Saturday, October 1, 2016

Before War


Perhaps one day, the color of your skin, the God in your name, the rhythm of your native tongue, the food on your table, the drink in your glass, or some thing else which is insignificant will make your head roll in a genocide. You live in that shadow: the next riot, the next mob that will come to your door. They might arrive in months, or decades or a hundred years later.

That wait can pull down the movement of your days, or you might forget it during a journey to the mountains.

It is the season of war in the republic which is slowly turning into a banana. Men whose faces carry the sign of murders and rapes with honor, shriek war cries through television channels and streets into your head.
.....
As they get ready for war, I suddenly feel the need to go to that tiny restaurant. To eat appam and fish curry. Before the season of righteous bombs begins, hoard as much normalcy as possible.

The world is full of war, this is our share of it. In the mountains, forests, my tax money harvests bodies of dead teenagers, curses of wailing broken men and women. I remember the Syrian boy who came to my kitchen in Europe. His travel across oceans, lorries..his parents waiting to die with the next bomb in Aleppo.
....

As we wait for bombs, genocides, tornadoes of hate..
May be, should hoard enough of life.

Well made tea..a lethargic afternoon sun, a knock on the stranger's door that may or may not get answered, a drink at the edge of the evening before it falls over, the lazy Saturday when no work gets done, the biriyani which arrives in silver foil, laughter which stumbles on inconsequential things..

Before it all ends.

As I was moving back to India under the premiership of Hitler, with a Muslim name in my passport; my mentor who is a European Jew said, "you are too optimistic"

Great platoon commanders of hate wait for us at different time zones of history. Past and future blur with the fiction of today.

May be I should live. Before the concentration camp becomes an industrial complex, before the mob reaches my door, before days sink into a very dark winter.

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