L'adieu à l'espoir

Contrary to what you may think or may have heard, I have never been one who supports the concept of resolving issues through violence or aggression in all its forms and varieties.

In fact, I've been supportive of civilised, diplomatic yet speedy solutions to "situations"; which would explain my admiration for the Japanese businessman.

For those of you who may have spotted the subtle contradiction in the above statement....my clarification follows....

Japanese culture and customs, have been shaped by and find their roots in Edo-era Japan when Bushido was much more than a code. It was a way of life.

The Japanese approach to business has been moulded from this very code, bringing together contradicting elements such as brute aggression and civil honour.

Hence, although the Japanese may be legendary in terms of their swift and ruthless business tactics; you would rarely read of a Japanese CEO resolving his problems with a katana.

But to get to the point (which by now, I'm sure, is more of a microscopic speck to you) is that in my humble, personal, layman's opinion, violence is never the answer to a problem.

But that was me a few weeks back.

Till a few weeks back, the world, society as a whole was just the right balance of good and evil (although lately, the term "balance" is defined as being more in evils favour, but not so much that you'll feel as if toothpicks are slowly...very slowly being pushed under your nails).

Every single act or event was laden with the cliched pros and cons, the typical contradictions and the innumerable tragedies and triumphs that seem to be the mainstay of Earth, 21st Century A.D.

Closer to home, the balance was even more visible. It finally appeared that the tremendous cost borne by a community of farmers and landowners would be paid off by a simple contraption of plastic.

But there had been hope. Too much hope for peace and a future that seemed to hold promises and present opportunities across all levels of societies.

And there had been too much noise. Noise that set off alarms in the mind of a mentally imbalanced, paranoid, self-centred, irrational and moronic individual. Alarms that brought about such a rush of madness that finally broke down a threshold that had already been pushed and shoved to the point of cracking. Patience.

Patience of not only the ones in the factory, but of those in the villages surrounding it and in the towns near them and even in the ivory towers of the cities and even beyond.

No more of this nuisance, some said. No more before it's too late, said others.

Maybe it already is too late.

What began as an irritation, slowly developed into an itch, growing into a rash which has now poised itself as a tumour. A malignant cyst with the sole objective of petrifying all around it.

Modern society has often proposed a simple solution to such a problem.

Elimination. Swift, surgical elimination.

But at what cost? Thousands, Millions? Something that cannot even be quantified?

For those of you who find themselves asking these questions, know this. Nothing comes without its costs. If you believe otherwise, my sincere and heartfelt condolences to you.

Regard these lines of text as a wake up call, a call to arms, an incessant rambling, or utter nonsense.

It's not that I care. I've stopped caring about a lot of things in the recent past.

But I do admit thatI had never thought I'd ever stop caring about my beliefs and change them so drastically. And I guess I have to thank one individual for that.

My closing message to the subject of this post.

I hope, for your pathetic sake, that you realise the outcome of your acts before others do.

Remembrance...

It was the warmth that brought him back to his senses...as he regained consciousness, the first thing he noticed was his leg...or whatever remained of it.

The entire length of his left leg was peppered by shrapnel, some of the pieces still glowering. The faded khaki was now a deep red, mixing with the exposed flesh. He didn't feel much pain, the damage to his nerve endings was far too much to allow him to feel any. Years on the field had taught him that much. Too many years...far too many....

He surveyed his surroundings and witnessed a scene that would have turned any one's mind. What used to be the bus station was now a burning crater, the flames fueled by the corpses of the vehicles and their passengers. The air burnt, smelling of fuel and flesh...the unmistakable stench of "plastique" hung in the air. Shaking off a wave of nausea, he groped around...searching for his sidearm, his hand being greeted by chunks of burnt metal and concrete. He looked around and assessed the need for a weapon, his senses answering in the negative.

He could see some of his squad through the flames. He could shout at them, just one word and they would be beside him, at their commander's side. But he knew that they had better, more important tasks to perform. There were civilians to tend to...and he wasn't worth rescuing...not in the shape he was in.

"Rescuing"...he laughed to himself. That was the last thing he had expected he would ever need.

It had always been him doing all the rescuing, he had always been the hero.

But today...today he had failed..miserably. He grimaced as he tried to measure the loss of life his actions or rather, the lack of them had caused today. Collateral. That was the word they used. That was one of the side effects of battle, of war.

That was the word they had used five years back, when they had debriefed him in the ambulance.

He remembered that day on the school yard, remembered the bell ringing, muffled suddenly by a staccato of automatic fire.

He remembered his reflexes, his training taking over.

He remembered spotting the gunman, remembered opening fire just as another hail of hot lead spattered the ground before him.

He remembered seeing the group of children caught in the line of fire.

He remembered seeing his son amongst them.

He remembered the ambulance. He remembered calling up his wife, hearing her screams resounding through the hospital corridors.

He remembered his son.

It was the warmth again that jarred him to his senses the second time. He realised he was crying. He wiped away the tears with his grimy hand.

His son. Five years had passed since then. His son would have been twelve last month.

He had often wondered what his son would have looked like grown up. And today he had seen him. Among the busy crowd, the masses thronging the bus station he had seen him. The resemblance was uncanny. The auburn eyes, the sharp nose... "Uncanny" was an understatement.

He had stepped out of the jeep and had walked towards the boy. Two of his squad members had followed him, unsure of what was happening.

The boy had looked lost, as if in a daze. He remembered calling out his name, his son's name. He remembered spotting the flashing light through the boy's cape. He remembered his reflexes take over...too late.

He remembered the blast...the heat...the roar of metal twisting and melting, the sound of skin burning...

He remembered his son dying in the Intensive Care Unit...the alarms being drowned out by his wife's screams.

This time he did not let the warmth wake him up...