The Deep Cut

Yesterday I heard him say my God doesn't exist. Who does he think he is? How dare he? I didn't talk to him yesterday. I walked right past him. He was dead to me. Yesterday he said my God is fake. I stared at him angrily, while he hissed. He should be taught a lesson. I threw a stone at him. By inches, it missed. Yesterday I saw him spit at the name of my God. I lured away his dog. His owner has crossed a line! Till it were dead, I beat him with a log. Yesterday he refused to pray to my God. I burned down his house. Enough has been sought by talks. I kidnapped and raped his spouse. Yesterday he cursed at my God. This time, I took away his daughter. He cried and cried all throughout the day. I raped her, shot her in the head and left her for slaughter. Yesterday I found him weeping to my God. He pleaded for mercy and for his misfortunes to cease. But it wasn't over - I brought out his son. Humiliated him.  Cursed him.

There are friends, then there are enemies, then there are the allies-turned-foes. And surviving that military-ish school, wasn’t it the best thing that went down the hose? Yet I find myself looking forward, looking around for another. For, as it turns out, the saddest day is- when you’re abandoned, and glory comes to a brother. I maybe, am a little intoxicated, I’m not going to deny. But I’m being subjugated to face a rough one here, -right at the end of the line! If there should be a dark yellow light, run away to which, I certainly would. For I’ve heard, it leads to a land with no guilt, or yearning – and if only I just could.. ‘Know I’m there for you’ said the one who should. But how does it matter, when you’re running different ways? He will wrest the chance offered to him, while for me its sunset, and someone already stole my hays. I beg to scream away from the hollow promises, the shallow advices and material consolations. For its that particular cadency in life, w

I was never really interested in poetry.. But sometimes, when I stumble upon it, I think it surely conveys more than prose. More than a movie. More than the drama. Few lines, packed with a few words, all in disguise! All trying to say something away from their literal meanings. Individual meanings for different individuals.. A taste of everyone in the small concavity placed near their hearts, their niche. Yesterday I came across such a poem, 'Remains of the Past' by Javed Akhtar from his collection named Tarqash (meaning 'Quiver') that inspired me to make a decisive call. I don't know whether I could put up the entire poem here, but let me quote the first paragraph from it.. 'A half-preserved stone statue, A few old copper coins, Mysterious jewels of blackened silver, Some broken plates of brass Were found in a desert Under the ground...' Is this what they call nostalgia? For after reading this poem, I stared at the wall and all m