Nostradamus wasn’t far off. Throwing word darts into the future where it struck bullseye in 2020. The wound still drips blood as we are not able to plaster the outpouring.
Astrologers spit in the air again and again. Foretelling new dates.
This month, this day, this hour, you will be free from all viruses, they thundered without lightning. You and I wiped their faces dry and then rubbed our palms in anticipation of freedom at midnight from the scourge, but burnt our fingers instead. Yet our kind hearts helped these pseudo-Nostradmuses push the virus-free dates to new horizons and we let them cough mildly, quarantined and isolated in their prophesies.
Ships are anchored
Right now our ships are anchored, some sinking straight like boulders and hitting rock bottom, our treasures so deep and lost as titanic waves of despair drown our zeal and us.
Where is the bearded man?
Where is that bald, salt-bearded, man who is supposed to come and save the helpless lot? Who has nailed down his robes? Where are the messiahs when we really need them?
Don’t call him a messiah
No, sweet little sister, that is a picture of Sadhguru and we can’t call him or anyone a messiah yet, no not even if he rides your favourite bike. Nor even if he frolics with snakes. Let him be. Don’t sully his name – and give the good man his due when he is living and not when he is gone where the world would stampede to revere him posthumously with milk and honey and shining trophies that they believe will bridge the chasm of sheer ignorance and apathy.
No one will rescue you
And before we pillion ride on the backs of saints, let us dive into the dark secret ocean within us. Maybe if we hold our breath long enough and dive, we may come up with more than just pearls. So why still hold on tight to the Englishman’s coattails, it will soon metamorphose into a chain and however much you wail and scratch the floor and bark with all your might, other than floggings and empty stomachs, you ain’t going nowhere, my dear ‘Fido’. You ain’t the kind that have snakes for garlands. Mere mortal, you could try stomping your fears down like an irate elephant gone berserk in the jungle of your dreams, but no one is going to rescue you from this nightmare. So save your breath.
Save the histrionics. Because dumb charades will not get you anywhere. And the tears will cut a swathe through your heavy makeup, scarring you forever, you joker, you madman, as you realise that all that it took to be crazy was just a little push, and in your case, you didn’t even do that – you just stood still and let yourself slide down.
Blind, dumb, deaf
Cut the noise, you scream as the songs blare ‘everything’s-gonna-be-alright!’ and you try to cover your ear with more screams. But the silence post the song is even more deafening and the circle gets complete for you go from blind, dumb to deaf.
No truck with spirits
Are only the dead free from sorrow, from torture? These dead creeps don’t answer and who has ever lived to tell the tale?
I have no truck with any of these phantoms; these apparitions that feed on the fears of the living, tripping them into a netherworld of supplication. Emancipate yourself from Hades. Rise from the world of the dead.
Be the one that got away
Even if we zombies scare the living daylights of the citizens of this world, let us walk free. At least getting hit with rotten eggs and tomatoes is far better than being burnt alive in a crematorium of lies that that this world has taught you to believe and follow and perish. Gone are the days where you burn to ashes with your beloved who went before you.
Somehow wrench that old freedom song out of your parched throat and wing it. Let the world celebrate you as ‘the one that got away’.
Then, go forth and multiply.