The War Inside Me


 It was 2023. Calcutta smells like cigarettes smoked, unsmoked and ashed. I miss Kharagpur already. The cup of coffee that I beat in my room calls out to my survival. The silence screams in my cerebrum. So I look out the window. The world was crashing inward, outward and toward insanity. Russia invaded Ukraine, a pseudo war between European nations and USA on one side and Russia on the other. Israel was committing atrocities on Palestinians, in a manner similar to what Hitler did to them. The so called developed world's population was fizzling out. Taliban was officially in Afghanistan, nobody knows where the women there are disappearing and nobody asks anymore. The military coup in Myanmar is no more talked about. The Kukis are suffering in both India and Myanmar, but the world does not see them. The global village has stopped caring for the women and children suffering in Burkina Faso, Mali and Niger. Third world countries are last in their priority list, so silence towards them prevails. Our home burns, and we watch. Our country burns, and we watch. Our species burn, and we watch. Our community burns, and we watch. Our body burns, and we watch. Our soul burns, and we watch. 

I stand on a speckling of Earth, and watch myself burn. The war inside me is reflected outside. I run from the crashing memories that crush my present, running with blood spewed across my clothes. I take shelter inside the bark of the tree of love, which is axed by the capitalist needs of my independence. A slice of my empathy is cut off. So I chase the slave-like demands of my passion, only to trip into an endless loop of climbing in and out of darkness and a light that burns slices of my heart. Salami slicing of my sanity. Overcome with madness and addiction, a force pulls me out of the loop. Seeking balance, I end up standing on a thread. The safety net. Absent. I lose my balance from the thread of discipline, to fall into the volcano of madness. Madness. I swim in madness. My soul burns no more. My existence burns. My soul watches my body and caresses it. Tells my body to look for nature's species in the lava and smile. And smile I do. At the madness, at the insanity, at the withering state of existence. 

The world is at war and so am I. 

The pain overtakes rationale thought. Someone who once never gave up, turns into a quitter. A baggage of failure, dreams, needs and desire, no more gives birth to passion, but gives birth to capitulation. Since 2002, passion was the driver. Now it is capitulation. No more survival, but mere existence. A highly questionable one. The leaves too clap at the defeat, driven by the breeze in the air that once whispered stories to me. Not just a loss, but absolute defeat, where the option of surrender does not exist, and failed existence is a compulsion. Life or something like it.

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