Literary Diarrhoea

And so it was in the year 2056 that Alexander stood mighty and tall, devouring the limelight with characteristic pride. It hasn’t been more than 2 days from the death of his brave and valiant brother Medusa, but Alexander had set his sight upon the future; albeit with much concern. For what hope is there, when you are the very last of your kind. Yes, ALexander was the last chicken alive in the face of Earth that is consumed by the demands of fast food outlets.

Ronald had taken his dear brother two days ago. But amidst his pain and suffering, Medusa only had encouraging words for his brother , "At least it wasn’t Sanders."

Alexander recalled the public humiliation his ancestors were put through, being displayed to the public headless, with captions of ‘finger lickin’ good’ by the tyrant Colonel Sanders. It was then that Alexander and Medusa promised themselves never to fall against the tyranny of Colonel Sanders and his army from Kentucky. 

Therefore, on that day, being the only remaining chicken alive, Alexander made little circles on his farm ground with his head bobbing to the tempo of his pounding heart, while his famous bird brain plotted his next course of action.

After much meticulous searching of the ground, and more head bobbing, Alexander beckoned the people for his much awaited address.

"To be with my brothers, i have to decide.

Colour is not a matter of courage or pride.

In times of trouble, i shall be by your side,

will the dear ducks accept me in your tribe?"

"Oh for fuck’s sake!, " there was an outcry amongst the duck tribe.

This was an unprecedented event, for an entire species to be wiped out in that farm. The farm leaders, Napoleon(the pig) and Gargoyles(the goat) were watching the development of the meeting with arrogant indifference. They will not dirty their heels with the issues of animals from the lower castes. The pigs and goats headed the social system in the farm, having migrated from East Europe during the great Aryan exodus.

Batista, the eldest amongst the ducks, summoned for a gathering to be made in front of him. This he did by quacking. Understanding the leader’s instructions, and having a reputation for obedience, the ducks quickly duck-walked towards the leader. And great Batista spoke :

"Friends, ducks, winged or not;

lend me your ears,

I have come to accept Alexander, not embrace him,

The evil that ducks do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their bones,

I do this, my people, not because i love you less,

but because i love this farm more.

There was a thunderous flapping of wings amongst the ducks, and even some other animals watching the accounts of this most incredible saga were moved to tears. None really understood the meaning of the speech or what it implied, and therein lied the greatness of Batista the great. He always got things going his way.

Napolean and Gargoyles nodded in agreement. They too didn’t understand the speech.

But Batista was not finished.

"Hear hear, but there is a condition to meet,

The ducks are regarded the most courageous fleet,

The chicken needs to our standards meet,

Failing which, into the tribe i will not admit.

"Oh for fuck’s sake," said the chicken.

"ooooooooooooooohhhhh" said the rest.

There was a chilling silence, commenced by sound of quacks, pleading their respected leader, Batista the great, to announce what the condition is.

"hear hear, this is the condition :

The chicken should sail across the road,

by foot or by wing, regardless,

and come back to be regarded,

as one of us."

"oh for fuck’s sake!!!" said the chicken.

"aaaaaaaaaahhh" said the rest.

After much walking in circles and head bobbing, Alexander paced up to the road that separated the safety of the farmhouse, and the outside world filled with greed, jealousy, danger and the sorts.

Looking left, and right, and left and right, and left, and right again in quick, swift head movements, Alexander used all his precautionary measures to ensure there were no cars. And in a dash of grace, Alexander ran flapping his wings for the extra power boost. In a mere second, that lasted a second, Alexander reached the other side of the road, unvisited by any from the farm as of the time of the event. Even Napolean and Gargoyles were surprised by the grit and determination of Alexander. They looked at each other, and nodded in agreement.

There were shouts and cheers and flapping of wings amongst the onlooking animals, and they chanted his name as he looked left and right, and left, and right and left and right again to cross the road back and join the clan of the mighty ducks.

"Alex! Alex! Alex!, " the crowd roared, and Alex felt like he was a hero.

Alexander took his first few steps off the curb, and paced himself for the run back home - the home run to his new family. While crossing, Alex pondered on the efforts he had to put to change his vocal chords to suit the quack pack, and he wondered if he would accidently cluck. Before his thoughts could get to the fact that he had to do something about the balls that hung from his face, there was a loud sound, very near him.

Unbeknown to him, Alexander’s thoughts had distracted him from concentrating on the road that he was crossing. There was a truck, speeding towards him in a blinding pace. The animals had stopped cheering, and looked in panic and uncontrollable fear as the truck sped towards Alex, who now stood rooted to the middle of the road.

In an instant, which lasted an insant, the truck ran over Alexander, the wide tires going over Alexander’s neck and head.

"oh for fuck’s sake" the animals cried!

ALexander fell still in the middle of the road. His eyes, popping out of his disfigured face, stared eerily towards the farmhouse. It was supposed to be his home. He was so close. Everyone in the farm stared in disbelief, as Alexander’s body lay motionless, his blood snaking towards the farm.

Alex was close to death, very close. And in the deepest recesses of his heart, he whispered to himself, "At least it wasn’t Sanders"

As the truck zoomed past the farm, the driver asked his co-driver beside him, " Was that a fucking cat i ran over?"

His friend turned behind and looked, and said, "No, i think its a fucking chicken you retard! Will you fuckin drive carefully, next you gonna hit a cow!"

The driver replied, "Okay okay i will. But God, answer me this man :

Why did the chicken cross the road?"

      He was lean, tanned and muscular. The ladies in his office called him handsome. He was a man of principles, or he would love to think so. He was the Secretary of the Lion’s Club in his state. He was a well-known philanthropist, an overall ‘goodman’ nobody has grudges against. However blessed his life sounds, deep down in the chambers of his heart was a longing for female companionship. His wife died enough years ago to be forgotten, but his social standing wouldn’t allow an open relationship. This was one aspect of his life that was too embarrassing to reveal, yet too desirable to release.

     They met in a weekly basis, mostly weekends, at the Casuarina Hotel. They never tried to justify the relationship. But he always told her he loved her. It made her smile, all the time.

      He found her most enchanting. Her hair flowed gracefully down her side, only to have a change of heart and curled upward right above the shoulders. Her big round eyes, a dreamy seduction of dark brown, were well introduced by the skyward bound eyelashes. When her eyelids kissed, it seemed as though a curtain closed on a most captivating performance. Her eyes did dance to a certain measure, and she enhanced it with eyeliners - the effect of which created a certain weakness in his knees. Well, enough about her eyes.

        Her skin was muted, pale, with underlying green nerves plotting an uprising by her neck and her breasts, which he found particularly attractive. She had perfect fingers and toes with long fingernails, refined with colour. She was 5 feet and 9 inches, excluding her 3-inch heels she never was without. And all six feet of him yearned to hold her that night. 

            

       He was early that night. Outside the room, he saw the big and strong trees that paved the streets. He was always inquisitive about plants and trees. He felt a certain kinship to the large sturdy ones, with strong roots and steady trunks. As his thoughts were just about to dive out the window and join the evening chatter of birds on treetops, she walked into the room. She was dressed in black, rather decently. It didn’t matter, not anymore. They were not courting. She walked straight at him, planting a hungry kiss, not wasting any moment.

        Throughout the night, he could swear he loved her, and he kept repeating those words. How could anyone resist such a temptress - from head to toe, built and refined for pleasure.

“I love you…I love you…oh baby I love you.”

She smiled, smiled and smiled.

His mind tried to catch up with the physicality, in vain. He surrendered, as she kissed him from his lips, down his neck, and down his chest. He shifted his head upward, and closed his eyes for what was to follow.

            An hour later, she lay bare beside him, asleep. Her naked body was clad only with a few strands of hair that escaped her scalp during the night. He looked at her, different. Her hair was a mess, thrown all over her head. The scalp revealed a lot of graying hair, neatly hidden behind dye and layering. Her eyes were half open, and her eyeliners were smeared and smudged by and about her eyelids. Her eyes weren’t really that big after all. Her lips were slightly opened, and her breath was bad. Her skin, on her shoulders and arms housed pimples and rashes of varying degrees and colours. She had stretch marks by her hips, dark red ones like graffiti unfinished. He couldn’t even recognize this person lying next to him.

            As he stared at all this that he had missed, he went into a deep sense of re-evaluation. Maybe it was just his hormones, taking her for perfection. Maybe now when all the excitement of sex is over, there is a different, more analyzed outlook? Which was true then?

Who am I really?!!

            “Baby, what’s wrong? Why are you staring at me like this?” she suddenly asked, her eyes squinting to gain better sight.

            “Nothing dear, just thinking…just thinking who the hell I really am”

            “Oh baby you’re always so philosophical. Maybe you should write a book? I bet people will buy it!” she smiled.

He didn’t look at her at all. She rose and pecked his cheeks. He felt disgust, that she always said things just to make him pleased.

Moving towards the window for fresh air, he managed a reply “Yea maybe I should, dear” He forced a smile. She went back to sleep.

He continued standing there by the window, staring. Outside the window, he saw that even the mighty old trees swayed to the tune of the ceaseless wind.   

 

 

She came uninvited; they said she would.

Knocked on my door, she believed she should,

Took all i had, I thought she would,

But gave all the more, never thought she could.

I was speechless and i asked :

There was a wall! There was a wall!

Oh, you climbed over; didnt you fall?

There were dogs, with teeth and claws,

Didnt you think, did you not even pause?

There were corridors, dark, a gloomy decay,

There were rooms, locked, stocked and kept away.

Did you not fright, and just took flight?

Did you not flinch, with just darkness as light?

Motive and effort are twins never apart,

What was your strength to hold from the start?

I need these answers; i am bare now, curious,

Tell me, tell me, why seek the mysterious?

She was as calm and said :

It’s a song i hear, It’s a song i hear,

It’s familiar, so close to me, so near,

And yet distant, so painfully distant,

"You need to seek!", to my heart i listened.

When i discovered, it was just as well,

We were just without that which within dwelt,

Twas a song, twas a song that I heard,

Twas familiar, so close, and so i neared,

Twas a song that you too know.

But you didnt hear, you chose to ignore.

Dearest Love,

These days my morning walks have more events to it. I have learned to appreciate the pigeons; whose delayed flurrying often annoyed me before. But weren’t they messengers for lovers of yore? So, I love them now. I love them so now. And often times I take a different route for my morning walks, just so I don’t disturb their meticulous scavenging of the earthen ground, looking for tidbits. Have I used many so’s in my sentence? Well I could conjure up a reason for feeling so. I’m just so in a craze.

My days just seem like a rush towards the night. And my nights, when I get to hear your voice, seem just like a brilliant trail of a shooting star, disappearing before I could share the witness of such splendour with my neighbour. Oh why this sudden velocity? Dear, I must be going mad.

I was in the car the other night. As the streetlights rushed by like soldiers summoned for war somewhere behind my car, my gaze was fixed rather at the constant moon. I used to deem silly those romantics who associated the pale moon to love. How could such a comparison be made? I used to think.

But how silly I was. The moon is such an ambassador of love, that by the radiance of the mighty Sun, she shall be resplendent. That she disappears to anonymity when her mightier spouse is not by her side. And that we, the self-professed captains of destiny, gather and stare in awe, when the mighty Sun, and his spouse Moon stand facing each other in divine romance. Oh, how selfish of us to call such a union an eclipse. It is indeed matrimony of love, when the moon selfishly devours the radiant Sun for herself. Is there a better representation of the beauty of love? You must think I am being outlandish. It’s a pretty feeling though, this. 

I just mailed to tell you the above. For my every thought, word, and deed seems selfishly enveloped by this one feeling. And when someone shall ask me, why such craze, why such madness and why such eccentricity?

I shall just smile and say “love is all there is”.

Once in a while in the Life of Emit, a time comes when you stop and question your motives. Mohamad Golb, who by the way is the blogger extraordinaire of the Mohamaden era, once said : "To be is not to be. Is that a question?" I think i don’t have to elaborate on that one.

"Jingkichaka!!" shouted Rian, who was obviously not a Malayalee. Kasthalameta was. But he is not a part of the story.

Rian was fat. Too bad. Around the fringes of his access-skin-pleated abdomen were worms of stretch marks, crawling up his belly like wild, blind sperms using brute force to ovulate. But they all stopped all of a sudden, and probably took a plunge into the deep waters of red delight. And coincidence or not, this is where the thick mat of chest hair begins. As if planted by the recreational society of a certain lower primary school in the outskirts of the village of Stooka, the hair on his chest were carelessly bred, with much similarities to the neighbourhood farm from the lower precinct. We will get to that soon.

Ok fine, we will get to that now.

Rian had a penis only he would suck. The above paragraph will convince you he couldn’t anyway. But that’s not the point, again. Rian had testicles the size of small oranges. But they were not bright orange, and therein lies the problem. Rian had huge testicles, held together by a dark putrid scrotum, and tired strands of pubic hair stared out from large pores that patterned the thick skin, completing the work of God the Pope would love to forget. But nevermind that, only Rian has seen himself in the nude. He never flinched, that brave, confident guy.

But all was a waste last night, in the middle of the iceworld map. With just a knife, and of course accurate aiming and admirable timing, the two large balls dropped to the ground in a thud. Particles of sand dust enveloped the area, creating a mushroom effect that usually follows the detonation of an atomic bomb.

Rian’s last words were simple, yet profound.

"To be is not to be. Is that a question?"

The end.

Nina Patrice Bell was 39 years old. Her mother had given up finding her a groom. Nina was married to her carrier, as a financial accountant working in a high ranking insurance firm. She often took pride in her position, and that pride often took her to positions. She clocked an average of 12 hours a day, most of which was spent in her office desk, with her soul mate, a Compaq of the latest kind. Her office had a beautiful view of New York City. She was important enough to be given the office that had a large viewing window. She worked in the 58th floor, North Tower, World Trade Center, New York.

4.07pm, 9 March 2001.

"A crash course," Mohamed Atta repeated for the third time. The choice of his words were eerily symbolic, not unknown to him. He was a master motivator, and in his words lived most of the professed expertise. The moment deserved a long silence, and that was exactly what it achieved. His brothers stared in unified contemplation, as Atta delivered what was delivered unto him. And when he was done, they hugged. In six months, their knowledge will include piloting. In six months, the gates of Heaven will await them.

Atta resigned to the silence of his chambers. He sat cross-legged in front of some books of his masters. He opened one…

This day we walk along with death and laugh at its pale spectre,

We will not fear those cruel swords, for our courage is far sharper!

Let us wish to be reborn a hundred times,

so that we could give our lives for our motherland, a hundred times over!

Atta closed his eyes. His heart was beating at a normal rate. He was not nervous. He was sure. He was chosen. Chosen by Him.

In the void of his mind, his mother’s words lingered.

Marry a nice Muslim girl, Atta…and give me children, Atta…In my old age, this is all i ask of you. To see the twinkle in their eyes, to live my life amongst the innocence of children, Atta…will you promise me that, my child?

Two days after that, Atta left his home to dedicate his life to Al-Qaeda, and to his religion.

Mother, i know you want me to marry a woman and have a family, like every mother wishes. But i have chosen my bride already. I have to go.

"To be a martyr," his master Al-Zawahiri once proclaimed, "You have to renounce all relationships, sacrifice all belongings…for in the bosom of the martyr is only a seat for the cause. It is not for the weak, the lover, and the giver. A martyr is a messenger. There is none any greater!"

But deep down in Atta’s heart, he longed to be loved and cared for. He missed his mother’s tender voice, and her loving caress. He longed for a woman. He wished he could have found one to hold and call his wife. Now it was too late. Atta dozed off in that thought, and in his dreams he lived the life he sacrificed.

6 months and 2 days later.

Nina rushed to work, with her suitcases for work and baggage for travel balanced on all ten fingers and arms and shoulders. Today was not just another day. She was going to finish work early, pack up and leave to Las Vegas, where Jacques Melchiot was to meet her. For the first time, Nina had agreed to a date, with her long time internet friend, confidante, and recently, romantic interest from France. She would tell her mother about Jacques after the trip. Who knows, things might not end up in her favour, and it would be terrible to put mother through the ups and downs of expectations and disappointments. She would just tell her when she’s sure. When she can hold a man, and call him hers till death do them apart.

Mohamed Atta and his four brothers waited patiently. They were seated together, each one holding their red strips of cloth. Atta closed his eyes, and recited a prayer.

7.56am, September 11, 2001.

It was time. Atta motioned his brothers to take their positions. Each man covered strategic locations in the American Airlines Flight 11. At the signal from Atta, they wore their red strips around their foreheads. The sign of a man ready for war. The colour of blood that he has willed to shed. The mark of a martyr. It was time.

Nina placed her travel bags at one corner and went to her window. She flung open the curtains, inviting in the beautiful scenery and the warm sunshine. It’s a beautiful day. "And it can only get better,” she thought to herself smiling and sat down at her desk, her thoughts traveling to Las Vegas, France, the moon and back. Finally, a man to hold, and call her own, till death do them apart.

8.15am.

It took Atta and his brother less than half an hour to gain control of the airplane. Thanks to the All-merciful, they only had to spare one life; that of the co-pilot. It would not matter in moments to come. They are all destined for greatness, their names remembered forever. Mohamed Atta, the pilot commander, assured his brothers not to panic, for the plane and their souls were headed for its destination. The destined destination. He had to make his brothers realize the courage and valour of their actions. He had to give his speech. He took a moment, and some motivation from the book he read last.

“This day, my brothers, we walk along with death and laugh at its pale spectre,

we will not fear those cruel swords, for our courage is far sharper.

Mistake not our silence for submission, for beneath lies our fire, molten.

O martyrs, O men of valour, one day the enemy will sing your praises,

we will show our mettle when the moment of truth arrives,

for courage lives in deeds, not boastful lies.

We have gathered in the enemy’s lair, my friends,

in the hope of dying for our motherland."

WE WILL NOT FEAR THOSE CRUEL SWORDS, OUR COURAGE IS FAR SHARPER!

THIS DAY WE WALK ALONG WITH DEATH, AND LAUGH AT ITS PALE SPECTRE!!

LET US WISH TO BE REBORN A HUNDRED TIMES OVER,

SO THAT WE COULD GIVE OUR LIVES FOR OUR MOTHERLAND, A HUNDRED TIMES OVER!!!

The five men repeated the last lines in unison, aloud, creating an aura of powerful energy around them. It worked.There was a burning fire in them, it showed in the souls of their eyes, Atta’s speech once again proving to be the catalyst.

The World Trade Center was visible now. Time was not much left. Not much was left of anything. But their people had much to look forward to. There was hope for their people. Atta and his brothers were the hope. And hope is a very motivating factor. Atta steered the airplane towards the huge north tower building. His other brothers will hit the South Tower, the Pentagon, and the White House. Insyallah they would succeed.

Atta knew his life was going to end. He was proud to be amongst such brave men. Like every man before his death, Atta relived his life in his thoughts…his poor and neglected childhood, adolescence filled with cries of injustice and dishonour, his march into adulthood, and his life as an Al-Qaeda soldier. But all Mohamed Atta could really think about was the missing love and care. Atta wished in some space in some time of his life he had a woman to love. A woman to hold and call his own, till death do them apart.

8.40am.

Nina finished off her last pile of documents to complete. Her work for the day was over, and she delighted yet again in the thought of meeting her Jacques. My own man, to hold and call my own, till death.

She stood up, taking the finished papers to the filing cabinet, by her large window. And then she saw it. She couldn’t believe her eyes.

8.45am, 11 September 2001.

"Allahuakhbar!!!! allahuakhbar!!!" Mohamed Atta and his four brave men screamed at the top of their lungs. Death was near, liberation was near, the Heavens are here!

As the American Airlines Flight 11 slammed into the middle of the North Tower of the World Trade Center, two bodies met in a split second, still alive and breathing. WIth a violent impact, being thrown about freely, Mohamed Atta grabbed the nearest and closest thing to keep his body steady. Nina, who a second ago was going about her daily routine was too scared, and flung out her hands to hold onto something. And in that split second, Atta held a woman, and Nina held a man. And she was his own, and he was her own. Till death did them apart.

Friday, 25th August 2006. 11.26pm.

The dark pathway leads to my destinationdestiny,

Where shadows dance, in light’s harmonysymphony,

My loneliness claustrophobic, the silence too noisyloud,

I hate myself! i hate myself! Yes, I hate myself!!!

He pressed his 2B pencil hard on the page of his poem book. The lead snapped, and left a dark spot on his page. He smiled. Finally, that perfectly symbolised his emotions. Dark. DIspleased. Depressed.

He closed his book, and put it into his backpack. If ever that poem needed an ending,  he was sure there would be much motivation later that night. Maybe it would be a perfect ending. Maybe. Que Sera Sera. But now, time was of the essence. He got up, and walked to his dressing table.

Across the room, he saw his own reflection. He looked away once and flinched,  but he was used to this feeling. He went close, and sat down. His hair was curly and dry, and never had a definite style. He hated the feel of a hat or a cap on his head. He wore a cap most of the time.

His eyes were black, and the white around it always was yellow, or even sometimes red. He hated the feel of a spectacles balanced on his ears and nose. He wore dark shades most of the time.

His nose was badly proportioned and leaned towards his upper lip, like a beak. And as he rhymed in his poem once, his beak always leaked. He had sinus. His lips were huge, with saliva often gathering and dribbling down at one end. The left end. He had a medical problem, it was called Bell’s Palsy. The facial nerves are weak on his left side. His left eye droops, and saliva often dribbles down his left lip and there is very little he could do to prevent it. He never left home without his hankerchief. Not much for his sinus but for his unwanted collection of tiny bubbles.

His skin was dark. It was 76% acne, and 24% scars. His toilet shelf houses a disgusting amount of facial creams and moisturizers. Sometimes he just flushed them down one by one in anger. They never worked.

His name was Tory. He hated his name. When he first joined school, the boys often called him Frank. He thought that was a much nicer name than Tory. But soon he found out Frank was short for Frankenstein. And he remembered Aunt Isabella, his old neighbour, used to tell him a story of this ugly monster. And then on Frank didn’t sound like a nice name anymore.

11.45pm.

After dressing up, which just involved a change of t-shirt and wearing his cap and shoes, Tory walked out of his campus hostel room with his backpack. It was dark out there, just how he likes it. Nobody sees him, and he could be excused for not seeing anyone. He hated meeting people. They all looked at him as different. He was different, actually, but let’s not think about that. 

Tory reached the pavillion. This was his second most favourite place to be. His most favourite place to be was the toilet. Toilet was the place where Tory was just Tory. Asads Tory in all his glory. He often found it amusing that his best place involved the most disgusting of acts.

He chose his usual spot, overlooking the vast university field, where the studs play football in the evening and the sluts go to watch and cheer. He despised the whole lot of them for their fakeness and materialistic lifestyles. Nothing about them was true, and they all survived because of their good looks and parents’ money. They were intellectually comparable to mashed potatoes, Tory once wrote in his diary. But he knew, that this hate was the offspring of jealousy. They were lucky. He was not.

The field looked like an endless ocean from where he sat. The dew on the blades of grass gave the whole pitch a twinkle, like crystal pebbles in a clear water bed. He felt inspired to capture the serenity of the moment in his limited words. He opened his backpack for his poem book. He saw the chocolate layered cake instead.

11.55pm.

It was 5 minutes to midnight. There was no time for a poem. The unfinished one had to stay that way, he guessed. He took out the cake, and a plastic bag which contained one small candle and two larger ones, and a knife. He lined the candles up on his cake, and lit it with a lighter he had purchased earlier for a whole different reason. He held the knife, and looked at his watch.

11.59pm.

He started singing.

HAPPY BIRHTDDAY TOO MEEE…HAPPY BIRTHDAYYY TO MEE…HAPPY BIRRTHDAYY TO ASADS TORRRYY…HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MEEE….

He made a wish. He wished no one in this whole wide world should ever go through a life like his. Nobody should ever be as lonely as him. Or as ugly as him. Or both at the same time, as he knew one often lead to the other.

It was time.

12.00am. Saturday. 26th August 2006.

Tory gripped his knife, shivering and panicking in the gravity of the act that was to follow. He closed his eyes. A tear dropped from his eyes. With a quick and swift move, he slashed his wrist. The pain was not much, at first. He was shivering very badly, his heart was palpitating at an increasing speed. Cold sweat covered his whole body. His vision blurred, his eyes a messy gathering of tears. He looked down, there was already a pool of blood from the wound. He felt dizzy, not much physical than psychological.

12.07am.

Tory knew this was going to end sooner than he expected. His breathing was slowing down. He felt very weak. The blood count on the floor of the pavillion definitely outnumbered that in his body. It will all end soon. He closed his eyes, sprawled on the floor of the place he visited the most outside his hostel.

Suddenly,  his handphone beeped. It was a message.

Someone sending me an SMS? He couldn’t believe this. It was in fact ages since he ever heard that beep of an SMS notification. He had to read it. He struggled to lift his other hand, and reached into his pocket. He wiped the tears off his eyes. The blue light of his handphone filled the dark area, and his eyes took some time to adjust to the sudden brightness. He read the SMS.

Hey Tory! This is Paula…remember me?? We met in the library last week! Anyway i remember you told me it was your birthday on the 26th, am i correct?! So i thought maybe if you are not doing anything, we should go for a celebratory supper? What say you?? I would love to continue reading your poem book! i Love them!! Hit me back, birthday boy! ~Paula~

He tried to get up. It was too late. At 12.11am, Asads Tory died on the steps of his campus pavillion. On his hand was his handphone, a text message read, but unanswered. More than that, it was hope, which came knocking a little too late.

There comes a time in a person’s life when matters often left unquestioned suddenly become sources of great conflict and curiosity. That time for me is now. They call youth the formative years, the age when one is most impressionable and receptive to ideologies. I consider youth a transition point from blind following towards practical understanding. I shall offer myself as an example in this article, for it is only my experience that I can confidently relate to you.

I grew up in a very spiritually inclined family. My early enrolment in the Balvikas ensured I knew most of the mantras of various deities, and the different religions and their teachings. The fundamental values of Peace, Love, Harmony, Non-violence and Righteousness were drilled into our hearts and souls, through devotional songs and plays. God was all-powerful, all knowing, present everywhere. Omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent. I was institutionalized in the Sathya Sai Organisation, where my parents were strong devotees. But it wasn’t long before my mind decided to reevaluate this knowledge and teachings, and assess them according to the strict factors of logic and reason.

God, especially in Hinduism, is portrayed in human form. A lot of questions have been thrown at me for being a Hindu, a pagan worshipper of demigods and nature. My temple is like a walk through the local zoo. Men and women in divine poses constitute the vast array of pictures adorned in my prayer room. Why is my religion filled with pictures of people and animals and some even a combo of the two? It was a question I was desperate to answer, if not for my understanding, at least to thwart insults from my friends.

God is not a person. God is not an animal. God is not an entity to be seen or heard or felt. There are representations of God, like the many blue-faced four-limbed God figures or the elephant faced Ganesha. These are but symbolic personifications of an inevitable Law, fondly also called Truth (Sathya). God is not a person; God is the Law that governs this universe. Gravity is gravity, even if it’s called something else. Gravity was a force pulling at 9.8 kgm/s2 even before an apple disturbed a certain Isaac Newton’s sleep. God is a law that holds this universe together, believe it or not, know it or not, trust it or not. And in making things easy for the ignorant souls, religions represent such indescribable forces and laws in the form that appeals to us most - our own form. In portraying God as human, we are being told, “Look, its in your form, for your understanding…just look closer, the universe is yours to fathom!”

But alas, we tend to only look as far as the picture in our altars. We put so much faith and trust and devotional fervour in our prayers that we forget to move from the Form, to the Formless Truth - which should be our main objective.

Faith versus understanding is arguably the biggest conflict in the modern youth’s life. The orthodox practice of previous generations is to blindly follow a ritual, just because the elders said so, and the elders know what is best. The influence of Western thinking through globalization has brought about much dissatisfaction amongst the new generation on practices of our religions, which is deemed ritualistic, senseless and blind. The power of a ritual is benefited only with proper understanding. Blind faith is not in the agenda of a modern youth, and something unaccepted by our conscience, will not hold any significant value. I would never put full faith in a practice that my mind cannot accept. Having said that, strict regime of logical thinking stunts a person’s ability to appreciate and embrace. The beauty of Nature and the wonders of God are aplenty and inexpressible in logical methodology or formulas, and such things are acknowledged.

Any given ritual with the minutest benefit is worth conducting, as the story of the abandoned plane in a remote village teaches us. The story tells us about the plane which was found in the village, where nobody had seen one before. They first use it as a place to store things, until one person realizes it has wheels. The next few years they use the plane as a cart to travel, pulled by elephants. After some years a guy fiddles around with some buttons inside the plane, and discovers it can move by itself, and so the plane became a new automatic transport carriage. Only when a person from the city comes by that village did he show them the true power of the airplane, which is to fly. Likewise, we all have our own pace in realizing the power of ritual, but not until our mind body and soul is ready can we force ourselves to appreciate something that in the beginning totally does not make sense.

God in fact is omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent. God is the vibration of the atoms, God is the waves of the ocean, God is the elliptical movement of the planets. God is Law Supreme, applied to everything, everywhere, every time. When a prayer is told, good vibrations and energy are produced, and you are given good results. It is called God’s Grace, but really it is but a reaction to your positive energy. That is God. The laws of the universe are written in the symbolic forms and poetic songs of Hinduism and all other religions. The Vedas, Quran, Bible and all other scriptures define the various aspects of God. God is not a mystery to be solved; God is a Law to be realized. And once realized, the person will be able to understand the workings of the universe. He will be like a man in a maze, lifted above for a full view.

There is a story told about a priest, who knew every single verse of his religious text, who performed every prayer in his worship place. One day he was crossing a big lake in a small boat, accompanied by the boy who rows the boat. Just to pass time, he asked the boy, " Do you know the difference between Heaven and Hell?" The boy, who only knew Hell as a bad word, said, "No sir, I am not sure." The priest sighed, "How on earth is this boy going to survive.." Then after a while he asked again " Do you know the name of your God?" The boy again, dumbfounded, replies " No sir I don’t" The priest, utterly disappointed, says "How for God’s sake are you going to survive!" The boy, feeling stupid continues to row his boat. Suddenly, as they were halfway through the journey, the boat begins to leak. there is a small hole on the boat and it is sinking. The priest panics and starts to say his prayers. The boy asks the priest "do you know how to swim?" the priest, deeply frustrated "NO!!!" and the boy goes "how on earth are you to survive now, priest?

I think that about sums up the common mistake one makes in the pathway to attaining self-realization.

Watch them closely my son, for they are not too different from us. We are sprouts of the same origin, carried by the same winds, only nurtured to varying habitats and lifestyles. Watch them close, my son…watch them close and learn.

It was the school holidays, a time not dedicated to school children alone. Nearly everyone benefits from school holidays; school teachers get their much-deserved rest, circus owners experience economic boom, zoos, parades, sales, businesses go through good times. Except maybe parents. They suffer a little, not having a clue on how to keep their kids on check. Except Samuel’s mother. She had it all figured out.

The Zoo is a wonderful place to visit during the school break. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of people throughout the day, not forgetting the thousands of animals that make cement their earth, and fences their territory. There are probably a million other bugs and insects roaming freely without supervision, but they are not the highlight of the place. Humans are always fascinated by rarity, and so the lions and tigers and elephants dominate here too, much like the wilderness.

Apart from the large animals, there is just one other section that is most visited by people. And that is the home of the Orang Utan. The Orang Utan is a real crowd puller because of her intelligence. And recently the proud mother gave birth to a baby, and the crowd has significantly multiplied since.

And so it was one day that a large number of people were witnessing in awe the immense intelligence of mankind’s closest cousins. Samuel and his mother were there, amongst so many other people and the stage was set for Samuel’s first real education on behaviour.

"Watch them closely my son, for they are not too different from us. We are sprouts of the same origin, carried by the same winds, only nurtured to varying habitats and lifestyles. Watch them close, my son…watch them close and learn, "his mother said to him.

Samuel was amazed by the similarity between humans and apes. Anything that he did, they tried to immitate. And that only showed how compatible the two species are and how intelligent they are. He was curious, and got close to the netted fence.  His mother’s voice guided him…

Notice, my son, that like us too they have hands and legs with fingers and toes. They are much like us, only they come in very different types. Some are short, some are tall, some are hairy, some just bald. But the essence of them is the same, much like how you are the same as your cousins in other states.

Samuel noticed the mother holding her baby very close to her. And he understood that mothers are very protective of their children, much like his mother was of him. But more than the physicality, he saw the emotional sadness in their eyes, the desperate torment of being on the other side of the cage. He saw grief and tiredness in their manner, not much natural than afflicted. And most of all, Samuel saw over the fence the plight of an entire species, bugged by their altered lifestyles and yet too afraid to rebel, bothered by their surroundings and yet too cautious for change. It was a sad state of conformity, there was an air of submission and resignation. Samuel considered the future of that baby. Like him too, that offspring is going to grow up to become like the parent. What will be the case in so many years to come? Will the baby survive? Tears rolled down Samuel’s eyes as his soul reached out to the souls across the fencing.

Time was getting late, and the zoo bell rang, signalling the time for the visitors to leave. Samuel and his mother sat back at their wooden planks as the humans slowly dispersed. And within the freedom of their unchained thoughts, the Orang Utan and baby Samuel watched the slavish humans stumble and stagger back to their cages of jealousy, anger, hatred and selfishness.

Muhammad was friendly and in Jack he had a friend,

They traveled together to many an unknown land,

Muhammad was a believer; in little things he called Gods,

And fittingly Jack was an atheist, the fundamentals forgot.

Spots of sunlight danced on their faces, between leaves of tall trees. It was a new jungle traversed, a new experience welcomed. Muhammad embraced the beauty of nature, and Jack heeded the strict regime of good health. Thus they traveled together; separate - followed closely by the dancing sunlight on their faces. The glaring spots of light irritated Jack on his journey, but Muhammad appreciated it, as the proof of the Almighty. To Jack he said :

Allahuakhbar, allahuakhbar, praise to the Almighty Lord,

Do you not notice, Jack, that Nature reflects God?

That the indivisible Sun, becomes boundless, aplenty,

By the division of space and time, even the leaf of a tree!

Much like the all-encompassing Religion,

Divided only by devotion from legions of different regions!

Jack, true to his objective thinking and logic could only laugh at the chatter of Muhammad, his friend. Muhammad was a joy to be with, for his thoughts often allowed Jack to debate, on his one true belief, that which he sees. He deemed silly those who believe that which cannot be seen, heard or felt. Faith was for the faint-hearted, religion for the crippled, and Gods for the lunatics. His life was governed by logic and sense, reasoning and discrimination. To Muhammad he said:

Aye Muhammad, in your delight be cautious,

For I detest the sunrays as they stunt my journey,

Bright lights are danger to the sight of your future,

Know you may not, a snake beyond the bush flower,

And in the fervency of your prayer,

Don’t lose a leg to your Dear Nature!

Muhammad and Jack continued their journey, amidst the wondrous beauty of flowers and trees, the order of the ants and the chatter of the birds. It was after a few hours passed, that it started to rain. The sound of water falling on the canopy roofs of umbrella trees filled Muhammad with a sense of joy in being there, a witness. Rain was pouring in the jungle in a few seconds Drenched and soaked, Muhammad and Jack waited under a tree accompanied by thunder and lightning. Jack told Muhammad,

We’re soaked and stuck, in this jungle of rain,

Where thunder and lightning threaten to destroy and ruin.

Did you know, my friend, that a lightning captured,

Could give life to a city for many moons and rains?
Imagine one to land on our heads!

We’ll disappear in an instant, even before the pain!

Muhammad smiled to his worried friend, who was quite obviously shaken by the enormous power of Nature. The rain did not promise to stop, and they decided to carry on their journey through the thick forest.

Darkness had befallen the jungle, contributed early by the clouds of rain above. Muhammad and Jack realized they were lost. And hungry. Seeing a tree ripe with fruits they have never seen before, Muhammad reached out to pluck a few to eat. And chancing upon large leaves, Muhammad engineered a water collector, and gathered water from leaves to drink. In seeing this, Jack warned :

Careful there my good friend Muhammad,

Fruits of the forest are oft poison left unmasked,

And our body is not meant for rain water or dew,

I would rather starve if I were you,

And save my appetite for a good meal or two!

Muhammad looked at his friend with pity. He always tried to help Jack look at life with more faith and trust. But Jack was a cautious man, and Muhammad was ever-ready to provide enough proof of the beauty of surrender. To Jack he said :

Oh Jack, my friend who means well,

Look at those fruits, fully ripe and inviting,

Half-eaten by the birds in jungle dwell,

Could it be poison that attracts a crowd?

In nature too, order prevails,

The fruits are meant for purpose of growth,

Reproduction helped by the birds and the bees,

Wasn’t that a lesson you learnt in your teens!

Jack shrugged the suggestion off, and opted for starvation and irritation. Muhammad, his fruity meal cherished, continued to walk. Jack got frustrated, as they were both lost and heading towards no apparent direction. But Muhammad seemed to know exactly where he is going. Not trusting Muhammad, Jack took his compass to find for altitudes, but he didn’t know which direction would lead them home. He was completely lost. To Muhammad he said :

Hey Muhammad so confident and wise,

Aren’t we lost in this jungle of thunder and rain?

Wherefore is your Almighty? Of what use is your faith?

Now we are lost, probably eaten by the beasts,

I challenge you now to deem the rain stop!

In the name of your so-called Almighty Lord.

Muhammad smiled, as he always does. Jack was in obvious frustration. His life was guarded by reason and enveloped by concerns. He should let go, Muhammad would show him. To Jack he said :

My friend, so flustered and irritated,

Let me assure you of the compass of life.

That your compass failed to help, I will overlook,

Only if you promise to learn the art of Truth.

Jack looked confused, for which Muhammad continued :

The knowledge of the modern age is narrow and short,

Expand your education in understanding Nature and God,

For the lightning in power and ability you have learnt,

But for what use was that in our journey here, lost?

All I need to know is lightning provides light.

And that instance I use to look ahead for our path,

We are not lost my dear, for the lightning provides sight,

And the thunder ensued should keep the beasts away tonight.

Jack felt embarrassed, and silently followed Muhammad, as they followed the path, thanks to the light from the constant lightning. Soon enough, they were both on the roads leading back home. On the way back, Muhammad was singing songs of praise to the Lord, while Jack was hungry, wet and tired. To Jack Muhammad said :

It is a kind example to you my dear friend,

That a destination is set, but the journey not,

We started together, and ended the same spot,

But which of our journey do you think was sweet?

So there you go my dear friends,

A story and within it, songs,

But heed not the story, heed not the song,

But embrace the song that is sung through the story,

The song which Is about Him Almighty,

Who is all-encompassing, everywhere, all-along.