Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Friday, October 27, 2006
Friday, October 20, 2006
Nightfall and Anencephaly
There's something about the night and it's comfort and it's cold warmth that brings out kindness in the hardest of hearts, a sense of identity with the other creatures that roam the dark. Approaching midnight, the faces I pass on the road, are not filled with fear, malicious intent or anger. They are smiling at me. I am hungry, the body is asking for sustenance. After rolling on through many a side street, I chance on a push cart, Charlie and the meat factory, God's providence for the hungry angels of the night. "Kya khaaoge bhaiyya?". Feed me brother, and I shall remember the good deed done. Thank you.
Siddharta seems happy. He's calmer than I had known him to be.
On another night years back, a baby is born, in the manner most babies are, except this one isn't like the others. It doesn't cry like the others, and it's not a sight for the weaker of hearts. Your eyes are drawn and held, you can only look on in helplessness. And what is holding your eyes as if fastened tight with rivets? It is the baby's brain, or rather where the brain should have been. It was simply not there, nor was the skull, the scalp, everything you would associate with a normal newborn. It was as if some unseen in-utero force scythed obliquely along a line from forehead to the back of the head.
And I thought it was dead, it couldn't possibly be alive, could it? Not without a brain. Sorry, wrong answer. Wasn't crying, wasn't moving, so how alive? Under the lights, standing by it's side, and gathering my guts from off the floor, I touched it, the void where the brain was meant to be. A spasmodic, spine-chilling jerk of the lower limbs ripped through what I thought was not alive. Stunned into insensibility, I staggered back. The baby remained alive for an hour afterward. Requiescat in pace. The mother was eighteen. Peace be with her.
Siddharta seems happy. He's calmer than I had known him to be.
On another night years back, a baby is born, in the manner most babies are, except this one isn't like the others. It doesn't cry like the others, and it's not a sight for the weaker of hearts. Your eyes are drawn and held, you can only look on in helplessness. And what is holding your eyes as if fastened tight with rivets? It is the baby's brain, or rather where the brain should have been. It was simply not there, nor was the skull, the scalp, everything you would associate with a normal newborn. It was as if some unseen in-utero force scythed obliquely along a line from forehead to the back of the head.
And I thought it was dead, it couldn't possibly be alive, could it? Not without a brain. Sorry, wrong answer. Wasn't crying, wasn't moving, so how alive? Under the lights, standing by it's side, and gathering my guts from off the floor, I touched it, the void where the brain was meant to be. A spasmodic, spine-chilling jerk of the lower limbs ripped through what I thought was not alive. Stunned into insensibility, I staggered back. The baby remained alive for an hour afterward. Requiescat in pace. The mother was eighteen. Peace be with her.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Dark Eyes
Now, Siddharta was in love. A love that runneth deeper than I had seen ever. All he felt was heat and flame, and all he saw were dark eyes, like the man sang. Let's not digress.
If it were required of him, he would've forsaken his world for her, but it never came to pass. His love remained unrequited, and not for want of trying. And unrequited it was, not because she didn't understand Siddharta's feelings for her, she knew them all too well, they were good friends, and probably remain so. Her explanations made no sense to me, I'm biased toward him, they sound like rubbish. Siddharta is an enlightened soul, still I had seen him to moved to the point of silent tears many a sad evening, and why? "It's not worth it", I tried telling him, and then realized how hollow it sounded in the face of his misery.
Four years down the road, Siddharta is a busy man, I haven't seen him in a long time. But Siddharta is still in love, I know it. He doesn't want to accept it. She's a fool. It's her loss. His world built around her at one point, now I wonder if I should rejoice or be sad if he comes to believe that it was not meant to be. Let it be, Siddharta, let it be.
If it were required of him, he would've forsaken his world for her, but it never came to pass. His love remained unrequited, and not for want of trying. And unrequited it was, not because she didn't understand Siddharta's feelings for her, she knew them all too well, they were good friends, and probably remain so. Her explanations made no sense to me, I'm biased toward him, they sound like rubbish. Siddharta is an enlightened soul, still I had seen him to moved to the point of silent tears many a sad evening, and why? "It's not worth it", I tried telling him, and then realized how hollow it sounded in the face of his misery.
Four years down the road, Siddharta is a busy man, I haven't seen him in a long time. But Siddharta is still in love, I know it. He doesn't want to accept it. She's a fool. It's her loss. His world built around her at one point, now I wonder if I should rejoice or be sad if he comes to believe that it was not meant to be. Let it be, Siddharta, let it be.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Thoughts
You know something ain't right, when the education minister shuts down hundreds of schools. Last time I checked, he was elected so he'd do the exact opposite. Hmmm, where have all the good people gone?