Fiction
Professor woke up hearing
the sound of something falling in the backyard of his two-storey house. He switched on the lights. It was three o’clock, still a couple of hours
to his wake-up alarm. A groan rose from
the yard. He went downstairs and opened
the backdoor.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” He asked the man
who was struggling to get up.
Professor helped the man
to get up and led him into his drawing room.
He gave him water to drink and offered to prepare tea.
“You have a fracture in
the foot, I think,” said Professor having examined the man’s leg. He picked up his phone and called for an
ambulance. “Let me change my dress. Relax here until the ambulance arrives.”
“Why are you doing this to
me?” The man asked Professor while they were in the ambulance. He was lying down on the stretcher. Professor was not a fool; he must have
understood what had happened. The
intruder had fallen down while trying to get into his house through the upper
storey by climbing up a tree.
“Did I have an option?”
wondered Professor. “You come to my
house and break your leg. What else
could I do?”
It was only after the man
was admitted in the hospital that he revealed his identity and the purpose of
his nocturnal visit to Professor. He was
a terrorist assigned with the duty of cutting off Professor’s palms.
“You shouldn’t write
anymore, that’s what we wanted,” he explained. Professor’s writings hurt their religious
sentiments, he said. So they decided to
stop his writings. And thus give a
warning to other such potential writers.
No one should dare to question religion.
Holy cows should be above the questioning of silly rationalists like
Professor.
“But did you read my
writings?” Professor asked. “Any one of
you whose sentiments are so brittle, did any one of you read my writings?”
Professor knew the answer
even before Terrorist answered him.
“Has any one of you ever
read the scriptures of your religion?”
Professor knew the answer
even before Terrorist answered the question.
“What is religion?” Terrorist stared at Professor. He did not know the answer.
Wasn’t it the magic wand
with which we subjugated people? The
magic wand which elevated some to the higher classes and relegated others to
the lower? It created myths and
enshrined them as eternal truths. It
created holy cows. It burned alive the
seekers of real truths after labelling them as heretics and witches, infidels
and blasphemers. Gods have always been
blood-thirsty. Religion is a history of divine
thirst that stretches from Prometheus to Kalburgi, from Achtaeon to Akhlaq.
“Your leg will take at
least six weeks to heal,” Professor told the man. “You will get ample time to read the Gita, the advice of the god of your holy
cow. Read the whole Mahabharata and see if that god is worth amputating people’s arms
for. You will get time to read more and
I can give you the materials if you wish.”
Was this Professor’s
revenge? Terrorist asked himself. Is he mocking me? When my father was shot dead in a railway
station by a man who came from across the country’s border carrying a machine
gun, where was this Professor with his counsel?
No, Professor, the enemies
of our gods deserve death. Nothing
less. What are we without our gods? I don’t need your books. I need my gods.
When Terrorist was
discharged from hospital, Professor took him home.
“Why don’t you leave me
alone? I’ll go back to my home.” Terrorist almost pleaded.
“But your mission is not
accomplished.” Professor went in and
came back with the knife that had fallen in his backyard along with Terrorist. He kept the knife above a book shelf and
said, “The day you are able to use it again, you can accomplish your mission
and leave happily. In the meanwhile, these are the books that you may read.”
When Professor went to
college, Terrorist pulled out one of the books after looking at many
titles. Jokes. That was the book he pulled
out. He opened a page randomly.
“Dam fish, dam fish,” a boy was shouting trying to sell the
fish in his basket.
“Why do you call them damn fish?” asked a pastor who passed
by.
“I caught them from the dam,” said the boy innocently.
Pastor bought some fish.
He told his wife that they were special fish as they were dam fish.
“Damn fish are special?” wondered the woman.
“This is the problem with you people whose minds are dirty,”
sermonised Pastor. “I say dam and you hear damn.” He explained that they were dam fish.
Later, at dinner, he said to his wife, “Pass me the dam fish.”
“Ha! That’s the
spirit, Dad,” said his young son jubilantly.
Then turning to his mom he said, “Mom, pass me the fucking potatoes.”
Terrorist laughed. Then he realised that it was the first time
he laughed in many years. He read more
jokes and laughed more.
When he laughed flowers
bloomed in the garden outside. “Why didn’t
I ever notice this beauty earlier?” He
wondered.
Slowly he learnt that
there was so much beauty in the world to be relished.
“Do you see the bird sitting there?
And the tree? And me?” Drona
asked Arjuna.
Terrorist was re-writing
the Gita.
“I see the bird,” replied Arjuna. “I see it clearly.”
“Aim at the eye,” said the Guru.
Arjuna lowered his bow and arrow. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t shoot.”
“Why?” The Guru became
petulant.
“I see, Guru. I see
clearly.”
“Don’t you want your
knife?” Professor asked when Terrorist’s
foot was liberated from its plaster cage and he was ready to walk away.
“Haven’t you made me
incapable of wielding it?” Terrorist
asked. “Haven’t you taught me that the word
is more powerful than the knife?”
“Compassion is the most
powerful weapon, my friend,” said Professor.
“What the religions have always preached but never learnt. Compassion.
Try wielding that weapon. No
enemy can fight that for long.”
Compassion. Was it compassion that his Arjuna felt for
the bird when he refused to shoot it? He
had still to learn that. He would
learn. Soon, he hoped. He could feel his lips longing to kiss
someone and whisper, “I love you. I love you.”
Sreesha Divakaran's review of my book, The Nomad Learns Morality: HERE
I wish every body could think and act in this way...compassion is the key word, not #tolerance.
ReplyDeleteTolerance could have been the threshold to compassion. But the word has been converted into a four-letter word in India today.
DeleteI love how the Bhagavad Gita has mingled with terrorism in this post! Another great read. Your posts reminded me of an advertisement I had seen years ago. It's an ad for vodka but the message is meaningful. What if all wars, religious or otherwise were fought like this? Take a look - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pp27soLHZco
ReplyDeleteThanks for your appreciation and the link.
DeleteReligion has been appropriated by rascals. That's the tragedy of our times.
ReplyDeleteLoved reading your post.
The rascal come in various garbs too.
DeleteVery relevant in these times :(
ReplyDeleteGlad to see you back, Roohi. Hope you are fine now.
DeleteI wish I had the time to keep reading the blog all day.
ReplyDeleteThat's a huge compliment, Titas. Thank you.
Delete