ALTERNATIVE SPACES...

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I woke up in the morning and touched myself to believe I was alive. I washed my face and wiped it with a towel. I felt slightly itchy, itchy behind, in the groove of my left ear. I touched the part. Found it to be somewhat rough. I tried to look into the mirror. A fungus had grown in the groove and was causing me trouble. I applied the antifungal ointment. And smiled. I smiled because a fungus had found a place in my body which is unknown and alien even to me. My senses do not remind me very often that such a place exists in my body which can be a dormant ground for some kind of ailment. This place is almost like a barren piece of land where the possibility of any kind of growth is remote and impractical. But the truth is it exists. It exists and harbors a potential possibility too. Anyways I had my breakfast and went out in the garden. Stumbled in the pots and fell on the ground. It had been years since I had fallen anywhere. I laughed and looked at the ground. I saw grass, roots, weeds and ants, flourishing and breathing in the wet soil. I saw a squirrel swarming and grabbing the roots of the tree, climbing it and mounting on the edge of the boundary wall. I looked around and saw birds chirping and perching on the branches of the tree. Scientists say that there are a millions of galaxies other than us where life exists in some form or the other. There exists a possibility of another universe with similar sun and planets revolving around it. They also say that there are millions of lives other than us, breathing and harboring in the spaces we live and die. Some years ago I read that millions of bacteria exist on the tip of our finger. So the tip needs to be thoroughly cleaned with sterillium before making a pin-prick. Seven years ago when I dissected the first dead body I found lots of spaces which exist inside us and are very own. Last year when I was posted to an altitude of 18000 ft, I found thousands of pieces of demineralised bones scattered everywhere in the cold desert. There were human as well as animal skulls, mandibles, femurs, tibias, fibulas, vertebral columns and all sorts of bones lying in their natural fate. Because of the demineralization, the bones seemed to be hundreds of years old indicating the presence of life in a place considered to be inhabitable and unfamiliar to a majority of our population. I looked around and discovered thousands of spaces existing in my immediate vicinity. Spaces which haven the possibility of life and existence. If creatures below us on the evolution ladder can find those spaces and encourage life to exist and thrive, then we as human beings with better capabilities must find some spaces having better prospects of life and its survival. Spaces which might be foreign but where a man could breathe without fear. Spaces which might be barren but where hopes could be cultivated without apprehension. Spaces which might be novel but where dreams could be seen and accomplished all over. Spaces where a new world could be erected and structured. Spaces where life could deliver again and flourish into a new civilization. We need to look for them. We need to hope for their existence.

Spaces…Alternative Spaces…

Alternative Spaces…With Alternatives…

PORN - V

The Flock Of Sheep And My Power

Note: This is one of my very old posts. I have published it again in this series.

“Power is when you have the power to kill someone and you don’t. That is what the emperors do” says Oscar Schindler

“Now I think you are a little drunk…!”
(Schindler’s list)

I am educated. I am sitting on a chair. I have the power to consume whatever I want to. Some body knocks on my door. They want water. They are starving. I will die if I share what I have. I can’t run. I will be caught. I will sit inside and not open the door. This is the only way. They know what's happening inside. But they are helpless. I have the power to exploit. I have the power to hide. They are meek. They can’t organize or revolt. They are handicapped. They need someone to initiate. A spark. Seems impossible to light up from anywhere. Someone needs to be insulted badly. Someone needs to be ripped. Darkness is their weakness, their darkness my power. Phone is ringing. A warning call. A call for help. They know that I'll not pick up the phone. But still want to try their luck. Luck is their last resort, their luck my escape, my power. They chose me. They have to suffer now. They could have stood up that moment. They would have blocked my way if they wanted to. But they didn't want to. They were having nice dreams. Feared they would depart if eyes see the morning sun. Dreams were their leisure, their dreams my realism, my power. I didn't want to drop what was coming my way, in my ‘luck’. They are dwarfs. Lonely dwarfs. Now they are entangled in a web. A web of dreams, a web of lucks, a web of misfortunes. I have the power to cut the web and break the wall. But I don't want to starve. I have to eat. Someone has died outside. They are crying. They are howling for help. Believe somebody would come and help. Their belief is their destiny, their belief my treasure, my power. I am helpless to help them. We both have the key to the door. I have not changed the locks. I didn’t have time. I had to eat. They have lost it somewhere. They can search it if they want, open the door and kill me. But I doubt they would find the key. One needs to fight for it. They can never. They want to cry and dream and try their luck. They are adamant. Ignorance is their light, their ignorance my steer, my power. Oh! I can’t listen to the music. They are screaming like beasts. But who cares for the music. I am starving. I have the power to eat. I will eat...

“Bleeding and babbling
We fell on his neck with a scream
Wave upon wave of demented avengers
March cheerfully out of obscurity into the dream”
(‘sheep’ by Pink Floyd)

PORN - PART IV

The arena

People go there. They go there often. It’s a large well in the middle of town. They make prayers. They take circles around the well. They look into it. And smile. Also wave into it sometimes. Then they close their eyes. And pray. I tried hard. Many a times. To solve the mystery. Also looked into it. I didn’t see anything. I could only see some coins thrown by the people. And some food packets scattered all over. There was a rotten smell. Putrid. Repelling. It was hard to stand there. But people spend hours standing there and looking into it. They go there in large numbers. But only one person is allowed at a time to go near the well. Others wait in the viewing gallery. I also made a visit to the well. Other people were standing in the gallery. There is another place in the town. There also people visit in large numbers. It’s called the arena. Basically it is a large circular platform made up of red bricks with an amphitheater all around. It has a capacity of about 50,000 people. Herds of people go there every Sunday evening. For a show.

I was new to the town. I had heard a lot about these places. They were famous tourist destinations of the town. But I didn’t know the significance of these places. So I asked a gentleman passing by. He got frightened and ran away. I asked a number of people. Everybody acted strange but nobody gave me a reply. A six year old girl was standing in the corner watching me struggling in the new town. She pulled my shirt, gave a smile and said, “Do not worry. You will come to know…soon…very soon…” She laughed and ran away. I got scared and returned home. And struggled for two more days asking about the significance of the well and the arena. Until I met an old man having a cigarette in the corner of the street. I stopped there to have a cigarette. He seemed old but intelligent. Hesitatingly I asked him, “Why do people go to the well and arena?” He smiled and told me to accompany him. He was going to the well so he took me along. We reached the well. There was a ticket counter. Nobody could enter without a ticket. So we got the tickets. We entered the viewing gallery. Thousands of people were curiously waiting for something remarkable. It was hot. So people were getting restless. But nothing could smash their enthusiasm for the show. I asked the old man, “What the hell are we waiting for?” He told me to have patience and wait for the gong… Gong? I got irritated standing there in the hot sun on a marble floor. I was looking all over when I heard a loud sound. It was the sound of the gong. People got into attention and there was absolute silence as soon as the gong was heard. After few minutes, I saw a young girl. About 18 years old. With long black hair. Naked. Absolutely naked. She came from behind clearing the crowd in the viewing gallery, going towards the well. She reached the well. Folded her hands. Closed her eyes. And jumped into it. I was taken aback. For a moment I thought it was a dream. I looked around. And the crowd went into applause. People clapped and shouted victoriously. I looked at the old man pleading him to explain the situation. He told me not to ask anything and follow him to the arena.

It was six in the evening when we reached the arena. An equal number of people had gathered there too. We got the tickets and went inside. The tickets were costlier as compared to the well. We got the back seats. Since front row seats were reserved for the aristocracy. I was in a deep shit after watching that young girl dying in the well. I was not able to forget her face. I requested the old man again to explain what was going on. He told me to wait for some more time and let the show begin. I did as he instructed me. There was a loud cheer in the air. People were going mad waiting there for the show to begin. I heard a gong again similar to the one I heard at the well. I got frightened and decided to run away. But all the doors had locked and there was no escape. And I saw a smart man in his thirties coming into the arena. Naked. Absolutely naked. He reached the center and sat down on a chair. Folded his hands. And closed his eyes. Then I saw a six feet tall dark muscular man approaching the man from behind with a sword in his hand. He came closer and within a fraction slashed the neck of that man. I went into shock. Felt dizzy. The old man shook me and told me to relax. I looked around. And the crowd went into applause once again. I felt disgusted and came out of the arena. The old man followed me. I requested him to explain.

He told me that it’s a regular ritual of their town. Every Sunday two shows are organized. One in the afternoon. Other in the evening. And people wait for the whole week to watch them. He told me that the people are fed up of their lives. So they give it up in the manner they like. The hard ones who can do it themselves go to the well and commit suicide. And others choose the arena to get murdered. It’s the only option they have in their lives. It’s the only escape. But it’s not a moment of remorse. It’s a moment of renunciation and celebration. It’s a new beginning…a new life.

I requested the old man to take me back. I was really disturbed. I couldn’t sleep at night. The faces of the young girl and the smart man were dancing before my eyes, mocking at me. I spent the whole week thinking about the situation. And at last decided to visit the old man. I went to his home. Knocked. He opened the door and looked at me. I said, “I want to talk to you about the whole situation. I am very disturbed and confused. Please help me.” He told me to go back since he was very busy.

I asked him, “Sir, Can I come tomorrow?”

He said, “No, I won’t be there.”

I poked him further to know where he was going.

He told me that he was going. Going to the arena.

To die.

PORN - PART III

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1,537,469,028

Note: Russell is a work of fiction. So are other characters and facts mentioned in this write-up. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely co-incidental and unintentional.

Russell sang it. He sang it great. It’s a wonderful world by Louis Armstrong. He always believed in the words. In fact embraced them like anything. His father used to sing it for him. Now, he used to sing it for his son, Michael. He took him in his lap and kissed him on his forehead. Michael looked just like his father. Dark eyes. Brown hair. Sharp nose. He poked his finger into Russell’s eyes. Russell kissed him again and handed him over to his wife, Laura. She was a real beauty. Appeared to be an angel. And also dressed like one. She ruffled Russell’s hair, took Michael from his lap, kissed him goodnight and went to sleep. Russell continued talking. He wanted to continue speaking. Nobody ever stopped him. He felt hungry. Went to the kitchen. Grabbed a cookie and then he was back again. Russell and his words. It was a pleasure listening to him. He started with a joke like he always used to. But couldn’t keep up with it. Something was hurting him really bad somewhere. We wanted to know. We wanted to poke him. But we didn’t. We wanted to let him speak for himself. He resisted a bit. But he gave up in the end. Russell was a captain in British army. A tough soldier. And an honest officer. Right from the day one in army, he was observing everything too carefully. He was uncomfortable with it somewhere. But he never told anything to anybody. We tried to ask him many a times. But he always used to divert the whole thing with his jokes. That day we asked him again. But he was too good with his words. He knew the art of doing it so easily. He played Beatles on guitar for us. We clapped and sang with him. He was doing it fine trying to hide everything but couldn’t hold it for long. He forgot the words. He tried hard to recollect but couldn’t. The guitar slipped from his hands. He felt sorry. We tried to hold him. He resisted. Even stammered a bit. His face turned red and eyes blurred with tears. He said it’s nothing but the weather change. He got up from the chair. Turned his face away with his hands resting upon the sidearm. Kept standing there for few minutes. And finally exploded. It was the first time we were seeing him so helpless. He had always made us laugh with his jokes. We had always seen the shine in his eyes and the moment on his face. It was quite a site. He was crying like a child. Like he had fallen on the ground and was asking for help. It seemed he was asking us to pick him up and give him a hug. We felt weak unable to help him in his condition. He was alone. Nobody could stop him. Nobody could hold his hand and wipe his tears. It was just not possible. He disappeared from the site for some time. We thought he would have gone to wash his face. Then we heard something. There was some problem with the sound. We couldn’t figure out. We looked at each other. We were worried and were waiting for our Russell. We were waiting to see his sparkling eyes once again. He came after ten minutes. With fiery red eyes and a gun in his hand. He smiled. For the last time. Put the gun on his head. Pressed the trigger. And shot himself.

Russell was dead. So were Michael and Laura. He had shot them both.

We were watching it live. Live on our computer screens. Millions of people were downloading it simultaneously as Russell was uploading it on the internet sitting in his room that night. We always used to do it earlier while he used to entertain us with his stand up acts. He was very popular among us. He was our hero. And he proved to be one.

Nobody came to know why Russell acted like this. A court of inquiry was organized by the army. It took them six months. Finally, they drafted the final report and labeled him a coward. They said that his wife was disloyal to him and was sleeping with somebody else. They also proved that he was having a mental condition and was incapable of handling stress.

Whatever it was. Nobody poked it further. But the live video generated millions of sympathies and millions of fans for Russell. The video became quite a sensation on You Tube. We still watch it sometimes because it’s very compelling as well as thrilling at the same time. Yesterday only, I had organized a small party at home. We were having beer, listening to rock, getting high and screwing each other. We also watched Russell’s video and then partied whole night.

It has become the most watched video on You Tube.

The video has generated 1,537,469,028 views. Highest in the history of You Tube ever.

PORN – PART II

Dilatation and curettage

She walks inside the gloomy corridor of a dilapidated building in the secluded corner of the street. She goes to the counter and addresses a stocky dark man sitting there with muck in his nails and moles on his face. He speaks very little and works only by gestures. He gives her a slip and indicates her to sit in the place provided by raising his right eyebrow. She crumples the polythene bag which she is carrying along between her thighs and crushes the piece of paper in her left hand. She walks in a direction opposite to the counter, moving hardly 10 steps and grabs a seat on the left. She settles herself and wipes the sweat on her forehead with one end of her yellow sari. She attempts to open the crushed piece of paper in her left hand and looks for the number written on it. Its 127. She looks all around and finds almost 200 women with bloated bellies with a similar piece of paper in their hands, waiting for their turn. The man on the counter shouts a number after every five minutes and every time a lady gets up from the end, goes inside the room next to the counter and another lady with a bloated belly comes out from inside the room. Sometimes it’s a happy lady. Sometimes it’s a sad lady. And sometimes a lady goes inside and doesn’t come out for hours. The man shouts 120. She starts getting up. Then a lady sitting by her side tells her that it’s not her turn. She feels thirsty and asks for a glass of water from the man on the counter. He raises his eyebrow to indicate the water cooler installed in the end of the corridor. She walks towards it, quenches her thirst and returns to her place. She sits down, closes her eyes and goes to sleep. Then the man shouts 127. He doesn’t see anybody getting up and going inside. He shouts again. She gets up in surprise, hesitatingly and almost stumbling on her way to the counter. The man looks at her with disgust while she crosses him and gets inside the room.

She keeps her polythene bag in the corner of the floor. A middle-aged bulky woman dressed in a white sari grabs her arm, almost crushing her fingers inside her flesh, takes her to the bed, gives her a white towel and tells her to lie on the bed. She lies on the stinking white bed sheet with stains of blood and mucus all over. The woman in white sari holds her legs, raises them, takes them apart and places them on either side of the bed, almost touching her abdomen. On her right side she sees a big machine with a small screen, a probe with a long handle and a panel with numerous buttons of various shapes and sizes. A tall man wearing a white coat and spectacles with a rectangular frame appears from behind the machine, grabs the handle of probe in the right, clutches a bottle of gel in his left hand, places it upside down, squeezes out the gel on the round of the probe, smears it all over and drops the bottle on the table. He then orders her to take a deep breath and inserts the probe inside her vagina without any prior notice. She closes her eyes and cries in pain. He rotates the probe inside for five minutes, slowly and carefully while watching the images on the screen. Then he takes out the probe, clicks a button on the panel and begins writing on a paper. He gives her the paper, lowers himself to the level of the bed and whispers in her ears. Then both of them converse quietly for few minutes. She gives a final nod and gets up from the bed. The woman in white sari grabs her right arm and takes her to another room behind the machine.

The woman in white sari hands her over to another similar woman in white sari. She is told to remove all her clothes including the undergarments. She undresses herself. Then the woman in white gives her a torn green gown and a mask to wear. She wears the gown and follows the woman. She walks down a long cold corridor with doors and doors on either side and sees lot of people wearing similar gowns and masks on their face. She is taken inside one of the rooms. The room is cold, made up of four bare cemented walls with a naked steel bed placed in the center. It stinks of flesh, blood and dead rats. The woman in white tells her to lie down similarly as she lied before on the scanning table. As soon as she lies down, a group of five people, men and women, dressed in green gowns with masks on their face rush inside. She is then asked to turn to one side with thighs touching her chest. A syringe is loaded and injected in her backbone. She cries in pain. She is switched in her previous position after five minutes and her arms are strapped on the side rests of the bed tightly with a Velcro tape. The people surround her from all sides. Two of them stand on either side of her breasts. Other two stand holding her both the legs. And the fifth one stands between her legs. He looks at the trolley on his right. He examines it carefully to make sure. He then takes some gel on first two fingers of his right hand and inserts them inside the vagina. He takes them out and mutters something to his assistant on the left. He then starts inserting metal dilators of increasing diameters inside her cervical canal, pushes them inside one by one until he is able to dilate it sufficiently enough for the rest of the procedure and finally places them back on the trolley. He then takes a curette and inserts it inside her vagina. He scrapes it all around against the walls of her uterus and continues doing it for five minutes. He finally takes it out and places it in a kidney tray. He inserts his fingers again for the last time and gives it a wash with warm saline. He reassures her and advises her to take the prescribed medicines for few days. She is then transferred to a stretcher and taken to the adjoining room. She rests there for some time. Then the woman in white sari comes to her with a kidney tray in her right hand and shows it to her. She raises her head, takes a look at it and turns her face to other side. A tear rolls down her eye and she sobs in the silence of the room.

Some pieces of dead, blood stained flesh, worth few grams, removed from inside her body were lying inside the kidney tray. They were dead. And they had been removed from her body. Forever and for good.

They say it was a girl. And it weighed 300 grams.

मौत - भाग २

कई बार सोचता हूँ,

फिर सोच के मुस्कुराता हूँ,

और मुस्कुराते हुए कहता हूँ

कि नहीं हो सकता,

ऐसा कभी नहीं हो सकता,

भला ऐसा भी हुआ है कभी,

मैं भी कितना पागल हूँ,

फिर लगता है सोचने में

क्या हर्ज़ है,

कौन सा सोच पे कोई क़र्ज़

लगता है,

सोच भी अपनी है,

वक़्त भी अपना है,

और ज़िन्दगी भी अपनी ही

तो है,

सपना ही मान लेते हैं

चलो इसे,

सपने तो होते ही ऐसे हैं,

हकीकत और ज़िन्दगी से

कोसों दूर,

अपनी ही दुनिया में मस्त,

फिर भी उन्हें देखने का अपना

ही मज़ा है,

सच न हुए तो क्या,

एक उम्मीद तो रहती है न,

कि काश कभी ऐसा हो जाये,

ज़िन्दगी नई सी लगती है,

धुली हुई,

साफ़ सुथरी,

शहर के धुंए से दूर,

कहीं किसी गाँव में बसी हुई…

ऐसा ही कुछ सोचा है मैंने,

कहना चाहो तो कह सकते

हो एक सपना,

कि मौत अगर ज़िन्दगी से पहले

आ जाए तो कैसा होगा,

ज़िन्दगी ही ज़िन्दगी होगी,

बिना किसी ख्वाहिश के,

बिना किसी खौफ के,

और बिना किसी सरहद के,

मुक्त,

मदहोश,

खुशहाल,

अंतहीन,

ज़िन्दगी

सच में,

मौत अगर ज़िन्दगी से पहले

आ जाये तो कैसा होगा,

ज़िन्दगी सिर्फ ज़िन्दगी होगी,

बिना किसी अंत के,

बिना किसी लक्ष्य के,

और बिना किसी सहारे के,

नग्न,

वीरान,

उदास,

अधूरी,

ज़िन्दगी,

सिर्फ ज़िन्दगी…

सच में,

मौत अगर ज़िन्दगी से पहले

आ जाये तो कैसा होगा...

मौत - भाग १

छुपी पड़ी है
न जाने कबसे,
ढूंढ रहा हूँ
इधर उधर,
पलक झपकते ही
छुप जाती है
न जाने किधर,
कहीं कोने कुदरे में
दब गयी हो गयी
शायद,
रख कर भूल भी
तो जाता हूँ अब,
किताबें हटा
के देखूँगा कल,
देखना वहीं होगी
और झांक रही होगी
मुझको,
जहाँ पढ़ते पढ़ते
छोड़ा था उसी पन्ने
की दरीचों में,
नटखट है,
नादान भी,
कठिन है,
कठोर भी,
रूठ जाए तो
मनाये भी नहीं
मानती,
जिद्दी है,
आखिर मुझपे ही तो
गयी है न,
आवाज़ देता हूँ तो
बोलती है कि
अभी नहीं आऊँगी,
गुस्सा होता हूँ तो
पलट के
पल्लू झटका के कहती
है कि देखलूँगी
वक़्त आने पर,
एक दिन रूठ कर
दरवाज़ा तोड़ के जो
भागी थी घर से,
घंटों तरसता रहा
था खिड़की पे
बैठे बैठे,
कि गली के मोड़ से आती जब
नज़र आएगी तो
खूंटे से बाँध
दूँगा उसे और
अपना बनाके रखूँगा
उम्र भर,
उम्र बीत गयी,
दरवाज़ा आज भी
उसकी उम्मीद में खुला
पड़ा है,
और खिड़की से जब भी बाहर
नज़र घूमाता हूँ तो
लगता है जैसे वोह आ रही है,
पर ऐसी है यह कमबख्त
कि आती ही नहीं,
बड़ी ही अजीब चीज़ है
सच में,
ऊपर वाले ने भी
बहुत सोच समझ के
वक़्त से बनाई है,
कि जितना चाहो फिर भी
नहीं आती
कभी
यह मौत…

PORN – PART I

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Funeral fashion (Rating: xxx)

It’s a proud moment of my life. Years of hard work. Seemed to be an unending struggle till yesterday. Today I am a graduate. A professional. A bread earner for my family. There were too many options. I could have chosen anything. After all I was brilliant. A gifted child. There were lots of retaliations. Mother didn’t spoke to me for 6 months. It’s too difficult a profession especially for the people who are not used to. But I always wanted to do this. I was simply excellent. Today she sees me perform. She feels proud. I have achieved what I aspired for. I am a professional now. A professional mourner.

It seemed impossible in the beginning. Lakhs of candidates. Disturbing questions. Tough interviews. But I passed them all. And got into the All India Academy for Mourners. Best in India and one of the finest in the world. Hundreds of lectures. Demonstrations. Vigorous training sessions. But I sailed through all. We were made to sleep on the marble ground under the scorching sunlight in the months of June. We were stripped and beaten with iron rods on our backs in the middle of night. We were shown the horrifying visuals of blasts, explosions, accidents, wars, murders, suicides, rapes and foeticides. And were asked to cry in unison till the bell. Since it has become almost impossible to cry nowadays. So we were taught to fake it. The most difficult part was the one when we were asked to do it instinctively without any stimulus. It was hard. But we had to do it. And we did it. In the end we became really good mourners. And I was the best of them all. I could fake it like anything. There are other colleges also which train the students to fake other emotions. The students are taught to fake smile, disgust, hatred, anger, passion, sadness, jealousy and all other kinds of sentiments. They are taught to laugh and shout. They are taught to express rage and jealousy without being obvious. They are trained how to be nice and behave with parents, relatives and friends. But everybody accepts that faking a cry and mourning is the most difficult of them all which I finally managed to excel.

So people started calling me to the funerals to fake it. Nowadays funerals are very large scale organized events. People really look forward to attending such kinds of mournful proceedings. They gather from everywhere in flashy clothes. Women wear gaudy make-up, heavy jewellery and dress up in designer stuff. All the people who gather try their best to fake it. But since they can’t do it so professionals are called to mourn and help them cry. Once I was called by the governor of the state to mourn on his father’s funeral. I went there and performed for nearly two hours. Everybody was damn impressed and they valued my art and genius. I was given a handsome amount as a token of appreciation. Then I was also called to the Mayor’s funeral. Mayor’s wife was trying too hard but she was not able to cry. I took her to the corner and taught her the basics hurriedly. The tears started rolling down her eyes. I had taught her the art of faking. After all it’s a fake world and one must know to fake everything. She was so impressed that she gave me a contract to perform at every funeral of their family and relatives. Last month I was called to the funeral of an army officer. I was hesitant to go first but then made up my mind. It was a real big event and everybody was expecting something unusual at the occasion. So I decided to go a step further. I performed the mourning dance and danced for almost about an hour around the funeral pyre. I was given a salute by the royal fraternity of Indian army. In the end army band was played in the honour of my performance. I was really happy. I had become a renowned mourner of the state. I was too confident and thought I could fake it anytime and anywhere in the world.

It was getting a bit monotonous. So I decided to visit mom and dad. I had earned a lot of money and was going to give it to my mom. I purchased a lot of stuff for everybody. I was too happy to be home after such a long time. Father was also proud at my success and gifted me a golden watch. We had dinner together and then I went to sleep.

Next morning I went to see my mother. She was lying in bed with a blanket over her face. I removed the blanket and turned her face towards me. She was dead. Her blank white face was staring at me. I was dumbfounded and taken a back. I shouted and felt like crying.

My mother’s funeral was organized. Since I myself was a professional mourner, nobody was called from outside to perform. So I was asked to give a performance. I got up and took a breath. I had mourned at many funerals. And had even taught people to cry. I could fake it anytime I supposed. Thousands of people had gathered to see a professional mourner performing at his own mother’s funeral. Many of them had seen me perform earlier. So they knew my competence and genius. They expected it to be a hell lot of fun. People pushed and cheered me hard. They even ripped my clothes. I stood there motionless making a deliberate attempt to break. I scratched myself. Even lifted a stone from the ground and began hitting my head hard. Blood started dripping. I could watch it falling on the ground. People started abusing me. I lifted the white cloth from my mother’s body. Grabbed her face and shrugged it violently. Then kissed her and covered it again.

But being a professional mourner I couldn't perform at my own mother’s death. The crowd was really disappointed.

I tried hard but just couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t mourn. I couldn’t fake it.