'Don't greet me publically', Dr. Bisati announced.
A spell of chill branched over my shoulders, giving my head so many badly prepared 'jalabees' to consume. Countless circles crushed my cranium and I asked:
'Why so sir'.
The preacher who scolded me had taught me at college. Like an obedient student, as is my right, I greeted him.
But in reciprocation, my humble submission brought down stars of shame which burdened my feeble shoulders for his remark had already reached into the recesses of my heart.
He gazed at me, I lowered my glasses. His stare was hard and my humility so soft. Between these rough edges and silken sensitivities, I felt exposed like a prostitute at the square.
In the heart of hearts an unending chain of questions started to chisel the softest wood piece of this rib cage.
His words were clear and loud.
His tone had all the venom of the world pasted passively. The tart of that remark well suited to that tilted statue in the corner of the room where my senses and sincerity were ravished mercilessly.
That slant headed statue and my drooped neck had something in common. That commonness could only be felt. My pen dried for the reason unknown to me. May be I deliberately denied my thoughts to defame my teacher. The slanted statue had its head almost reached to the hub of his shoulder and mine almost pierced the breast bone, exposing my neck line like a lamb at slaughter house where Utam Singh's sword silences the lamb and the 'thud' of the fallen head is heard in spite of cacophony of city life.
My diary that day was asking too much. I ignored.
Ignorance was submission.
My being a humble student of a teacher who has no regard of 'change', I coated my adjectives with honey to mention his remark.
Change must change ones ignorace, his ego and ficticious identity one lives with. Acceptance makes one a citizen of universe and denial a refuge of utopia.
Why should n't I greet my teachers who have injected pulp into my tissues to develop me, my determination and my 'being'.
Deliberately, honestly. I pushed my diary twice from being a partner of my pathos.
My tattered coat of humiliation on one hand had crossed my length and the regard for a teacher on the other hand was freely, rather carefreely on with a pair of scissors to compromise the fission of humiliation.
While he thrusted his decree at me, a colleague perhaps had read the flawed script on my bruised cheeks, compelling him to have a side talk.
Yes, their giggle had a tint of satire.
I could feel his words as whispered into the little ears of my colleague . The voiceless violation had enough impact to irritate me.
On his face I could see woeful wrinkles like endless foot marks on the desert left for the travellers to follow. His forehead tossed a few dense folds up and down while his words passed on from his moist lips into the little ears of my colleague, who did n't bother to paste what was dropped into his ear on my face.
What brought, I don't know exactly ,my dairy in my lap to pour my pain.
Yes, my pathetic pulse this time had no regard for my preacher.
Before I could pierce my naughty nib into that lifeless sheet, my cell phone barked.
It was my colleague on line.
With out wasting time in cracking his core to know what was dropped into his ears, he broke the news.
A shocking news.
The preacher had passed the remark for a worst cause. The builder of nation God knows what for had wished to dye his beard and matted hair to be dove in the disguise of crow.
My gray beard and being thin at heights had found a secret key to unlock his 'age lock'.
His explanation seemed funny.
My gray beard, as he thought does n't suit to his dyed duty which he had to attend every fortnight by placing himself before the mirror to befool the glare of glass.
'Why should one look old if market is flooded with the choicest of dyes' the voice from the cell phone announced.
'Why should one look young when gray has its own grace', I protested.
As the caller went off line, my diary looked at me curiously.
I could n't deny her ogling at my pen.
I obeyed, I dedicated few pages to my teacher who wants my gray bread should not expose his age.
After all he has every right to dye his dove to look like a crow to lure peahens and I have every right to accept the Wish of Master to be what and how He wants me to be.