"I always believed that fear belonged to other people. Weaker people. It never touched me. And then it did. And when it touches you, you know... that it's been there all along. Waiting beneath the surfaces of everything you loved."
"When you love something, every time a bit goes, you lose a piece of yourself."
Loss, like love, is deeply personal. Only the one who has suffered, knows the depths of it.
As usual, this is my post. But this is not my story as usual.
I was struggling with my post. Then I took a look at my blog-roll. I saw most of my blogger friends, barring probably Agnes, have fallen silent. May be this is the season of slience. Then quite a few things came to my mind. Some dark, some cheerful. Some did excite me, some left me cold. I knew I was struggling.
This morning, I reached office when my colleague handed out a photograph to me. "Today is World Day for Prevention of Child Abuse and it's a related picture," he said. I should be honest, I did not know such a day did exist. These days, there are so many that one loses count.
Soon after, I logged into my Facebook account and saw a link from NY Times my friend Lala - he is pursuing his doctoral degree in Purdue University - had sent me. It had something to do with children in Congo. I read and did not just stop till it ended. At the end, it saddened me no end.
I don't intend to make any statement although I know I am sounding like a hypocrite here. For, such stories are not exclusive to Congo. Stories like this one abound in Asia and Africa where governments have failed; where civil war is the norm; where mineral resources have been plundered by outsiders, ably assisted by forces from developed nations. It's not as if we have not come across such tales of human tragedy before. Not as if it has not happened anywhere near I live. By saying all this, I am probably ridding myself of the feeling of guilt of not doing my bit.
Do read the following link. I just wanted to share what I call His Story.
This post is dedicated to the two blogger friends whose compassion in their last posts is still lingering around in my mind. To Mehreen (for that post on child labour) and Trevor (for that moving photograph on Children's Day).
I remember telling T, “You say so much yet with so few words.” I had just finished reading his blog post.
“Pithy has become a wasted art these days. I’d like to say I practice it,” he replied. I had to agree. I was never a man of few words.
T practiced it. But there are times when people want to say so much and end up saying so little. I noticed, it mostly happens when they really want to say something. The words may not appear significant and you could almost pass them off as ordinary on any other day. Not always though. There are times when they stay with you.
Some of the “so-few saying so-much” words that I will always remember.
“Eat on time.” That’s what Ma says every time I am traveling. She could replace the three words with so many but she fails to.
“Thank you for everything,” she said. It was a tough phase and I just happened to be by her side.
“Talking to you is therapeutic,” said someone who had chosen not to talk to me.
“Stupid fool,” said Sonya. It was after a long conversation about my life. She and I have not met each other in ten years.
“Life has been a series of crutches. You are the softest one,” said I. I and I have been friends since college days. Communication through phones or mails doesn’t really matter for us. We work for the same company, at two difference places though.
“I don’t believe in your nonsense,” That’s SN. At it again.
"Time you got married," my colleague K can't hide her disappointment.
“Don’t call me. Boss is at crease.” MK is superstitious about a cricketer named Sachin Tendulkar. He doesn’t forget to call me when India is playing Down Under. At 4 in the morning.