The Broken Lullaby

The events that unfolded over the two weeks in the first half of February last year will forever be etched in my mind. Events the altered my life completely.

I tottered into work, hung over than usual. I was so intoxicated over the weekend that my colleague who sat next to me could literally smell the stench of whiskey from my perspiration. Even after two shots of espressos and a couple of red bulls I was still dazed and barely able to function. I realized that a smoke was warranted to keep my mind awake. And then I received that dreadful phone call from my youngest brother. He relayed the news that mom was seriously injured in a fire mishap. The fire caught on her whilst she was praying to her favourite God in the prayer room.

Like many previous other occasions I told myself to wake up from the nightmare, only this time, the nightmare had become a reality. I was lost, unable to comprehend what had happened, or decide on what I had to do next. I stood outside the corridor, inhaling the last puff of that cigarette and slowly coming to terms with the reality of the situation. I walked straight up to my boss and shared my predicament. Its only after I started narrating the incident did I finally did come to terms with the enormity of the situation. 

My friends rushed me to the airport, where I sat in the lounge, not knowing what to think. The only thing I knew was that I wanted to get home as soon as I could. I called up everyone I knew; I asked them to rush to the hospital, to help, to monitor the proceedings in any way possible.

I finally landed at the Cochin International Airport, at quarter past 7. My school mate Kamal who had always been more like a brother to me was at the Airport to pick me up. In the five minutes that I waited for him to reach I had inhaled about 2 cigarettes. The moment he saw me he realized that I was in shock. He consoled me by telling me that everything was going to be all right.

I’d never been affected by anything tragic in my life, and I kept telling myself that this storm too would pass. And when I had finally reached the hospital I was greeted by all my relatives and friends who were all waiting patiently for my arrival. They all looked at me, with the kind of expression that elucidated that they hoped that I would have an answer.

I asked my uncle about what had actually happened, and about the current situation.

My mom, as she did always was offering her morning prayers to her favourite Gods. It was one sight I had always cherished. It was one of those mundane activities that brought radiance to anyone who was there to witness it. My mom would be sitting in our small make shift Pooja room by the balcony, in all her vigour reciting the mantras. The Pooja room consisted of a small decorated cupboard which housed idols and pictures of numerous Gods’. My mom would sit on her small wooden stool in front of a lit Nilavilakku (a traditional Indian lamp). You wouldn’t believe if I told you, but if you looked real close, you could see a light that shined just for her, that’s how magical she looked.

Who would ever imagine that it was indeed this act of devotion that would finally take her away.

I’m told that my mom might have been distracted by the door bell that rang, stretched her legs to look at who was at the door, and this might have led to the fire from the lamp spreading to her dress. The poor soul was so immersed in her devotion that she only realised that her dress had caught fire when it was too late. The intensity of the fire sent her into a state of shock, she couldn’t move. By the time my youngest brother had noticed the accident it had already become too late. The fire had completely engulfed her. My grandfather’s nurse at the house and my brother finally doused the fire by wrapping her in a carpet and rushed her to the nearest hospital.

She had suffered over 75 percent burns my uncle told me. I asked him “but what about her face, her face, is that okay? “She’s burned pretty badly, the arms, the back, the legs, the hair...and yes her face” my uncle told me.

She was one of the prettiest women I had ever seen. When was a toddler I remember telling my mom that I wanted to marry a girl who looked just like her, because she was the prettiest girl I had ever seen.

And now she lay in the Intensive Care Unit of a hospital, snatched away of all her glory, never knowing if she would rise again.

My aunt; my mom’s sister asked me if I wanted to see her. I shook my head, in disagreement; all I knew was that I wouldn’t be able to bear the sight.

The doctor told me that the chances of survival were minimal considering the extent of the burns and the impending risk of infection. It was up to me decide if I wanted to take her to a better hospital elsewhere or persist with a doctor who was less than confident of a recovery.

Ideas were thrown in thick and fast, but after a discussion with my dad, a decorated Captain in the Merchant Navy, who was stuck on the ship 1000 nautical miles off the coast of Hawaii, I decided that it was best to keep my mom at the present medical centre. I knew that the biggest threat was of an infection and that had to be stopped at any cost. Everyone wanted to come up with their expertise about the hospitals and doctors about whether to shift my mom or not. A friend of mine even came up with the bizarre idea of taking her to a Christian witch doctor. Human beings are the most fickle of all.

My dad told me that the fastest he could reach Cochin was in 7 days, and it was up to me to hold the fort. Every day, in the morning the doctor would give us a report about my mom’s condition. And each day somehow it got better. My dad and I kept reassuring each other that the love of our life was one of the strongest persons in the world and somehow she would pull it through, that no matter how she looked physically we would still love her; no matter how much money it cost we wouldn’t hesitate one second to see that smile again.

It was day 3, and now it was my turn to visit my mom. Everyday one person could visit her; a close friend or a relative. My mom’s sister and brother visited her the first two days. And now it was my turn. My uncle understood that I was dreading this moment, but he encouraged me to go, emphasizing that my presence would rejuvenate her. My aunt asked me to be strong and to show no shock or emotion. And with tears in her eyes she told me not to cry when I saw her. The agony in her face told me everything about what I was to expect.

So I went in, to talk to my dear mom.  I was asked to put the mask, gloves and the protective clothing before I entered the ICU. A nurse took me to her bed, and there she laid, her whole body, swollen and grey like the ash. Her face was unrecognizable. I tried my best to hide the shock and sadness that had engulfed me.  I put on my fake smile as I talked to her. She started crying, when she saw me, maybe because of the guilt that she felt, as if she had done something wrong. She asked me why I had travelled all the way from Dubai, leaving my job. I comforted her by saying that there was nothing to worry and that the burn was minimal and everything would be alright in a few days. She lifted her fingers to show me the extent of the burn, the skin, it had all come out and it was all grey, telling me that somehow she knew that this time it had all gone horribly wrong.

That was the last time I ever talked to my mom.

I remember my mom texting me most days, calling me, most days of the week, while I was away at work. And I always took her for granted. I always thought that I’d call her at the end of week, where would she go I thought to myself. But I never did. And now when I look at those unanswered messages, I just hope there was someone at the other end, still waiting for my replies.

I played peace keeper for the rest of the days, trying to hold things steady and trying to make sure that everything was under control. At the end of day 4 things took a turn for the worse, the Doctor informed us that her breathing had become considerably weak and that she had to be put on the ventilator to support her. Its then that it finally struck me that I might lose my mother. I had this habit of shutting out things that affected me tragically. In the winter of ’99 my dad was hijacked by the Taliban and snatched away to Afghanistan. Whilst all my relatives resorted to mourning, I addressed it by playing rock music blasting through the speakers. “Denial” that was my retort.

A parade of religious people started visiting, friends and relatives alike. Each; offering their unique solution to the situation. Me being an atheist moved out of the way and asked my uncle to perform or follow whatever he felt was obligatory.

My relatives informed me that my brothers had issued a request to see my mom, which I vehemently denied. I knew that they wouldn’t be able to bear the sight and I told them that I would let them meet her when she was better. It’s one decision I’ll always regret. How was I to know that I was snatching away the last opportunity that my siblings had to say goodbye to their mom.

Day 6: My dad informed me that he would arrive in Cochin in a day’s time. It was the vital 24 hours, my mom had passed the first milestone of three days, and according to the doctor if she survived the 7^th day then she would be ok after all. We all stayed well into the night of day 7, me my uncle and my aunt, shared tales about my mother. About her misadventures and how truly wonderful she was. We read everything about accidents related to fire and comforted each other with stories of magical recoveries that had happened in the past. It was past 10 and my uncle who observed that I had hardly slept through the week asked me to go home to take rest. On my way to the car, my dad called me to inform that he had reached the port and would catch the flight to be in Cochin the next day.

I returned back home, and drunk myself to sleep. It was the only way I could.

It was past 12 when I heard a loud banging at my door, it was the home nurse, conveying that my aunt and uncle had been trying to contact me and I was to call them back immediately. I picked up the cell and dialled my aunt; my voice trembled when I asked her, what was wrong. All she conveyed was to get to the hospital at the earliest.

I drove at over 140 km/hr to reach the hospital. My aunt rushed out to hug me, and told me that the nurse had alerted them that something was wrong.

We waited impatiently at the hallway which leads to the ICU. And then the nurse, who showed no emotion, told us, that my mom had left us.  All her vital organs had failed, and that she was no more. She continued to explain how critical the accident had been and about the many complications that could have led to my mom’s demise; but I was blank; I did not need to hear any reason; all I knew was that she was gone. We all returned back to the room which the hospital had provided for us to rest. And there my brothers waited, not knowing what had happened. I still remember the way they looked around, at the faces that surrounded them, for closure.  They were both in hysteria, and it was up to me, to tell them. Its one moment I’ll never forget in my life. Telling my brothers that our mom had left us. They burst into tears and all I could do was hold them tight, no words of comfort could alleviate the situation.

I was lost; we were escorted away in different vehicles by our relatives. I returned home with my dad’s brother who had also lost his son in an accident only a year ago. He offered me words of comfort and some whiskey knowing well that no amount of alcohol would help ease the pain.

The next day the incident was all over the news; on the papers and the television. My aunt asked me to find a good photo of my mom which they could use to publish in the obituary. I spent hours searching for the perfect photo, I was in a frenzy trying to find the photo, I still don’t know why. My friend understood the hysteria and panic that was over me and tried to comfort me. I had cut down all emotion, all the emotions of pain and hurt. I was the eldest son and I knew that it would be up to me to conduct and monitor all the proceedings, to be that isle of comfort for everyone else.

A few hours later, I was asked to meet with the police and the hospital authorities to fill out the forms that took care of the formalities of claiming the body of the deceased. By this point I had become completely emotionally frozen. I complied with the instructions that were laid down to me by the public around.

It was evening, and my dad was arriving at the airport. He was stuck at vacant airport lounges for hours waiting for connection flights knowing fully that the love of his life had left him, and that he would never be able to say goodbye to her. It was up to me to pick him from the airport. I proceeded with my cousin to face the inevitable. And then I finally saw him, he looked like the shadow of the man who he used to be, clearly shattered. It was evident that he hadn’t slept or eaten for days. His emotions were uncontrollable and he cried his eyes out, shouting and cursing God, questioning why God had taken her instead of him, my Dad, and that if God had to take someone from amidst us that my dad would always give up his place for my mom. All I could do was hug him. My dad was one of the strongest people I’d ever seen. And I had hardly seen him cry. My mom and my dad are cousins and theirs was a love story that span over forty years. Ever since they were kids they knew that they belonged to one another.

I asked the ill-fated question if my dad wished to go home or drive straight to the mortuary. To which he replied “take me straight to her”. When we arrived at the mortuary I warned my dad that he would not be seeing the face that he remembered, he nodded in agreement through his uncontrollable tears and I let him proceed alone to the frozen chamber where she rested now. They pulled out the body from the freezer and my dad let out a cry of anguish which would haunt me forever. He cried in pain and asked why fate had been so cruel to her and us.

The worst part was answering all the phone calls, enquiring about the accident and the death. My mom had always been popular right from her school days. She was always the prettiest person in the room; talented and always charming. Thousands of calls came in thick and fast from all parts of the globe; actors, musicians, teachers, friends, everyone who’s life she had touched. It dawned on me how insensitive people could be in their quest for news. I recall this particular phone conversation from this lady who claimed to be my mom’s teacher, who kept torturing me for the details about the circumstances of the accident and about the days that lead to the death. I politely asked the lady to fuck off and to never call again. It’s one of the worst things to be asked of a person who’s just lost his mom; to narrate incidents that led to the biggest tragedy in his life. It was further worse to break the news to people who weren’t aware of her death. I just couldn’t muster up the courage to say those words - “my mother is no more”.  I still can’t.

The day after my father arrived was the day slated for the funeral. I was summoned to travel to the hospital to sign all the documents and claim the body. I met with the mortuary beautician, I pleaded with him, to make her look as pretty as she had been once. “Let’s give her a proper farewell” I told him. I left to return back to the house to partake in all the religious ceremonies that comes with death and funerals. My dad and my brothers sat in the corner waiting; whilst guests poured in. A lot of my moms close friends were inconsolable; they cried their hearts out; telling me that they could still not conceive how a person who they had just talked and met with a few days ago could have left so soon. How a person with so much light and vigour in her heart could be dead.

As I waited like a zombie amidst the mourners my dad’s brother informed me that the ambulance with the body had arrived and it was up to me to decide how the body should be displayed in the refrigerated glass coffin. I walked hurriedly amongst the hundreds who had arrived; pushing people off as I went into the ambulance. My hands trembled as I removed the white cotton sheet that covered her face. It was a sight that was unbearable. I put the cloth back on her face; and tied it. I informed my uncle that no one was to see her face; that the people who really loved her would remember her smile, and that’s all that mattered. The vultures that had gathered around rushed in to have a peek and to witness the after affects of the freak accident. As we carried the body in to the hall; people asked if they would get to see the face. Human beings are the most fucked up when it comes to curiosity. My rage shoved the on lookers away.

The hall flooded with tears and echoed with cries of anguish as we entered the hall with the coffin. My dad and my brothers looked desolate. I sat amidst them on the floor emotionless; as they cried their eyes away and hung on to me. I shut out everything- the anger, the remorse; the pain; and the tears. I guess that’s the reason why I’ve choose to write this blog. Whenever I’ve heard of people losing their close relatives; I’ve always imagined how it would be? Do you suddenly feel pain inside? Do you break completely as a person and seize to function? Now I know that it’s much more than that; the pain of losing someone; it stays with you forever. I guess this write up is such an attempt, to remind us of the value of people who we love; the people you’d miss terribly when they leave; people who you took for granted. It’s an attempt to share my emotions; to finally let go of all the tears; to let go of her.

According to the Hindu tradition, the body of the dead has to be cremated. Once all the people had left, my dad and my aunt dressed my mom’s body up in her favourite red silk saree. We all said our last goodbyes to the motionless body. I touched my mom’s feet to tell her how much I loved her and asked her for forgiveness for all the times I’d hurt her.

We’d reached the cremation centre where the final rites were to be performed. We all gathered around the big ball of fire which would now engulf the body and decimate all that was left of her. We pushed her body into the furnace whilst the religious priests recited holy sermons. I felt like a part of me had died as I watched the doors of the furnace shut close. The ashes were to be collected and immersed in a river particularly where two rivers meet. As the eldest son, the onus was on me to perform all the last rites. The priest handed over a small red mud pot which was to be filled with ash. And then he told me something which left me in a state of frenzy and wretchedness. Along with the ash I had to pick up a piece of bone from the remains of my mom. I handed the pot over to my uncle and rushed out professing that I wouldn’t be able to do it.  The emphasis that my family put on these stupid ceremonies irked me, the way that it had to be performed flawlessly when all the while none of it made sense to me in my time of grief. All I knew was that I had lost my mom, and nothing could change the pain I felt. We returned home with pot filled with ash once all the ceremonies were over. My uncle advised me that along with the pot we had to give away something materialistic dedicated to her.

I knocked at my dad’s room, and strode in to find a shattered man holding on to the remains of his dead wife. The blaze had left bits of her hair floating around along with the tattered dress that she wore. My dad did not want to let go.

I remember an anecdote my cousin told me a long while back when I was complaining about how exasperating my mom could be at times.

My mom literally brought him up. And he told me “I was young, and I was holding on to your mom’s hand at this party, but I was in terrible shape, I had the flue, and I was sneezing all over and had phlegm all over my face, but your mom, she did not hesitate one bit to use her favourite saree that she put on in all her glory to clean my face, just to make me charming. That’s “Geechi” (that’s how they used to call my mom with respect) yeah she’s not perfect, but she is one of a kind, that’s Geechi and that’s why we all love her.

What do I miss the most about her? Her magical smile, the wicked sense of humour, her care and affection and the boundless love that she showered.

 Rags 

Being In Love with a feminist

Being In Love with a feminist

“My body, my mind, my choice”, said Deepika Padukone (Indian actress, model and fashion icon) along with her horde of feminist advocates, in an advertisement which was termed both bold and ludicrous in the same breath. A message propagating equal rights for women instigated a barrage of debates on both women’s and men’s right. The social media was alight with internet trolls bombarding both the actress and the movement.  The advertisement talked openly about women having/wanting the freedom to choose when it came to sensitive topics such as their personality, work, attire, marriage, sexual orientation and sexual intercourse. It articulates how women, are not bound to society or their male counterparts (partners, brothers, father, cousins) when it comes to their personal decision. In a country such as India that still holds strong that patriarchy is culture, this notion did not sit well. The “men” and a certain section of women who were raised to believe that both men and women have defined roles in a society were offended, and this led to the uproar. On equal grounds many woman stand the chance to show how they are better than their male counterparts on almost all aspects of life.

Feminism by definition means “the advocacy of women's rights on the ground of the equality of the sexes”. The key word here is “equality”. It’s not empowering one sex over the other; rather it is neutralizing the power imbalance.  It is about elevating or empowering women, often unreasonably termed “the weaker sex”, who have been forced to battle an uphill battle since the dawn of the patriarchal culture. Not because they are the “weaker sex” but for the equality of sexes; implying that they are not treated differently for being a women. That is the world we should to aspire to live in, together, accepting each for who they are, each given a chance to dream, unrelated to their sex.

Over the years, my camaraderie with radical feminists has aided me in understanding and acknowledging the realities of both blatant "hostile sexism" and the concealed "benevolent sexism". Hostile sexism which is relatively easier to identify in society is a general dislike towards women, an emphasis on the differences between women and men and a devaluation of women. Benevolent Sexism which is harder to identify is men assuming the role of a protector, implying in essence that woman need to be protected. Personally I am not against men being chivalrous, but ask yourself if your kindliness and graciousness is restricted to the women folk alone, then you stand the chance to be frowned upon.

According to Caroline Bird (American author and feminist) “Sexism is judging people by their sex when sex doesn't matter. Sexism is intended to rhyme with racism”. A profound statement which helps us better understand sexism and its effects. Sexism is as manifested and prevalent as racism is and inhibits the growth of a progressive -free -thinking society. The biggest problem is not accepting that it is an issue, which needs to be adequately dealt with. Many still consider sexism as a norm or as a customary practice – epitomizing that women are the weaker sex, that women are meant to be homemakers, constraining women to the notion of being pretty, dignified, motherly and novel which leads to many problems such as gender pay gaps, preconceived social norms and being stereotyped as sex “objects” or even these “wonderful beings”. A condemnatory statement such as “You are a women/man, and hence you are supposed to be a certain way/ cant do certain things is as offensive and undignified as saying “ Oh you are an Indian/ Pakistani/Chinese/Black and hence you are supposed to be a certain way/ cant do certain things”.  The fight for equality should not be condemned to, just as the fight against “hostile sexism”; it is also against putting women on a pedestal just because they are women.

So what about men? Aren’t men treated differently based on sex? Absolutely! Reiterating my earlier point - feminism is about equality, obliterating the discrimination based on sex. Men are forced to don the role of being the financial provider for the family; expected to be stable, practical, and career focused. Men are expected to take on many of the toughest and harshest jobs (mining, the army, firefighting, waste collection etc). Men are ostracized and projected to be crude, violent and impassive. Men are considered as poor caregivers and as a result tend to lose custodies of their children in most divorce cases. Many men are plagued by false rape accusations. In India the moment a woman files an FIR (first information report) against a man, the police can arrest the accused without any form of preliminary investigation. Cases of domestic violence against men are considered insignificant since men are expected to be stronger and competent of withstanding both emotional and physical violence.

The sole purpose of this paper is to impede discrimination of any kind and is not in any way an effort to devalue men or to present women with unprecedented privileges.

My girlfriend is a freelance writer, author, a marketing consultant, world traveler, yoga enthusiast, & in her own words a “full-time feminist”. She also happens to be a smart, attractive, charming, well-read, independent woman.  I love her for who she is and I admire her for her success, ambitions and dreams and respect her for being better than me at a lot of things. Being in a relationship with a partner who has strong ideals and vision has presented me the chance to converse, debate and learn. I love her for inspiring me; I love her for being my critic and my catalyst for change. It’s liberating to see the person I love believe in endless possibilities and be the owner of a free and open mind.  As I walk beside her, and as we build our dreams together, Life it seems beautiful.

And am I a feminist? Absolutely! To equality/ parity/ equal opportunities/ fairness

- Dedicated to my girl, for making me a better person.

Author

Rageeth “Rags” Kollatt

The Rain Man

The rain man, they call me

Along crowded havens I tread

No place to rest, or to humble,

To nothing I've felt, belonged

Always longing to be forgone

And when it rains, I venture,

Amidst the chaste and impaired,

Their mourning and pain

Under their dark faces, they hide

They look at me and they say,

Hail him, the rain man,

“That person who can read our sorrows and pain,

When lighting strikes in the dark, “

I smile and I say,

“I’m only here, to drown my tears in the rain”

Rags

The Tail of Sreesanth

This was written a week before the whole spot fixing fiasco broke out.

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything, jotted down lines of a poem or contemplated on an underlying feeling. I needed to break this writer’s block, and why I choose this topic and this particular personality out of all the million possibilities that lay presented is something that amazes me as well.

Santhakumaran Sreesanth (can’t be arsed to find how it’s spelt, especially given the number of times he’s altered it) is a right arm medium pace bowler who is/was/aspires to be a seam bowler for the Indian National cricket team. Sree, as he is lovingly called by many, came into the limelight with impressive performances in the One day format of the game. Malayalees nevertheless took a special interest in the peculiar character due to the lack of Keralites breaking into the Indian team, finally they had someone to cheer for they thought.

Sree performed, pundits started talking, he had the pace, the best wrist position in the Indian team and he could make the ball talk. I for one rejoiced at seeing a young Indian pace bowler, that too from the same state as I was, making it big, finally an Indian bowler who could beat a batsman for pace. Sree, however was a mixed bag, he is to date the most expensive bowler in the IPL series with regards to his economy rate. And he also captured more than 150 wickets in both forms of cricket combined.

But what’s made Sree a household name is his on field and off field frantics. And I truly adore the man for that. He might resemble a monkey in tantrums when celebrating a wicket; he might literally dance down the wicket to celebrate hitting a rare six. But hey, that’s entertainment.

I remember an interview where Sree was pitted against a politician/writer who had referred to Sree as a monkey in his column. Sree obviously was furious and absolutely bombarded that certain individual with abuses, it was a sight. And in his arrogance, he was right, he was the only player from Kerala to make it big in cricket, and it seemed a bleak possibility that anyone else would play for the country from Kerala. He is infact the only player who I can think of who can get an ad endorsement even when he is not in the squad! When a man’s reputation can speak volumes, ah!

More than half the population of Kerala hates the guy’s guts. They absolutely despise him. Pundits talked again, this time they criticized him, they advised him to change, Sree did try, but the tame Sreesanth was no where near as good. It’s again a wonder that people, especially Indians find it okay for Australians/ South Africans to sledge. But when we sledge our opponents, they say it’s not Indian thing to do? Give me a break, stop being pussies!

But the real honest truth about following Sree, is for the simple fact Sree always makes it interesting. Isn’t that what we want from our life? Something different from the mundane, something so crazy that would indeed transport you away from your sorrows and worries and daily tensions. I could only hope that he keeps playing, both for India and in the IPL, just to watch that small quotient of unpredictability that he brings to the system. I am not saying that he is interesting just because he abuses his opponents, no, it’s the whole package, the funny hair, the dance, the arrogance and of course his the pace bowling.  This indeed is the tale of Sreesanth.

Rags

The Boy who lost track of time....

Prologue

I woke up today with a profound emptiness inside of me, the sort of feeling that makes you numb, the sort of hysteria that leaves you ragged. I get up and meander through the mundane duties that prepare me for the wistful day that awaits me.  I put on a shirt and tie and glance at the crooked image in the mirror that was happy once. His heart, it’s till there, the beat it still echoes like it always used to, a tear rallies down his freckled face, just a solemn drop of tear.

The Boy who lost track of time....

I wave goodbye to the soul in the mirror,

And venture out with a hollow unsung tune,

The images, the memoirs still keep flickering,

Yes, it’s a beautiful lass; it always has to be...

The smile that led me to believe that there was a better place out there

A place where I’d build all my dreams

But, them dreams,

Can’t be built on ones forlorn trance

I look around for your wasted smile

Rummage around for pieces of you here and there

Your smell, your things

I wander without a clue to my name

I drift through the empty corridors

Feeling only my lost soul

Still I trip, hoping that one day

You’ll greet me with that plastic smile

This mundane life has buried me with lies

And I can’t get around, when there’s no detour

Every dawn I stop, longing for that precious smile,

And I wait knowing that one day; your memories will all fade,

And I’ll eternally be the boy, who lost track of time. 

Rags

The offended, the religious and the atheist

Its now been almost five years since I’ve chosen my mode of faith, since I’ve taken that leap of faith, since I’ve visited a temple, a mosque or a church. It’s now been almost five years since I’ve started believing in people, and in science, in evolution, I am an atheist now. I came out, so as to say.

While growing up, I was never given stern commands to visit a temple, being born a Hindu. My father always educated me about the different religions and the different cultures. There was a choice, there was always a choice. As a young kid growing up, God comes to you as a super man. The only sole power, your soul guardian, but again someone who could punish you if you did wrong.

But there comes a time, when you take a moment to stop and think. There comes a moment when you realize that enough is enough, enough of the suicide bombings, enough of the random religious killings, enough of the fake God channels, enough of faith cutting us apart and preparing us for battle. Science, I believe has come to liberate us here, making sense to all the queries and the randomness. Evolution is my new savior. Richard Dawkins, renowned author and atheist rates himself only a 6.9 on a scale of 7, where 1 makes you a religious prick and 7 being a complete atheist. There is only so much science can prove, we are still evolving, we are still a young world when it comes to science. And science will show the way, sooner or later, of how such a wonderful thing as the earth came to being. It could be randomness, it could be God, but I rather wait. Like my dear evangelical Christian friend once proclaimed, I am a believer, Halleluah!

People often have misconceptions and stigmas attached to atheism. It’s not anti- God, its not anti- Christ, and it’s not a religion. Atheists are people who simply choose, not to believe in God. We are not brothers, we are not a clan, and we don’t congregate to decide how to convert the others. It’s just a feeling of being free, not restricted by society, not restricted by rules and misnomers, not praying to my imaginary friend.

The world in itself has become such a precarious place, with people electing to be offended. It’s the new thing; people find ways to be offended, they crave to be offended. Taking offense against religion, against country, against race, color, against jokes and country policies and what not. The opposite sex is no less guilty for this craving of being offended. The minority as so lovingly they are called. Being offended when being asked ones phone number, when being asked out, when someone professes their love. It’s a dangerous situation we are leading ourselves into; there will come a time when we would think twice about asking someone their name, would I offend her/him now?

I think to myself, I am any different, do I get offended? Sure I do, I get offended when someone ridicules my favorite football club, or my favorite players or my favorite actor. But would I be wiling to kill someone for my leap of faith?  Now, what offends me the most is stupidity. I just cannot identify with a person who chooses to die by his faith and someone who gives precedence to his faith more than anything. He refuses to be swayed by logic, facts and reasoning. I’m not just talking about religious people, this stigma is attached to everyone with a blind faith attached to it. But maybe its faith that pulls them through, that keeps them going, the thing that makes them yearn for more. Sure, but at what cost? But the more importance question is; can faith be offended? Faith by design stands a chance of being offended.

The most important argument that evangelicals post is that of the moral argument. Would we humans be moral if not for our religious teachings? I understand society, its values not because of my religious study, but because of how I was engineered (scientifically may I add).

Each day, people force themselves to move apart from each other. There is suddenly that invisible white line that separates all of us, pushing us apart. Where is the faith that we should put in another human being. Why is it so hard for us to trust another being? Why is everything so complicated, why are people so hard headed. We all just need to relax, take a back seat and listen. Spread the love, and live life. We need to open our eyes, our minds, and our hearts and embrace each other; not because he/her is a Christian or a Hindu or an Indian or a Pakistani, but because of his/her good heart.

Rags 

Drops from Heaven

Trickling down, them drops from  heaven,

Instills a pristine novelty,  each droplet

Caressed by, the zephyrs doused  in her scent,

Draped in the scent of love I stand

The clouds part, shining through, the yellow ray of hope

The colors of life, smears the heavens,

All that I can envisage, her blissful face

Draped in the scent of love I stand

Each walk of life, presents a new memory

Enchants all my senses, her cerulean eyes

Her mesmerizing smile, my  new found glory

Draped in the scent of love I walk…

Dedicated to all of you beautiful women

Rags