Of Gall, God and Guilt

Of all the words in all the languages I knew, I could just come up with 'BORING'! I said that and continued watching television. For a moment I didn’t realize what a jitter I caused in one of those pleasant slumbersome sunday early morning tea times.

I had unconsciously wrinkled my eyes and strained my brow to align with the momentary discomfort, and said "No, I don’t want to go to church; its …(gap)…. boring". And I said that to my aunt, for whom the church is not just ‘everything in life’ but also kind of the ‘only thing’…. And then it dawned on me what a heretic thing I said; my aunt started something like "I absolutely don’t like your decision…etc,etc"… and my mind began to roll into the thick of things. Afterwards, to placate her, I told her I would ride her to church....

Meanwhile, I was suddenly flooded with all those times when the notion of ‘God’ gave me terrible discomfort. I still wake up at sudden dark hours of the morning, when the devils bring to me in utter clarity, unwanted regurgitation and nauseous remorse, certain pieces of elapsed time that make me want to die. Memories of times when a ‘drunk hulky goon bastard of a (previously) close friend’ was closing in on me after goring up another friend—blood everywhere—and all that was running in my mind was "should I pray? Now?"; Subsequently getting beaten up and testifying an untruth to inquiring neighbors under the dark horror of my oppressor; Of times when, after being whisked away to some far-flung godforsaken village, I literally shivered answering and standing before a police inspector; Of sounds of lathi strokes, banging tables and thudding chairs coming out of a police cell where a friend was being interrogated…. knowing that it was I next; Of times when I cringed like a mouse and made innumerable frantic calls (and got em made) to all constabulary that was accessible; Of times when I whored my pride and arrogance to every relative and acquaintance who had substantial ‘contacts’…people I never gave a damn to before; Of times when I was sick, in unbearable pain, with the world seeming like coming to an end and when I no longer could put up a brave front and secretly sought strength from beyond; Of times when people prayed for me and I was thankful to them for that; and all those times when I let myself down.

I feel a terrible sense of shame. Like standing naked on a busy road with my stomach cut and my innards spread in my palms. Those are terrible mornings when sleep mercilessly flies away, and neither television can salvage me, nor a chilly dead walk outside, nor chai in an irani café with ‘newspaper reading crispy people just out of a bath with hairs so nicely combed as if they expect a airplane landing’.

These are the things that cripple me, that have left scars so deep that they could bleed today’s deeds and dreams. I terribly wish these things were not a part of my past. That I could some how go back and change them. That I could somehow go back and stand tall. That I could somehow go back and get beaten up for being myself than shrinking myself and still getting beaten up. Damn!

I can imagine how Helen (of troy)’s lover felt, with a sword on his neck and a betrayed husband in his face; how he felt as death demanded either his pride or himself; how he felt seeking refuge for himself at his brother’s feet as everything that he every loved lay bare and unprotected on the battlefield.

The pertinent facet to all this is that I said a prayer almost in all of those situations. I was forced to. I prayed even if I didn’t mean to. (And most of the times it so happened that I escaped unhurt and ofcourse the eternal question persists: luck or lord?)

Now, these two things are entwined: my not being able to stand up to myself and, (consequentially) turning to God. (Whether turning to God is good or bad is an impertinent issue and can wait for another day). Thinking of the latter gives me the sting of the former…I scream.

It would be all-fine to find God boring and inapplicable on a lazy Sunday morning. But just as i tend to settle into such impudent comfort, the devils come back to me in malicious mockery; as if saying "You pretentious trifle, do you really think you can afford to be so cool??"...As Ernest Hemingway puts it, : " It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing."

And I come back home after dropping my aunt at church, to an amused and smiling uncle (who shares my religious sentiment only for that particular church, and sneers at his wife’s improportionate allegiance to it) who was elated that I kind-of broke the law… and as I sit beside him, he hands over the TV remote to me, mocking, "ctrl+alt+del to the church eh??"(he recently learnt and is fascinated by the function of ctrlaltdel on a computer) :)