I woke up with the rain. I had slept with the rain. I love rain, but too much of anything is unpleasant. But again how much is too much? For me if it rains for more than two days it’s too much of rain. And it has been raining for two days, hence unpleasant. Unnecessary, unwanted rain. Dropping anywhere it likes, making life more miserable, making our poor roads uglier, yellow-brownish muddy water camouflaging the puddles and inviting road mishaps…above all dropping memories, dreams, and hopes over our naïve heads. The music it produces…it’s a black magic, melting our hearts for the things that have always forced us to be stone-hearted beings.
The kids are at play. It’s a little more than noon, but the sun is nowhere near. Just like mice play when the cat goes away, children play when the sun rests beyond the clouds…huge black clouds, waiting for another natural attack. Surely, it will rain again, for everyone and everything wants to see the sufferers suffer a little more than before. And this tendency of rejoicing the suffer lengthens the war, natural or unnatural, royal or alliances. War is a war. Weapons are not counted. Stones or bullets. Weapons are weapons.
Blood is cheaper than water, it has become so lately. Only the color hasn’t changed. I wouldn’t wonder if one day something colorless oozes out of the heads of the freedom fighters. What is freedom? I tell you it’s not about forgetting our responsibilities. What are our responsibilities? Turn back and you will see them injured and infected, crawling to catch you up… those forgotten unseen lines to guide you through your reckless lives, mine too. Why are we making the price of our freedom reach the sky? Making the sky heavier, therefore it’s been raining for quite sometime now. Taste the rain. It’ s salty. Taste your blood. Mine is salty, so must be yours. It’s our blood pouring down to extinguish the anger, the hotness, the foolhardy to change the world overnight.
It’s been a fortnight; more than half a dozen subjects have lost their lives. Can your freedom bring them back? Can your stubbornness bring them back? And who are you to buy their death? Compensation, you call it. Why don’t you die and be compensated? Martyr, you baptize them. Why don’t you die and be baptized? When will you run out your storyline? When will you stop preaching the converted? When will you be a nice god-like man and be ceremonial? And when will you renounce the habit of making stories out of nothing? Creativity is good; write novels. Imagine the impossible and make a film. You will be awarded with Oscars, but please for God’s sake stop experimenting your bizarre imaginations on us, on those who stand for you when they need a good day rest, on those who come out of their houses hungry and sleepless to shout your rhythmic slogans. Why do they follow you? What makes them tolerate the heat, rain, bullets and lathis? Hope. A hope to live a better life, a hope to live a happy life, a hope to walk without being checked, a hope to speak what they want, a hope to see all the hopes come true. But will they? Come true?
Where do I stand? I am one of the confused youths of this nation, a little scared, a little curious, a little hopeful-bewildered by the roaring ocean of uncountable heads which is flowing furiously bursting, shortening and breaking the dams, which were once, built virtually everywhere to keep the mass at bay.
This time around after a long time, it seems, the monsoon has arrived pretty sooner.
I wonder what would I say if anyone asked me why I always write ‘bout RAIN!
Is there anything more enigmatic than rain and death?
No logical answer required!