-'So you've come again..to torment me isn't it'
-'Would you not want me here then...I won't mind it'
-'Not at all. Sit down and wriggle the consciousness out of me. I would mind it though'
The dimness inside was apparent to both. But neither wanted the lights. 'Let darkness have its say today. It's much easier to strangle without having to look at the pain in your eyes. Makes the task effortless'.
-'So you admit to coming here for peeling me down, layer by layer, shred it all out and not because you've had the slightest sympathy on me all this while.'
A momentary silence, but only fleeting it could be. Because there was an uproar that deafened out all the worldly chaos outside the room. The noises of the machines in entirety put together fail in comparison to whopping of that lump called heart, when truth hammers you down.
-'Sympathy is for the weak, for the suppressed, for those who don't have power and you're not weak. You bargained moments for opportunities, pleasure for happiness. You created the situation in which we're in now from which you want to escape and then to have asked for sympathy-it can't be like this all along. One has to give back to life also when the time comes.'
-'I did try my best to amend. Make situations better, create the comfort, all the lavishness that could exist are here and still it all slipped through the fingers like sand. There was all the glitter, all the shimmer in life, as I tried to make things better, make them view better, make me feel better.'
-'And how all of it is helping you ease the pain that's destructing you bit by bit with every passing breath. Its exhausting even to find space amidst the debris that has been filled this place.'
He walked towards the window, to let some air in.
-'You've been suffocating for a long time. I'm here to help.'
There was sudden laughter, a sound that ringed with irony and bereft of felicity. It grew louder, filing the room with a melancholic silence. 'Help you say; you're helping me feel bad, pathetic and insignificant. You made me meaningless, that's what you did.'
The conflict with conscience impairs a soul, just as a battle burns the ground beneath. You try subduing it, inflicting damage by force first and then by making it weak with repeated attacks on morality, till you're sure that its gone, the pain is no more. However, it refuses to leave the battlefield, and suddenly one fine morning, when preparing for another onslaught, you're knees will give away in weakness and shiver, your arms will fail to rise and that body has been decaying ever since.
-'You've been rotting since the time the man within died. Remember the time when you had ideals and ethics to live by the day and nothing else to survive on. Gradually there was a house, there was a wife, there was an offspring but there was no you. You begin passing days in vanity and evening on cards with believable friends and ending it with a glass of wine. An existence which was defined blissful by ignorance. The last act of man is self-deceit, which you played to thunderous applause from the gallery.'
Remembering the time spent on stage, he recalled-the characters and their roles. The wife who liked his position, his designation, his security, his resources and thus decided to love him. The child who grew into a fine adult, while the father remained looking. Those he befriended, over whom he influenced power, who laughed with him and laughed harder without him, who sympathized with his decline and were apathetic to his destruction.
-'I was happy in this make-believe world, numb to truth and ignorant to farce. I was doing just fine with that care and affection from my wife, with that veneration from my child, that respect from my friends, even it was a lie all along. I couldn't smell my foul breath and neither I could smell the rot. It was not me, it was you who has ruined my existence and is now watching me decay. Are you content?'
He knew he defending a false pretense in order to assert the years, the life in those years. Man does that- try to vindicate false position he acquires by unwarranted means, to protect pride, to preserve plaudit to the end. There remains none except the naked self, the bare, disgusting truth which I'll carry to death-bed.
-'It is dark but I can see you clearly now. Hoping that when day breaks, you'll be able to see dawn.'
The servant arrived with his medicines and knocked on the door. There was no answer. As he stepped in, he saw a shape pacing across the room. 'My medication is it? Keep it on the table', he said looking away.
-'May I put on the lamp Sir. It's dark in here', the servant asked his master. He always stayed by his master's side at day end when master would prepare for sleep. He would listen and be a part of conversation with the master religiously to make master forget his deteriorating condition.
-'Let this darkness remain inside. I've struggled to keep it shining and lost. In the end, it's always dark and there is no escaping it. Let me be now', and he tried to sleep, for one last time.
-'Would you not want me here then...I won't mind it'
-'Not at all. Sit down and wriggle the consciousness out of me. I would mind it though'
The dimness inside was apparent to both. But neither wanted the lights. 'Let darkness have its say today. It's much easier to strangle without having to look at the pain in your eyes. Makes the task effortless'.
-'So you admit to coming here for peeling me down, layer by layer, shred it all out and not because you've had the slightest sympathy on me all this while.'
A momentary silence, but only fleeting it could be. Because there was an uproar that deafened out all the worldly chaos outside the room. The noises of the machines in entirety put together fail in comparison to whopping of that lump called heart, when truth hammers you down.
-'Sympathy is for the weak, for the suppressed, for those who don't have power and you're not weak. You bargained moments for opportunities, pleasure for happiness. You created the situation in which we're in now from which you want to escape and then to have asked for sympathy-it can't be like this all along. One has to give back to life also when the time comes.'
-'I did try my best to amend. Make situations better, create the comfort, all the lavishness that could exist are here and still it all slipped through the fingers like sand. There was all the glitter, all the shimmer in life, as I tried to make things better, make them view better, make me feel better.'
-'And how all of it is helping you ease the pain that's destructing you bit by bit with every passing breath. Its exhausting even to find space amidst the debris that has been filled this place.'
He walked towards the window, to let some air in.
-'You've been suffocating for a long time. I'm here to help.'
There was sudden laughter, a sound that ringed with irony and bereft of felicity. It grew louder, filing the room with a melancholic silence. 'Help you say; you're helping me feel bad, pathetic and insignificant. You made me meaningless, that's what you did.'
The conflict with conscience impairs a soul, just as a battle burns the ground beneath. You try subduing it, inflicting damage by force first and then by making it weak with repeated attacks on morality, till you're sure that its gone, the pain is no more. However, it refuses to leave the battlefield, and suddenly one fine morning, when preparing for another onslaught, you're knees will give away in weakness and shiver, your arms will fail to rise and that body has been decaying ever since.
-'You've been rotting since the time the man within died. Remember the time when you had ideals and ethics to live by the day and nothing else to survive on. Gradually there was a house, there was a wife, there was an offspring but there was no you. You begin passing days in vanity and evening on cards with believable friends and ending it with a glass of wine. An existence which was defined blissful by ignorance. The last act of man is self-deceit, which you played to thunderous applause from the gallery.'
Remembering the time spent on stage, he recalled-the characters and their roles. The wife who liked his position, his designation, his security, his resources and thus decided to love him. The child who grew into a fine adult, while the father remained looking. Those he befriended, over whom he influenced power, who laughed with him and laughed harder without him, who sympathized with his decline and were apathetic to his destruction.
-'I was happy in this make-believe world, numb to truth and ignorant to farce. I was doing just fine with that care and affection from my wife, with that veneration from my child, that respect from my friends, even it was a lie all along. I couldn't smell my foul breath and neither I could smell the rot. It was not me, it was you who has ruined my existence and is now watching me decay. Are you content?'
He knew he defending a false pretense in order to assert the years, the life in those years. Man does that- try to vindicate false position he acquires by unwarranted means, to protect pride, to preserve plaudit to the end. There remains none except the naked self, the bare, disgusting truth which I'll carry to death-bed.
-'It is dark but I can see you clearly now. Hoping that when day breaks, you'll be able to see dawn.'
The servant arrived with his medicines and knocked on the door. There was no answer. As he stepped in, he saw a shape pacing across the room. 'My medication is it? Keep it on the table', he said looking away.
-'May I put on the lamp Sir. It's dark in here', the servant asked his master. He always stayed by his master's side at day end when master would prepare for sleep. He would listen and be a part of conversation with the master religiously to make master forget his deteriorating condition.
-'Let this darkness remain inside. I've struggled to keep it shining and lost. In the end, it's always dark and there is no escaping it. Let me be now', and he tried to sleep, for one last time.
