They say it is not my forte. But what is my forte anyway? A string of neatly measured letters or a sporadic out pour of words, resulting from a tumorous growth of vague ideas? Brooding over these, with eyes fixed upon the eaves outside, I slowly dissolved into the unconscious realm until the eaves melted in my vision. My eyes were just about to droop when a loud noise broke the peal of silence. An all- engulfing smoke skyrocketed as if to stir the deafness of Heaven. Its satanic aura intimidated to deaden, for perhaps years to come. My eyes opened to discover the eaves no longer there. The explosion sent tremors down my spinal column.
"These people serve stories, juicy stuff to be swallowed easily," the old man blurted out, frantically balancing himself, yet so unmoved. His tea spilled over him along with the biscuit crumbs as he swallowed the newspaper article, that was soon to become a tool to kill flies. His senile mind functioned almost mechanically. He castigated the article, oblivious of the hours spent in gathering the ingredients of the delicacy. This dish tasted of the never ending problems of society, radical students reading 'Mein Kampf', the defiance of home makers amidst all their drudgery, the paunch-carrying khadi clad law makers (or breakers is it?), the misery of suicide-bombers and their deadly bicycles, et al. All this was certainly not meant to be taken with a grain of salt.
Miles away, was heard "God is great."
My rented house was clearly under attack. The curtain over the violent drama pulled down as the dramatis personae revealed itself; perpetually annoyed caretakers of the society. Each bead of sweat and horror shimmering on my face made them euphoric. This was the fatal cost of the tumult in my mind and the subsequent itch in my fingers.
"This is all we get from sheltering you writers", the old man's response shook me more. His questioning eyes, sunken under the weight of his years, now appeared resigned to fate. People attributed it to the loss of his only son, something that had brought more shock than distress, for he blew himself up in the name of religion and nation. It was an inexplicable sacrifice. His pondering over the 'why and how' of things had squeezed all energy out of him. His physical immobility complemented his voluntary mental numbing, making himself all together inaccessible to scorn and disrepute. The can of worms had reopened today and I could see the glint of horror in his eyes. My article had stirred the hornet's nest as I eulogized his son for no clear reason. I had attempted to disclose his son's heart, that was tampered with, to such an extent that it had ceased to be a human heart at all. The revelations had dismantled the order and this attack was a means to bring it back. Unable to withstand the dilemma, the father had placed himself in, I vacated.
What was it that angered them? A localised clan of self-styled law makers, a bunch of hot headed men, as much the victims as the culprits. The gender of the author infuriated them? Or was it the warmth the article diffused for the controversial? Was it subversive? Did it subvert the nationalist sentiment? Was it a combination of all? The act of thinking was subversive enough. They reiterated it was not my forte.
But my cancerous ideas refuse to be contained and sneak out of the defined, relegated threshold. They take it as an act of sabotage.
Weeks have passed and no one has been hooked, no probes made and no one's curiosity is impatient enough to break out. The eaves have been rebuilt, a couple has moved in my place, docile, not much aspiring and staunch believers in destiny. The old man continues to gaze incessantly as usual, at the horizon, waiting for the sun to set; his outward calm existence in sharp contrast to his inward grief.
My self-imposed exile has taken me to remote corners, from where I continue to send ripples. They still complain, it is not my forte.
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