Life Matters… Doesn’t It?

That boy caught my attention when I was intentionally unmindful of the presence of all objects on that lane where I, in my Lucknow-embroidered Kurta-Pajama, was strolling to breath out the pollutants of the entire day.

Nothing had been pleasant that day; firstly, I could not fish out a remarkable piece of rhyme, against the expectation of all my co-participants in that impromptu poetry competition. I was conscious of the absurdity of the notion that one could have someone write a poem on something random about which he had to compellingly think so as to win the contest, but still went for it so as to have me recognized as a poet. Obviously it did not work out, and I had known that all the time. I had never written a rhyme because I had to, instead, I wrote because I wanted to. Whatever it was, I was a loser. Secondly, the snobbish bulging-bellied asshole editor called me up to tell me that the book for which I had devoted six months of my year, and that too when I dropped that year to prepare myself to get into an I.I.T., was rejected saying, the content was contradictory from the intended at different parts of the book! What did he know about the motive of my book? And finally, being made to know that the article that I had sent to the newspaper was not deemed fit to be published owing to its high controversial content. Implementers of the Constitution could watch restricted videos in the Parliament, but I could not bring to all what was reality and everyone deserved to know! Sometimes I resent the employment of all those years when I dived down to explore the realities under existences and then woke nights to pen them down for humanity; I recall with taunts all those moments when in the nights, I’d go and lie down under that Tamarind and peacefully dream of being a celebrity writer whose books were a favorite of the Booker Prize, who would be invited to foreign universities to deliver guest lectures on the subjects of his books, and on whose name, campaigns would be held to recognize and promote budding writers and poets; I cry at the futility if that feeling of triumph when my English teachers applauded any piece of poetry that had come to my mind while I stood as a beholder to Nature’s numerous activities… Futile, all futile; I was obstinate but it seemed not enough to match the levels of the world.

Anyways, indeed the day was bad, but that sight made me forget all of it, almost! “Mom feels I am wasting my time in this what-she-calls ‘creepy’ writing stuff…”, he narrated to a huge Banyan tree in the park by the road. A small boy of fourteen, I suppose, a rounded face with a hairdo which is popular among children of overprotective mothers. The sweet swift gusts of wind made his hair fly like the full-grown mustard plants in a crop field, and each time his face met a breeze, the face donned an innocent smile in the midst of that serious and dissatisfied expression. Innocence indeed!

“Michael sir says that if there is anything that I am made for, it is writing, literature! How obstinately does she disregard the words of an authority in what he deems me perfectly fit! ”

I wished I could just walk up to the child and tell him,” Chap, you are just wasting your time, first in writing something that the common world will find too absurd to be blessed with a read, and secondly in being laden with clouds of complains which you shall share with none but a lifeless gob of leaves.

Something then happened; he began to recline, as if tired enough of complaining and assuming the tree supported him in his arguments as staunchly as he himself did. There he lay, glaring straight into the leaves and beyond into the sky as if he intended to pierce its limits through his sheer devotion and determination that exhibited from that gleam in his eyes. He kept on chanting something continuously for around half an hour; yes half an hour, there I stood in my traditional Kurta-Pajama with my arms folded around each other just looking at the boy! All of a sudden, the boy rose, as if he had resolved something and intended to be on it without an iota of doubt. He ran, and ran towards me shouting,” Let them think whatever they want to, I won’t live a lame deer to die every day I live with the guilt to have ignored my dreams for someone who would, after some time, simply not care!”

And he ran, ran towards me, ran through me, but his words never left my mind, they still rent the atmosphere in there… Now, neither do my achievements turn me ecstatic, nor does my failure turn me depressed. Just the notion that I did not submit gets me going and every now and then makes me realize that I am alive; and it is perhaps life all that matters?


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