CoNsCiEnCe, WhO aRt tHoU?

An article in The Hindu about the state of progress in the "modernization" of the weaponry for Mumbai police triggered a train of thoughts in me, and albeit a tad too late, I'm writing this to spell out my angered bewilderment. The article states that the rifles and other equipments will still remain useless and render the wielders helpless in the face of a terror attack. The police are people who put themselves in danger every single moment they execute their duties. They risk their lives to save others', and don't even get paid decently. They don't get proper houses to live because the land sanctioned to build their quarters is used for other profitable enterprises. The largely ineffective intelligence, either because of the lack of it or the quality, comes as no big surprise. Such inadequacies also spurn corruption. Everything about the absence of even the bare minimum is common knowledge, but it doesn't make the faintest difference in reality because it's so very easy to remain ingorant. It is conveniently overlooked by politicians , who, in all their assumed pomposity and pretentiousness strut around as if they own the law, and rightfully so because they really do. All they care about is the number of bank accounts they own and the possible ways to superadd them through disgusting ways. There are people in our country who can't afford a square meal a day, people who can't afford a roof over their heads, people who can't afford education even if they deserve it, people with serious illnesses live every moment of the pain because they can't pay medical bills and die slowly and painfully, people who live under the constant threat of terror and cannot spend a day in peace, farmers who commit suicide because of insufficient produce, and why, even people who live on rats because otherwise, they just have to die in hunger. I have seen old people sitting by roadsides on the pavements, watching passers-by and wait for those few coins that will sustain them. What does life have to offer them? What purpose does it serve? What can they hope for? Whom will they share their pains with? What does the next the minute bring with it, more pain? Or numbness? There are street animals that need protection, and animals that have lost their homes because of deforestation. They're cold and hungry, and there's nobody to care for them. When calamities and terror attacks happen, they're left in pain, frightened and terrified. But none of this matters to the people in power when they have the authority to change everything. They have to mount piles of money for another hundred generations, and ensure posts in the ministry to all their family members. Blinded by lust for power and money, all the pain and suffering borne by the unfortunate majority of our country becomes invisible. A police officer at the CST helplessly fired his outdated gun at the terrorists, and had to shield himself with a chair when he ran out of bullets. I can't imagine what the poor man must've gone through during those final moments. Where are those condescending, sympathising politicians who dish out the overused-condemning-message-gone-stale after every damned attack, when they're responsible to provide security forces with necessary arms. We live in a place where anything can be bought with money, and morals are things that lived in the past and are now long gone and dead. I wish, with all the modern advancements and technology, that responsible strata of the society is provided with conscience transplantation, but I know it's impossible, because it is supposed to come from within.

I felt positively compelled by myself to write when I read about the Pakistan situation in newspapers and the Internet. That's one topic that hasn't failed to serve as a source of headline news almost always in the recent times. I find it hard to grasp the names of the organizations, so I can't really put them down here. But methinks they're all the same, just different faces and names. It makes me wonder how people could possibly be so, so aggressive and ruthless. Its mindblowing stuff, really, to devote one's life to killing others. I don't quite understand their ideals, whatever they may be. But its sad that they should resort to massacring to achieve them, and take pride in that. How can anybody find peace in doing such things? How can someone take others' lives away just like that? How can anybody advocate violence against innocent people and claim that their way of living? What kind of a human would put his skills to making bombs that would cause savage destruction and cruelly rip people off their lives? Can anybody find satisfaction at the end of everything, if at all this vicious quest does have an end? The military forces have begun an assault against the terrorists and hope to wipe them out within two months. I don't know how many lives are going to be forsaken and how much bloodbath the world is going to witness. There's no denying the amount of pollution and bad air everything is going to kick up. But then again, there's no stopping anything. I can't find the right words to end, and my mind is replete with embroilment.

Is death the end of everything, or the beginning of a new journey, one away from the path trodden by the gullible yo yo's, into spaces that show up neither under the morning sun nor the midnight stars? I don't know. In fact, when I retreat into my occasional reveries, I realize I don't know a lot of things. But it's okay, I guess. With you gone, I'm surprised something's okay.
I miss the girl who journeyed mud roads on a scooter ridden by the greatest grandfather in the entire universe.
I miss the girl who hogged innumerbale ice creams with every second buck this grandpa guy made.
I miss the girl who snapped one of her first photographs since birth, with him.
I miss the girl who wouldn't save a moment's peace for this guy until he got her the big balloon packet and bubbles she pestered him for.
It's an incredibly short time I spent with you. Sixteen years. God was clearly not in a mood to let the good times stay. It's so easy to be with someone you love, not realizing those moments will not last. That's exactly what I was, carefree and naive, completely shut from the reality that would soon dawn upon me. But that is how it works, isn't it? Time to wake up, do your thing, jest and stay jolly, blow a fuse, curse the fates, and get back home. Somehow, it seems different when someone isn't back in his place the next day. I cannot believe the tears four years after you left.
The green scooter
The goddamned accident
The sickening ICU
The twisted tubes and the swollen head. A man resting peacefully, ignorant of the anguished spectator, deep in slumber.
The darkest picture I ever set my eyes upon.
Death
Numbness.
Mohan Naidu, rest in peace. I hope heaven's treating you right. I miss you, terribly so.

Look at yourself, your shiny veneer

Rubbing off a guise that isn't yours

Your true lies and false smiles

Reaping harvests yet to rot and rust

Blanked out words that shall pass

Through the murky sluice, the burp of the underdog

Your wretched parallels, the colours of a race

Yet to surface from the darkness within

PaSt, BaCk aNd GoNE....

They say there's a world beyond what we perceive, and what we understand. It's dark, and is concealed by a veil of mystery that doesn't allow silly, stupid and selfish humans into it's profound recesses. Well, obviously I don't know what's in it, because of those cobwebs of egotistical thoughts that have combobulated themselves into this puzzling conundrum I call life. Three years down the lane, I can recall a million moments I'd want to relive. Each minute ticks on, leaving behind vestiges of the past; the good, the bad and the ugly. I find myself delving into the ocean of memories my existence reminds me of, the people I met and left behind. But they don't exist anymore, and I wonder why. Time, people and places lilt incoungruously over the patina of my life woven around a myriad of relationships, acquaintances, rendezvous and conversations that have come, gone and faded away. Some of those memories are bright, fresh and vivid, like they happened yesterday. I can recall some others in snatches, the mangled remains of all the happenings. While some others have been distorted out of shape, completely wrecked out of my memory. What's left of everything is a handful of memoirs I'd always preserve carefully within those deep alcoves of my mind, the ones that remind me of what I was, and what I have become post the unforgettable experiences I owe the people I have known. Yeah, that's my visa to the past. There's a point at which I find the confluence of past and the present culminating into a wild, bizzare and outrageously colourful canvas of my life. Nothing lasts forever, that's a cliche. The guy who said that must've been joking. Memories do.

Will it ever be the same, I ask myself
Oh yes, the things are done
They have come and gone
Leaving behind darkness and despair
There's no escape, while the shadows are here
You don't say no to them, they seldom listen
Engulfed in bleakness and mindless torment
And blinded in rage and fury that will burn fr eternity
Will everything be all right, I ask myself
Let the rains wash my tears away
Into puddles of sorrows that were once mine
Though they can scarce extinguish the fires within
The burning rage that flares and fumes
Rekindling the wounds carved out in excruciating torment
When the clouds hush in darkness
And the winds bear mournful premonitions
They look down upon the lonely traveler
Bearin the brunt of a trouble too many
Steps measured in pain and etched in anguish
Tracing tearful alleys on green Earth
Cloaked in the stains of pain and agony
Banished into a world of nightmares and distress
Will it ever end, I ask myself..

HoPes fOr a NeW bEgInNiG...

As my bus arrived at the Porur signal this morning, just like yesterday and the day before and the year before, I noticed the things that summed up a veritable Porur- markets, meat stalls, dust, drainage, flower stalls, garbage, fruit stalls, sewage, yesterday, the day before and the year before. Things never change. I can't imagine how people live there. There was an old lady selling the few flowers she had in a basket with a cloth over it. It seemed like ages since she had had a decent meal. Thin, shrivelled and wizened, her subsistence would barely suffice, I surmised. But here I was, sitting comfy in shade, worrying over the tan I'd gotten at college. I felt so insignificant and worthless. I could never bring a minute's comfort to that lady, who by all means has the rights to live in a healthy environment. What's the difference for, I wondered to myself. I hope the scent of those flowers captivates all the women crossing the signal. There was this middle aged man arranging mangoes on his cart. It was right next to the dirty and marshy areas, the ones that would consume anybody by disguist. But he has no choice, does he? That's where he earns his bread to take home to his wife and children. I'd never have lived it down if dad had raised me on that income. I hope people find his mangoes tasty. And there was this other guy sweeping the inside of a seedy building, the type that nobody would want to set foot in. But I noticed it was a narrow entrance to a larger place that probably housed many shops. I'm sure he wasn't relishing the activity, cleaning a place with the Madras sun scorching at its perennial high. I hope the dust particles just find their way to their places without his intervention. The bus took a swerve to the right, and there again I saw kids waiting at the bus stop. It was the peak hour and public transport would have to carry enormous population to different places. The kids would have to fight their way for a seat or worse, travel all the way standing. That would sap their energy, right in the morning. How were they going to concentrate on classes? They'd be tired. I'm skeptical about the kind of food they eat, if it can give them the stamina they need. I hope there are more buses for them. I never had to depend on public transport even for a day of my entire school life. And here I was, reclining comfortably in a bus that would drop me off at the place I wanted to go. I could never give them one day's comfotable journey. I felt meek. I hope they have a super metabolic rate that would never leave them tired and listless. I hope change comes, for all these people and a million others like them, for the better. I hope God answers my blog.