A cry from yonder, from the innards of a loving heart! Part -1

A cry from yonder, from the innards of a loving heart! Part -1

Futile! That is what they all said. They all knew what they were speaking about. Their wise heads nodded in unison. An exercise in futility, or was it really? The million dollar question was, do I meekly agree and prove them right or as is my wont should I attempt to see the invisible and do the impossible? I did not know their minds but I knew my heart, so I decided to listen to it which reverberated with that shrieking voice that had woken me up from my slumber. A voice not only of a young and beautiful girl, but it was a cry from yonder, from the innards of a loving heart.

“You just enjoy your coffee and then go back to your beauty sleep. By the time you wake up everything will be over and the child will be dead. But what is it to you?” She had shrieked her lungs out.

For a whole fortnight I had been getting barely 2 hours of sleep, working nearly 22 hours to finish an important project. I had just about managed to finish it that morning and was about to hit the sack with a vengeance to make up for a fortnight’s sleep when my sister had come with a steaming cup of coffee accompanied with a fuming young neighbor, who did not even know that I had just come back that morning.

Her elder sister was in labour when I had left two weeks ago and this ear shattering outbreak was in response to my innocuous query as to how was her sister and the newborn. Even before I could gather the last fragments of her response she had stomped out.
I looked askance at my sister, who calmly told me that the child was in pretty bad shape and the doctors had given up hope. Maybe he was even dead by now, as she had just come from the hospital unable to bear the sight. She was upset that I had not visited them even once during the interim period. My coffee had gone cold along with my blood rendering my brain numb. I shook my slumber away and told my sister to get my clothes ready and headed for the shower.

The hospital was an apology in the name of a medical service provider. The child was laid on a thin mattress on the floor, as there were not enough beds. The child was barely breathing. The doctors had given it a maximum of two more hours to live. The parents of the child were sitting in front looking more lifeless than the child itself and watching it with tearless eyes, as if waiting for it to die. The doctors and their support staff was squirming restlessly facing a very indignant me, trying to convince me of the futility of the situation.


….. to be continued

Death! Is it all there is to life?

Death! Is it all there is to life?

There were times when I wished we all knew when we would die so at least we could prepare ourselves and our near and dear ones to our impending death.

Right through my youth since I came to realize the real essence of being alive I had encountered death albeit indirectly through relatives, friends and acquaintances. Subsequently when I view a brief flashback of their life as I knew them and also the way their immediate kith and kin viewed it from their perspective, I have always wondered as to when, do we really die?

When does life really end? When the heart stops beating, or the brain stops working or the mind stops willing? I am confused.

I have a friend who is suffering from a rare ailment and aware of it too and its ramification, death at any moment without warning. He is not supposed to drive, or do a lot of things but still does it all as if nothing is wrong. He cannot survive without his bike and I for one pillion ride with him on highways and crowded streets without a care in the world, for I am worried that the scare on my face might reflect what he does not want to see. On the contrary the smile and eagerness of my attitude prompts him to believe that there is no end to life, even in death.

Lisa Ray, international model and film actress and voted as one of the ten most beautiful faces of this millennium by one of the leading dailies of the world, has been diagnosed to be suffering from a rare form of cancer, Multiple Myeloma . This is a type of cancer that normally afflicts people above the age of 60, and she is just 37. Cancer in any form, at any age, in any country means just one word, death.
Lisa has taken it in a very stoical manner by the way she has described it and goes on to add that she believes it can be cured. When she mentioned just before going for a treatment session that she is a junior member of the cancer club, and she was going to listen to her bone marrow, she sounded like a pregnant woman speaking of the child she is nurturing in her womb with all the love in the world. There seemed to be life in death too.

On a Friday eveing a fortnight ago I met a close friend who worked as a manager in a posh restaurant. After his usual admonishment as to how weak I looked, we spent time sharing some light banter and coffee. Later he walked me to the escalator and shook my hands reminding me that we will meet on Sunday.
On Sunday morning I was rudely awakened at 7.00 am by his assistant, informing me that my friend had met with a fatal accident on Friday night. The funeral was on Sunday at 4.00 pm. We did keep our appointment for Sunday but sadly only one was aware of it.
There was absolutely nothing wrong with him, but death had stifled life.

Death! Is it all there is to life?

Writing

Writing is a kind of relief valve for pent up emotions. Way before the internet or even computers, people used to write diaries, jotting down their day to day experiences and sometimes to the last minute detail. These were mostly people who could not give voice to their thoughts but they found they could give form to their feelings by way of words. Then again some found it was nice to write poetry on something that caught their fancy. There are guys like me for whom writing is a passion. I remember thinking of something nice to write on my way only to find myself having forgotten what I wanted to write. That gave birth to my jotting down points or a profound observation or sometimes a whole poem on a bus ticket or a paper napkin from a restaurant or any small bit of paper torn out of some odd newspaper.
I used to convert these into small stories or poems or just make a small paragraph and then use it in some other works where a situation warrants. I used to consider myself some kind of a maverick to be doing all this till I came across the computer. And now we have the internet and I find that I am just a mere speck in this vast ocean of word peddlers, and like we all agreed we get paid to put words to our thoughts. May our tribe of writers increase.

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