everything he loved. Every word he spoke and everything he did shoved people away from him. His brother and he was growing (yes still growing) in different places now.

He dared, though very feebly, to love once. But the person he thought to be his soul mate soon found another one and left him. Again, the obvious point is, he was never created to be loved. But he, just for once, forgot this truth of his life, and thought he would submerge every tear of his in the twinkling eyes of Pooja. Even this, dream broke leaving the already fragile senses and growth rate close to brittleness, if not already broken.

The difference, that lies between what he wanted to and what he has become, kept widening, every year. No every day.

Gazing at the gap that lies behind he could see no more pain, no more suffering, but his present unwanted and unaccepted personality. The ugly mirror keeps abusing his young dreams every morning. But its too late. Too late to repent for what has happened or been done. What had to be lost was already. But that old line keeps twiddling his fear more and more – “At any point of time, you will have something more to loose”.

He soon forgets all that now. But now even that is useless. Because life in 2006 is no longer a dark, fearful, uncertain morning. Its worse than that. His old father could no longer carry himself. After working a very hard and lonely life he needs peace, but could find none at home. A brain dead wife at home threw him away in search of sanity of mind and money. Somewhere in life he wished a better daily-life.

Such perpetually being away from home pushed him away from the boy as well. And both of them seldom talk between themselves now.

[Some lines ommitted...]

And still he could not pretend well. He still keeps fighting with himself. I hate him for that. But he is still growing…



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