The Coward's Little Jig

I cannot stand anyone less than a champion.

It’s a bold statement to make but true and I drew these words out of my hilt while meaning every bit of it. For me, champions are the ones that rise out of dust and shine like gold. Champions wear their hearts on their sleeves to terrify cowards who fear to show their own. Champions cry their fears out and waste no time in lament henceforth. They drive their thresholds to peak each day of their breathing existence. They have nothing to hide and are shrouded in their nakedness. They have scars. They have wounds. They have fought.

Cowards, on the other hand, will hide. Hide behind excuses. Hide their tools of torture. Hide the tools that shaped them...into cowards. They have secrets. They have reasons for not being there. A reason for each day, each moment and each millisecond of their pathetic existence. They have reasons why one should have a reason for the sky being blue. They need proof and evidence because they are too scared to believe.  This is my ode to all those cowards who take pride in the stop signs that halted them in their tracks.

You can’t change them because they lack belief. Do not try to make their lives better because that will never happen. They have given up and do not possess the will to rise. Masochists in true nature who enjoy their pain and writhe in misery. They fear to allow anyone else the luxury of hurting them and self-inflict themselves to torture of a different kind. The world is onto them and will never allow them to emerge as winners. They believe winning is for losers – there’s no need to make an effort. Tears and begging don’t work on this kind because their hearts are safely locked somewhere deep inside, catching dust and turning into stone. Some might have even thrown their keys away. Black holes of every human effort that will just take and give nothing in return.  All of this and more makes them a true spectacle worth ignoring. Ignore the minute you sense a coward near you. Run for your life the minute you sense their presence and never look back. Take my two pennies worth of advice and avoid a coward the minute you sniff its stale presence. It’ll save you a lifetime worth of happiness and effort that's better put to something far more productive.

Because, seriously I cannot stand anyone less than a champion!

'Coz I'm Angry

Every hand that pushes you

Can be chopped off. You can.

Every tongue that swears at you

Can be sliced off. ‘Coz you can.

Every eye that strips you

Can be scooped out. You know you can.

 Every mind that hurts you

Can be turned unsound. You very well can.

It’s not a pity when you don’t.

It’s nothing to be ashamed of if you don’t.

Your silence is not weakness.

You don’t ‘coz you’re a woman.

You don’t ‘Coz you’re a lot better!

The Curse

A beast was born on a cold winter dawn of the 10th of December. The newborn lay combating the ruthless unforgiving wild amidst thorns and bramble in the outskirts of a small village. It bellowed its first sound into the world which was a deafening howl that echoed and thistled through the wild growth - letting its presence known. Mortal existence around the affair heard and felt it. Goose bumps could be sensed erupting on calm skins. Most of them blamed it on the chill in the air and closed their windows. An intolerable pity dawned when no human could recognize the wonder that had just landed amongst them. Because a wonder was beyond their conceivable beliefs and nurturing, the phenomenon was brushed aside as a mischief of the silly North wind.

The beast entered the village in shadows and sensed fear in every corner. The animal inside the creature was fed off the abhorrence of the civil. His vicious talons and hypnotic gaze was discomfort at an arm’s length. A misfit. An outcast. With no past and a non existent future, he toiled. It was the beast’s curse to not know what he could achieve. The curse that brought him here. He could have been an idea at the most. Or a figment of the village idiot’s imagination that no one wanted to fructify. The truth was that the beast was sinister. He was like a bad painting hidden behind drapes. A painting that revealed too much and absorbed the onlooker’s engrossment. It made the audience too uncomfortable within their own skins. It was cursed!

The fact that he was born to reign was forever kept from him. He had the invincible power to do whatever pleased him. The village knew this even before he was born. There were stories told at bedtime of a beast so vicious that he could rid a soul of its will to exist. Children were threatened to never share these stories outside their rooms. Every kid grew up with the story buried in his heart and never uttered a word about it. The beast grew up smelling this fear and never questioning it. He was doomed to live in the darkness and never realize his capacity to conquer. He toiled away his youth earning for his daily meat. Earning for himself. He lived for himself and wanted no more. 

As time passed by, the talons lost their shine. The hypnotic gaze faded and gradually in the village’s fear the beast was tamed.

My Pet Gnu Is Upset Again

I. Am. Not. A. Birthday. Person.

Nor am I into anniversaries or Mother’s Day or Father’s Day or Forgotten Distant Uncle’s Pet Dog Day. I do not call myself a cynic, though many of my near and dear ones (N.AN.D.Os) would disagree. I might come across as a recluse, which I clearly am not. You can check with the same NANDOs. And no, this post is not about what I like or dislike or about who I am. Even my pet gnu ‘Monkey’ wouldn’t be able to define who I am. Trust me, Monkey knows me very well! Better than my NANDOs. But then, Monkey himself is going through an identity crisis of sorts. Ah! Leave Monkey out of all of this. He hates being dragged into debates.

Now, my saying ‘I am not a Birthday person’, does not imply that I hate the fact that I was born. It simply means that it’s no big deal. There’s a big difference. If every thing living on the face of this earth started throwing a huge birthday bash every time they reach that time of the year, imagine the amount of confetti and birthday waste we will have to take care of. I’m not kidding. You don’t want confetti falling on your head the day you get fired just because it’s that familiar pigeon’s birthday that keeps dropping little presents on your car everyday. I always felt that humans ended up celebrating the wrong occasions in life. Jesus Christ has a right to celebrate his birthday. He is the son of God! I don’t think I’m ready to take up as much suffering for humanity as he did. So, I choose to be left out of it. Surprise me with gifts on a random day if you wish. Now THAT’s a surprise!

Monkey ends up feeling a little left out on my birthdays. Not like he is the centre of attention all the time. As a matter of fact, nobody notices him and he’s fine with it. He doesn’t age in the same fashion as I do and it disturbs him that people celebrate when I get old and he doesn’t. He loves cake and hates it when nobody offers him a piece and instead waste it on my birthday facial. The aggression of my NANDOs on my birthdays confuses him to no end. He has started reading up a lot on affection and aggression. Might explain the identity crisis. Monkey doesn’t even remember my birth date. His birth date is a mystery too. He keeps changing it every time you ask him. I don’t think he remembers it himself. Gnus don’t have a fabulous memory. I think it works to his benefit. So, I asked him when his birthday was (again) for the umpteenth time today. That led to a discussion on birthdays followed by a heated debate on the whole idea of celebrating birthdays. He hates debates and arguments. Starts huffing like a wildebeest when riled up. So this post is dedicated to you Monkey! Hope you’ve cooled down now. Chronic boredom drove me into pawing at you. Guess, defending my NANDOs is just not worth your short temper.

The Vase Full of Sand

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Once I owned a Vase. Owned it with my heart and soul.

Everyone had a vase of their own. One girl I knew bought it at the flea market because she could afford one. Another one bought it because she felt bad for the lonely piece which no one would buy. I also knew a guy who bought one every month. He was a connoisseur - of vases. They all had one. The one they could call their own. Even had their names engraved on them. I heard that the couple next door recently lost theirs. They were speculating the idea of buying a new one. The missus of the house hates a house without flowers. They all had a reason. They all knew what they wanted.

                                     

I was never into vases. It was not something I would buy; for myself or for anyone else. Not even for the couple next door. I was not looking for vases until I met her - The Gypsy from Andalusia. She was on her way. I never bothered to ask where to. I doubt if she knew the answer herself. She stayed over. A company like hers would never disturb me. The vase was a gift from her. It wasn’t even a vase. More like a jar.

Each morning she woke up earlier than the sun and waited for the first rays to hit the ground. With the first sparkling rays she packed a pinch of sand and sprinkled it into the jar and quietly brought it back inside. A pinch a day. Everyday. Till the jar was full and it was time for her to leave. The last day of her stay was a celebration. Just the both of us with good food, a beautiful rendition on her guitar and light chit chat. She left the next morning after thrusting the vase in my hands without saying a word. That’s the last time I saw her or heard of her.

The jar was painted pretty red and filled with sand from my backyard. I kept it like a handsome knight in front of my army of books. The very first to wake me up and the very last to put me to sleep. They said it’s just a jar full of sand. What good could it bring? Some suggested I grow a plant and some wanted to put flowers. How silly would a knight look with a plant or flowers in its head? I chose to let it be. A jar full of sand is what I wanted. A jar full of ‘Sunshine sand’. I grew a fondness for the jar while it stood on my bookshelf motionless staring back at me. The more people despised the handsome knight the more I developed a pride in ownership of this vessel. It was mine. It had potential to be so many things. But I loved it to be the Sunshine jar. Many told me, “It’s not even a Vase!” I agreed. I never wanted a vase. The Sunshine jar was doing its work. I smiled. I worked. I was happy.

Till one day. That one wretched day when I disturbed my army of books. The jar fell right off the shelf and got smashed into a million gut wrenching pieces. Pieces I wish I could put back together. But the sunshine got scattered all over the place. I scrambled on the floor to save my sunshine. I gathered all the sand I could and put it in a plastic bag. The sight was painful. Warm tears were soaking the sand now. I could feel the sunshine escaping. The shards of the broken jar had to be saved. Some cut my fingers. But who cares about finger cuts when your sunshine’s escaping. I put the remains of the jar in an old shoe box. Spent the entire night staring at the dead knight and crying. There was no one to put me to sleep. Maybe this was a nightmare or maybe I just woke up from a dream. I lost the sunshine that could never be owned.

I was never into vases. I never wanted a vase. I would never buy a vase. Not even for the couple next door. 

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