The wound

Once the tears had accumulated to form a wet patch on his pyjama, he could begin to see towards the direction from where it was all emanating. It was hard to accept; and even to acknowledge it required immense courage so that one could raise oneself from emotions to reality.

The journey had been a challenging task which had taken up a lot of time, consideration as well as emotional trauma. The foremost thought to have struck his mind was one of promiscuity of the bond shared between humans. For it could only be that, and it alone could lead someone, anyone, to do as hideous an act as this.

Raising that piece of wood required tremendous effort; under which even his muscular body had to yield. The toil of what was going on in his head was making every inch of his flesh and soul difficult to bear-existence had been demanding its lieu from life. That moment demanded grief too, but from where he stood it was still eons away. In order to summon it, meant that the vicinity of his very existence had to be dealt with. That task was unfathomable, for he was lost in the wails and cries of a hard core society. How could they be what they were pretending to be, how could the pretence forgive their dark lonely nights and leave them unquestioned?

The desire to shout had been overwhelming, a loud scream, and uproar would wish it all away; drive away the maniacs who were challenging him towards action. Action was a sublime version, a sweet word-too subtle an expression to be used.

The priest’s hand had touched his elbow to produce a wave of unfettered electricity which flowed through every nerve of his body resulting into small bumps on every inch of his skin. It had been told to him that this was “karma”-his duty, “dharma” and “moksha”. What about sin? Every neuron of his brain was pulling his head apart with this single question. What about sin? Sin, sin, sin....”paap”. The need for an answer was overpowering, he looked around, the log of wood in his hand, the weight of it on his mind. A crowd of faces known, unknown as well as those who qualified to be called ‘his own’ looked back. The centre of their attention was that one man who was standing next to where the pyre would be burning. How could he waste such auspicious time? Their eyes seemed to question him menacingly.

At last the baton of wood was raised, the skull had been cracked.

The unholy stood there contemplating the holy act.

Sitting now, in his room with the spoils of life, love and tears shed he realized that the act had been a means to moksha, not as much for his father as for himself. The means had indeed shown upon him the wisdom that the way evolved by mankind was one of redemption from contemplating, it was a way to redeem him of attachment, to free him from fantasy; to set him free in the world of reality where he would forever know that his father had been consumed in body by that holy pyre where his head had been cracked by his devoted son.