Creative juices seasoned with Terror

I opened the window for a dose of the cool evening draft. Strains of soft music filled my ears. I smiled contentedly. Perfect setting for the perfect little poem! I concentrated on the white paper and the black lines that crossed it evenly. They always seem to have a mild intoxicating effect. The creative juices were flowing.

Bang! Before I could emerge from my state of physical inactivity and regain my active agility, it happened again. Another bang! I ran to the balcony fearfully expecting to catch glimpse of a couple of coolly clad lads clutching onto some intimidating machines and threatening a crouching mass of innocent and fear-wrought victims. The bangs repeated irregularly but incessantly.

A proper scrutiny revealed a carpenter’s shop at the end of the road with the poor old carpenter hammering away joyfully at his fabrication. I retraced my footsteps in a quick desperate attempt to recapture the moment of creativity and penned down a couple of words in red… words that had been forced to make quick exits by the ‘poor old carpenter’, a few minutes back.

As a part of some universal conspiracy, my traitor pen refused to form alphabets, or for that matter refused to leave any mark on the ‘white paper and the black lines that crossed it evenly’. Unwilling to succumb to such plots, I jerked the conspiring red pen in a violent sweeping movement. The white paper turned nearly-red with big blots of red ink all over. The sight had done its mischief. I made a futile effort to wipe away the blots but all it did was to paint my hands red.

A sense of nausea made me rush to the basin and here I faced myself in the mirror. I saw someone I didn’t quite know. Was this the face of Terror? But, again, did Terror know tears of remorse that I saw in the eyes of the person in the mirror?

The last two weeks post 26/11 had left an indelible mark on my mind. Terror had diseased my mental faculties and was taking a toll on my sensibilities. Terror had struck at a geographical location more than two thousand kilometers away and here I was sitting in my room, feeling guilty for being safe, feeling responsible for innocent deaths, sensing the lurking presence of death somewhere near.

I have not lighted a candle nor have I mourned in black. I have, however, uttered a silent prayer for the ones who lost their lives, for the ones who survived and for all of us so that we never know what it is to die a terrorized death. Now, as I sit scribbling this feverishly, I realize what it is to be served a chalice of creative juices seasoned with Terror.

N.B.: This was written in December 2008. It is being posted now as a homage to all those who lost something on 26/11, a date that changed more than just history.