…The end of mankind

I heard him before I saw him-a low deep throated rumble that stilled the air between us. He was close. I could almost feel his warm breath on my bare arms, see those blood-thirsty amber eyes, hear him piercing through my flesh. He was immense, his being prevailed all my senses as I gave in to the writ of destiny and surrendered before fate. My mind felt heavier as if the thoughts had been drenched with fear. All seemed to have come to a standstill as he pounced upon me. The spear pierced through my chest barely missing the heart, prolonging the end. He spurned it and thrust it further in. I felt cold, numbed. I felt a shiver through my spine as I saw the blood-stained ground below. I turned to face the beast, staring into a pair of red stones, blood-hungry, burning. It was the intensity in his eyes, the power in the moment that drove me into the struggle, with a grit to survive, to fight back and die fighting. With the last breath in my mouth, I gathered all that I could and thrust forward, lunged onto his throat and pushed back. I fought hard with all the determination and desperation that a dying last man of his race could fathom. And as we perished into the cliff, falling into the deep trench of ignominy, With us perished humanity.

As the last humans, we had evolved into the beasts that we were meant to be. Adoring death and pain. Living with the wild. In the wild. As the last breaths of humanity exhaled into the cold heart of mother nature, a deep mist of death covered the sky.

And then there was none

She was standing in front of him, disheveled hair, a lost expression and dark quiet eyes. She had severe head injury and cuts and bruises all over. With arms stretched out, she asked for water. Her eyes were deep and stony, as if they held no expression. It was a low, depressed voice and an earnest tone. I was moved by her demeanor and serenity, the calm quiet eyes despite the need. The shuddering and wary hands, shy of her condition, yet forced to beg for life. And then, an axe fell on her outstretched hand. Her scream filled up the air. But all I could hear was the shrill laughter coming from inside. The axe was in my hands.

 

I woke up sweating profusely. It was a horrifying dream. I would never do that. I would never be able to. I am not a barbaric animal; I mean how can I even imagine something like this in my dreams? And thuddd..

I trembled with the noise. What was that? I get up and open the window of my room. The tree outside my room has been felled. The ground below is red. The morning sunshine pierces into my room and I can feel my skin burning.

Born Dead

He did not bleed. There was no pain… nothing could be felt. It felt like a free fall, a free fall into oblivion. It was as if nothing mattered anymore… nothing. The thoughts went numb; there was no beginning … no end. It all just seemed to engulf infinity. It just pierced into him, and he felt indifferent. And a dark, a deep dark took form in his heart and began to come out; he could feel himself drowning into it. And there were countless faces-tears on the cheeks-all falling into the dark abyss. He had never seen them, and yet he knew them all. He knew they were crying for him, crying for themselves, crying for… And there he saw her, falling in the endless abyss, the dark destined fall. He went out to her and held her hand. It was warm … motherly. He touched her, in a hope to wipe her tears, but the tears were dry, cold. In the moment when he looked into her eyes, he felt as if he had found and lost his destiny. In that moment, he had lived his life and died. In that moment, he had laughed and cried. In that moment, he had hated and loved. In that moment … the moment he treasured.

And yet he held her hand, with a belief, a hope that not all was lost. She was there with him … always. But on the sands of life, a fate had been etched and nothing could change now.

 

A deep and heart wrenching wail … he had lived for a moment … the moment of his death and yet, the moment he had lived was worthy and fulfilling, calm and untouched. Was it a fate he had chosen, was he born dead.

The Modern Man

The smoke cleared slowly, he was there. Face down..scarred..muddled..mauled..crucified. A suicide. An attempt to death, a contempt to life. Charred down by the world, he lay still – relieved and content. The end was satisfying, he was leaving behind a modern man. The window shattered open, a child was there, un-weeping .. numb .. death didn’t mean anything to it and neither did life. It had beautiful deep eyes, still without a view of the world – sound ears, without ‘a word of the world’. Underneath the nose, the face was barren. Skin between its lips, it had not mouth, no voice. And the burdened cowed down shoulders had no arms. The amputated child just lay there. . it could listen, but couldn’t say. It could see, but it couldn’t do. it could not smile but it could cry. The disfigurement was not of the body alone; it had a sound mind but a numb heart. He was the modern man, a successful man, the growing individual, the dying society.

 

As I moved away from the window, I could feel my arms melting down .. skin growing between my lips. The heart going cold, the mind taking over. I am a modern man, now..I am a modern man.

The End : Enlightened

The twenty-third storey, the whole city in his feet, dreams in his eyes, spirit on the face, this was his life. This was his world and he had made it. Benetton, McDonalds, Levi all lined up… ready… He had erected the towers, the buildings, the civilizations. The whole arena looked up to him, inspired… He had transformed the ignominy of ground to pride of heights, it was his sweat that quenched the thirst of the foundations, and those were his hours buried deep down in the dark alleys of toil. He had grown with it all; it rushed through his veins giving his life substance meaning. It was all his. The growth, the world, the ideas, the results, the toil, the substance, the sweat ….. the blood.

Beliefs shattered to the ground. Splintered glass had torn his lungs apart, the last breath was about to escape. He was about to die. He longed for the light, the vision. And then, there was light … all around … it came from his abode, his three walled thatched hut at the labor camp, Cross river mall. It was burning. Flames longing for the skies, settling down as soot in his heart, giving the last light,  the flicker before the end.

This was all. The labor was dead. The labor is dead.

Two minutes of two lives.

11:58 PM

He could feel the gush of blood up his spine. He could hear the rush growing outside his room. Strange thoughts filled his mind. A cruel mix of fear and doubt rising feeling its way up his thoughts, he was blinded by the cloud of uncertainty and groping for luck he began strengthening himself against the threat of being bashed up. And suddenly, there was a hush, the silence of action. His breathing became heavier by the second. Anytime now, there would be a thud on his door. He could see it all; he had been living with the perpetual sense of déjà vu for days altogether now. He had seen it all. In fact, he had been one in the mob, a few days back. He could feel the nameless mob, the faceless rush of people, and then there it was. The thud. Someone knocked on the door. The knock sent a chill down his spine. He regretted being known, being born. The thought circle began in his mind. Nothing would work it seemed, nothing. And then another knock and then another. It was as if the whole world had conspired against him. The sound interspersed with whispers of plans, clacks against his doors kept growing and so did the dilemma in his heart. He would not be spared. He would not…

12:00 AM
He was sitting in the canteen with a paining ass and an overwhelmed heart. Birthday bumps struck. This was the beginning of a new year in his life.HE was alive again.
His body was lying in a pool of blood, muddled over by the mob, numb, thoughtless. His dignity trampled over by countless feet, unable to move, with dry eyes, he saw the vulture settle down. It was the end of a life, the life. HE was dead, again.

The shattered glass of love, spilled water of guilt

‘The operation can be fatal’ said the doctor. ‘A girl child would be worse’ he replied.

It had been a hard day, exhausted and torn, he returned home. With the creak of the door she got up. He couldn’t still himself. A forlorn day without uttering a word, extending well into the dark hours. He was trembling with dread and fear. Tear swollen eyes, tired steps, heavy breath he needed her. The mind was tormented by thoughts. Were these haunts, dreaded warnings, signs of fate? The thoughts clouded him and then slowly arose… guilt. Was it all his fault? Had he murdered his own … had he claimed a life? How could he live with the pounding guilt in his heart? But what else could he have done? What else … The eye lids seemed too heavy with tears. The heart had been broken, the mind clouded. She came towards him; he could sense her smell, her touch, her feeling. Still out of his mind, he took the glass of water she extended. It was cold… She was cold. And that was when he realized, how it could be. How could she be…she had been killed before her birth. It could not be his daughter, his unborn legacy. It was impossible.  Numbed by her touch, his body went still, eyes content and relieved. He didn’t dread the end as much as the life.

The police knocked open the door. He was lying there. Cold.  The glass broken, the water spilled.