Kutta

It's not that we didn't know what's happening. When the first nails were drilled into the coffin, I knew it was coming. There is a certain beauty in inevitability. Someone felt that I had to learn a little about helplessness. And so I fell freely, torn in a thousand directions by things that I could neither sense nor perceive. There is no face to hate, no act to blame and no where to hide. You run you're fucked, you stay put and you're fucked anyway. And so I had to choose between the two fucked up choices and I chose to stay back and stare into the devil I couldn't see, mostly because I tried running and got fucked miserably.

We all have demons in our heads. My own took the form of some pictures I'm very fond of, a few beautiful notes from a pair of violins and writings which took strangely standardized forms (Trebuchet size 12 perhaps) for something so romantic.

Once when Joy, Gopal and I were riding from Pathankhot to Jalandar, Joy had a fucked up bike and no money, while we rode ahead, not in bliss but ignorant nevertheless. We had to ride back 70 kms in the rain, burning scarce petrol and time, soaked to our balls and frustrated beyond words, only to discover that Joy's fucked up bike required a fix worth one twenty ruppee note. During that ride it pained us to see the same scenery we'd seen earlier, and it pained us even more to know that we'll see it again on the way back.

Apologies for digressing and repeating my stories (this one is a standard disclaimer that holds for all my stories)... I hope you get the link as I rant on. Back to my demons... the progress was slow and painful. Two steps forward and one step back... 4 steps forward and 3 steps back... let's say that one day I reached 10 steps forward, with a big grin on my face and a heart that swelled with pride... only to slide 9 steps down on a laddered snake (after some time you begin to think someone's playing a game and enjoying it), to where I once was many months back. That's the very worst - to know that you have to slog through the muck again. It's easier to take shit if you didn't know what was coming. If I were dragged back to high school with all the hindsight I have now, I'd check if man can fly and jump off a cliff.

Help comes in strange forms, like in this case, other wounds and other people's wounds.

Contrary to what this post may suggest thus far, I'm at peace - even happy - with the old wounds. I can look at it without my throat getting stuck, playfully push and pat and not feel the sting, and involuntarily smile at the beauty instead of wincing. The pictures, writings and violin notes become more beautiful and distant everyday, as The Little Boy grows out of the stories he narrates.

So much cheer, so much hope... it's all too beautiful to be written down here.