THE DAYS I FATHERED

THE DAYS I FATHERED

I'm not a hater, rather, I dislike. It's a distinction I started to make since I lost my dog few months back. It may sound British, to many it does, but it's a culmination of those deep introspections I went through during countless midnights. Once my soul answered, "hatred is too extreme; blasphemous". However, I wondered, what defines the brunt which we carry within? Can we drag it to such an extent that it falls under the ambit of hatred? Are we modest enough to limit its rush within the definition of dislike? I had my days of grappling; sensing that heaviness of letting it go. However, believe me; it never leaves your sanity, your conscience, to make you feel so light. It remains, somewhere within, and unwittingly springs out to make you feel like a man again.

Last night, when I was at my way back home sitting cataleptically in my friend's car, I realised I had a pact with that darkness. I was under the spell of that night. I was staring things I never used to look at before. I could sense the stillness of the trees, maybe mourning the shame of their worldly existence. Once the mightiest, strongest in vicinity, are now dwarfed by the imminence of skyscrapers. What looked oblivious, to my amusement, was the firmness of their stature; that urge to still hold on. Those weary branches still fathered those lush green leaves and the ground beneath, never hesitated to solemnly receive the fallen ones. They didn't hate the situation; never cursed the reality. Their resentment, however, was very much there. That too was not solitary. It was more of a memory's malady, a gift they couldn't refuse. However, that resentment was dwelling along with hope. Hope for betterment, hope for reliving the days they fathered. All I could assume, though, was silence and just silence.

I tried so hard; I scuffled with my values. However, unfortunately I failed. I pitied that quietness; I 'hated' that remorse. As to much of the reality that you and I know; some things are uncontrollable.