A coming-of-age story of a small child in a war-plagued land and her evolution, as she narrates her life experiences through some prose and some poetry. From a tragic start to a new beginning, all but in bits and pieces. A story of despair and hope, of death and life, of hate and love.
A coming-of-age story of a small child in a war-plagued land and her evolution, as she narrates her life experiences through some prose and some poetry. From a tragic start to a new beginning, all but in bits and pieces. A story of despair and hope, of death and life, of hate and love.
THE BOY’S HELL
THE MOURNING
THE VOICES
LOST
ON THE WAY
Let me start by telling you a story about a little child who once lived in a valley. Like any other child, he was innocent, happy and playful. But this valley once, peaceful and heavenly, had become war-stricken. Certain unfortunate events had created a situation wherein this child was left alone in a house. Not for long, but long enough.
In the dark rooms suffocating recess,
his heart pounded under gruelling stress.
Flexed, cornered, perspiring and sweating,
he sat and listened to his own heavy breathing.
Recent events, which had stripped off his innocence,
also had stolen his playful and joyous incense.
For long, no smile or laughter was in view.
For his fearful childhood, far away had flown.
He lived once in a beautiful valley,
now plagued with war and bloody alleys.
Filled with minds clouded by anger and hate,
they waited to impose them with destructive spate.
A place where compassion had lost its ground,
mercy lost was nowhere to be found.
Where love and humanity were decried,
every child’s exuberance had died.
Under deserted silence just as his revival began,
gunshots revoked fear, which in his mind ran,
as sounds of blasted bombs made him tremble,
optimism in him became feeble.
He embraced tightly, a picture of his lost mother
while crying from eyes drought-hit with no tear.
He was ready even to be slain
for his mother’s pampering once again.
Wanting to vocalize, “I love you, Mother dear,”
he remained silent, stunned by terror.
He also tried to pray and ring a devotional bell,
but God also wasn’t to be found in that helpless hell.
THE BOY’S HELL
This child’s mother, who somehow had lost him, returned to the place where he was abandoned. She came there with a few of her relatives. Despite searching every room of that big grand building, they could not find him. They continued their search, and in a closet, they heard some squeaking sound. And when they opened it, they found the child. But it was too late.
Besides a corpse,
they mourned with thunderous force.
To hurt hearts already soft and moist,
with the teary storm which the eyes did hoist.
Mother, stunned by son’s untimely demise.
Crucified by thoughts of loneliness’s incise,
she deliriously wept, lost in a maze of sorrow.
Half alive, hung on sweet memories gallows.
Days when he laid comfortably, in her tummy,
the day when for the first time he said, Mummy;
all the cries, the mischiefs and beatings he got,
and all the cute smiles and laughter haunted her a lot.
All the consoling and the pampering she gave,
and the sorry, the thankyou he asked her to receive.
The memories of the caressing to her cheeks
widened her wounds, which would linger for weeks.
Leaving back memories he had left.
Just the lifeless body was on her left.
Drenched with tears that cascaded down,
she docked to her grief and her unrelenting mourn.
THE MOURNING
After that incident mother (being a widow and taken care of by her wealthy parents) would not talk, eat, sleep or do her routine activities properly. She would completely isolate herself and wouldn’t even talk to her parents. She would sit and stare at the photo of herself with her son, hung on the bedroom wall. It was their favourite picture. They took her to many psychiatrists. There they would ask her to talk, but she wouldn’t say a word. She would make a few muffled sounds which no one could understand. Maybe she wanted to say something but could not go any further.
The voices gathered strength
from their echoes within the valley of mind.
A valley, dark and bottomless.
Despite the voices, their origins non-existent.
Early on, many faint whispers they were,
to gradually become clear and fewer.
And now! Loud and authoritative they are,
howling like intimidating beasts at large.
The valley in which I had evolved had alienated,
to finally dethrone and outcast me.
Possessed, unheard, I struggled to be alive.
In that chaotic realm of the voices, I barely survive.
About their miraculous deeds, they orate,
and how they descended from heaven as God incarnate.
They yell, command and threaten,
and say, Kneel!! Or the grip on your neck we shall tighten.
Many conspiracy theories they proposed,
looking out for the assassins, who were on the loose.
Craving for the one person they loved, they wept,
saying it was our only child they would shriek.
THE VOICES
Reading this book was a little challenging for me. Firstly, I was not accustomed to this particular style of writing. The awkward use of English language in verses that struggled to keep the rhythm intact, words that almost dutifully rhymed at the end of each line and short prose pieces that recounted the protagonist's experiences in an intimate, daily-journaled way. Secondly, I felt responsible to scrutinize every detail and every metaphor because I was painfully aware that the author is an Indian, and so I eagerly wished to stay impartial in my review of it. But having said that, I have to admit it has a story to tell, and in a manner that very few of us have read the likes of.
The book has poetry along with beautiful minimalistic illustrations, and introductory prose pieces that help in establishing the context of the next poem. Throughout the narration we see the different stages of life that our protagonist experiences. There are hardly any secondary characters, the crux of the story is based entirely on this singular central figure and yet we never get to know her name. Perhaps, it is this absence of a specific identity that makes it universal and relatable to readers, or perhaps it is the disarming candour with which she expresses her angst, grief, anxiety and her fervent admiration as well as newfound love that engages us. But there is something about it that holds your attention and urges you to turn the pages.
The beauty of this book lies not in the language itself, which although rich in vocabulary, misses the mark by a couple of inches in the natural fluidity or eloquence that one expects in a haibun or other poetic compositions; but it is the ingenuity of the subject and the manner in which it covers that. Despite the traumatic events she witnessed, in spite of all her misgivings and apprehensions, she journeys through life and finds herself feeling exactly the same emotions that any other person would. It makes her humane and it keeps the character rooted.
One might consider such optimism slightly far-fetched but sometimes, it is important to remember that our past can influence the way we react to or interpret a situation, but it is our decisions that eventually give shape to our future. Recommended for adventurous readers who won't shy away from new forms of writing.