If there is such a thing as sin some of us commit it backward following our forefathers’ footsteps; And some of us commit it forward by overruling our children… Khalil Gibran
Tag me mad, inept and tedious, no worries. I have a vivacious craving much sumptuous than gem stones and gold. I have a pulse that vibrates entire structure, a verve that eggs on my dreams, my own cosmos of persona. If they have riches of gold and silver, of ivory and ebony, I too have a treasure well stocked up with hope. Deem me insane , I don’t bother for they are from time immemorial tagging me forcibly so to sell out my days and nights for gold. If they have luxury to offer, I too have my price. Let them offer all their riches, all their metals and minerals but my price starts where there stocks end. An ineffective baragain has never matured, has never fetched fruits. They may call me by all the names used by the Bards of past and present who craft their antigonists amidst their creative zeal, yet their vocabulary and modified versions of language and flexibility of diction can’t justify my madness. They may spread carpets of cherished silk, they may drape this corporeal frame with tassels of silver but the demand of this madness shall haunt them like inexorable nightmears. My madness has often been labelled horribly, making me to think how poorly diction and dictionaries are being utilised to spread loathsome narratives of a nation that has a rich culture of its own. They have time and again put us down by their autocracy, despotism and monocracy and we have time and again evolved like a phoenix, one of its kind which lived for five hundred years and then dies by burning to ashes on a pyre of its own making, ignited by the sun, it then arises anew from the ashes. And fools only believed ash is the last curtain to be cascaded to befool the audience in the theater and to thrust upon them a malignant narrative copied from biased volumes of unfair authors who work day and night to corrupt the minds.
This is your pain. You must feel it. Feel it,
Hear, be faithful to his mad refrain-----
For he soaked the wicks pf clay lamps,
Lit them each night as he climbed these steps
To read messages scratched on planets.
His hands were seal to cancel the stamps.
This is an archive. I’ve found the remains
Of his voice, that map of longings with no limit…. Aga Shahid
Now that from SMS services to the blackade of social networking platforms, they have once again forced us to live a primordial age where man was cut off from the rest of the world, his plight was unaddressed, his agony had no takers, his rights were challenged and his eyes were reduced to glass crystals devoid of pulsation, his voice was reduced to a silent cry, a sob and a sigh and his body was contracted like a compressed cotton bag and kicked from one mount to the other. What if this suffering mass has found a platform to register plight and pain, the government must have come up to counter the narrative so to address the general aspiration. If this prolonged pain has anyway found a vent to ease the extended burden of bullets and pellets, the concern authorities too must have come clean to counter this pain by using the same platform like coming out of cocoons and shells of ignorance, promoting acceptable perceptive, inviting people of this unfortunate nation for a debate and to bring at fore the outlines and MOUs without covering them up with hidden agenda but unfortunately ‘ ecsapism’ turn up apt for the government to block social networking portals. The counter narrative of this kind has never been prepared, never been used as a tool to put forth an effective policy to address this general unrest. Blockade is not a solution, rather it applies salt to the open wounds, it can never impede a flame to engulf the sheen of ceiling, rather it would add fuel to fire. The need of the hour is to dispatch a humble invitation for the stakeholders, delay in anyway may lead to more massacres. This counter narrative though seems a hard task but then such ‘ moves’ are to be advanced without further delay. It is the matter of pride if from somewhere such narratives would be prepared by taking all the stakeholders into account without carrying bulk of biased voulmes from liberaries but taking a keen note of the history and historians who have in their works analysed the actuality and factuality of this unrest that sweeps away our youth every year like a ruthless winds that do away with green leaves amidst sizzling summer.
Said a hunter fox followed by twenty horsemen and a pack of twenty hounds, “ Of course they will kill me. But how poor and how stupid they must be. Surely it would not be worth while for twenty foxes riding on twenty asses and accompanied by twenty wolves to chase and kill one man.”……Khalil Gibran