The Taj Mahal, one of the most beautiful man made structures the world has ever seen, an epitome expression of a King’s love for his wife, is a treat to the visual senses. Anyone who has visited this majestic monument has been enthralled by its baffling beauty. I have a friend who visited the Taj Mahal, and he chose to describe it as a glorified grave! Is it possible that he is describing the same structure?
My friend has a different perspective to life. He calls himself a poet. His views are often out of the ordinary and don’t make sense to most sensible men. That makes his extremely well qualified.
His journey as a poet started when we were in high school, sitting next to each other. It was a mid day of a hot scorching summer! The fans in our class failed to work. Our throats were dry and the fact that we were part of an all boy’s school made us feel even drier. The silver lining, our biology tutor, was intensely describing the parts of a dead and dissected cockroach. Like a bolt out of a clear blue sky, my friend uttered,
“Ah! Those eyes are so cool;
They make me not want to leave school!”
I can tell you that he was not describing the eyes of the cockroach. And I can also tell you, that he was made to leave school for making that statement, though it was a fact.
He then managed to force himself into the armed forces. He was on a demanding, dangerous and deadly mission to destroy a few terrorist camps. On a silent night, in a somber valley, the secret camp was sighted. A fierce gun battle erupted. The sound of the incessant gunfire engulfed the silent valley throughout the night. The stream of bullets and the string of grenades lighted up the night sky like a mini sun would. Before long, it was dawn and the battle was raging on. My friend, lying on the ground, firing at every enemy in sight suddenly started weeping profusely. He lost concentration and almost got himself and some of his men killed! His chief dragged him into base and SCREAMED for an explanation. My friend, still sobbing, said,
“A rose was about to bloom;
Unaware of the approaching doom;
There was blood on its face;
What a disgrace!
Its life would never be the same!
I am the cause, what a shame!”
and continued to cry. He was charged with being soft, sensitive, sentimental and senseless. Through a lot of effort he made it to the army, and with very little effort, he was sent out of it.
He left his job, and so his love left him. He learnt that the society would not accept him because he had honesty, he had sensitivity and he had swine flu. When he contracted it, there was no cure. He was on his death bed when I last met him. I put up a sorry face. He laughed at me and said, “You know not how long you would live;
You are living in pieces!
I know exactly how long I would live;
And I am dying in peace;
Death, is more exciting than I thought it would be;
Somehow I feel that this is how life should be”
I put him at ease, and left with a lot of unease. My childhood friend, the perpetual poet, may not exist tomorrow. My friend, who saw the coolness in the eyes of a tutor on a scorching summer day, who saw the pain of a flower amidst war, who saw the pleasure of life in his death, is leaving. And he is leaving behind a glorious gift, the wonderful perspectives of a poet.
