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The Divine Key

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The silence was eerie. The darkness was sinister. After his great feat, he had expected joyous celebrations, pompous gifts and that elusive key, his mentor had promised him. He was sure he would get the award of all awards.

 

His mind reassured him that the silence and the darkness were temporary. Therefore, he decided to wait…

 

He had lost count of time. He, however, realised a long period must have elapsed. He was not a person who let fate decide the course of his life. He carved his own future with grit and blood. He took matters in his hands and decided to find his way to the key.

 

He took a step.

 

Where were his feet? He had no feet! Yet, he had somehow moved. He was falling into an abyss that had a rough and rugged surface.

He raised his hands to break the fall, to stop!

 

Where were his hands? He had no hands! Yet, something disrupted his downward fall. He saw his body bounce up! He tried to swim through the air but, he could not feel his hands. Where were his hands?

 

Like shooting stars, arrows pierced his body. He tired as he may, but he couldn’t figure out the damage the arrows had done to his body. He widened his eye! Without hands, he couldn’t rub them. Then he figured out he had no eyes, although he had eyesight. He could feel the sight… But he couldn’t see.

 

Before he could deduce what was wrong with him, he was drowned in a coagulating liquid which had a pungent smell that he remembered. What was it? The liquid was suffocating him. He tried to swim out but, the lack of limbs had constricted him. Sadly the overwhelming smell of blood… Was it blood? He had smelled enough blood to recognise it. Strangely, he couldn’t smell. He had lost his sense of smell.

 

He thought he heard hoofs of angry bulls running towards him. But could he really hear them? Or were they only vibrations? He strained his ears to hear until he realised he had lost his sense of hearing.

 

Suddenly, like a pendulum, he swayed. He burnt in one end and drowned in another.  And then his body started bobbing in the viscose plasma that stifled him. Suddenly it dawned upon him that he could not feel anymore.

 

Bereft of his five senses, he tried to remain confident about his faith and beliefs. He tried to peer through the troubles.

 

What was wrong with him? He was frantic. He thought he was losing his mind until he realised he had lost his power to perceive and think!

 

But he was a warrior, he wouldn’t give up. Slowly he tried to reach this destination. The place where that divine key hung. His master had told him that he would possess the key when he performed that blessed feat.

 

He wouldn’t give up. He tried again until the momentum made him queasy. It made him retch, but, nothing came out. At that moment, he realised he had lost his body, yet, he felt it all!

 

The realisation struck him like lightning. He had lost his senses and his body. He probably was dead. It was only his soul that was facing all that torture.

 

He remembered what his master had said,
‘The blood of your non-believers will help him procure the key to heaven. That key would lead you to a penthouse of affluence and glory.’

 

He had killed a mass of innocent people to get that key. Where were the divine ushers? They hadn’t arrived yet! Didn’t his master tell him that the divine ushers would lead him to the angels and the land of opulence?

 

Robbed of a body and senses, what was that penthouse worth? Had he been fooled?

 

Although he was confused and scared,  he wanted his penthouse! He didn’t want to be a soul without a body. How would he enjoy those divine perks, otherwise?

 

There was a reason he had agreed to be a suicide bomber. He was promised the key to heaven by his master. Without a second thought, he had agreed to bomb them. But where was the key?

 

He was suctioned into a ball of fire. He was burning but not dying. Had he misunderstood his master? Was his fight against the infidels worth it?

 

Were they really infidels?

 

The jarring sound of the alarm woke him up. He was thankful he was still alive and blessed that he was not dead yet. He was honoured that life had given him a second chance.

 

Right then the alarm beeped a second reminder! He looked at his kit. The bomb would explode in the next hour. His master had given him the task to bomb a contingent on the move. His master had promised him that this act would lead him to the key that would direct him the penthouse called heaven.

 

He was in a dilemma. He didn’t know if he should forsake it all or give humanity another chance. But then the bomb beeped another urgent plea.

 

Trusting his master and ignoring his inner voice, in greed of that divine key, he wore the bomb and walked to his target – Death!

The Perfect Shot_Short Story

The Perfect Shot

Posted on Leave a commentPosted in Fable
Mohsin looked at his watch moving like a perfect shot! He noticed the hour and minute hands kissing each other between 1 and 2. He has been on the deck of the two-floor corner guest house near Chiktan Fort in Chiktan village, Kashmir for straight 24 hours.

 

The sun was almost on top of his floor and head. He could feel the heat entering through his eyes and traveling through his spine to his feet. It was -10 degrees Celsius but he could still wish to escape the sun rays hitting directly on his minimal exposed skin. He found himself at the edge of two wars simultaneously. One was his body which was losing the immunity to stand still. The other was the armed security personnel of the Army at the Fort gate.

 

The Army guarded the entrance and militant coup in the area.

 

His hands could not bear the weight of the Norinco assault rifle- the Chinese version of AK-47.  This 9 lbs weapon felt 10 times heavier.  Holding it for straight twenty-four hours made the ammunition heavier than it actually weighed. Mohsin was a part of the rebel group which was fighting against the national establishment. The so-called war of independence for Kashmir from India was the agenda. He left his house at the age of 19 after being influenced by a religious preacher he had heard online.

 

The ideal visions of the inspirational speaker lured him into believing that the local government shouldn’t be the one formulating laws in his side of the valley.

 

He remembered the argument he got into with his father, a day before eloping. The discussion over the table was about the myth of Kashmir’s independence. Zia- ur, his father, was a son of a martyr who fought alongside Gandhi for the country’s independence. He clearly understood what bloodshed of the lost was at the cost of freedom. He tried to explain to Mohsin the mindset of fundamentalist and their ideological character. The lecture wasn’t frictional as this was a learned experience of a senior officer in the state-controlled police department. Zia- ur, had been fighting with the extremist agitating for their so called free Kashmir movement. Mohsin couldn’t agree to the litigation objections raised by his father. His father explained to him that a fight against once own land and people wasn’t freedom.

 

Hurting and killing one's own people wasn't independence.

 

His mind was in a deadlock. Mohsin couldn’t relate to a word his father uttered that day.

 

Mohsin was the elder to his 12-year-old sibling. Shabana was his only prized possession. He adored her, almost raising her after their mother’s death. Walking by the lake across the Snow Mountains and collecting Chinar leaves, Shabana would tell her stories.  Mohsin would ask her questions to intentionally argue with her. He'd burst into laughter later!

 

Each day his schedule pretty much involved Shabana. She had the lion’s share of his time! A couple of hours with his father, he practiced shooting and enjoyed a two-hour evening stroll with Nafeesa, his charming love interest daily. His life wouldn’t be less blessed; if he could have only made it a little more worth! Sadly, it sketched out like a scattered plot.

 

Mohsin tried to make the flashbacks fade away! His cause was greater than any of the rosy thoughts of the past.

 

While his head mused about these thoughts, a bullet brushed past his ear- the distance of snail’s length. The shot was fired by the army man from the fort wall. The images of the valley, the river, Shabana, his father shouting him at shooting range started to diminish. It took him a round of second’s hand to regain his senses and get hold of his artillery and peruse the sight for his mission. He felt like being teased that nomad of a bullet; as if it was amused at his failed objective. He rested the rear end of the rifle against his shoulder and leaned back a little.

 

He took a good calculated guess at the target distance which approximated to around 300 meters. A target shot was something he had never been able to achieve in his life since started practicing from back in the day.

 

He loosened his muscles and relaxed the grip of his rifle. Mohsin slipped low and rested his back against the wall to hide his visibility. Placing his mind to work and he formulated the strategy to shoot down the target in the defense attire. The binoculars locked his sight and brain; releasing one the lenses from the front by cracking the tripod adaptor from the middle. He stood up once again and placed the Gun at the edge of the wall, circled his index figure around the trigger tightly to take control. To ease the resistance he felt from his hand, he took off his glove and tried again.

 

He detached the lens from the binocular and moved it towards the target so that the sun rays reflected at an angle creating a distraction. The trick worked and the officer in the array of rays moved above the covering wall at his side. Mohsin contracted his finger twice and shot two bullets straight at him, one holed onto the shoulder and the other in the face. The officer tumbled forward.

 

Hitting the roof of a floor, the adversary fell- finally resting on the pavement.

 

Mohsin leaned back again, unfreeze his grip, kissed the rifle and put it down to rest. He uncovered his face and took a heavy breath. Focusing his eyes away from the painful sight, his blood flow started running to normal. He felt proud of his shot. This, he believed was no less an achievement. He wished Shabana could have witnessed his subtlety. Mohsin also felt respect for his enemy who almost had him until eventually, the man had surrendered to the darkness!

 

He collected his stuff and moved towards the fort to take it into control and notify his fellow fighters. Just at the gate, he found the body of his trouble maker covered with streams of oozing blood. He bent forward to smile at the martyred face. Mohsin's smile was that of a winner. He relived the entire shot in his head and the brilliance of execution. His chest pumped with the thought of it! He turned the unresponsive body of the only witness of his act and looked into the eyes of his dead father-

 

Author: Muflis Musafir

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'Bang! Bang! Bang!!!' Short Story Author: Kleio B'wti ©www.wakenshine.com, 2017.

Bang! Bang!! Bang!!!

Posted on Leave a commentPosted in Fable
Rick liked it all.

 

He liked his friends, his job, his neighbors, the street dogs that accompanied him every time he went out for a walk. Every person who envied him or felt aggressive towards him regrettably couldn’t say a sole callous word for him. They ended up flattering him and his compassion. All they could say to vent out was that there was something 'wicked' about those twinkling eyes.

 

Those eyes squinted when they smiled, laughed in those grim conferences and shouted "I told you so" when the boss took someone to task. Yet his face remained expressionless. The strangest bit in this whole phenomenon was the fact that only his rivals and enemies could read his eyes. The others found them most safe and happy.

 

There is a certain connection that a person has with his critics. They somehow comprehend them better.

 

The doubters may not value the person's achievements nonetheless, they do identify the shortcomings. Rick's enemies were no different. They saw his eyes were bloodshot under those sunglasses. Scretly, they sniggered and clandestinely jested at the happy man. They knew something was amiss. The man- everyone's idealized had a foe that kept him awake at nights or made him cry to oblivion.

 

The detractors kept fussing over it, the admirers kept on loving him, and the days passed.

 

The cloudy days looked sunny when he smiled and the sunny days less scorching when he crooked his Aviator-glasses towards them. Life was happening when he was around- a star in the universe he lived in. This is how the world perceived him. Rick, however, did not think on the same lines of his aficionado and abhorrent.

 

He was a guy who detested the mirror. He kept his hair really short because he was scared to look at his reflection. It was better to just brush his short crew cut and run his fingers through them to make them look groomed. He regularly took professional help to get a shave. His trusted hair-dresser followed his orders and covered the mirror for him when he visited the salon.

 

He didn't mind people. They were a welcome distraction – a diversion to keep his mind away from what lay under the layers of dark things that went on in his brains. One day, he grazed his hand on an iron fence and was astonished to see red liquid oozing out of his fingers. He had believed his blood was black too. So much had happened, the snapshots never left him. He was gratified to have people around him; thanking them with an open admiration.

 

He was scared.

 

Ricky, whom everyone loved was unloved by his own self. Although he hid his real persona from the world, only he knew what he signified. He represented the worst. The dark fear, the sorrow, the pain, the remorse never left him. Whenever he slept the nightmares -real than life, filled his intellectual space with trepidation. He saw himself as a three-year-old, smiling almost laughing and pulling the trigger.

 

Bang! Bang!! Bang!!

 

He saw all his family falling. Dad went first, then his brother on the second and then his lifeline- his Momma on the third. The judges in the court were funny. They did not shoot the last of the cartilage in him. They forgave him saying it was an accidental death by a toddler. He understood what death was when they took him to the graveyard. Were they dead?

 

Perhaps they weren’t.

 

They were buried and try how much he might he would not be able to dig six feet underneath. 6- feet under was more than layers that differentiated the living from the lifeless. His soul had departed with them. Sadly, he was all alone- still breathing. He had buried his spirit with them but the inhalation wouldn't stop.

 

As a grown up, he stood against violence- championed against possession of domestic ammunitions. He wanted to tell others that there was still a chance that he had lost. Yet, more people got licensed guns. Ricky spent sleepless nights for days; sometimes months. Clinically they said he was an insomniac.

 

Poignantly Ricky believed he was a murderer, a lover of a weapon that had wiped his family, his lifeline, his hope, and future.

 

He stood and fought with every legislator. He stood in rallies taking leave without pay to fight the law of firearm possession. Yet, it was all in vain. What he saw was that three-year-old toddler killing them all one by one.

 

Bang!  Bang!!  Bang!!!

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Soldiers Weep Blog Post Author: Kleio B'wti ©www.wakenshine.com, 2017.

Soldiers Weep

Posted on Leave a commentPosted in Motley

These eerie verses speak, “Build me a son, O Lord, who will be strong enough to know when he is weak and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid, one who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat, and humble and gentle in victory.” - Douglas MacArthur

 

There are few mortals who rise up to this immortal speech and live and die for a greater cause, something nobler than their desires- called the passion for their land and the citizens.

 

For this love, they hunt, fight, destroy and kill! They are men or women who temporarily become the heartless machines. These live machinery sing, "There is not to reason why its but to do and die (Charge of the Light Brigade- Alfred Lord, Tennyson).

 

Ernest Hemingway quoted, “There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.”

 

Strangely, no one likes violence except for a sociopath! Soldiers hunt their enemy down, protect the families of their beloved land; sometimes march and conquer other lands- only for patriotism! They provide homes, wealth, richness to others at the cost of their own lives and sanity. How do I know this? Because I knew such a soldier- that young boy in his late teens, who saw the devastation in victory and the crumble of the dreaded German General, Rommel.

 

Abhay Kinker Sharan won many medals and honours including the prestigious medal from the President of the country, in time!

 

Yet, what I saw was a man who wiped tears secretly, living as a deputy- representing the friends he had lost, especially in the combat of Operation Desert Fox during the Second World War.

 

I am proud to say that I was born to the son of such a courageous yet ill-fated, triumphant soldier!

 

Many of us say that we hate war! However, a candle march is not going to stop the hatred! The conflict and hatred can only stop when we understand what pain and remorse we put our soldiers through. Movies and novels glorify soldiers. They talk about the martyrs, mostly. Very few talk about the ones who survive the ordeal.

 

An unknown poet rightly wrote,

“Those who survived were forever scarred,
Emotionally, physically, permanently marred.
Those who did not now sleep eternally
'Neath the ground-
They had given their lives to keep free.” -The unknown

 

Ones who withstand war live a dead life until they reunite with their friends in death. They die each day, their hearts cry; but no one sees! They feel guilty for being alive. They suffer from PTSD that medicines don't cure, only subside. Death cheated them! Life makes them feel dishonest, yet they exist, coz they are those unfortunate beings who were ignored.

 

No medal ever makes up for the devastation they saw- their regiments’ men and that of the enemies.

 

Death does not take sides. It takes the wretched and the blessed away, in the same way. The Grim Reaper does not judge, he pulls a life away from the body with the same dispassion be it a hero or a villain! So many die daily, but none die like the veterans do. They sign up for death when they join the defence forces. They nevertheless, do not sign up for the wretched life they live after losing their men at war. Their bodies survive, with no hope of remittance, no desire of rebirth, no conviction in worldly good!

 

Soldiers never quit!

 

Soldiers live a worn-out time with the same valour and courage that they faced the first bullet at war. They endure the outcome of the war, pledging to fall every second with each martyred soldier. They resolve to live with self-worth and intellect, they determine to fulfil their dreams- yet they perished daily, with every new breath.

 

Is it worth letting the ones who survive the war to go through this ordeal? What makes us such heartless living beings? Why do we support violence, and not love? Why? The fearless warriors- the veterans, who were tricked by death, exist- because they hear their peers- marching, laughing, weeping, cracking jokes and saying something that's summed up in this touching poem by John McRae.....

 

In Flanders Fields, by John McRae

 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Author: Kleio B'wti

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World Peace

Posted on Leave a commentPosted in Emotion

Some believe that the soul chooses the body it will take at the time of rebirth. It is also believed that the soul chooses the family and the environment it will be born to. The belief is that the soul makes this choice so as to absolve its past mistakes and work towards attaining enlightenment- the final route to God Realization.

 

God Realization is the soul’s final goal.

 

After various life encounters, I have realized that we, who choose a human form are escapists. We choose the easy way out to work towards the journey of the soul’s journey towards its goal. On the other hand, the souls who choose to be born in any other form of the beast but Homo sapiens, are the courageous ones. They live on the streets, get abused by the higher animal-man, they go through perils, are abandoned-killed.

 

But whatever they are inflicted with, they remember to create value by a slobbery lick to the sad, companionship to the lonely, inspiration for soul searching to the seeker. Even a carnivorous animal kills only for the sake of sustenance. Never do we see a tendency of hoarding among animals. With limited medical facilities as compared to human beings, even without the protection of their rights that a person enjoys, they still strive to maintain the eco-system and in their own way strive to let their soul’s learn and transform.

 

But look at us! We kill for no reason. Even when we go vacationing to a foreign land as tourists;  or we enter a safe country as refugees- fleeing persecution of nature or humans. Instead of showing our gratitude, we decide to bomb the country of shelter, gun down the citizens who support us needy visitors by paying taxes. We violate human rights and consider it an act of glory. And when we cannot justify our actions, we term it as a religious decree.

 

The biggest religion in the world is humanity. Humanity brings peace in the environment and land. Retribution, on the contrary, brings anarchy. The total intolerance and hatred we have for others will never allow us to achieve our utmost potential. Thus, our soul will not move towards God Realization. It’s time we check ourselves before priding ourselves as higher mammals. We are actually reducing to a heap of dust of distressed mortals.

 

This suffering imposed on our globe could lead to permanent damage- an irrevocable injury that will be beyond repair. Let’s try to heal the land and the people with love, respect and acceptance for each one’s miscellany. Let us at least think, visualize and actually walk towards world peace. Our world does not deserve another Brussels Attack, Paris Attack, Ukraine Attack, 9/11 mishap, Iraq War, North Korea, Ethnic Wars and World Wars.

 

The Dalai Lama has rightly said, “Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them, humanity cannot survive.”

 

So, let us discard ammunitions, hatred, retribution and aggressive tendencies- to build a safe and tranquil Earth.

 

Author: Kleio B'wti

 

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