Hands

It was a cool and calm night. I had just returned home from work. My wife smiled at me as I entered my small cottage. My five year old kid ran up to me and held on to my hands. The same hands that needed some rest now , after a full day of work. My son led me to the kitchen area and asked me to sit. The warm fire burning on the stove and the glow it emitted was a welcoming site.

My wife placed my dinner in front of me. A meal of meager proportions , that’s all I could afford right now. But at least it was warm. I live with my wife and kid in a small cottage. It isn’t much , but it is home. For now. But I believe it will soon change for the better. My hands will bring about the change. My wife sat in front of me and asked me about my day. Well, it was just like all my other days had been for the past 10 years. I would go to the location of the project and do my work. I was a sculptor , and in the words of my employer – a really good one. For the past ten years I had been working on this one project. One of the biggest and prettiest projects ever worked upon. Again , these were the words of my employer. I had never stepped out of my village other than to work , so I had pretty much no clue. In the 25 years I have lived , this has been the biggest work that has come my way. My employer paid decently. He was a good man.

I had finished my meal. My wife and son had gone to sleep. I decided to enjoy the beautiful moon before ending my day. The moon was glowing in it’s white splendor. It was full today. A complete moon. Just like the project I had been working on. The project was finally complete. My employer had been very pleased with the outcome. He called it a masterpiece that could never be copied. He had said that he would reward everyone who had helped the next day. Yes, my hands which I have always believed in , will change my fortune tomorrow. I decided to take one last look at the moon. It was so pretty , so pure , so white. Just like the finished project. My employer had already decided on a name for it.

The Taj Mahal.

Darkness and Colour

The Darkness

The world is a very cruel place. Dark and desolate. Being born in such a world is bad luck in itself. But being me, well that’s just something more than bad luck.

My life is more or less a routine. My existence , a shadow. I go about each day, unnoticed and unheard , without most people acknowledging my presence. I feel at home in the shadows. At least, they shield me , make me feel welcome. People, most of them – sophisticated hypocrites , wearing a mask of civility to pass of as ideal citizens. Living a fake life.  Not even such fakes acknowledge me. Where does that leave me? Friends – I never had many of them. Still don’t. I find that people don’t tend to stick around much. Family ,  I try hanging on to the people I love and people who have loved me and continue to love me still. But they continue to leave me to a life of near solitude. This cold solitude which I have become so used to. A void of silence. Every day, I think of giving up. Every day,  I think of quitting. Every day , I unmake myself and carry on .

For every day, I remind myself who I am. A wraith – who can look upon people without them noticing me. A shadow that cannot be seen unless I wish so. An embodiment of the fear and hypocrisy  the scum of this society feel. A person who keeps the darkness away from the light.  A person who has few people he loves which make them all the more precious. Focused and analytical because of the lack of distractions. Yes , this who I am.

I am Batman.

The Colour

When I was 3 , I was asked, ‘What is your favourite colour? ’  I said Purple . Like the shoes of clowns at the circus.

When I was 5 , I was asked, ‘What is your favourite colour? ’ I said , Black. Because that was the colour which enveloped me into comfort when I was thrown into the dark closet by my beautiful mother and psychopath father. It was as an escape from the present.

When I was 10 , I was asked, ‘What is your favourite colour? ’ I answered, Red. Like the colour of the thick blood that dripped on the floor. The red on my face. The purple it turned into.

When I was 15 , I was asked, ‘What is your favourite colour? ’ Blue. Like the eyes of the girl I first set my eyes upon. Who  haunted me . She would either be mine, or no one’s.

When I was 17 , I was asked , ‘What is your favourite colour? ’ I answered, green. Green like money. It was the colour which ruled the world. The colour behind which humanity was crazed and had unhinged the minds of the people. If you took away the green, humanity would lose their mind. I wondered how that would look like?

when I was 18, I was asked, ‘What is your favourite colour? ’ I answered, Orange. Like the flames that enveloped the lives of people as they destroyed their lives running behind wealth . Orange like the colour of rage in their eyes as they saw that wealth – their life reduced to ashes.

When I was 25, I was asked , ‘What is your favourite colour? ‘ I said , Red again. Like my wife’s blood on my hands. The colour of my rage , on seeing her leave. The colour that covered her after I made sure she wouldn’t.

When I was 34, I was asked, ‘ What is your favourite colour?’ I said, Black. Like the world I was living in. Like the colour of the sky, my eyes and my nemesis.

I think the world needs a hint of colour – a burst of orange here , and splash of red there .

And me? All I need is a good laugh . I am the agent of chaos.

I am The Joker.

Co-authored by Michelle