The Room

Rudely woken up, I found myself in a dingy room filled with about sixty people. Fellow beings being tormented by the same people for the same reasons I was. Trapped in this kind of an environment, humans are adapted to switch to survival mode, in this case, trying to go through it with least of a lasting impact. The mind shuts itself down; it desperately tries not to store memories of pain. The strain kills us, as we try to make sense of what is being tossed around in an effort to make us grasp intangible abstractions, which in the end, we realise, has nothing to do with helping us go through with it and that is the point when it finally dawns upon us that it is in vain that we try to fight it. But then, fight we do, for the mind is trained that way. There stood a gentleman who was, apparently, the reason we were in this situation. If words could kill, we were dying, every moment we spent in that room was agony. The man, in some twisted frame of mind, seemed to enjoy it, savouring the moments, preserving them, cherishing them, a sadist. He did it for a living. He tried to drive home a point, establish his superiority in the field. The battle was fought on for some more time, a few minutes seemed like eons to us and our perseverance and endurance finally payed off. Some of us were better warriors in this war against tyranny, and they lead us on to collide with the very man answerable to our predicament. This exposes his vulnerability, so much so that he almost caves in, giving in to us, bleeding his weaknesses out. The wheel of time turns round, the slaves become the masters of the battle, victory is near. But then, that doesn’t continue for long, there is a schedule to keep, it becomes someone else’s turn to eat us alive, from the inside, our enemy changed by the greatest nemesis of all, time. By how much ever the wheel turned, it goes back to square one. We, once again, become the underdogs, when someone else does what he did, for you see, one class was over, it is something else now and we’re yet to figure it out.

Greed

Amidst the woods, in the heart of the forests, lived an oak tree. So majestic was he, tall and fair, he grew straight into the sky. Kissing the clouds, he stood, by the river, with branches gracefully spreading out, a haven for all forms of life. He harboured more than just birds; frogs, squirrels, lizards, possums and various insects to name a few. He was a living house, for many, benignly sheltering them, with love and tender care. The creatures too, were as grateful as ever, living in the shadows of the great tree. He provided them with fruit, succulent and delectable, leaves ever juicy and green, crevices to lay eggs and raise their young. It was a harmonious existence, a beautiful symbiosis of many life-forms, a delicate balance, a fragile ecosystem. Then came another creature, for nothing more than a creature was he, with a lust for power, a slave of greed himself, wielding an axe sharper than his intellect, he set to work. One tree after another, he decimated the forest, all of the great tree's friends murdered, many lives squashed. He set about, systematically clearing the woods of all forms of life. He then turned his head towards our tree. He looked at it with awe, but with hardly any reverence, for, for him, life was just a mere resource that could be exploited at will. His avarice drooling out through his teeth, he grinned with glee, his eyes gleaming, his axe shining. He, with all his might, brought his weapon down on the hard wood, leaving a deep gash, bright and wet on the tree's root. Another blow came, making the cut deeper. He repeatedly struck the wound, as the great tree screamed and wept silently. More blows were showered, as squirrels ran for their lives, as their benevolent benefactor came crumbling down. The birds took flight, their nests fell, eggs shattered and the chicks abandoned as they,in all helplessness, cried for mercy. The tree writhed in agony as his majesty, his grace and all that he stood for came crashing down. He fell like all great kings, fell gracefully, like a martyr. His leaves touched the ground, with a resounding thud, sending shock waves of grief across what was left of the forest as the few trees spared wept. He was dragged unceremoniously across the forest floor, the last symbol of life in the woods enslaved by mad-men. Driven by river currents, the tree rafted afloat, bearing the very man who brought him down, the last symbol of graciousness he could provide. Taken to another of men, he was cut, torn apart and sliced, the spite of men feeding the giant tools of great malice, as the steel cut through the wood that once stood bearing life and made it into lifeless logs as a mirror of the slayer himself, cold and lifeless as man. With this wood, the men made many things, huge vessels carrying thousands of other men. An Armada floated across the sea, fed by the murder of trees only to aid murder of fellow men. Huge fleets of ships, fully sailed, floated across firing other ships. One by one, the ships were battered down, dead trees killed, again. The woods drowned carrying the men with them, as other men rejoiced their demise. This insanity went on for a while, ships lost, lives wrecked. The wood that once belonged to our beloved oak, fell to the bottom of the sea, only to be now colonised by fish, corals, and crabs. Life always thrived on his account, life always cherished him. On the other hand, men that lay dead were floating, untouched and rotting. No shark, no fish, no animal found his flesh tasteful, for he was steeped in avarice and lust. No one loved him, for he loved none. No one cared for him, for he cared for none. No one grieved his death, for he grieved for none. None ever will, for he slayed his own kin, for gain. This is what happens of men, a race that craves power, governed by a will to dominate. Nevertheless, another tree grew in our oak's place, another man killed it, another war ensued, another thousands perished, in men's greed.