god is an atheist

8/9/2019 God is an Atheist

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GOD IS AN ATHEIST

By

R.L.GARGFlat No.302Shivalik B,Hermitage ComplexMira Road (E)Mumbai-401104

91-9833470902

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(part 1)

THE INSANE

I had never met a terrorist before, so I believed. Or perhaps no

terrorist had considered me worthy of a meeting.

No, they were the not the terrorists, the gang of four, foe turned

friendly goons may be if I knew them right but not the terrorists,

who had then killed father and had frighteningly escaped to someunknown land abducting my dear wife as a bonus. I had heard

someone call them an ugly bunch, but had not been so sure.

Contrarily, I was not inclined to agree. There was nothing ugly

like in their appearance, despite the despicable act of cold-

blooded killing, and of abduction, on their part. But then it was

decades back, more than four decades to be a little specific,

during which time I did not hear of them again, until the day my

servant warned of the possibility of a terrorist attack, cautioning

me to be careful of strangers, of unknown persons of dubious

looking character. But I being the insane, the mentally retarded

that I was said to be, had objected, laughing at his well meaning

but stupid suggestion, perhaps conveying unsaid that an insane

person does not have enemies to fear of. He seemed to have

intelligently considered my objection, but decided against

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ultimately, Are not they insane too? he finally said. I was

puzzled, unbelievingly confused, because his well considered

sane opinion did not make sense. It was against the fundamentals

of insanity. Psychologically, mad persons are beyond the purview

of hatred, or of enmity, that would provoke them to act hostile, or

to cause harm, I had known it from personal experience. But he

sounded serious, meaning what he said, seemingly concerned for

the well being of his master. But they are not friends either,

mindless that they all are he however concluded, as if readingmy mind.

I considered it to be a prejudiced mindset surviving from olden

times, dating back to almost half a century, that could have been

hibernating in inconsequential incidents which the time enfolded

in bygone moments ever since. That makes me a terrorist as

well, I laughed, chiding him for his remarks that seemed to

synonymously equate insanity with terrorism. If a terrorist is

insane and mindless, as he had said, every insane person,

likewise, is bound to be a terrorist, I reasoned. He did not offer

further comment, or an explanation. Perhaps, there was no need

to. A sub standard mind would not understand, or would distort

meaning of different words and phrases to suit his intelligence

quotient, he must have thought. Departing, however, he did

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comment, not in reply to me, but murmuring to himself, perhaps,

out of frustration for putting up with the foolishness for so long.

Who is not? he said, holding his breath for a moment, lest he

would be overheard.

Every man is part terrorist, he could have meant, as father had

once said that every mind is part foolish as it is part intelligent.

But then those were the words of consolation, said purposely, I

presumed, to assuage hurt feelings, whereas, the subdued rhetoricnow seemed to be purposeless, uttered purposely for its

meaninglessness. Going by the simile, I was not supposed to be

much different from others, from the knowledgeable, the sane, or

from the depraved, the terrorist. But I was different, much

different, an outcast the sane would hesitate to deal with, a

weakling the terrorist would avoid to associate to. Perhaps, on

way to the present my insanity had become synonymous to

terrorism, frightening the society, and had pronounced itself

loudly, more aloud than it was humanly admissible, and certainly

louder than it was socially acceptable. When and how I

outperformed all others, I did not know, but when I looked back,

I realized that transformation from small stupidities to insanity

was gradual but continuous, as if foolishness had kept evolving

itself over the years. Process could have been slow, but it was

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definitely distinct, in which, others, other than me, saw the

symptoms at an appropriate early stage, but watched its growth

helplessly. Then, decades back, when I did not know how to

laugh the way others laughed, they had called me a fool who was

unhappy by choice, and now when finally I started laughing the

way others would never learn to laugh, I was termed insane who

would enjoy even in grief. Journey through the thick and thins of

mindlessness was long in time, but it had remained revolving

around the nature and kind of happiness I indulged in, or theabsence thereof.

To be happy is a sacred human right, the very purpose of life

frustrated, father had once tried to bring me out of a fit of

compulsive gloom. The man must be joking, I had thought,

considering the glint of sadness that glimpsed from behind the

thin veil of meaningfulness of his words. Moreover, human right

to be happy was very personal, I had believed, whereas sadness

was being dispensed by the likes of him, the masters of the notion

of happiness, and by the likes of me, the slaves to the joy of

sorrow. Happy over what, unhappy at the unwanted imposition

I had wished to ask, but instead had silently pointed towards a

fight between a small cat and a stray dog, in a corner of the street

not far away. That the cat had finally escaped unhurt was a little

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consoling, though I was frighteningly surprised, as much of the

cause of just ended war between the biological un-equals, as of

the mismatch of physical strength of different warriors involved.

Forgetting my gloominess, father had laughed, unashamedly, an

unrestrained loud laugh, as if he was immensely enjoying in the

discomfiture of the smaller animal. How long will it survive!

he had sadistically exclaimed, or perhaps, it was an arrogant

wishful-ness of a pleasure seeker, the propagandist of happiness.

Since the dog has tasted blood, it would get her sooner thanlater he had concluded, prophesying or anticipating.

But compulsive nature of sadness was as false as the falsehood of

arrogance of happiness, or the zenith of insanity was devoid of all

sorrows. Somewhere, unknowingly, I had strayed into other side

of the line, under the command and control of an authority which

had no qualm for needs and which had no need for emotions,

where living amongst humans I considered myself more humanly

than all others and, as such, privy to the human right to be happy,

always, whatever the circumstance.

Of late, people started complaining that my merry making had

turned quite louder, so noisy that it would often frighten them out

of their wits, that it would often terrorize their children into

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hiding. But I did not hurt even a fly considering the opposition

a kind of jealousy on their part more than it being a source of

inconvenience, as selfless happiness does not affront, I had

pleaded innocence many a times, requesting them, the

complainants and the onlookers, on the contrary, to join me in

those moments of endless joy instead. But the contemptuous fool

that I were, was always spurned. Perhaps, happiness too like the

sadness earlier, had needed a logical explanation, a meaningful

consideration, in the absence of which, it was the psychologicalfear of getting hurt at the hands of illogicality of a laughter that

could have frightened people, that could have terrorized their

children, more than the fear of terrorism of life that was said to be

around, always.

I was resultantly left alone with my happiness, or the madness if

it was really so, all others chasing me away, always, fearing of

the ill effects or of its infection. But was my loneliness now any

different from the solitude of bygone days when I was not

whisked away in fear, or from the loneliness of others who

remained frustratingly lost amongst the explainable gatherings, or

compulsively allusive to meaningful considerations? Why I was

different from the boys of my age, mother had once lovingly

asked, concerned more of fathers apparent displeasure than of

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the general disposition of my daily routine. Not knowing how to

properly respond but concerned of motherly concern

nevertheless, I had casually said that perhaps it were they, the

boys she had referred to, and not me, who were different. She had

just smiled, perhaps appreciatively, not dwelling on the topic

again.

No loss was bigger than the loss of faith in his sons capability to

look after the small empire after he would be gone, and the firstever sign was not very encouraging. Yet he had to try, hoping

that the first impression was a deception, an aberration.

Business is more like a scientific equation that we work out to

arrive at a definite, a pre-determined profitable solution father

had tried to educate, impressing upon me the true nature of

science, and of business, and bringing out, in no uncertain terms,

fallacy of a logic that had resulted differently. Is science then a

heartless monopolization of the mind? understanding a little, I

had asked, unintentionally meaning thereby that business

certainly was if it were that kind of science. Stunned of the curt

hearing response, father had gone red in the face, red of

helplessness perhaps, more than that of anger. He instantly knew

that I was a gone case, that there was no use of further discussion,

of further explanation, or of remorse, as the dye was already cast,

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dye that would churn out materials much inferior in value.

Sighing, he had kept silent, perhaps, anguishly wishing that he

had another son who would take care of the estate in his absence,

who would know lenders arithmetic well.

Father had needed a clever mind to help him in multiplying

figures at astronomical speed, whereas, contrarily, I at seventeen

was said to have a heart that would beat faster at the abnormality

of those calculations. Money lending, the family venture thatancestors had built up over the years, thus, was ruled out for me,

but he saw no other business as profitable as the business of

earning interest that would keep doubling itself every second

year. Depressed but calculative he had then decided to marry me

to the daughter of one of his friends, to make good probable

future losses, it seemed. I need my grand children to grow

before I die he had justified. Or before he would grow weaker to

collect debts, he could have thought. Mother must have known

the girl, as she was up in arms, fighting for the lost cause. Is she

not a little haughty for his meekness? before I would dare voice

my objection, mother had doubted, objecting to the proposal in

her own meek way. But she must have known as did I that her

doubts, as always, were unauthorized, and her objection short-

lived, as a single angry glance from the master of the house

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Thankfully appreciative of the graciousness notwithstanding, the

man had feared if father would not terrorize him to go back on

the settlement. I had feared as much, more so after the man

expounded his fear, and had suggested him, perhaps in a fit of

intelligent cunningness, to do away with papers as he planned,

before father would reach him. Father, however, did not take up

the matter with the man again, rather he had used the forced

opportunity, partly to pronounce his benevolence, and partly to

terrorize me and mother into the marriage proposal that I was notready for and she not agreeable to.

Have you someone else in mind? mother had asked, when

father left, after making the announcement. I did not have. Yet I

had laughed, impulsively, aware of the fact that mothers asking

was simply casual, insincere, perhaps sure of a negative response.

Suppose I have. She had looked at me, surprised, may be a

little hurt, of my unexpected admission or of fathers irrevocable

decision, I did not know. Nothing was said again and nothing was

asked again. There was no use to.

Did I waive the loan to impress his daughter? The question was

simple, straight, but cunningly meaningful. It spoke of things I

had not even dreamt of, and it enfolded in itself a perception, and

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perhaps castigation. Father had shared the news with his new

daughter in law, or she could have learned it otherwise, I was not

sure, but my bride was well informed. She seemed to know of her

new household, its members and their minds. She seemed to be

qualified to interpret behaviors. She was well suited to the

standards of a role that father had envisaged for her, as the casual

hearing and smilingly said simple interrogative, in the first night

of our conjugal life, to which she could not have expected a

reply, established, beyond doubt, superiority of her intelligenceand the wit of her determination. I had not responded and she did

not ask the second time. She needed not to, as she had already

killed the cat, literally, just like a friend of mine had asked me to.

He had suggested me to frighten the bride, in the very first

meeting, by recounting a story of my killing of a cat, but

contrarily, I had got frightened by the ill-timed query of her

make-believe insinuation.

Marriage had bonded relationships but not individuals who

remained wedded to their different ideological necessities, to the

arrogance of their strengths or to the inalienable peevishness of

their weaknesses, each one silently wishing the other to attune to

his or her kind of behavior to suit to his or her outlook to life.

True to the nature of richness father always aspired for more,

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building upon his wealth, ruling out further loan waiver, ever

thereafter. Debt collection being the purpose and source of his

life, and a professional hobby, he would never lack in enthusiasm

or in resources to enforce his right to recover, whatever the

repercussions. Emotional fool that I were was a misfit, he had

ruled, and, as such, was virtually condemned to idleness,

surviving on regular admonishments and an occasional piece of

advice. I lacked confidence, they, father and his daughter-in-law,

would say, and would often encourage me to come out of thefalse spell that I had foolishly woven around. Father had been

authoritarian, as always, in his encouragement, dictating terms

that he wanted me to strictly follow, laying conditions that were

to be the alma-mater were I to join him in business, with a further

rider that I were to decide nothing, absolutely nothing, and was

supposed to seek approval for every action and for each

transaction, his if he would be around or of the younger woman if

he would not be immediately available. Wifely possessiveness,

however, was a little considerate, a kind of emotionally

benevolent, as she generally disapproved domineering of the

elder, on his back at least, but on her part would start recounting

my failures and my weaknesses, which she said, were the cause

of disgrace. Occasionally reminding me of my foolishness was

the best way to make me aware of my deficiencies, she had

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reasoned, to help me to shed the garb of ignominy, to prepare me

for future challenges. That her recitation of these rhymes, which

had now become a daily routine, hurt a lot, she did not seem to be

aware of, and I did not dare ever complain. Or she did not care, if

she knew even without my complaining. Repeat performance,

over and over again, however, was educative as I soon came to

realize that I was simply a bundle of vices and weaknesses with

nothing to cheer about, and my failure included her failure to

conceive even after many years of our marriage. But the more sheharbored my past the more sullen I became in the present, the

more she was critical of my failure the farther away I moved

from the wish to succeed, faltering in the critical moments,

incapacitated.

Is she frigid? I once heard father, asking mother. He had

looked more concerned, more than her, the woman at fault,

perhaps rightly so, because despite being the intelligent kind that

she were, had acted unintelligently, defying so far the purpose of

value addition, the purpose very dear to him, rendering the

intervening period unproductive and un-remunerative, and

denying him the future successor he earnestly craved for, to look

after his estate and to take control of his debtors. Mother did not

commit. She being a little more truthful could not have. I do not

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a woman, or of a wife. But the vicious smile that she always

carried and that had outdid me the very first night, instantly undid

my resolve, deflating the hot air that otherwise was as false as the

falsehood of the bigness of a bubble.

Father decided to remarry, to keep the succession alive down into

the distant future, he had justified, to take care of the hard earned

wealth, he could have meant. Mother had not recovered from the

blow, which hit as severe on her inner self. Dieing, she hadasked, curiously expectant, if I was happy with the younger

woman, as if her own happiness, post death, lied in the kind of

response she were to receive. Was I? But then happiness to me

was a riddle that I had never been good at, particularly in regard

to the mystery if it is with or without that one feels happy about.

Mother valued my silence and had left satisfied that I was

uncertain. In uncertainty there is always a scope.

His friend, wifes father, in whom he confided first, had been

startled. He was undecided if the proposal was a vice or a virtue,

if he should have been for or against the proposition. Father was

at philosophical best in his reply. In the interest of bigger virtue

to always have at least one male descendant in the family down

in the line, I will carry the burden of a small vice he had said.

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Apparently he was referring to my incapability, the lack of

fatherhood, and wanted to have another son who would bear him

grandchildren, and who, in turn, would carry the hierarchical line

down. None dared object even if he or she had wished to. Father

held command and a sanctified notion to enforce the

commandment, the best way he deemed fit and proper. After-all,

social laws are only reflections of the will of the mighty, as

morality is a burden of the weak. Mother, when alive, however,

had considered even legal rights of her husband to forciblyenforce decrees to collect his dues as immoral. That is why,

perhaps, because of her weak willed approach, she raised a weak

minded and weak limbed son, I had heard father accusing her a

couple of days before her death.

What was the guarantee that the new woman, whosoever she

would be, would bear him a son? The question could have

remained embedded unasked in different minds. Again, what if

he were to be a fool, a weakling, like me, non-performing, if at

all it would a son, or his bride too, in turn, some thirty years into

the future, might prove to be frigid. Phrasing of the question,

when I finally but reluctantly asked the wife, however, was far

from being smart that I had then willed it to be. A hint of male

chauvinism that got unintentionally reflected had invited instant

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with her playful tirade from the first conjugal night, was said to

have first breathed a word to someone from the crowd that had

gathered to mourn mothers death. Soon the news had spread like

a wild fire, each subsequent listener adding a little to the fuel. I

had only wished to project you as a man, in the right perspective

confronted, wife had boastfully justified. Perhaps, being married

to the unmanly was a provocation, a stigmatic compulsion, to

loudly pronounce otherwise to the world, whatever way possible.

Denial was of no use, rather it had given a new color to the wholeaffair, a color of attempted falsification of truth. Labeled impure

and unfaithful the girl was resultantly back.

The husband of the girl was apologetic but incorrigible,

apologetic because of his helplessness against the might of the

village financer and incorrigible out of a notion, howsoever,

misconceived it could have been. Poor live by the richness of

their faith and purity of their beliefs he was stubbornly

determined when I had requested him to reconsider, citing

falsehood of the rumor as a reason. Are not you being poor of

faith and impure of the belief anointing a hearsay and

consecrating a falsehood? But he did not believe in the rich,

their words or their actions. They are always there to exploit the

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poor, physically and economically, he had said, concluding the

meeting.

Would I like to have the peasant girl as my new mother? Initially,

the proposal, casually referred, had seemed just a deliberate

wifely taunting in continuation of her vicious playfulness. But

soon I had learned it to be one of the probabilities, and perhaps

the most sustainable, that father was working upon. He had then,

years back, not objected to the loan settlement, had not reportedthe man for his intentional act of cheating, perpetrated on the

unsuspecting minor, thereby facilitating the marriage of his

daughter. But now the matter was different, the girl was back,

divorced, and the matter of unlawful and fraudulent act of forced

settlement could still be reopened. Moreover, father being the

most influential and now an eligible bachelor any father would

have happily given him the hand of his daughter, more so if it

was not her first time. Age of the man was a non-issue, as the

man and the horse were said to be young as long as they would

keep running.

If father were to re-marry what difference would it make if it

were to be the peasant girl or someone else, seemingly

unconcerned, I had asked. But she was once your lover

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sounding shocked, she had mocked, indignantly, mischievously

smiling, at the same time, perhaps undecided if she should have

reveled in, or be shocked of the relationship perversity, which

otherwise was not the truth, she knew, I was sure. But then truth

is not always about what is true, rather, more often than not, truth

is what people generally believe to be true, she had said. It is only

the public perception that is more true than the truth itself, and

she had, through her deliberate faux-pas done her best to

Christianize the falsehood as a truth.

Rumors, false though these are, must have reached him too I

had mumbled. So what, he knows his son more than all others

brushing aside pretensions of the moments before, she now

seemed to sportingly justify the elder, out of fun may be, to have

a younger woman, younger to her, as her mother-in-law, or in

disgust, saying unsaid that she knew the fool well, more than her

father-in-law. But it was not the matter of personal knowledge, it

was a question of public perception, she had herself said so, I

objected. As always, she had just laughed off, intentionally

scandalizing the matter and perhaps her thoughts, as well. Father

did not seem to care, of the rumor, or of the truth, if at all it could

have been so. He never asked me. Perhaps, there was no need to,

as socially and legally, we, me, and the girl whom he intended to

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take as my new mother, were miles apart. Scientifically,

sentimental foolishness cannot be a substitute for logic.

Villagers, for a change, were up in arms against fathers decision.

The very thought is sinful elders of the village, after a long

meeting, had resolved, unanimously. Marrying the lover of a son

was a disgrace to the whole society, they had said, and they

would prefer dieing to the indignity, they declared. But validity

of their resolution had remained questionable and declaration ahoarse cry, as unanimous will of the entire village, without the

support of requisite veto, was more an advisory, unacceptable at

that, and the fear of death, nakedly displayed in arms carried by

goons employed by father for the purpose, finally prevailed upon

their determination to die. Father, riding high on his newfound

obsession of taking the young girl as his new wife, was defiant of

the show of strength of powerlessness, as he knew, from

experience, that sum total of as many zeroes would always

remain the same.

The elderly man, would-be-brides father, hesitant in the

beginning, had finally bowed down to fate. Do I have a choice?

he had asked back, in resignation, when I asked him as to why

did he succumb to the pressure. I had thought over. No, he did

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not have a choice, despite the support he got uninvited from the

villagers. As I then understood, father had a strong case to

implicate the man in criminalities, for cheating the minor. With

the young daughter back, for good, he was precariously put to

leave her unprotected, losing his freedom to the blindness of

justice. Others who supported would soon forget, he believed.

Rather, the abandoned and the unguarded young feminine flesh

would invite attention of eagles, always circling around in search

of a prey. He had finally been terrorized, as he had then feared,years back, on account of the settlement, if not to go back on it.

Notion of morality is meaningfully relevant only for those who

first survive legally. But legal identity of the unprivileged is more

a matter of theoretical discussion, because it survives only in

statistics, which too are cooked up, most of the time, to suit the

interests of the statisticians, or of the finely laid colorful charts

the wife had earlier summarized the mans vulnerability, in the

face of fathers will which was more a command. Still the man

was morally shaken, not vocally rebellious, as others had been,

but silently broken. Was there an iota of truth in the rumors, he

was reluctant in asking, perhaps fearing of the worst. I had seen

the pain, acutely cold and merciless. The blank but expectant

looking stare that had been forceful in its pleadings the other day

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when he had sought back the mortgage papers, now seemed to be

a lifeless medium through which he was seeing only the sullen

emptiness, beyond life. Expectedly, he had not asked his daughter

likewise, as probability of a positive response, howsoever bleak it

was, could have tormented the sanctity of relationship more than

it tormented two individuals psychologically. Affirmation to the

contrary, it being an instantaneous relief, did bring a small

purposeful glint, which otherwise was short-lived. Perhaps, he,

being the despised father, was hard put to believe veracity of thestatement of a known fool.

I saw the girl for the first time, emerging from the inside of a

small one room house, intentionally deaf to the sign language of

her father that had asked her to stay put behind closed doors, at

least until I was around. She was a beautiful girl, uncommonly

beautiful, simply attired, without an aura of false vigor that the

youth of her age generally carries around, and sans the rigors of

her present predicament, at the same time, as if she was oblivious

of the cause of her abandonment, and of nefarious designs of a

man of the age of her father. Momentarily, I was entrenched,

wishing that it were her I had been married to. But it was too late

now, as presently she was the choice of the elder, likely to be my

stepmother if things would turn the way father wished. Moreover,

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I now knew for sure that I was not the marrying kind, a known

fact that had necessitated father to marry again.

She was forthright, unlike her father, snubbing me, her make

believe lover of bygone days, and my sire, her suitor presently, in

the same breath, for the blackness of our evil influence that had

colored her life and her image dark. Perverts she had said,

remaining cool but sarcastic, consciously aware of the true

meaning of the word. Perhaps, there was no better word toexpress the nature of emotional terror she lived under. I had

wanted to flee, away from the village, away from father, taking

her along, if she would agree, telling her that it was me who

owned her absolutely, from the olden times, even if it was only a

rumored falsehood. But I did not have the courage, nor a key to

unlock the big if, if she would ever agree. Fools are not adorned

with flowers. Expressing the suddenly arisen and hitherto

unknown desire in words would have compounded the sin, more

so because of over-riding probability that answer to the big if

was certainly a big no. I was not worthy of desiring a woman,

people must have known that much.

Whom would she curse for her ignominious entrenchment?

Perhaps father, the ring -master, who carried the baton, or it could

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collect debt, to force chronic defaulter to pay-up. But then they

were small time local goons who worked for him on a small

commission, or on the promise of deferment of their own due

installments. Contrarily, the ugly bunch, as she had termed four

men brought in to the village for the specific purpose of

terrorizing villagers into submissive deafness, was a group of

strangers. No body knew who they really were, or where did they

come from. But they were not the ugly bunch as she had

discredited them. They being like all others, the people of thevillage, there was not much of a difference, and the difference, if

any, was on the positive side, making them, rather, look more

beautiful, more manly, a lot more manly than her husband ever

had been. Ugliness lies in their minds she had, however,

persisted, informing unasked that perhaps they were the enemies

from across the border, members of some gang of ultras, the

terrorists, infiltrating illegally. Does enmity makes beautiful

look ugly? Had she described them differently were they not

from the enemy territory, behaving alike? I did not dare ask.

Perhaps, asking would have shown me in bad light, more fool

than I really was.

They needed no killing to terrorize, if they were terrorists. A

sample but obscene brandishing of naked arms, to display their

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unlicensed might, had done the trick to turn the moral brigade

into heathens, the turncoat lions into poor lambs, which they

really were, which a man generally is.

Perhaps, it is the will of God finally affirming his assent, the

elderly farmer had called it a destinys privilege to dispose off

matters the way it liked best. Apparently, he had submitted to the

dictates of the powerful, to the threat of codes of law of the state

as much as to the piercing glare of naked arms brandishedobscenely. But the daughter, in no better position to opt

otherwise, had dared challenge the celestial notion assigned to

her subjugation, if not the enslavement itself. Why would God

will one to enforce his will and the other one to suffer it

willingly? The man had no answer to offer, nor she expected

one, as she knew that to rebel against the mighty, be it God or a

man, was beyond the capacity of the old man, and he on his part

could have believed and rightly so, I was sure, that He too, being

the powerful that He is, always wills to side with the like-minded

and the like abled, the powerful.

It was then that father had formally informed of the proposal,

advising me not to make a fool of myself when the day would

come. Behave or else he had seemed to convey. While there

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was no intention or a will on my part to behave of being

unworthy of a son, I did behave contrary to my reputation, daring

to suggest that he being a diabetic should refrain from eating

sweetmeats on the occasion. He had left frowning, but wife

laughed for long, thereafter. Why would he marry then if not to

eat sweets of marrying? I had remembered the day I got married.

The menu contained sweets of different varieties and I had eaten

to my fill.

Other than immediate family members from both the sides, there

were no invitees to the Wedding ceremony, except the gang of

four. Father must had invited them for a purpose, to ensure that

there was no last minute change of hearts, that the sanctity of the

occasion if not of relationship, in case there were to be a trouble,

was maintained. Somewhere during the ceremony, amidst

chanting of mantras, the youngest of the terror lot, perhaps the

leader, and cunningly far more smarter than the other three,

mischievously cajoled God, thanking Him for His mercy, to

finally unite a pair of lovers, after so long a time. Jest was

deliberate and seemed to be directed at me and the girl more than

it was directed at father and her. Apparently, he too had heard of

the rumors. Uncomfortably put for the untimely and uncanny

divine invocation though, father had feigned a smile. He could

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not have acted otherwise. Powerfulness, after-all, is comparative

and the all-powerful that he was, was too weak to stare into the

eye of the gun that the other one was carrying.

Whereas, the sinful insinuation had rendered the referred lovers

speechless, the other woman present, perhaps, offended of the

suggestive relationship equation that would make her position

vulnerable, and probably to make the other woman, junior in age

but senior in status, aware of her authority, willed to intervene.It is me they have to cope up with, more than the God she had

said, and I will be merciless, unlike Him, to keep them in their

assigned tracks, to assign them rooms far apart, needing them to

interact if they ever will, through a third party that would always

be me. The man had laughed, as if making fun of her and of her

impure resolve to act the spoiler. He did not take the ruling lying

down. But you will no more be there to play the anti-God he

had interjected, smiling, mischievously meaning something that

no other one could immediately guess of. All saw up to him,

waiting, expecting, fearing, and trying to read the unsaid. He took

his time, relishing the prevalent discomfort, intentionally

prolonging the mystery moments, psychologically tormenting the

woman, and all others present. Why? Why will I not be there

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any more? cutting short the suspense, she had finally asked,

uneasy, perhaps having outlived the fearfulness of uncertainty.

He had stopped laughing, but continued carrying the murky smile

the kind of which I had first seen on wifes face, years back,

when she had playfully but amorously linked me to the peasant

girl. It could have been after ages that he opted to speak. You

will not be there because I have decided to take you along to the

other side he declared, maintaining his cool composure, butauthoritatively meaning each word of what he said.

All were awe struck, analyzing the simple hearing short

incredible statement that they now knew to be the incorrigible

will of sin, the final and irreversible dictum of the sinful, or of

fate, or of God, who, as is said, finally disposes of each and every

will of the man. The woman who mattered, frightened of the

ugliness of its meaning, saw around at different faces, hoping for

support, perhaps, a straw to hold on to swim through. None came

to her rescue, at least immediately. I, the fool, devoid of the sense

of emotional belongingness, did not know how to respond, as to

what was expected of me. The man had said other side if I had

heard him right. I just remained mentally busy solving the puzzle

if by other side he had meant other side of the village, other side

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of the long fence that people called border, other side of the earth

where it is seen meeting the sky, or other side of life where

mother was said to have gone earlier. The ceremony girl and her

father, reeling under a different kind of threat, were too engrossed

to notice momentary diversion. Eerie silence was finally broken

by a whimpering sound accompanied by a fake noisy smile. I do

not like this kind of joke I heard father complain, keeping the

expression friendlier, purposely of course, not to antagonize the

goons. Do I look a joker? the man complained back, seeminglyunhappy at the uncalled for interruption. Father had got unhappy

too, despite being disadvantageously placed, irritatingly unhappy.

Commander in him could have revolted against the trespass of his

authority. He reminded the man that he was there to help him get

his woman and had been well paid for the job. Now the work

finished, he wanted him to return back safely, or get reported to

authorities. It was him, who must now be joking, instead,

threatening the man, inviting his displeasure. The man had again

laughed, murkier than ever before. Are you not being a bit

greedy, keeping both the women, and denying me the reward I

deserve? he had mocked, looking at me for a moment, perhaps,

to denounce the relationship that existed socially. Before father

would react, one of the other three intervened, uninvited,

asserting that it were they, the goons, whose writ then ran around,

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me in the emptiness of big house, seemed to have imitated me, in

turn, perhaps, laughing at my stupidity to laugh when I should

have wept, over the unbearable loss, over death, and over

abduction. After the killing, the group of goons had waited for a

while, looking for further resistance, if any, and finding none, had

left, forcing the woman to accompany them at gun point, and

firing in the air indiscriminately, could be to mourn the death, or

else to celebrate victory. I had then remembered that death is the

ultimate victory lap in the run to life. Mother had said so, when Iwas weeping, seeing her dieing. She was displeased with the fool

for the first time in life, advising that mourning, sometimes, leads

the man to a situation of discord with fate, which is ungodly.

Perhaps, she could have meant that the God is an unjust medium

of justice, a non-being entity that enfolds in itself as much of

despair as it enfolds joy, and one only chooses to be sad or gay at

the dictates of the falsehood of his mind. I was then not too sure,

had heard her discoursing such only to forget immediately

thereafter. But, presently, seeing fathers power equation, first

with the weak, the elderly farmer and his daughter, and again

with the powerful, the gun wielding ultras, I had emphatically

believed that the God is as unreliable as the man is, because

whenever He exhorts someone to play the aggressor, frightens

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some other one to suffer the aggression willingly, all in the name

of fate, thus absolving Himself of lawlessness.

I did not mourn fathers death, or the abduction. No one in the

village had. The other two present, the man and his daughter, had

sighed a long sigh, a sigh of relief, it seemed, running away from

the scene, as soon as the group, carrying along the unwilling

woman, was beyond the line of their vision. They must have

feared that father might rise from the dead to claim back his betrothal, I had initially thought, but then suddenly recalled

having once advised the man to dispose off the mortgaged

property, before father would return back from his debt collection

tour, to combat future objections to the settlement. Father now

finally settling for death, perhaps, they could have feared me, the

successor to his will and to his estate, objecting to the

circumstantial settlement that had led to womans release.

Perhaps, no settlement is ever absolute, as there is always a fear

of resurrection of the shadow of a person, or of an incident, to

influence future disposition, to object to the terms, whatever

these are. I had not restrained them from leaving, though I wished

to, as leaving a sacred ceremony, midway, was a bad omen, and

I, being his legal and the only heir, was still there, willing to

continue from where father had left.

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Why did I not resist to the abduction, someone from the crowd

that had gathered after the ultras were gone, had asked. I had not

replied, thinking him to be mad, talking foolish. Perhaps, he had

not heard the leader of the ugly bunch that one does not dare

undo what pleases the God. Or, contrarily, his asking was a kind

of intentional nagging, a deliberate ploy to remind me of the loss

they all had gathered to mourn, as they too, like me, had

remained stationed, wherever they were, silently watching the proceedings from afar, waiting the group along with their prize to

pass-by, before they would console the bereaved, considering the

unfolded act a will of destiny they had no control over.

Festivities had continued till late in the night, after the cremation.

Yes we had celebrated. Was it over the death or abduction no one

had seemed to care. No one had asked. Earlier, an elder from the

group had asked as to what I would like to be done to fathers

body, bury it under the earth to decay, put it on a pyre to burn, or

leave it in the open for the eagles to feed upon. Unaware of the

rituals post-death or implications thereof, if any, I could not

immediately decide upon the preference, as asked for. Confused

but seemingly concerned for the comforts of the departed soul, I

had then asked back innocently as to which one of the different

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I did not impose my will. I could not have, as I lacked

determination as was often told, ultimately deciding to

commemorate the occasion alone, all by myself, in the emptiness

of a big house, laughing the way the leader of the ugly bunch had

laughed, before and after. But others too had celebrated

nevertheless, despite the opposition earlier, inviting all from the

village, except me, and had continued with festivities for hours

till late in the night. It was not the victory of the dead, as I had

proposed that they were celebrating. Rather theirs werecelebrations over death in its naked manifestation. I did hear

drum beats, occasionally cutting into the shrill of my laughter,

disturbing me, and my serene loneliness. Intrigued, I had joined

them, uninvited, in the later part of their merry making, when

most of the men were subconsciously down with the intoxicant

that they could have used to mark the occasion. We are in

mourning trembling, partly with excitement and partly of the

alcohol he had consumed, the man who had earlier asked my

preference of the kind of cremation, seeing me joining them,

confessed. He had looked sad, contentedly sad of the irreversible

disposal of fortune. Soon, others had collected around,

concurring with the man, and raising their glasses in unison,

mourning the dead. I was unhappy, promptly remembering

mothers parting advice that mourning sometimes leads to

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discord with destiny, wishing to admonish the villagers for their

utter disregard for the old woman, if they were really in

mourning, but had joined them instead, in the mourning,

becoming a part of the group, accepting a glass of cheap wine

that some unidentified hand extended.

Laughing was, perhaps, my kind of mourning over the dead that

continued for days, for months, for years and then for decades,

till the present when I got a sudden premonition that the man withthe gun had returned back. I was told that it could not be him who

had abducted my wife decades back, but someone else in the

same-like guise. I was told that he could not be an ordinary goon

from the olden days, but a terrorist of modern times. The man

could have changed and so could have changed the garb, but his

sudden advent seemed to be an extension of a distortion that

innocent fates have parallel authorities governing them, all the

time, which rewrite fortunes and are as ruthless and as heartless.

After fathers demise there had been no one else in the village

who commanded complete obedience, who frightened the way he

used to frighten, or who would dare sponsor a goon to

demonstrate authority or to appease his needs and beliefs. But the

arrival of the terrorist revealed, beyond doubt, that such like

sponsors continue to exist, in different attire at different times, as

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the hunger of their needs and falsity of their beliefs is ever

insatiable. The man was back, this time uninvited, to terrorize, to

kill, and to abduct. I feared of the worst. I had always feared of

the bad omen that would someday befall over the village leading

to a terrorist attack, and I had feared of the barking of dogs,

before and after the attack, whenever it would come.

Fathers death, decades back, had been a good omen for the

village, I had heard people say, leading to truce with fate,instantly settling all pending accounts, and reviving a thin line of

smile that had remained lost within the layers of wrinkled dry

lips, I had observed. It had given me an opportunity as well that I

exploited to the best of my ability, to laugh off the foolishness I

was saddened with, when he was alive. Soon, happiness and

sorrow had ceased to have a meaning, meager survival needs

becoming merely an effortless tool to sustain, at the will and

mercy of the villagers, who fed me, by turns, for first few

months, till affording a parasite had become an unnecessary

burden, beyond their psychological capacity. Slowly, they had

started avoiding, putting up excuses initially, and then calling the

fool by all sorts of names, often leaving me hungry, occasionally

throwing a piece of loaf, in disgust, as if feeding a stray animal.

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The elderly farmer and his daughter too had a few turns, during

these few months, to feed the hungry. She was business like,

always, never talking of father, of the wife, or of rumors, serving,

as she must, to the beggar. Yet I had a subdued feeling, or it

could have been a subconscious wish, that each time she had

awaited her turn anxiously, the food, whatever it would be, would

taste better and sweeter. Why do you beg for a living?

accepting a piece of loaf, I once heard her asking, perhaps a kind

of reprimand, considering begging a vice, or it was an advice of the sincere, or perhaps she had displayed her displeasure over the

unwanted imposition. Not knowing true nature of her concern, I

had left without attending to the query. But had I known her mind

well were I in a position to respond? Did I know of an efficacious

answer? Did I beg for a living or I lived for begging? Are the end

and the means distinctly separable? Does not means, sounding

euphonious, often become an end in itself?

It was during these times that a man who once worked with father

as his collection agent and was said to have since joined a group

of vagabonds, returned of a sudden, to wait on me, to act, un-

appointed, as the care taker of the lonely insane, in exchange of a

simple living. It was through him that I learned of my worth,

money value of sum total of debts that people of the village owed

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me, as the legal heir and the only successor to their creditor. But

the richness, without an inclination to collect and in absence of a

will to pay on the part of the other, is only notional I had said,

presuming that perhaps he had returned back purposely, to share

the booty. He had laughed, Yes, the world is made up of abstract

lives, wherein every thing is notional, a make believe,

comparative to the alike. Each one is born rich, but he is poor to

his needs and his aspirations that are ever un-ending. Each one is

intelligent, but a fool to the intelligence of foolishness thatgenerally dictates lives. Each one is victim to the terror of fate,

but terrorizes, in turn, fate of others, the less worthy, the weaker.

Not even trying to comprehend, I had objected. It is the disposal

of the will of God I had opined. But he did not seem to agree.

The notion of the will of God is as notional as the notion of your

richness without an inclination to collect, and, of-course, without

a will on the part of others to pay back.

But I did not enforce my right to collect, despite now being

equipped with an able hand to do so, and despite his willingness

to collect for me had I authorized him to. Perhaps, the

graciousness, howsoever reluctant it was, with which the

villagers had fed the insane, in the interim, qualified them for

absolute waiver, or I was otherwise not interested. He too,

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without proper authorization, did not talk of the matter ever

again, and my relationship with villagers, as a creditor, remained

as notional as it had always been after fathers death. The man

had stayed put with me, attending to my needs, and if there was

ever a resource crunch, he did not complain of, managing the two

of us, the insane and the insipid, the best way he could.

Times passed, the man continuing evolving himself, both in his

mindfulness and in his mindlessness, and as the God too neededto invent a cause to remain in circulation the time-tested old

falsehood of superiority of one faith over others that makes the

existence of different Gods relevant again finding voice.

I had grown old, when the servant warned, for the first time after

decades, of an impending threat. Just like the other time, he

plans to invade the village, to kill people, to abduct a village girl,

perhaps he had said, cautioning me to be on the guard, always,

and to be careful of strangers, of persons of dubious looking

character. He, who? I was surprised, as much of the

information as of the mystery if character of a person is ever

discernible simply by looking at his face. Was the man still alive?

It was most unlikely. And if at all he was still alive he must have

grown too old, like me, to plan an abduction of a young woman,

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or to think carnal. But no, he was not him again, the servant had

finally declared. Instead, the new age leader of terrorism

presently is your son.

He must have gone mad, more insane than I had been, talking

nonsense. There was perhaps no better explanation. But he had

sworn that what he said was not the madness. He had affirmed on

oath that what he told was the truth, an absolute truth. It is your

son who is in league with terror, synonymous to the key word,reviving it after decades of peace, threatening mankind and

destabilizing society. It is him who has turned a bigger anti-God,

bigger than what he then had been, long years back the servant

had revealed, perhaps comparing him to the goon who had killed

father, or it could have been father himself who was referred to.

In his revelations, the servant had seemed to complain unsaid, as

much against the terrorist he was talking of as against me for

fathering such an evil. But I was not convinced of the disclosure,

was not rattled by the complaint, despite apparent truthfulness of

his affirmation. It could not have been the truth, I was sure. Very

basis of the premise had seemed ignoble, questionable, a big

falsehood. Terrorism as I had seen, was an institution, concurrent

to the man, and perhaps a part of his behavior, to need revival, as

people suffered threats as much from within, even without the

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during which he had kept thinking, perhaps, finding a plausible

reply, asked me instead as to what I did understand by the term

faith. He kept waiting for my response and I for him to dwell

upon the term further to appease my curiosity, because to the fool

that I was, faith had meant nothing other than peculiarity of

names, different set of names for different set of persons. As no

reply was forthcoming, I had a sudden apprehension that he too,

despite posing to be a person of philosophical leanings that he

had heard to be a short while ago, did not exactly know as towhat faith really is. Perhaps no one does.

Your wife, when she was abducted, was a few days pregnant,

but knew it, for sure, only after a month, and by that time it was

too late he later revealed, describing the truthfulness of

relationship as he knew it. He was then a go between the father

and a gang of ultras and as such a part of the terror group. She

had confessed nine months later, when the boy was born. He,

then, stirred by natures disposal and his loyalty to the erstwhile

master, had returned back to the village to relay the news, but

disturbed by the prevailing circumstances had opted to keep

quite, staying back, for good, looking after the insane.

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Keeping in touch with the group, through some intermediary, he

had then learned that the leader, my wifes current man, had

considered the confession a falsehood, a deliberate lie, for the

sole purpose of tormenting him, and, as such, relations between

the two had started worsening till the time the boy, whom he had

raised, for the last more than twenty five years, as his son, in

league with his mother, revolted against the tyrannical

authoritativeness of the elder, killing him in the embroil and

taking over the leadership of terror. Your wife, considering youand others, for the unmanliness that you all displayed at the time

of her abduction, and the other woman who were then the

primary cause of turn of events, responsible for her present state,

has turned her son, the terrorist, against the village, exhorting him

to take revenge, destroy it completely, kill all who would cross

his path and abduct the young daughter of the woman to suffer

fate worse than her the servant had finally disclosed.

How do they know that the woman has a daughter? She was an

issueless divorcee then astonished, I asked, presuming that

perhaps it was him, if he was telling the truth, double-crossing,

passing on the village information to them through the

intermediary he was keeping in touch with, whom he had earlier

spoken of. But he maintained static composure, not showing if he

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was offended of the unsaid accusation. They have their means to

knoweven without me he responded adding the later part

after a pause, perhaps purposely, letting me decide if I believed

or not, for my satisfaction, as if it mattered little to him if I did

not. They knew it when she was remarried, a few months later,

to safe-guard her honor against future risks, likes the one she had

then undergone. They knew it when the old man had died, a little

after, now contented and carefree. They knew it when the

daughter was born, and they know it now when the daughter hascome of age to suffer fate worse then that her mother had once

mercifully escaped.

How long can one remain contented and carefree, even after

death, if soul remains behind wishing well of the dear ones, and it

now, being free of restrictive nature of worldly falsehoods, sees

through the opaqueness of future to find that the past it dreaded

most keeps sitting on the fence to jump back, getting a chance?

But I did not burden my servant for an answer, as I was

undecided as to whom to side with, notionally though, with my

son or with the daughter of a woman who was once known to be

my lover. Moreover, the question itself, arisen surreptitiously,

was a little philosophical, beyond my comprehension, and I was

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sure that his answer, whatever it could be, would fly high, much

beyond my reach.

The disclosure was based upon an assumption, assuming that

what she confessed voluntarily, twenty-five years ago, was the

truth. But knowing her, it could have been otherwise, her way of

demeaning her current man, the current relationship, and her way

of taking revenge. The abductor, for the reasons best known to

him, had doubted the veracity of her confession, and he couldhave been right. But then truth is a matter of perception, she had

said so, long back, more true than the truth itself, and the man

then had perceived the newly born as his son and raised him as

such, despite the confession. It was now my turn to veil the piece

of information in a cloth I deemed proper. Though propriety

would have called for detailed examination, a kind of

circumstantial audit to conclude one way or the other, I was

instantly fascinated by the nakedness of information to

immediately enfold it in the creases of my cloak, bothering little

if the gesture looked obscene, perhaps in a hurry to convince

myself that I was not unmanly if she was not frigid. I laughed,

suggesting impulsively, Father, wherever he is, must be happy

to know that his son, after all, is father to a heir to keep the

succession alive down in the future. But he did not take the

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laughter kindly, it seemed, looking at me in disbelief, as if

reprimanding me, for the joke, if it were so. He had, however, not

commented back, perhaps, concurring silently, despite jocular

nature of the disposal.

Terror attack, when it finally came, confirmed the belief that the

God was getting older and weaker with passing moments,

relinquishing His authority, in the process, to the man, who now

possessed magical strength to destroy the entire village, with asingle gun shot, fired from far off. Gun shot, if it was really so,

was soundless, unlike the one I had heard earlier, decades back,

when it was fired at father, but powerful enough that it seemed to

shook the very foundation of His creation, the men and the

material including. He had come in the dead of no moon night,

under the garb of blackness, perhaps the color of his identity that

would always remain unreal and doubtful, to catch his victims by

surprise, to cause maximum possible loss. I felt the earth tremor

under four legs of the cot I was sleeping in, so great was the force

of terror. Terrified, the earth, in turn, passed on the dreadful

vibrating shock to the concrete walls of the house, which seemed

to tremble too, perhaps, laboring to stand straight, as these had

been standing for the last many decades. The servant, knowing

the terrorist and aware of the strength of his terror, must had been

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concerned for the safety of his master. He rushed in from the

outer room where he was putting in at the time, and before either

of the two of us would speak a word, I saw him hurriedly cover

me under the girth of his body weight, to take the falling concrete

slab on his head.

Somehow, wriggling out from under the dead, I looked around

for my son, the terrorist. But he was no more there. He was gone

unseen, as he had come unseen moments before, perhaps,considering me dead too, like the other one hiding me under.

Rising from the rubble that the house had now turned to be, I

ventured out, looking for others, the villagers, but instead walked

into the ruins, which until the previous evening was called a

village. It seemed that the intruder, true to the advice of his

mother, had struck big, destroying all that came his way. People

lay scattered, dead, all around, and the few who survived were

crying for help. I heard the street dogs barking, as if frightening

the terrorist away if he was still around. Having escaped the

mayhem, they had gathered in a group, perhaps, to help each

other, in case of need. I saw a man in his thirties hurriedly enter

the debris of a big house. Perhaps, he intended to extend help to

the occupants, who must be entrapped inside, I thought. But no,

he soon came out, carrying the cash box instead, a feeble voice of

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being my son notwithstanding. They were not fools, like me.

They were sane, the wise, knowing pretty well what they had

been doing, aware of their actions, of their thoughts, of the

implications. Perhaps, each one is part fool as he is part

intelligent, as father had once said.

If it was the foolishness or the intelligence of an insane mind that

I suddenly felt intrigued at the thought of abduction of peasant

womans daughter, I did not know. Decades back, when theincident involved another woman, the wife, it had looked

impersonal, necessitated by mans infatuation and compounded

by circumstances, but presently, the incident, if at all the girl had

been abducted, concerned me, my liaison with girls mother, and

it concerned my successor, the heir apparent to fathers estate,

including the right to debt collection. He was a bigger anti-god,

the servant had opined, but the God, contrarily, seemed to be in

league with him, just as he was said to be in league with terror,

leading His disposal to the present where he wished to abduct the

girl whose mother would have been his grand-ma had things not

gone awry on that fateful day, had father not got himself killed,

then.

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Unmindful of the will of mind, feet led me into the street where

the peasant woman lived with her young daughter, perhaps, to

confirm the inevitable, the inherent fearfulness and the subdued

wishful-ness, at the same time. Scene there was no different. The

terrorist had preceded me to them, it seemed, abducting the

daughter and killing the mother who could have objected, and

was, perhaps, lying buried under the heap of fallen roof,

presently. Unlike little earlier I did not walk past, rather tried to

move deposits of rubble aside to get to the woman, who was oncesaid to be my lover, save her if I could, if she was not already

dead of-course. Dogs had followed me to the site. I could hear

their barking getting louder with each passing moment. But

perhaps it was not me they were after, as I had just passed by

them conferencing over the sudden attack and resultant

destruction. Moreover, we were one of a family, me and the dogs,

sharing grief for years and sharing food occasionally. It must

have been someone else that they were following the scent of,

perhaps, the terrorist, who could have returned back unseen, to

get others, the survivors, to get me. He would not know that I was

his father. He would not believe it either. The notion of

sacredness of faith, after-all, was more sacred than the sacredness

of God ordained human relationships. I suddenly panicked,

instantly fleeing, subconscious will to survive overwhelming the

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desire to die, if there was any, and ran for miles, often stumbling,

occasionally falling, immediately getting up and running again,

towards the long barbed fence, that the people called border,

perhaps to garner support of national guards, the only force the

terrorists were said to be scared of, or to cross over to the safety

of the other side, from where the terrorist had come, I was sure,

and, as such would not harm a soul there, I believed.

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(part 2)

THE CHILD

The demon had finally struck the village, just like I had feared

that it would strike someday, just like it had always struck in

bedtime stories that granny used to narrate each night, when she

was alive. There was no other explanation, otherwise, of the

sudden furious attack and of the resultant all round devastation. It

had to be a demon, the monstrous creature who lived on theexploits of his evilness, I was sure. In each of grannys stories,

there had generally been a demon, who would attack villages at

will, who would destroy households at will, and who would kill

the villagers at will, and sometimes even gobbled up persons

alive. The big creature had, invariably, been the central character

of her narrations, around whom, moved the life and the death,

both of which had always seemed to be mere extensions of his

will, and of his pleasure.

These were the stories of ancient times when demons were

abound on earth, she had once told, perhaps to wave away the

prevailing fearfulness that had then gripped me, hearing of the

monstrousness. But I had not believed. She had seemed to

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contradict herself. Stories are simply an extension of life I did

remember hearing her on a previous occasion.

Did she ever see a demon? Granny had laughed. The God and

the demon make their presence known at will she had said,

evading a direct reply. But she must had, I had thought, given her

knowledge of the monster and of his evil adventures that she had

been narrating, night after night, for years.

Why is there never a fairy in your grannys stories? one of my

two friends, with whom I, sometimes, used to share stories, had

once asked. Granny was not very pleased when I had asked her

the same. Fairies live in some another world, somewhere up in

the sky, or in far away lands where they make wings to make a

fairy she had said. And why did they not make wings in our

lands, in our village, to make a fairy, I was tempted to ask back,

but before I could gather courage to test intelligence of the old

woman and even before I could phrase my words right to put up a

supplementary, granny had volunteered to respond to the

unasked, One needs a golden thread to make wings to make a

fairy she had disclosed. Yes, there was no golden thread in our

house, I knew, as I had always seen mother using white thread in

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The demons hunger, as described, had always been un-satiable

and his strength always unmatchable that no one would ever

stand up-to and no one would ever dare to resist to. Smallest of

the unleashed evil is mightier than the mightiest of all persons,

granny had once said, whereas, the demon had usually been a

monstrous proportioned evilness, for whom, even the combined

might of all the villagers put together, was too small a resistance

to scare him away. They, the victims, would then look up to the

king for their safety. But unable to dare the demonic onslaughtwith a sword, the king, the queen, the princess (yes, there was

generally a princess in grannys stories, as far as I remembered,

and never a prince. It was logical too, as the demon could not

have proposed his marriage to the prince to spare the village and

its people of his wrath, the proposal that was, though, never

accepted. Hearing granny describe princesss beauty and the

comforts the royals lived in, I had often got tempted to be a

princess myself, to change places with the character of the story

that I could have been then hearing, but the fear of the

abominable giant, who I knew, would demand my hand in

marriage, in due course, and uncertain nature of future that might

end up in my marriage to the evil creature, in case the king and

the queen succumb to his threat, would instantly overrule the

wish with the same alacrity with which it could have born earlier)

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fighting, and that existence of one without the other was

unworthy of making a story, any story, and, as such, was

unthinkable of.

Granny had died a year back and there was no story telling

thereafter. There was no one else I could have turned to for the

purpose. Mother was always busy attending to household chores

that included rearing a small herd of goats, with or without

occasional addition of a couple of chickens, the only livelihoodshe would say, and as such a valuable possession. Unlike others I

did not have a father. Why, I did not know. No one ever told me.

Whenever I asked, granny had kept mum, immediately

withdrawing into some forgotten thoughts, and mother would

often be furious, calling me names for asking a question that

perhaps did not deserve reply. Perhaps, life is like that, most

have fathers and some unlucky one does not I had thought. But

why it had to be me? My two friends, who always had different

opinions, spoke differently. It is Gods curse that you dont have

a father opined one of the two, while the other one was

congratulatory in her stance. Fathers are no good as they know

only of beating and scolding the youngsters, she had reasoned. I

did not know if I needed to repent for not having a father, or I

should have been happy.

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Yes, I had a brother too, an elder brother, thirteen years elder in

age, but he was now more like a casual guest, who, despite

mothers repeated warnings not to show his face ever again,

would visit back once in a while. Why they, the mother and her

son, were at such a pass, I could never understand, but always

saw mother uncomfortably hesitant whenever he would suddenly

drop in unannounced, and him seemingly uncaring for the

opposition or its cause, whatever it was. They would not saymuch. I feared asking mother and he had been evasive, always,

not giving an inch, perhaps, considering me too young to

understand the relationship intricacies involved. Grandma, when

she was around, could not have been any wiser, or she too was

being intentionally evasive, whenever I asked her. From what I

got a wind of, though I had never been very sure, he had joined a

group of the like-minded and the like-bodied to fight kafirs, the

non-believers, from across the long serpentine fence that seemed

to flow like a river, at a distance, in the extreme south of the

village. I immediately knew, without telling, that non-believers

were yet another kind of evil, the monstrous creatures from the

demonic family, as granny had used to call the demon differently

in her different stories. Why would, otherwise, someone like to

fight with, if it was not a demon? Knowing that he, like the

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magicians of grannys stories, was on a mission to fight the evil,

mothers acrimonious looking attitude in dealing with his young

son, who, being the savior of the village, rather should have

commanded respect and appreciation for his acts of courage and

bravery, was unbelievably strange and mysteriously

incomprehensible. Perhaps, mother feared for the well being of

her only son, as dangers involved in fighting a monster were too

great to be proud of his adventurous character, more so because

he did not even know the magical tricks that were needed tooverpower the monstrous strength of the giant.

In last of the stories that granny had said before her death, the

demon had proved to be much stronger and a lot more cunning to

the magical effect of rituals and rhymes of the sorceress. He,

thus, escaping the protective net of godly grace, had neither been

encaged nor could be forced to retreat back, as had always been

the case earlier. Apprehending the unprecedented danger, the

villagers had then approached the king, requesting him to marry

his daughter to the beast to save them from the beastly wrath, and

the village from imminent annihilation. But the Gods

representative on earth, that the king is always said to be, had his

own kingly way of disposal. He, contrarily, had entered in to an

agreement with the monster, according to terms of which, the

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villagers would send him for his daily meal, a human being and

an animal, every morning, and the demon would stay put, living

peacefully in a hut, on the outskirts of the village, without

bothering the royals or the princess, postponing his attack till

some future day when villagers would fail to comply with terms

of the agreement.

It was cunning of the king aggrieved at the unusual

arrangement I had commented. Granny sighed, perhaps,concurring with my viewpoint, but had immediately differed in

her explanation. But life is like a small lifeless life-boat that

keeps floating unevenly for a while, ultimately to sink she had

remarked. People keep rolling from one to the other, from the

demoniac fear to the kingly disposal, and finally to the godly

grace, as more often is the case, because when demon grows too

powerful to care for the invocation of His graciousness, the king

is always the first to change boat to swim through, to join hands

with the anti-God to survive granny had concluded, justifying

the final outcome of her story, maintaining that the arrangement

rather was mutually beneficial to all, as it got the monster regular

supply of his meal, protected the princess from unholy alliance,

and saved the village from immediate devastation.

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Perhaps, the God was a facilitator to the protocol I had been

sarcastic, more of granny for her justification rather than of the

king or of God. She had smiled, seemingly enjoying the sarcasm.

No, it is only the fear of death that facilitates an accord with

destiny, wherein the God is made an unwilling witness.

The demon had survived in her last narration and grandma was

dead, the very next day, with now no more chance of the evil

being conquered in any of her next stories. He would have, thus,stayed put, as per the arrangement, on the outskirts, expecting

each morning delivery of the daily dose of his meal. I had often

pitied people and animals of the village of the story, all of whom

could have ended up, slowly becoming his meal over the last one

year that the old lady was no more around to change the course of

her narration. Or they would end up soon, in the near future,

depending upon the population of the village, I had feared, and

once the kingdom is finished of meal for the demon to survive, he

would turn his fury to some other village, to some other kingdom.

And it was now the turn of my village, I was sure. The demon

had struck big in the dead of night, as had always been the case in

grannys stories. Yes, evil gets its strength from the darkness of

night echoing with the spirit of my friends opinion, she had

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then agreed. So there is never a fear of demonic attack on full

moon days, purposely not quoting the friend, I did comment.

Perhaps, subconsciously, I had wished to register my intelligence.

Granny had laughed brazenly, as if intentionally belittling the

belief of my intelligence, castigating me and the moon, at the

same time, me for foolishly downplaying the powerfulness of the

evil giant, and the moon for falsely boasting of its

resourcefulness. Borrowed glare is seldom a source of sparkling

truth controlling her satirical laugh, she had finally said.

I had not understood then, but later, a day before grannys death,

when the demon in her story had outlived the magical prowess, I

did wish the God to take up to fighting the evil Himself directly

and not through his accredited agents, who, like the king, would

ultimately prove weak, whereas, they both, the God and the

demon, being the powerful, would always remain playing their

sides of the game, no moon day or full moon day.

As the sleep alluded, I had been consciously lost in the events of

the past, in repenting over endless fights between the mother and

the brother, which had, last night, abruptly ended in his storming

out again, in anger, leaving the food that mother had cooked for

him uneaten, in memories of all those days when granny was

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alive, in the not so understandable but meaningful looking

evasiveness of the elder brother whenever I asked him of his

encounters with the monster, in recounting, over and over again,

mothers behavioral approach towards different members of the

household that included small animals as well, in the recollection

of seemingly intelligent responses of my two friends both

younger in age by an year, when the earth trembled under my

feet, with an almost inaudible gurgling sound, as if announcing

the sudden advent of the monster. If it was fright induced soundof the earth, or an angry frown of the advancing demon, who

could have been long time hungry because of non-availability of

meal in the village he had been earlier in, I was not aware, as

other than describing physical proportions and the dangerous

intent of the beast, granny had never said much of his other

behavioral details. Perhaps, the low gurgling sound could have

been the screeching impact of anger with which the monster

planted his feet on the earth crust that got reverberated by the

earths core to caution people living thereupon, of the impending

danger.

I had been angry too, living with the anger from the previous day,

at mother for again fighting with the son who was visiting her

after more than a month, at the big brother who had left angrily,

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leaving the cooked food untouched, at mother again for throwing

away, in disgust, the cooked food and keeping us both, herself

and me, her eight years old daughter hungry for the remainder of

the day. It was unlike mother to feel disgusted and to act

wasteful, who, I knew, cared for her two children, despite the

acrimonious looking relationship between the two, herself and

the son, and who, I knew, valued a grain as precious as she would

value a coin of gold. It was unlike brother to be so disrespectful,

who, I believed, did care for the motherly care, despite her repeated abusive admonishments, but who, I knew, had left the

house hungry, the previous day, disregard of the fact that mother

had cooked for him. Mother had wept, for hours, thereafter, over

her uncontrolled abrasiveness, or over his vehement insolence, I

did not understand. I had, though, impulsively wished to question

mother, to admonish her, in turn, for the un-seeming and un-

motherly way of dealing with her young son and for her never

ending unpleasant hearing rhetoric, but was frightened at the

same time, fearing of the reaction, if she would unleash her pent

up anger on me. Simultaneously, I had wished to console her of

the invisible silent torments that she could have been undergoing,

at the time. But caught in between two emotions, I had wept

myself instead, with no one else to console either of the two.

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Different still it could have been the indifference of all others,

who knew her by different relationship nomenclatures, to be of

any use to her had she ever needed. But then the whole world is

inter related, as all are descendants of the sin of first two persons

on the earth, and of their foolishness of eating an apple she had

concluded, remaining contemptuous but smiling.

My two young friends had interpreted grannys behavioral

contradiction differently. Whereas, one of the two did not see anycontradiction as laughing at unpleasant thoughts is a sign of

maturity and intelligence she had said, the other one had pitied

mental condition of the old lady, who must be on the brink of

insanity, she feared. Laughing at no laughing matter is a matter

of madness she had reasoned. Granny had again laughed when I

confronted her with divergent view points to ascertain as to

which of the two was more correct and why. There is not much

difference between intelligence and madness she had replied

still laughing, as both are beyond the call of emotions, and as

both are beyond the purview of relationship compulsiveness.

Granny, thus, was not as intelligent as she had then seemed to be,

nor she was mad, as like all others she was not beyond the call of

emotions or of relationship compulsiveness, as she had herself

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put it. Her not so secret fearfulness in interacting with the

younger woman of the household, for whatever reason it could

have been, and the resultant prevalence of uneasy calm were

indicators of some kind of emotional arrangement between the

two, which though seemed to survive more in silent conflict

rather than in harmony. Again, despite visible dominance of one

over the other, she, in her own mild way, would often try to

emotionally side with her grandson, whenever there was a fight

involving him, disapproving mothers handling of the youngster and holding her responsible for further precipitating the already

worsening relationship. I had occasionally heard granny

remembering a son she once had, who, she told, had left for good,

more than six years back, a couple of months before I was born.

Remembering she would sigh, though unlike mother she had

never wept. But the unusually deep breath that she would take on

those occasions had always heard to be one big suffocated groan

of anguish. Concerned at the agonizing despair that had just

flashed across in two aging but expectant eyes and, perhaps,

disturbed at the feeling of pain that I imagined having seen

instantly percolating though out her frail body, I had once

suggested that, perhaps, like magical characters of her different

stories, her son too could have remained engaged, all those years,

in fighting with the demon to guard the village against the evil

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god is an atheist

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