He trotted nonchalantly through the mud-baked road, velvetted by the soft blue haze of a night sky embroidered with a shining white moon.
*tshkoo tshkoo* Gunshots.
He stopped. Immediately. *tshkoo* *tshkoo tshkoo* From quite near ahead, to the left, and to the back-right, very far away. *tshkoo* Adrenaline flowed. Muscles tightened. Ready to duck – a reaction almost logical after years of societal and cultural trainings.
The hound was raped.
A few more moments later, the lapdog realised that the gunshots were actually just calls by birds he had never heard before. These bird songs were so much like the more proverbial gunshot sounds. How come he was fraternised with the pallid sounds which escape the death instrument, and not with a share of the beautiful songs of nature?
The hound had been raped. For years and years of existence, the dog was tortured into accepting, tolerating, believing, and finally internalising his master’s whims. The rape had washed him away from his Self, land-filling it with the banality of today.
*
But once, he wakes up. He asks why? He asks what? He asks when, and then bites back that question. He asks who? He asks again, why?
She glazed at him with Her doe-like eyes. He embraced her tighter. She cuddled in, closed Her eyes in purring comfort, and nestled into his chest. She was beautiful. He stroked Her, savouring those little turns, those rare moments which he always looked forward to. She whispered, “I can hear your heart.” And She opened Her eyes to look at him again.
(He was humbled by Her. As always.)
She could hear his heart. So then, logic follows that the heart is still there. It has not disappeared. He started listening, again.
He kept on walking. The wind was cold, the mind said, lets turn back. Without slowing, he felt his heart, and kept walking. It is dark, and it is getting late, lets turn back, the mind ordered. He felt his heart, and kept walking. Oh come on, be logical, it is cold and you will end up making yourself get sick, the mind said. He felt his heart, and kept walking. And in that walking, with each step, he was undoing his rape. One little step after an other. His body felt cold. His banality had reigned him enough. Stop feeling cold, his heart whispered. He made his mind obey. He did not feel cold any longer. He kept walking. Eyes closed, opened, trusting, loving..
Till where his heart quenched. And then back, when the heart willed. Tears, numbness, doldrums, sniffs and saltiness suspended to the pursuit of the heart; feeling signs, and reading love.
There would be two, his heart said, and you will trust. And this trust will lead you to the next, and towards your answers, and love, and peace. Trust in me.
He kept walking.
-
I wonder if I’m glad that I was once raped. Perhaps it is the reason I realise now. And whim towards empowering towards my Self. Things would definitely would have been different without it. But I think I prefer this difference, to what could have been. This difference at times a few helps me to dare to be blissful, as a close one dies, as a close one survives, as close ones around fear and wither, as torn apart by pangs of love, and beyond all, as questioned beyond existence. I definitely prefer this difference.
Om shanti.
