I don’t… I don’t want.
All I see around me is fakeness.
Alone amongst the crowd of faces.
Ignored.
A wordless cry suffocating in my throat.
I don’t… want… anymore.
I don’t think I can take much more because
Everywhere I go, it’s the same story.
Am I so different? So alien from everyone? So conditioned to silently scream and writhe in anguish
Preserving a smiling exterior, an eye
Glistening with unshed hidden tears which
No one helps to shed.
Crying means healing.
I can’t cry anymore.
Like an alcoholic I take a swig, swirl it around and stare into the dark black liquid.
It eats into me. I know I stare at death itself, already beckoning not too far off the horizon.
But in the brief burst of acidic sweetness, that moment it first hits the parched tongue, I’m almost happy- a pathetic pseudo-happiness that calls with a siren song that somehow manages to make even death sweet.
A pair of hands reaching out; if they could, they would, I know, but you’re so far away!
I feel so fake. My rage and sorrow
The story of every angsty teenager who ever walked the earth
Yet why do I feelgenuine? Like I’m not pretending? Was all of it true?
“Us against the world”
“My life is so tough”
“No one understands me”
“No one knows how I feel”
“No one knows what I went through!”
All blank, bald, bare, boastful statements
Laughable and foolish and the story of every other angsty teenager that ever walked the earth
But no one does know what I go through.
No one tries.
The pillars of Fatehpur Sikri stand tall and proud, silent and majestic, as they have stood for four hundred years.
Why do I feel at one with them?
Why do I want to become a part of the red sandstone and white marble?
People moving through me, like I’m invisible
Over me, like I’m an animal
Pig-eyes raking for faults, crocodile-eyes waiting to devour and to boast of it, bitch about it at the slightest opportunity
Despicable, the lot of them.
My radar does pick up a few like me- lost sheep, some defiant, some quiet, some like me
All pathetic figures in the riot of revelry raised by the rapists
Raping, peeling everyday
Making us naked and skinning us and drinking our blood
While onlookers cheer them on and silent sentinels watch it all.
My only refuge in words, words spilling over the pages of this diary
Unshed tears spilling over my cheeks.
There the silent pillars of four hundred years are greater than me.
Raped through roiling time and yet refuge to marching bronze and leather boot and Jai Hind and even greedy cameras, alike
Their silence hushes and awes while mine screams and bleeds.
Their content in their fall, my anguish in clawing up.
I salute them, their solidarity: Silent amongst the cool stone, I feel a warm heart beating.
I wonder if the pillars understand.
I wonder if they sympathise.
I wonder if they console.

2 Comments Add yours

  1. Vani Sharma says:

    I stumbled across this and… amazed. Touched my heart.

    Like

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