One of Us

"So in the Libyan fable it is told
That once an eagle, stricken with a dart,
Said, when he saw the fashion of the shaft,
'With our own feathers, not by others' hands
Are we now smitten"
(Wisdom of the Ages - Aeschylus)

Haven't we caressed those scars left within and without and wondered of the hands that smote, the words that marred. How we tried to fend them off, but unkind words cut the deepest. Awash in shame and loss, we realised what a lonely business life is turning out to be. Not that help was not at hand, it was just out of grasp. Too proud to seek, we rolled with them punches. Now as dawn breaks, and we caress our bluish jowls, we realise what we should have always known.
It's the swipe from the one you knew, the closest, that has cleaved the deepest.

Then there are the ones amongst us, soaked in self-righteousness, offering to lead us, the astray. Advice not reckoned for, or solicited. As smearing a burn with scent, the foulness lost for the injury to worsen. The same act plays out in various garbs all round. The woman violated, is offered neither solace nor justice, but the antipathy otherwise reserved for the suicidal. As if, unbenknownst to her, she tempted woe upon herself. Or the commoner, wronged by the mighty, served nothing more than a pious dose extolling the 'hand of fate'. We wonder for a moment whether it is the perpetrator or the placebo that has caused the most harm.

What we'd give for us to be with nobody but ourselves, none to confer with, none to intrude. The vast expanses within that would sponge up all that's thrown at us.

For deep within ourselves lies a well-spring of content. Of hope. Virtues that have healed us many a time before. As they would this time too.

We wash our souls with it, and live, to fight another day.

Chin up.

Soldiers Never Die

In each one of us lies a patriot, waiting for the opportune moment to literally charge out of the trenches, take the battle to the enemy, and eke glory from amongst the gore. As early as a dimple-cheeked child, knocking imaginary enemy jets out of the summer sky, to an eager youth when Defence Entrance exams symbolised a coming-of-age ritual. Essentially, our early life is spotted with grand fantasies of battles wherein we would fight, kill and earn a gallantry award, most preferably non-posthumous.

But as adolescence turns to youth, and the truth begins to dawn that one would never fly a MiG outside PS2, or command a division other than Regional Sales, we make our own compromises. No, we don't settle for the Coast Guard, but Infosys would do just fine, thank you. In fact, that is pretty much the story of our lives. Small compromises. As life goes on, we don't dream much of charging out of the trenches as before. Though, not as much as scalping a rail ticket from , what else, the defence quota. Or a Chivas from the canteen. Maybe we would watch our kids make the season-finale cameo at the NDA exam. Rousing. Boys would be boys. Worrying all the same that your kid might actually make it.

Finally, when somebody else's son who chose to wear green fails to make it home, you say a silent prayer; as much for the departed as your own offspring.

It is not that personal loss makes one a greater patriot, or that love for a nation should be confined to the ones shouldering arms. Yet our earliest memories of loving one's own nation is colored by stories of valour, honor and lives lost for the same. With perspective and age we may question such a singular approach, yet deep inside we are all soldiers. Plodding at our lives, inconsequential as they might be. For we don't love this land any less.

We are only glad that they fight on our behalf, and relieved that they are taking our place.

How would soldiers die, for aren't they reborn in each one of us?

Three Times Lucky

tri·fec·ta (n.) : A system of betting in which the bettor must pick the first three winners in the correct sequence. Also called triple.

From portals plugging anything from jobs to partners, to the matron angling for a "suitable boy" & the school counsellor evangelising the future. It's the same path to salvation for everyone. Graduate in Engineering, followed by a
Postgrad in Management. A plum job being the bonus. A jolly trio that rule our destiny. The ones to pull their cards right, by genes or means, are afforded the awe once reserved for the privileged. The rest, branded as also-rans. Fawning masses, who clearly missed the bus. And woe befall the one born with not as much ambition as the go-getter.

What chance does society offer a 'differently' abled child? The one the Gods did not favor with a scientific bend. Or a knack for numbers. The Lesser God whose children turned out with talents far removed from what the mob demanded. From experience, very little. Countless are disgorged from innumerable technical schools, and many were simply Shanghaied into it. Peer pressure or regimentation, they are the lost generation among us. Accursed to a life-path imposed on them by those who should have known better.

Ours is a society that has decided for itself that being a qualified engineer with no sense of science is eminently preferable to being a natural artist with a heightened sense of color. A world where acquired knowledge, acquired at any or all costs, should stump the gifts born with. With no shelter from the searing competition, these are allowed to die. Killed, in some cases. In later life remembered only as an afterthought. Sometimes carefully tucked into the last para of our Resumes, duly accounted as "extra-curriculars"; for even the emperor needs a jester. Ensuring that this officious piece of paper says as little about ourselves as we could allow it.

There is only space for achievers here, and the trifecta take the first row. Four years of singular devotion to exams and grades qualify them to end up in the same basement.

At code shops. At Process floors. At work.

That being the final badge of recognition. For it's not the love of Mechanics that drove us to JEE, it's the moolah. Chem to Civil, let the good times roll. And the second pull from the deck is our card to the next heaven. Two more years, and
promised land. Another life achieved.

Matters to none whether he could have felt a color, rhymed a poem, or lead the meek. For no one gave him another chance. To be himself.

This is our generation of underachievers. Blessed thrice over.