The Hunt

Ignore Idiots I was told. I repeat the mantra in my head . One would be surprised at the number of people who evoke the chant.

That was a lighter note of a multi-dimensional situation.

Survival of the fittest became the norm long back. Most seem to have attained mastery. So what next? That’s when the hunt began. Hunting down the weakest. It’s a sport. An art by itself. It operates in levels. First, the prey’s most painful zone is explored. Then the most agonizing spot is discovered and pounded with a traumatizing weapon. In a brutal fashion. Once the prey has turned victim you would expect them to stop. But they wait for the victim to gain an ounce of energy. And while it is trying to crawl and scamper away to safety the wounded is stepped on. It is pushed further down. It’s an attempt to make sure the prey does not die but sinks into its own blood and chokes for eternity

The prey probably never understands the reason and as we have already discussed is extremely weak. Hence it does not rear up in anger but continues to lie in its pool of misery and question. It questions what triumph could possibly be gained. After all you are destructing an unrelated, little known victim. The prey expects a fancy long answer and finds none. Cause there is none. There is a momentary joy of achievement. Temporary euphoria. A sense of raw power. Worse, cheap thrills!

Little does the hunter care, for in that millisecond of joy he has trampled on dreams, hopes and most important “courage” Probably vanquished it for life. The prey now weaker than before seems to have multiplied it’s pride by a million and shuns pity. This means, another hunter is galloping this way. He has already smelt it. Now he gets to feed on not only weakness but foolish pride too. That’s what he calls an unbeatable combination. The most pleasurable of it all.

Before we delve further it’s important to ponder over the word “weak” and “strong”. Highly contextual in this milieu. Far from physical it is a lot more to do with capabilities. To be precise it’s the capability to be self-involved. It’s the capability to avoid the big picture. The “strong” realm ends with oneself.

These hunters (the “strong” in this context) are not a unique race. Many such spirits remain hidden and peak occasionally from their hideout. In search of similarly haunted souls. They can detect a like streak from a distance and immediately form a society. I use the term “society’, as I believe there is no place for true concern here. Only hierarchy and division of power exists. Greed overcomes fellowship. Little do they wonder about their plight must they slip a little and get stroked by humanity.

Far from this haunted society there exists a small cave. It has millions of tiny fairy lights strung over the dark green walls. The soft sand beneath the feet seems to invite anyone who steps in. It has many warm quilts laid out. These quilts have been painstakingly hand-woven. The threads of love seem to gleam under the flickering lights. Some of these beds are empty. Some have people resting. Some have people making more quilts. They are bent over in concentration. A warm orange light dances across their faces. There are none more beautiful than these tired yet life-giving eyes.

These are the preys ( “the weak” in this context) The cave is silent. No one converses. Maybe because there is a silent understanding. Maybe because they are not here to form a society, but purely out of free will and to satisfy the “self” There is no door. All are welcome and anyone can leave. But few who walk in, walk out.

The sound of hooves fills this small cozy scene. It gets louder. The tired eyes reflect fright. But they do not stop working until the torture begins. The hunter does not see the glowing light. He does not sense the silent peace. He does not feel the warmth.

He sees foolishness. He sees a group of incapable lunatics waiting to get attacked. He sees incompetence in not being able to escape. The lack of retort makes him swell with pride and importance. Therefore a need to triumph and exercise power.

As these “strong” baboons raid the cave the inmates suffer in anguish. Yet they express amusement at the helpless hunter who is lost in his whirl of self-importance and glory. The prey is beaten up and is wounded but still lifts its eyes to watch the hunter walk away unsatisfied and still hungry. The prey drops its head down and closes its eyes. It rests in its warm quilt. Hoping to revive soon. There is work to be done, unfinished quilts, lest anyone who walks into the cave should feel cold and uninvited.

The Small Round Table.

A vast land of smooth, slippery fawn coloured hillocks. So many, the horizon remains hidden. Above this terrain there exists no sky. None, except a plain black backdrop. An eerie harsh light glimmers, lighting the foreground. Anything immediately beyond sinks into darkness. As I step forward the light seems to follow as though trailing overhead.

Well, this is how the inside of my mind looks. I wander through it everyday helpless as an inexorable force leaves me little choice. Sometimes I pause to look around. I perch over a hillock and ponder what others might perceive as the land of their mind. Maybe something predictable filled with trees and surreal rainbows or something way out, like a well laid kitchen table.Red checkered table cloth to walk on and giant cutlery to climb. I rapidly lose interest, because what I can’t explore or experience seldom excites me.

These hillocks are diverse. Some stand independent while others over lap. A few form a complex web and as I get closer its impossible to remember how I traveled from one to another. I’m surprised as I turn around and watch them melt into a grimy viscous fluid that flow into each other. Yet the hillocks don’t lose height. Nor change shape. However the fresh outpour has added new dimensions to it. Maybe it’s because I stepped on them. For a moment I’m tempted to turn back and walk over them again, I want to see what happens next. I cant. Invisible strings steer me forward. I don’t retort as I have to admit I’m not too enthusiastic about disturbing the peace. There is an urge to defend myself.

I can never take a nonchalant stroll through this land. I am forced to drink in every detail. Today very few soothe me. Few make me want to barf. Few make me dizzy. Today most of them choke me. They are larger gulps than I can handle. Most often before I’m finished another large drink is forced down me. I crouch in pain and notice there are tiny doorways under every layer of these hillocks. Suddenly I’m transported to another land. I’m falling. I see a lot of familiar faces and places as I fall. I am gathering speed.It’s all a whirl.

The hillocks loom over me. They are a mountain range now. Again the horizon is lost. I walk past many doors. Rooms filled with dense, soft mist. I can’t see beyond the threshold but I can hear and sense the nature of what lies beyond. There are brightly lit rooms. I hear laughter and childish jokes. It does not feel inviting today. The light seems garish and the laughter heartless. I cross another door. There is something calming, soothing and quiet about this room. I hear a lullaby. I hear the proud laughter of a mother. I hear the giggle of a sibling. I hear a low voice. It hurts me. I stand rooted outside this door. I hate to be here yet I hate to walk past it. I hate myself for wanting to stay. I break into a run and decide I’ve had enough. I want to get away.

I realize as I run there are no longer rows of doors. It’s just an empty pathway. The mountain’s smooth steep surface has a numerous shadows performing an eerie dance. I slow down and start trotting. I’m weary and tired. I know why I am here. I know where I am headed. I know I’m whiling away time. I’m employing a numerous antics to abide time. After all I visit that destination everyday. Every minute. In fact it’s a circle. It leaves me drained. Yet I come back because as tiring it maybe that’s all I have left of whom I love the most. My sole reason for survival.

I ‘m here where I want to be. The door is wide open. It seems to beckon me mockingly, because although there is nothing comforting about what lies within, I seem to find my way to this threshold a million times a minute. In fact that’s all I do. As I step in, the mist circles me arrogantly. I’ve fallen prey again. I walk faster. I know my way around this place now. There are no surprises. I see a small round wooden table. I see a tall lanky figure sitting cross legged. He is looking out for me.

Now I remember why I come back every day. All the pain I feel is worth this next couple of seconds. He is yearning for me. I have to get there faster. I run. I don’t stop. I sit on his lap and hug him. There is an urgency. There is no time to lose. I don’t want to hug him for too long. I want to gaze into his eyes. I want to convey a million feelings. As I pull back to stare at him it’s the best feeling ever.

It’s a rush that has no words. It’s a rush that envelopes every single bit of me with love. It’s a rush that covers me with the most secure protection. It’s a rush of knowing I could give anything because I am in love. It’s a rush that knows no selflessness. It’s a rush that knows no conditions. It’s a rush of belonging.

Beyond all it’s a rush of understanding. Understanding that the person staring back at me is feeling the exact same things that I feel. Understanding the depths of each other.

The mist grows dense and stronger. They are tugging at me. They are lifting me away from his arms. My hero is strong. I know if he decides to he won’t let go. For a second I’m stunned as I watch him reluctantly give me away. I scream as loud as I can, Why does he do this every time. Why does he let go when I know he can resist any storm. But there is certain calmness about his face that assures me that he does not have to do this forever. I understand he is waiting to grow strong enough. I understand that every time I wrap my arms around his neck and refuse to let go his strength dwindles. That’s not what I want. Bad enough I have to give in to so many inescapable forces. Not my hero. He should be allowed to do what he desires.

Slowly, as I realize the only thing he could ever crave for is me I accept there should be a meaning to this course. I am too tired anyway. I don’t want tears clouding my vision. I want to see him as long as I can.

I’m floating away. I have nothing against the force that is carrying me. It is doing what is best. In fact I’m sure it has been instructed by my hero is cradle me the way it does every time I sink back. There might be an ultimate deciding force. There might be a force that has command over even my hero. But I don’t recognize any of it.

All power over me stops with him. We have an unseen unspoken command over each other. I let mine slip. I lost him to the heartless, evil, brutal hands of fate once. It came as a hooded demon called death. I laughed at it because I was arrogant. I laughed at it because it was my hero it was threatening to take away. Of course I thought it was silly. Pride brought this over us. I will blame myself through eternity although he assures me against it.

My hero never expected anything of me. Of course he is not angry. He accepted what I brought upon him and started working on the next scheme. The only scheme we always work on. To be together. Every demon we fight we have left exhausted. It has never come back. Yet it seems to unleash a darker one. I fear before every fight and reach euphoric highs after every success. My brave warrior remains calm and focused as he starts to battle and never relaxes after a victory. I have often watched him with awe as he works out numerous aftermaths and strategies to triumph over each of them. Needless to say they have never failed to impress me.

As I lie back I realize that’s what he is doing seated at that small round table. He is mapping out the next plan that will bring us back together. I have to see him again. The ache is still fresh. The wound has had no time to heal. I am making it worse. But who cares. He will work a way out of that too. I open my eyes to see the hillocks again. I start towards that same door. This time I crawl as I am too feeble to walk.

The small round table - 4 months later – The royal Workshop

I snapped back into consciousness. I had just seen them again. The smooth hillocks. An unfriendly cold crept up my spine. My most visited destination had not seemed familiar moments ago. Not surprising.My unconscious mind had encountered the land for the first time. I had been asleep. Had I just lost all power over myself?

Smooth fawn colored hillocks again, but this time against a pale greyish blue backdrop. He is dying. I have run too far looking for help. He is a dot in a distance. On the highest level. I am not going to hesitate to run further. I’m screaming for help. Its cold, sinister and strange. I see a lot of faces. None familiar, none friendly, none approachable. They are in clusters as if involved in matters most trivial to me. None look up long enough to even listen. I’m not furious. I’m not looking to socialize. I just want help.

A door? I’m running through it. It’s a mall. Quizzical glances follow. I realize I’m nearing the finish line. Surprisingly its not victory that awaits. I’m running into the open. For the first time I realize there is no wind. There is no life in the air.

A voice. A woman. My physician. My step falters. Guilt is weighing me down. I missed her in my flurry? She was there all this while? I’m pleading. She is calm as she points.

Years of dreams. Millions of giggled whispers. Innumerable hugs. Countless moments of companionship. Immeasurable amount of warmth, security, peace, excitement……It took just a second. Probably not even that to bring it all to a halt. He’s gone…..

Life has slowed down. Yet there is no time to pause. No time for disbelief. Too many thoughts. Too many voices. It is forming a meaningless clutter. There is a long line leading up the hillock. People paying respect. I walk alongside this peculiarly perfect line.

A corridor lit with sunshine. The line continues. I have a companion walking behind me. Yet I’m alone. Its moments before I lose everyone and have to continue unaided. A beast approaches me. The line disrupts as uncertain glances are exchanged. I’m not too sure. It’s a blur. All except the beast. The gleaming black beast. So royal. So handsome. Its here to take him. Its here to take me? As it narrows its eyes hope surges through me. But it walks away.

I leave behind the noise. I’m descending a spiral wooden staircase. For the first time a clear thought. He would have loved it here. Its perfect. Craftsmanship in all its grandeur. Rich dark wood surrounds me. Glinting tools and mechanisms. I know his face would break into that boyish smile I adore. That I cherish. When he casts aside his responsible air and assumes the curiosity of a ten year old.

Three tables. The one to my left is taken. Someone is bent over working on something with precision. It’s not a job. It’s passion. The one in front of me is imposing and grand. Yet simple and classy. I walk behind it. This is where my prince sits. A rocking chair beckons. I sink into it. I’m so exhausted yet it’s not over. How long? Tears stream down. I realize its just about to start getting more and more painful. The man is lifting up his head. He is looking watchful. I know him. He is a friend; my prince lost him a few years ago in the same meaningless way. My emotions don’t bother him. Has he been told to expect me, asked to keep me here?

Its here again. I can’t believe it. Its right here next to me. The same round table. Right besides my rocking chair. Its empty. The plan has been made.

I snapped back into consciousness. I had just seen them again . The smooth hillocks. The small round table. Giddy with pain, physically aching. my cheeks pale and wet. That’s when I broke into a smile

The table was empty. The plan has been made. My prince is out there right now. This very moment. Accomplishing the feat. While I wait unharmed in his paradise. No mystical clouds, no surreal angels. His place in heaven. His royal workshop.

He asked me to wait. He made me rest. He assured I’ve come the right way. In his usual instructing manner with no explanations. I was always expected to follow blindly. I did, because what awaited was seldom disappointing.

But for the first time he told me that it was okay to cry. For the first time my tears did not disturb or infuriate him. For the first time he realized that he does not have to feel guilty for every tear I shed.

Perhaps a million steps left. But I’m one step closer…..and all I needed was faith.

Beyond the Curtain.

My mentor never let me down. It was all so trivial and yet he seemed to understand they were important. This was the biggest loss, the most excruciating pain. It was the moment of truth. I was assured that he would out do himself and miraculously turn things around. Slowly I realized it was the mentor who was lost.

Silence followed. It turned deafening.

Loneliness is a twine that fastens with rapidity. It beats the senses out and drills a numbness in. Ironically the numbness that can be felt. A numbness that spreads and grips so tightly it hurts. It squeezes out energy and yet constricts it. You choke and it never stops.

Proud to be called strong? Or crumbled to be so less understood? I haven’t made up my mind. I close my eyes and there is a storm blowing at me. It whips my face till my flesh tingles. Its grief I presume. Could emotions cause physical ache? Why wasn’t I told so?

Ignorant and I do not call it bliss. I do not call it traumatic either. It is just a state of being. It’s self- realization. Its acceptance. So do I call myself ignorant any longer? After all how many could say they have sensed and touched the deepest of emotions? Not that it is a choice when its thrust on you when you want it the least.

Walk through the curtain of grief and you are confronted with choices. Choices that cannot be had and do not exist. Yet you insist on choosing. It involves either wistfully denying reality and planning again or staying where you are and deciding what you want. Time for permutations and combinations again because I insist I want a prelude of both rides before I choose my wagon.

I walk down the brightly lit yet strangely grim hallway. Everything is squeaky clean. I choose there would be no blood this time. I decide the only dilemma would be who gets to see him first, his dad or me. We decide to enter together. Oh there he is! I can hear his voice. His laugh. He is trying to compose me. Yes! I’m yet again the princess.

No I can’t do it anymore. I’ve lost the power to dream. This is not the wagon I choose.

Back behind the curtain as it bellows silently. The chosen wagon awaits. I climb in. Its cold. Its small. Its claustrophobic. Its not comforting. Why is it not? I chose to be here….. No I did not! I simply weighed out options. Restless they called me. I’ll prove them wrong. I’ll wait with patience. I know it will all come back and I am not done celebrating my relationship. I tasted it and it was divine. It belongs to me. It awaits me.

Patience is not soothing. The curtain lashes my face as the air gets stormy. Its all coming back. These are choices I never had! The storm gets darker. I plunge into darkness. How dark can dark get. It continues to surprise me. I recall I was asked to look for a light. I see it. No thats my tear glinting. But what is causing it to glint? After all I’m crouching in darkness. Turmoil and grief again. In newer dimensions.