*) - Eighty Four
I
wipe off the tears from my bloodshot eyes,
As I
peer at the images stuck on my bedside wall.
Of
the religion of my people being raped and humiliated,
All
in the name of law, order, national security and all.
I
put on my turban and strap on my uniform,
Careful
not to stain the khaki with my tears.
I am in the manliest of all manly professions,
I am in the manliest of all manly professions,
I
can not be allowed to cry out my fears.
Yet
tears of blood and humiliation were cried,
When
the Lady of Iron went ahead and charged.
She
passed over a million other ways that she could have taken.
And
into our shrine with her army she barged.
The
fight was bloody, the aftermath bloodier,
With
Gold and bricks and mortar falling to the ground.
She
offered to build what she broken down herself,
But
in the gesture, no consolation was found.
I
walked out picking up the heavy piece of metal,
Cold
and still as the witch's heart would be.
Duty
comes first, they always say,
But
what higher duty can be?
Than
the duty to your soul, you conscience,
Than
the actions you owe to your people everywhere.
And
so the Protector became the Hunter,
Impatient
to look into her dying, betrayed cold stare.
I
picked up my bike, and kicked it to life,
I
set out on my way, my nerves made of steel.
Justice
shall be served today, I reminded myself,
It
was too late for cowardice for me.
I
reached her castle, to witness a siege,
I had not quite expected to see.
I had not quite expected to see.
Liberty!
Freedom! Tyrrany is Dead!
The
old witch was no more to be.
I
stood stunned at the gates, my feet of stone,
My
prize snatched away from me, now laid to rest.
My
people, on their own, had done the dreadful deed,
Deciding
that I was too slow for their taste.
Jubilant,
but stoic, I walked into the gates,
Brimming
with excitement to look upon the face,
Of
the woman who had taken away our pride,
Our
dignity, the most religious of our space.
And
even as whispers and muttering and pointings,
Grew
steadily louder behind my back.
I
walked on, full of joy and disappointment,
To
look at the visage of that old hag.
But
what happened next, was something that I,
Had
not quite expected to feel.
I
did not feel joy on seeing the Woman dead,
Instead
I felt remorse and pity.
Her
wispy hair, her shapeless lips,
That
had brought many a score to heel.
Ordered
nothing, talked still less,
Yet
spoke though they were cold and still.
They
spoke of trials and tribulations,
Of
ordeals and a crown of thorns.
Of
sorrow, of separation and desperation,
Of
seeing everything she loves begone.
I
could see through the tough decisions,
I
could feel the pen strokes wounding her heart.
I
could hear the truths she could not yell out loud,
I
could smell what she had called a Fresh Start.
And
in that instant I understood the explanations,
Which
my intellect had failed to demand.
Things
Mother did were beyond question,
For
reasons bigger than I could pretend to understand.
I
was humble, I was small, I was too small,
To
walk around and see the other side of the coin.
She
had her reasons, what I could not understand,
She
had a headspace I could not join.
Confuse
me not with a blinded follower,
That
would kill himself off, staying a nameless face.
Consider
me a believer, a convert to the faith,
Of
Mother's Wisdom and her Infinite Grace.
In
that moment of clarity, I bowed my head,
Humbled
and marvelling at her reach.
Though
Mother was gone, not by my hands,
She
still continued to teach.
I
turned around to hide my tears,
And
walked out ignoring what I shouldn't have.
The
murmurs and whispers and pointings,
Had
grown louder and clearer and stark.
I
walked out of the ruins, tears streaming down,
Unable
to comprehend or recall,
I
kicked up my bike, and rode into the night,
Unaware
of what was about to befall.
They
came in mobs, swarms, like vultures,
They
plucked me from my life.
They
tore and snapped and clicked their beaks and stung,
Their
swords, torches, clubs and knife.
I
stared into the eyes of death myself,
Quietly
marvelling at the dark irony.
To
see myself be on the other side of it all,
The
perp becoming the victim of the felony.
I
would love to ask you to marvel and express,
complacency,
awe and shock.
On
seeing this cruel twist of fate,
But
Alas! I can not.
Thoughts
become actions, actions become the man,
I
had had thoughts that did not befit.
And
so here I lie, broken, bruised and bloodied,
But
my end, as I see it, does fit.
Call
it my penance, my retribution, my punishement
Call
it whatever you want.
But
at the end of this long, lonely day,
Bemoaning
my fate is something I can't.
I
believe I do deserve it, do not ask me why,
For
I would not have an answer to it.
But
I had planned to kill Mother in a moment,
Of
righteous, pretentious rage's fit.
My
punishment is true, and just,
And
truly befitting my crime.
And
I accept it graciously,
Bemoaning
nothing but the time.
For
I would not see the glorious tomorrow,
One
where what Mother taught,
Would
be heard louder and clearer,
Her
death spreading the message her life sought.
Her
death would galvanize, every Indian,
Maybe
in ways we could not expect.
But
Mother would never be gone from this country,
Till
for Determination there is still an iota of Respect.
==========================
Rating - 30 stanzas!!.. beautifully written, goes well with the powerful image....quite emotive, it was like reading a story as you tied them together well. This is what I call a comeback. Well done!
Rating - 174/200 Points
Total Points after 2 Rounds - 279/400
Judge - Mohit Trendster
