The Heretic Anthem

The past cannot be erased and it doesn’t come back to haunt us, it simply never leaves. I learned that first-hand yesterday. I like to believe that I had moved on, I like to believe it was a memory I could walk away from. But I guess my over inflated ego deserved that. A sucker punch. I’m aching now but don’t worry my silent friend, my over inflated ego does have a high shock absorbent property.

Only if our brain worked like a hard disc, so many memories I’d like to overwrite, so many memories I’d like to delete, I do not want any cached versions of any of that.

That was a nerd joke. Never mind.

You know I guess I stayed silent for maybe a little while longer than I should have. Mother got slapped way too often, it always hurt, not only for her, for me too. I guess, I still have the scars etched in my mind and heart. Those times look so distant now, looking back, I don’t know why. It’s not as if I still don’t relive or recall them vividly but maybe father changed a bit, that could be a reason. But does that changes all wrong that he did way back then, he had issues, he says but then again didn’t we all or don’t we have them now? We still struggle on certain days with the money, not much but enough.

I don’t know how, but it did ended up becoming unbearable, I guess it was that all the time, how could it had been pleasurable? I’m not — I don’t know, but something snapped one day, I guess I was maybe sixteen or seventeen, I don’t want to remember it very clearly which is why I so often struggle with the time, anyway, there came a moment when it just ended up becoming too much. Maybe that was the day it all changed.

Maybe father changed that day too.

It’s strange how our elders expect us to be moral, ethical and unbiased when it comes to deciding the moments of our lives. Children are influenced by their parents, there is no other alternative to that, parents are supposed to be irrational, not children, parents.

It is just not a pleasant memory, I guess, none of them are, my childhood wasn’t what it’s supposed to be, full of joy, life, and definitely innocence, how could it have been?

I just never had a chance, I couldn’t, even if I wanted to, ignore the wrong I witnessed all around me. I was funny that way. Or maybe I was a bit sociopathic, my father would definitely like to believe that because it would finally end up meaning that none of it was his fault. I didn’t turn out twisted and broken because of him.

I guess he is haunted by it, maybe, I couldn’t know for sure, but I hope, for his sake, that he is. No one else held us liable for our actions, not the police, not god, definitely not society, only we can feel the guilt of it. That’s the whole point of guilt. Guilt is our dark prison.

I still hurt, I do not want to anymore, but I do. I couldn’t just change everything, in a snap of a moment. My light was weakened and deserted long ago. My father and I, we like to believe that we have finally mended our relationship, but I know that’s far from the truth, I guess he does too. We still cannot talk if there isn’t a third person in the room, believe it or not, all of this is indeed true. I’m strange that way, I guess, I’m still holding the grudge for all of it.

Mother, she is an epitome of everything that an Indian wife is supposed to be. A woman who is supposed to be under the foot of her master, society might call him husband but he only feels like a master, master of the slave, malleable and faithful, just like a dog I guess, a bitch in this case. Why did she never fought back, I don’t know, maybe she just didn’t have the luxury for it, are you forgetting women aren’t supposed to be independent, as you know by Bollywood, because if they are, they only smoke and drink, have unprotected sex and get pregnant, that’s Bollywood for you, the most sexist filth soup of an organisation for you. Woman aren’t supposed to be working, aren’t supposed to have their own thoughts, and aren’t supposed to be anything for that matter of fact. All you twenty-first-century people might like to believe otherwise but I ask you to go visit a village sometimes. I dare you not to change your opinion after that.

Did I ask to witness my father beat my mother senseless, till she became unconscious, till she bled? Did I fucking asked to witness that? I was thirteen for fuck sake, it was my birthday, and I’m twenty-five. Can you even imagine what went through my mind, to bear with the guilt your father killed, well almost killed your mother on your birthday? I was thirteen, I would have blamed myself my entire life for that.

But then I guess, an arrogant egoist jerk like me deserved all of that either way. See, I don’t have any tears left, I do not, I cried all I had to one night because that particular memory is not specific to one night, she almost died tens of times. I couldn’t afford tears, not if I had to fight, not if I had to be my own man, tears would have only made the shit worse, shit I breathed every day.

I don’t know why we presume that we hurt and other have an ego. I do hurt, I’m aching right now. My eyes are wet but they do not cry, they are dried, I hate getting flashbacks from things I do not want to remember. Did I asked for my childhood to be ruined, did I really asked to leave all my friends so that I can work, did I wanted to clean my father’s mess. I stopped crying because my mother needed better, my mother deserved better. Maybe I didn’t. But my mother did.

Should I shout? Should I scream till I’ve no voice left? I guess that’s the last straw people need to send me to a mental asylum. Nitesh is one episode away from being declared mentally insane.

It’s strange, I’ve buried so many memories, and I’ve dug their graves so deep in my heart. But they are buried in one sad corner of my broken psyche. And if you scratch one of them, all of them come back haunting me, all of them make me shiver from guilt, guilt that I’m broken, guilt that I’ll never OK. It’s strange how one pathetic memory that I’d buried in that corner ended up erupting everything.

I cried while writing this, I guess I still have some tears left. I hate this world, I love my words but I hate every single part of this world, I hate everyone in it, I want my innocence back, I’m tired of all the remorse, I’m tired of all the guilt, I’m tired of my mother’s suffering weighing me down. I feel sick knowing I’m my father’s son, I feel the guilt of his blood running in my vein.  I fucking want my innocence back. I want my emotions back. I want my tears back.

If you feel I do not hurt, it’s not because I have an over inflated ego, it’s simply because I do not have a bleeding heart anymore. I’ve bled enough in my life.

I won’t anymore. No matter, how you define your fucking standards, No matter how you define your patriarchy, no matter how you say I need to respect my elders, I’m sick of every single one of you. I couldn’t kill you, I couldn’t drag you in the streets when I needed to. How do you expect me to respect you now? How do you expect that I’ll ever be OK?

My mother, she got slapped way too often, she got disrespected way too often. All because of your patriarchy, your standards, your social decorum. I’m a heretic and I’m the one who will kill you. I promise this today, I will kill everyone single one of you. Your patriarchy, your duplicitous standards, your civilized yet hypocritical decorum. I will kill every single one of you.

What kind of God lets a thirteen years old sleep every night wondering whether his father will kill, correction, almost kill her mother that night? Almost, he didn’t have the guts to kill her. And in our country, almost means nothing but shit. You can almost rape a girl, that’s harassment. You can, hey wait, you can rape a girl, it still won’t do shit. If anything, you friends will call, “you the man.” Your parents will be proud of you, you are a born leader, you take charge, and you are the future leader of this incredible country.

What kind of a god lets a thirteen-year slave entire day, sacrifice his books? What kind of a self-righteous god lets a woman half beaten to death because she has a voice? I’m an atheist because I do not have any more time for your hypocrisies. I do not have time for the fake support of people who so proudly assume themselves to be a part of this society. I’m tired of this society. I’m the filth you motherfucker, I’m your devil, I’m your Antichrist, do whatever the fuck you can, I’ve bleed enough, you cannot make me bleed anymore. I’ll stand here, no matter how much you restrict my voice, no matter how much you loudmouth your Indian standards, your Hinduism, I’ll stand here, a heretic. I’m your devil, motherfucker.

And just in case you missed it society, let me write it more eloquently, no son wants his mother to die on his birthday. No son ever will, you fucking piece of filth.

As an afterthought, my silent friend, I hate you now. I hate that you made me relive all of this. I hate that my fingers are shaking as I’m typing this now.

**

I thought of disabling the comments on this one, like I said, I hate getting flashbacks from the things I do not want to remember. So if any of you have some life changing epiphany, to change my views on God, on society, on patriarchy, don’t. I couldn’t care any less for that.

2 Replies to “The Heretic Anthem”

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