Targets are built. Targets are achieved after they are built. And targets are remembered after they are achieved. But those who starve of memory are the victims. They are the bodies who stack their bodies to raise the ladder that leads to the stage of victory- a bright and live stage where the reality lies, literally, beneath. There are men who do nothing and get everything, there are men who do something and get everything, but he is a man who does everything and gets nothing.
Nothing he gets, nothing is known of him in the yolk-yellow past which brightens the top and shadows the deserving one. He sees everything, but nobody sees him seeing everything. While others crave for attention, he craves for anonymity so that he must not meet his fate before the right time. He realises the reality of succinctness of life. He has seen the life nude and the death nude. He is therefore not scared of the pleasure or pain fate has preserved for him. He hates to call it fate, he calls it effort. Destiny has no meaning for him. When he sees through the lens of his present, his future, he finds his effort not his destiny waiting to embrace him.
He has seen everything. Everything human or inhuman one can create in one’s most catastrophic imaginations. All his nightmares relive when he wakes up and they prevent him the luxury of a silent sleep while compelling him to sleep in silence. Those loud noises- big crowds – shrieks – moans – cries –agonies – remorse – dust – wind – rain – heat – ice – blood – skin – flesh – urine – faeces - vomit- corpses and most certainly his own body among the carcass: lucky if breathing, but seldom a difference if not.
Nothing in his life is periodic. Sleep is in parcel and food is in gloom. Or food is in parcels and sleep is in gloom. No family but too many strangers. No friends but too many enemies. No love, but too much hatred. No belief but lots of suspicion. No surety but lots of delusion. No sanity, yet again, too much insanity prevails. The equation of his life strives to get balanced, but the penchant is never to the correct side. It’s always the unwanted awaiting him while he adorns the wanted.
Though men are often more valuable to others then to themselves, but his valiue is undermined in his as well as others’ eye. Respect, yes that is there but a mere mundane tribute. Nobody bothers to go at the helm of his misery. Land is silent because he is loud. Soil is fertile because he is vindictive. His sleepless nights are his people’s tranquilizer. His wounded body is his people’s shield. His emotional haemorrhage is his people’s impetus. His tedium is his people’s euphoria. His commitment to death is his people’s tryst with life. He is the morning sun. He is the twilight silhouette. He is the night star. Then again, he is the morning sun.
He is the child’s smile. He is the woman’s wait. He is the man delayed. He is the noise of town. He is the calm of wind, H e is democracy. He is communism. He is monarchy. He is all the religion. He is for allthe religion. He is the masqueraded seer. He is the loud leader. He is the savage saviour, but the philanthropist predator. He is the assaulter, but the protector. He is the protester, but the supporter. He is the SOLDIER.