The Venom Of Pseudo-secularism

“WE, THE PEOPLE OF INDIA, having solemnly resolved to constitute India into a SOVEREIGN SOCIALIST SECULAR DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC…….”

The severity of this declaration in the preamble often compels one to gravely ponder over the significance of the aforementioned five pillars of our democracy. While the idea of a truly sovereign and socialist India has been achieved to a substantive degree, figuratively if not literally, yet the astonishing complacency observed by our politicians and self-declared secularists on this vital third pillar called secularism, has been deplorable.

It is enraging; the loathsome attempts of the so-called ‘secular brigade’ in the country when they patronize the minority community, in order to augment their own vote bank. It is revolting; the fanatical torch bearers of Hindu culture trying to impose the primitive, medieval traditions in 21st century India, amidst the effulgence of a new era of modernisation and scientific temperament. It is hypocritical; the conceited architects of our constitution entailing the urgency of the Hindu Code Bills, while choosing to remain oblivious to the importance of an equally crucial bill for the Muslims, thus slaying the enactment of an Uniform Civil Code, on grounds that the minority community “ was not yet prepared”. It is appalling; the disgraceful efforts to organise unconstitutional events such as the “ghar wapsi” — luring the desperate into changing their beliefs on promises of a prosperous life ahead — and even more disgraceful is the ‘secular brigade’ that has shrewdly shut its eyes towards the forced conversions by Christian Missionaries and Islamic Fundamentalists.

The adjectives would fall short in number, but the instances won’t. The list goes on incessantly, unceasingly.

The most judicious solution to this perilous problem is the complete detachment of state from religion. Unless the political establishment ceases to use religion as the ultimate weapon in their arsenal, the secularization of this country cannot possibly happen. Why establish parties representing a certain sect and cater to them specifically, the question then arises?

The practice of sectarian politics under the bogus of secularism has led to the marginalisation of minorities in the country. And then there is the supremely liberal media that has its adulation of minorities as well, enhancing the already widespread policy of appeasement prevalent in the polity; a ground where they appear to be on the same page as the politicians whom they counter so vehemently.

It must be thoroughly realised by those ludicrous advocates of a“Hindu Rashtra”, that India is the homeland of the Muslims too, as much as it is of Hindus, and they aren’t going anywhere. Besides, the wretched detractors of the splendid cultural heritage of India, and those who find it amusing to take the Hindus for granted, should quickly realise that India will not give into any forms of bias or favouritism, while it calls itself truly secular.

The stigma of pseudo-secularism needs to end or a massive social uprising is inevitable, unfortunately, for India.

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A Tale Of Providence

I am awake. It’s that infuriating sound yet again, I believe. My tiny eyes — still crammed with sleep — can hardly decipher the silhouette of that person, departing. I glance at the small steel vessel kept beside me. Twenty coins probably.

I detest it. That moment when the coin bashes against the steel, the thumping sound, the cessation of ‘their’ cries, and the way I arise. Hate all of it, passionately.

I despise it. Their phony concerns and their sympathetic faces, while the next moment they idle away under the spell of their smart phones. Angering it is, frankly.

I loathe it. Their choice to ignore us like we never existed, their cold demeanour expressing their pretentious toughness, and the occasional contempt aimed at ‘them’. Enraging it is, really.

I am a little guy; just a tiny creature with tiny hands and tiny legs. Each day of my tiny life, I see numerous people who are greater than me, stronger than me. I’m just a little guy, and my home is merely a square feet of ground. Each day of my tiny life, I see people who live in sprawling mansions and luxurious suites. I’m just a little guy brandishing my tag of being an orphan, quite exuberantly. Each day of my tiny life, I see little kids hopping around elatedly with their parents, while the only family I’d ever be elated to see is ‘them’.

I am feeble. I am living a pathetic existence, a reality that is nothing but burdensome in its entirety. Lying outside the metro station all day, I can do nothing but stare. Gaze at those who are more privileged than me, strolling away in their elegant dresses and stylish glasses, as I’m myself adorned in a single piece of shorts, barely hiding my nakedness. Lately, I have been seeing people wearing a kind of mask on their mouths, and their hushed interactions tell me that a treacherous flu is in play. I listen intently, after all.

Who is going to save me if the deadly ailment grabs me, I wonder? I can only pray that it doesn’t clutch ‘them’. It better kills me if that is what it would take to satiate its thirst.

I can feel a pair of hands picking me up from the rigid, jagged ground and placing me in the comfort of a motherly lap. She looks down at me fondly, caressing my lips smoothly, smiling as she does it. Her face, though pleasant, seems scarred. They aren’t real scars; just dry mud that’s plastered over her cheeks and some on her forehead, giving her an obnoxious appearance. I avert my eyes from her as I can’t bring myself to look at her. No, it isn’t the way she looks. This burden just doesn’t deserve love, I think. I turn my head to face the opposite wall.

I see a small girl. She describes the literal meaning of begging. Her face is contorted in a wail; her hands are clasped together, imploring everyone who passes by. I see people staring at her, tenaciously. No, it is not the usual stare that one would throw at a beggar. Sometimes the stare is supplemented by an unfavourable chuckle. It’s truly appalling, I feel. For these are not the fake scars of mud, but the real scars of fire. And those who know nothing of fire shouldn’t ever mock those that are scorched by it, forged by it.

I see myself and I see poverty. I define it. I see others and I see destiny, I see providence. Maybe, someday I’ll defy it. I might be small and I might be an orphan, but I do have a family. I have a family where one person deliberately looks ugly just to tell the other person that she’s not alone.

I am not alone either. I have my two sisters and ‘they’ have me — their brother.

The diary of Hafiz Saeed

My name is Hafiz Muhammad Saeed and I’m not a terrorist.

Merely an insignificant jihadi I am, albeit a prominent one, I admit. A servant of Allah, the redeemer of people, indeed I am, I admit. I run a trivial organisation under the name of the almighty, though I dream big, I admit. But why do they target me? Why am I the one being incessantly harassed by their antics? Why can’t they comprehend my struggle to establish the dominion of Islam over the heretics?

I don’t like those Indian guys, you know. They are agonizing people, always resolute to destroy me. Apparently, I commanded jihad on their grand city and since then they have resolved to terrorize my ass. And here I am, still trying to save my ass from their ruthless whips.
It’s been several years now when the world first heard of me. Within a matter of hours, I had earned the reputation of going from being a novice to a novelty in the jihadi community; in my dear brotherhood. But hadn’t I deserved it, tell me? I had been planning and scheming for three years before tasting success in its sweetest form. I have sweated profusely and have been treated sneeringly before I could reach where I am.

I still remember that day like it was yesterday. It was the evening of 26/11, 2008. Eagerly waiting for any credible information to reach my ears, I had been fervently pacing to the bathroom again and again. And when I heard through the satellite phone that our ten jihadi brothers had reached ashore, I was obviously elated. But the real war had just begun, and so did my anxiety.

I was delighted to know that my men had been evoking havoc in Mumbai. I was choking with emotions, hugging my associates, while trying to handle our plan efficiently lest it might be unceremoniously interrupted. It continued for three days. They called it carnage while I called it my men’s courage. They termed it terror attack while I termed it a gallant act.

Mumbai looked gorgeous. Stagnant. Quiet. Stopping Mumbai was implausible, but it looked like I did the impossible. It was Allah’s wish that 164 people lost their lives. I prayed for our valiant brothers who showcased staggering bravery and immortalized themselves. And when the smoke cleared from the apex of the Taj Hotel, I was pleased.

I was declared the topmost fugitive by India. I mean I didn’t really mind, I even enjoyed all the attention. I just don’t like being pestered by these inhibitions that I have acquired as of late. I fear that I will live longer and the apprehension that comes with it is pushing me to the edge of dying, just nearly missing out.

I have been caged for far too long. Bounded, captured, apprehended. Not merely my body but my soul too. I see my soul, once alive and vivacious, now tormented and tortured. I see my heart, once merry and sublime, now pierced and wounded. I see my emotions;no, I feel them. I feel my emotions, once blissful and jolly, now maimed and mutilated.

I am tired of saving my ass from their ruthless whips. I am tired of the imprisonment. I fear living and I pray for death.

Chutzpah…

Let’s consider the situation. There is a guy, contemptible and cantankerous, born and raised in one of those cheesy towns in rural UP. It is imperative that his father is an important figure in the village; the apparent justification for his smugness, often narcissism. Now, the father of this guy obviously holds the reins to the caste equation in his area and so he is powerful. They have lands and cattle and men and guns. This guy receives a splendid upbringing, in terms of leisure and liberty, however lagging behind in acquiring necessary virtues. Visualise him, in all his imperiousness, sitting with his collection of rogues, littering all over the street while waiting for a girl to pass by. And then begins the inauguration of lewd stares and lecherous comments. An over smart puppet of our guy would whistle shamelessly, ensuing the origination of disgraceful chuckles and wicked laughter. Highly appalling.

The guy would then call for the bikes, garb his trademark ‘saafi’ around his neck and local sunglasses. And there goes the bikes. Hail people! The caravan of douchebags is passing.

Bikes zoom across the ruptured rural roads, hovering dust all around the place. They reach the city, smirking and sniggering all the way. Our guy enters the university, jubilant and pompous, while the students smell a dog approaching. But this dog is dirtier than anyone expects; he walks like he owns the world. The bikes come to a halt and the tension in the air is palpable. Our guy takes a quick glance in the mirror, adjusting his hair carefully, before getting off. He is greeted by several of his acquaintances and accomplices. One or two come forward and touch his feet.

Well, a dog has his bitches.

Now, the university is the nucleus of politics. Countless student unions, myriad of banners and numerous candidates aspiring to become the student leader. But our guy is destined to defeat them all. Our guy has got what it takes to creep his way through the election. He masters the art of throwing bundles of money and donating gallons of liquor. And he is apt at my favourite one. Beating up people. He is a bully, you see?

After college, our guy pays a visit to his godfather. The godfather is usually a famous political leader, in or out of power. The godfather welcomes our guy with open arms and serves him scotch. He discusses the local politics with our guy, cautiously planning to recruit more young guns in his campaign, for his own benefit, and for the mutual benefit of both, ensuring full support in the student election.

Eventually, destiny proves itself correct and our guy does win the election. And thus begins the obnoxious journey of a loathsome guy; the journey to the top of the political echelons. Rumours circulate that the guy ended up spending a sum of 75 lakhs in quest to become the student leader. Thank you, dear father, he remarks in his soliloquy.

Our guy represents the seeds of another corrupt generation of politicians, sown in order to degrade our motherland. Ever wondered from where does that 75 lakh come back? I bet you have.

I detest it. Each and every bit of it. Swine are ruling over lions and vermin is being served to the country. I refuse to accept it. I can’t be tamed and you just don’t have enough lashes.
Screw you, bitch. I got an IQ of 149. I’m a freaking genius.

I Am Angry

I am angry. I am angry at her.

How much more could I hate her? I mean there is a limit to everything. Over time I have realised that it is not the person you hate but really what’s inside yourself. It is not their lies, but your own dilemma. It is not their neglect, but your own low self esteem. You don’t hate them for not loving you back; rather hate yourself for loving them in the first place.

Each day of my life I wonder, with uncertainty in my heart and a frown upon my forehead, am I doing the right thing? Is it correct to hate someone? My heart reprimands my mind for hating someone; the person whom I used to love once. Rebuking my conscience with all its might, the heart admonishes me bitterly and mocks at my lavish attempts to label myself as a good human being. I am obliged to strike a chord with the thoughts of great men, the ones whom I glorify vigorously, leaving with me nothing more than a feeling that is both contemptuous and revolting.

Each day of my life, I find myself sitting alone, with a bottle of water, for it imparts me unparalleled nostalgia, and with heavy thoughts, which unceremoniously invite me to ponder upon them. I gaze at the night sky. It is the same starry sky that used to make me rejoice as a child as I would envisage myself travelling to far off galaxies. But now when I look at it, the stars are just a minuscule symbol of light in a forlorn universe. My universe.

Each day of my life, I try to forgive her. But then all those miserable memories come rushing back. It’s been a long time and I am tired. But in all this time I have realised one thing and have done it patiently. I have peaked inside my own conscience, travelling through the deepest recesses of my heart and found that hating her is not a choice but a necessity. I don’t hate her. I make myself believe that I hate her. It is crucial, you see?

Each day of my life, she reminds me of the blunders I have committed. She reminds me of all the erroneous decisions that I have made. She reminds me of my flawed powers of judgement; of my failure in judging a person. She reminds me of my failed attempt at love. She reminds me of the misconceptions that inhabited my mind. That love would be sugary and its fruits even more. That morning would stir by a single beam of light hitting the eyes, accompanied with the chirping of the birds and a serene smile residing on my own lips. She reminds me of the countless delusions that had made their way into my mind. She made me dream, and mind you- the trance was no ordinary one, for it gave me wings.

But are these reasons valid enough to hate her? Was my introspection worthwhile? Should I nod and eagerly certify that I am correct in hating her. Or should I think a little more? Should I give a chance to my own soul, a chance of forgiving her? My soul isn’t a hateful one, I’m sure. So I think more and more and more.

And finally I grasp the truth.

Each day of my life I live with one great truth. It’s annihilation. It represents the greatest aspect of existence. Nothing is everlasting. Everything is destroyed, except destruction of course. She represents my destruction. She came as death, infamous and iniquitous, but fierce and mighty.

Today when I gaze inside my own big brown eyes, I see a fallen warrior. I witness a villain. I perceive an ashamed knight. I behold a vanished marvel.

I hate the weakness of my heart; a tiny lapse of resilience, giving way to multitude of feelings. I hate the downfall of my ideals; the ones that defined me once and now that dishonour me. I hate the fact that I couldn’t endure the enticement, the lure coming my way. I couldn’t stand for everything I stood for. I remember those days, stalwartly spent in forging my shield and sharpening my blade. And when the time came to prove my mettle, I failed to deliver. I squirmed like a little child for far too long on a matter far too small.

But time’s changed. And so have I.

For the first time in my life, I am outraged. I refuse to forgive. I will remember the insults. I will remember the betrayal. I will remember every moment of pain. I will be stubborn. I will be selfish. I will be cruel. I will be tough. And I will trample anyone who dares to confront me.

I am angry. I am angry at her. That is all I know.

Nostalgic Downpour

The boring last period before lunch couldn’t have gotten worse when the professor took a surprise quiz. I was doomed, obviously. The silver lining came in the form of tiny droplets of rain spiralling down from the aisle and onto the ground, thus emanating the nostalgic fragrance of wet mud. And when the showers turned thunderous, I finally found my spirits being lifted. Little did I know that it was merely for the time being.

After the class was dismissed, I found myself en route to the English department to participate in a discussion on creative writing and poetry. I was overwhelmed to interact with dozens of new students who breathed literature, just like I did. It was a fascinating, albeit awe inspiring experience to hear from them.

Meanwhile, the rain hadn’t stopped for an hour. So after the group interaction session, while several of the other students decided to remain under cover until the rain ceased, I decided to relive some nostalgic memories in the rain.

I wanted that ten minute stroll to the hostel to be exceptional. Sometimes I wonder if I have stopped talking to myself. Sometimes I wonder if I have forgotten who I really am. Sometimes I wish I could ask this question more often. It was time to introspect and so I got off, oblivious to the tumultuous downpour.

No sooner had I commenced my journey, I saw a couple at a distance, coming in my direction. The girl was teasing the guy by pushing him lovingly, laughing as she did it, while the guy was trying to explain something apologetically. And that sight was more than enough to invoke everything that I had tried to forget for the past several months. Her face. Her hair. Her eyes. Her lips. Her voice. Her hands. Her love. Her charm. Her sweetness. Oh god, her smile…
Her… Her… It was her.

I saw it. No, I was seeing it from my very own eyes. She was coming in my direction and I was going in her direction. I felt my stomach lurching and my brain, my irrational brain, started to discharge those hormones all over my body. They were hormones not of lust, but pain. Hormones of rejection. Hormones of failure. Hormones of grief.

And when the junction arrived, maybe the goosebumps reckoned that it was a good enough time to resurface, and so they did, jubilantly. She moved on, her eyes lowered, pretending she didn’t notice me.

I continued walking, realising it was the only thing I must do. I must move on. When I arrived at the hostel, I was devastated. Originally planning to go to the mess, I ended up entering the gym room. It was deserted.

I picked up a ten kilogram dumble and started feasting on it. There was anger inside me, welled up in hazardous proportions, ready to be cast on someone. I kept on testing the limits of my muscles and when I could do no more, I let the dumble slip from my hand, and tears from my eyes. I saw my reflection in that huge mirror.

Was this my end? Was I destined to do this forever? Was I weak enough to let her effect me for the remainder of my life? Why couldn’t I just move on? I was unnerved. I had my inhibitions. I was intimidated. I plugged on my earphones, listening to MJ, while I started to pull weights. Let them feel it. I wanted my shoulders and my chest to feel the same pain that my heart was feeling. Let them feel it, until this pain overpowers the one in my heart. Let them feel it, even for a second, if possible, that I might knock her out of my brain and pay heed to this new bodily pain, and not the old pain in my heart.

I will move on.

I hoodwinked my heart with these words of strength and came back to my room.

But somewhere inside, somewhere among the deepest recesses of my heart, I wish that really does happen. Someday, I wish, I can move on.

You know what?
I will.

Next Stop, Neverland.

I like this writer. She’s a prodigy. 🙂

Epiphany in the Cacophony

train

The alarm rang earlier than usual that morning. There was a train to catch.

He boarded the train and took his place in the empty compartment. He was always early. He sat himself down at the window seat and opened up the day’s newspaper. A young man, dressed in a crisply ironed white shirt arrived soon after. Babu had noticed him on the platform. His stark white shirt standing out like a sore thumb against the dull, dusty, paan-stained train station. He sat down beside him, pulled out a folder and looked through it frantically. It was stuffed with documents, the ends of the folder bulging out uncomfortably, like a blouse that’s too tight. He pulled out a bunch of papers and put it on his lap, letting the folder breathe easier as he returned it to his briefcase. He checked his watch several times, shaking his right leg nervously…

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Independence Day at Sanskriti

I was ruefully woken up by a junior at seven in the morning.
‘Time for the flag hoisting, sir’ he informed.

Initially, I was tentative to attend the occasion. The cobwebs of the sleep wouldn’t leave me, you know. But the mere thought of my grandfather, dressed in his sublime dhoti, endorsing the Indian culture in its entirety, and running after me with his huge stick, was enough to impel me to run to the bathroom.

Within half an hour, almost every student had gathered in the courtyard of the hostel, and we, the seniors were greeted by the sight of the juniors standing in a line, appropriately.

Our super senior, belonging to the fourth year, was invited to hoist the national flag. The flag came alive and so did our applause. And then when the national anthem commenced, I felt this sudden effulgence of patriotism inside me, a feeling so profound and superlative, that it gave me an insight to what I really was, and what I wanted to do.

Several students shared their thoughts, while others sang songs in the nation’s glory. The function ended with thunderous roars of ‘Jai hind’ and ‘Bharat mata ki jai’.

It was a memorable experience that I’d like to cherish in my heart for a long time. Not because it composed of any grand element, albeit it didn’t. Perhaps, it is my quench for freedom, my desire for liberation, my fight against my own inner demons, the angels inside me striving for true independence, that made this independence day so special.

More than a memoir of the country’s freedom struggle, I hope, this day becomes the memoir of my freedom struggle.

A Kanpurian Anecdote

Uttar Pradesh- The most notorious state in India. Prominent in the sense, it proudly boasts to shelter more fanatics in its city of Kanpur alone than the entire country of Pakistan does. Recently, I found myself stuck inside an archetypal UP village. The entire experience ranged from feeling a profound empathy for the most unfortunate to developing a deep disdain for the most villainous.

Yes, the bad guys. There are so many of them everywhere in UP. The moment our car halted, I was welcomed by the smell of cow dung- expected nevertheless; and dirty village morons gazing at my cousins quite lustfully, which indeed came as a shocker.

Murder. Corruption. Rapes. Name it and you’ll find it in UP. My bafflement over the causes of these heinous crimes came to an end after experiencing the ground reality in this rural area of the state. The entire social hierarchy is foul, illiterate and shrewd. I wonder why? And there comes the answer- poverty.

They accuse us of living an alien life in the cities. I accuse them of living an envious life in the villages. They say we do not interact; that we are too busy making money. I say that they are too busy downplaying their neighbours, often jealous of their little joys. They say we do not socialise, glorifying themselves at their ability to summon hundreds of men in their funerals- socialization they say. I say they stab each other’s back as ruthlessly as Brutus stabbed Caesar’s.

While in the village, we received a grand welcome by our hosts. Interestingly, I was suggested to accompany those morons to one of the fields. Apparently, the head moron was a close aide of our host. I decided to go along with them for I had never seen a live farm in my life. However it wasn’t the farm that amazed me more than those guys did. For once I decided to ignore their lewd stares at my cousins owing to their attempted hospitality. But, I was wrong.

Sitting in the field with the morons, I learned what makes a moron. I could even write a thesis on it now. I came to know that the head moron fancied our host’s daughter. Well, not fancied; for fancy is a romantic term. He desired to take her to bed. The suggestion made by the head moron’s aide to rape the girl was astonishing. I was wide eyed. Noticing my discomfort, the head moron told me that it was all said in good humour. He added that he expected the girl, who was currently studying in Kanpur, to become as ‘modern’ and ‘hot’ as other city girls.

‘Just like your cousins’, he finished with a sly grin and friendly thumping on my back. His supporters joined him in their little celebration.

I was outraged but decided to keep quiet.
You see what I see? It starts with caste. After they are born, they are taught that all that matters is their caste. They are brainwashed to the extreme just like a terrorist is brainwashed on the name of God. The little boy while growing up has no big dreams. He isn’t encouraged to do hard work. I remember that argument between hard work and smart work. But the real smart work is done by these types of morons. You talk about corruption? Well, it starts here in the villages. The scarcity of resources and money forces the people to indulge in corruption. Firstly, the lack of education and money closes the doors of good universities to a majority of young rural men. While some abandon further studies, the others enrol in some nearby college.

Since childhood they have been bred in an atmosphere where prejudices have prevailed. Superstitions rule the roster, religious intolerance is prevalent but there is no trace of spirituality. There is no atmosphere of progressing, scientifically or as a human being. There is no questioning the world and its norms. The only thing that matters here is how well one can bind itself to the despicable chains of the society. The non existence of a definite goal, the collective feeling of serving humanity, is that which comes out as the problem.

Some guy like our moron friend, completely disinterested in studies, merely by the use of brute force, rises in the social echelons. Through gathering money by corruption and hoodwinking his caste people, he rises in the political arena. After that a nonchalant and incompetent chief minister is spawned. And then statements justifying UP’s crimes emerge. It’s an endless loop but the loophole is still to be found and rectified.

When the hour of my departure arrived, our host approached me.

‘Did you have a good time? I’m sure my boys must have taken good care of you.’ He said, pointing towards those morons.

‘Yes uncle, they also told me how much they care about you and your family. Especially your daughter, uncle’ I said, stone-faced.

Uncle looked quizzical.
‘Your daughter who studies in Kanpur? Well, he was just telling me how much he’d enjoy taking care of her in her own bed.’

As the engine ignited and the car started moving, I could see uncle’s face, quite infuriated. It looked like the morons were going to have a tough time.

I’m Batman

I am the batman. I have been caged for far too long. Bounded, captured, detained. Not my body but my soul. I see my soul, once alive and vivacious, now tormented and tortured. I see my heart, once merry and sublime, now pierced and wounded. I see my emotions, no I feel them, I feel my emotions, once blissful and jolly, now maimed and mutilated.

I am the batman. I am a failure. I deserve more yet I fail more and more. In the morning when I wake up, I look myself in the mirror and all I see are the horrors of the previous night; the ones that I desperately try to eliminate from my mind. I go to the bathroom, wash my face, the cold water taking away the transient scars with it. I get ready for the day.

I am not the batman. I am not the batman, for it is the daytime. I am merely myself, merely a man. I step outside the sanctuary of my room and enter the outside world with the greatest confidence one could perceive. I meet people and pretend to be one of them. I joke, I smile, I laugh, I act cool, I flaunt style- exquisite indeed and I summon that shine in my eyes.

I am not the batman. I am merely an ordinary person. I do my work, socialize and check out girls to satisfy my testosterone. I am a man after all. In the day I am ordinary. I am like you. I am like each one of us. But then the dusk falls over and a transition starts to take place. I return to the safe haven of my room. And when I am alone and no one is watching, then I pull off my mask.

Now I am the batman again. The one that people know, the one that the world recognizes, is a mere illusion. That is my mask. Because my real face is that of the batman. It is now time for me to face the mirror again. I approach the mirror with fear, quite tentatively indeed, hesitant but forced to proceed. I see my face. I pierce inside my dark brown eyes. Those eyes, I know to be the most honest thing in the world. I fight tears. I win, eventually.

Now it is the time to ponder. I plug those headphones in my ear, open my laptop, keep a water bottle beside me- sipping a little every few minutes- and think. I think a lot. I read a lot. There are so many aspirations and so much pressure. But this batman has learnt to handle it. This batman knows that ambitions are the gateway to destruction. This batman realises that passion, dispassionate passion to be precise, is the ideal thing. This batman understands that selfless service must be the goal of each human being.

You are the batman. I am the batman. There is batman in each one of us. But this batman has experienced pain. This batman has found the pain seeping inside his perforated soul and create chaos. Until that chaos raises the entropy so much that a fire is generated within. Until this fire shall forever eradicate the chaos and attain unending bliss.

I love batman not because he was a superhero but because he was a superhuman. He breathed philosophy. He had mastered the most elaborate feeling in the whole damn world. It’s called Pain. Each day the ghosts of my past torment me. They continue to do that incessantly, unceasingly. But it is on me to stop them. I shall do that one day. Ask me how?

Well, as the real batman says: ‘Batman has no limits’.