Dony Alex

What is your Legacy ?

donyalex — Thu, 27 May 2010 06:15:38 +0000

‘Where do you see yourself in 5 years ? ‘

‘What are your long term and short goals ? ‘

Sounds familiar doesn’t . It’s question that almost a mandate in almost every interview. And one which would find its way in any dinner conversation with a successful uncle or aunt. It’s what we may term rather loosely as the ultimate question. Believe it or not , this question has been asked through every phase of one’s life cycle .

‘What would you want to be when you grow?’

‘So whats your plan after high school ?’

‘Now that you are done , what next ?’

‘What are you career goals(key point areas) for the next year ?’

And while for many , this question brings a swarm of ideas and plans, it remains for me to be a state of delusion . The reason is pretty straight and simple. For me , this question draws a parallel to the question

‘What is my legacy going to be ?’

or simply put , ‘In five years , what’s my life going to mean?’

How many of us wanted to be an astronaut when we were young , or how about a pilot. I personally wanted to be a scientist. There was a sense of passion , and a feel of adventure. A thrill , similar to the way we feel , when we as adults, watch an adrenaline filled movie scene , and secretly desire a chance to partake in that glory for a moment .

And then one day we woke up , with hair on our chest. Puberty hit and we were no longer ignorant. We then wanted to be doctor , engineer’s , lawyers and what not. When we were once gorilla’s we now progressed into the Neanderthal age. Choices and Desires found a binding with materialistic wealth , and social stigma. The drops of rationality slowly began poisoning the vial containing passion.

All of us have struggled , most of us , have become engineers and doctors. Some say I’m an IITian , some say I’m an MBA and everyone has a designation. Everyone has an identity approved by the stamp of a designation or degree. When in an age respect was given to a name , today , respect is followed by the designation that follow the name . Funny how , a persons degree , find a place on the same line of a recognition he /she has carried from the moment they existed.

When I spent 3 hours in MRI machine , having my scanned for tumors/ hemorrhage , there was only one question that came to my mind, over and over again .
‘What am I leaving behind?’

I was 20 years at that time . What could a 20 year old leave behind ? A bunch of school friends , who would in shock say ‘ he was a nerdy brilliant chap, didn’t know him much though’ , and with a flip of channel , life would go on . Perhaps a few teachers who feel disappointed that the world had lost a bright soul. And then there would be those close and dear, who would clench their hearts tightly , lest it be broken as what was once a present tense becomes a past tense.

Do tombstones carry that your degrees ? If not , would people respect me , after I was no longer among their presence. Would people even remember who I was 3 months down the line ?

‘Where would I like to see myself in 5 years ?’

Now that’s a tough question , when you have felt that 6 months into the future was asking too much . But it’s a question we have to answer.

I’d like to see myself a step ahead from where I was five years ago. I’d like to see myself making an impact to at least one more person . I’d like to be part of twice as many memories as I was back then . I’d like to love as I have never loved before , cry without shame , and live every opportunity that passes by , feeling the sting of failure , and the tears of joy. I’d like to remember my fears , not as a barrier but as strength that pushes me on, that makes me different , that quenches rationality and fuels passion. I’d like to have lived the past five years being part of someone life. I’d like to know that what was then a future , is now a present.

Every single day to me , is a measure of those 5 years. My legacy is solely the name I carry . The name I was born with , the name I will imprint on a tombstone.

My legacy is my name , my fathers name , my grandfathers name, my ancestors. My legacy is theirs.

What is yours ?

Hostel Chronicles

donyalex — Sat, 22 May 2010 01:24:02 +0000

‘ Abe Saale Sethu, Get up ! They are calling us.‘

Bang .. Bang .. Bang

Sami pounded relentlessly at the door . Droplets of sweat trickled across his brow. He wished he could leave , but knew that would only get him into more trouble. He waited for a moment , straining to hear any signs of life across the door. But there was none.

In the chill of the night , he clasped his blanket tightly , rubbing it across his hairless chest , to prevent the shiver that was spreading through his body. He did not know whether it was the cold , or the thought of turning up without Sethu , that made him shiver.

The sound of departing footsteps echoed across the lonely hall. It must be close to 2:30 , he thought to himself.

Bang .. Bang.. Bang .. Bang .. Bang

He knew he was panicking , but he could not help himself . He had a maximum of 5 minutes to get Sethu to the roof. He did not want to think of the events that would follow their arrival . Maybe today they would get off easily . Maybe they would not notice their absence , maybe his seniors were just too drunk. But as his watched beeped 2:30 , he knew it was just wishful thinking.

What would they do to him , if he turned up without Sethu . At the very moment , his seniors paired him up with Sethu , Sami knew he was in trouble. Sami was just a normal person , born to a postmaster in a small village near Udupi. His humble background , could not be even remotely understood by this rich NRI(Non resident Indian) , whose monthly pocket money probably was more than his yearly bank balance.

‘ Buddies ‘ as their seniors called them , were supposed to look out for the other. Buddies had to always tag along with each other , whether they liked each other or not . They were warned against serious repercussion if they were found on the college campus without their ‘ buddie’ . The normal day to day ragging was torture in itself , that no one had ever dared to be curious enough to find out what the so called repercussions were.

Perhaps he would be the first to find out. It was already past 2:30 and he could hear the jeers from the building beside them . The nightly attendance calling ritual had began. He was lucky his name started with an S. That would give him an extra 15 minutes to get this lazy NRI up to the terrace. Under the cover of the night he knew he could slip in without getting caught.

Bang Bang Bang

Panic filled his torso , he would break down the door if he had to.

‘Why me God , Why me ?’

He asked silently looking to the ceiling above , as though he could see heaven through it.

He thought he heard a groan , and knocked again , this time passively. He could not afford to upset the proud NRI . Sethu could probably buy himself out of any trouble , he thought to himself. Why would he care what happened to a postman’s son.

‘Sethu , Its Sami here. We have to report for attendance call. It’s already late , please get up. God knows what they will do to us’ .

There was shuffle , and then the noise of the padlock being removed. Relief filled Sami’s face as the door opened and Sethu’s silhouette appeared. Without wasting a moment , Sami grabbed Sethu’s hand and literally dragged him to the stairway.

‘We should be able to make it on time . Gosh Sethu , you should be more responsible. Maybe you can get away with all this , But I cannot. Who gives a rat’s ass about a postman’s son. Do you even know what they could do to me , if you had not opened the door.’

They hurried up the last flight of stairs , stopping only at the door to the terrace. When they were sure there were no torch lights being flashed , the snuck out and silently made their way to their place in the queue.

‘I wonder what they will make us do today . I was really scared this afternoon , when they forced that glass of beer on me. ’

Sami shuddered at the memory of the beer bottle that had been thrust in front of him , the before. As a Brahmin , consumption of alcohol , was a sin . Even consuming the wisps’ of that intoxicating drink was sinful . What would his father say ? He would probably be kicked out of his , never to see his mother and sister again.

He had pleaded and cried , but his pleas had only made his seniors more adamant. And if it had not been for Sethu , he would have had to commit that grave sin. Had he thanked Sethu for intervening ? He did not remember , but then again he was too scared. Now that he remembered the incident , he did not feel the need to thank Sethu . That NRI bastard , would had a few drinks with the seniors . No wonder Sethu did not answer his knocking earlier . He was probably drunk.

A ray of light jerked Sami back from his thoughts. A flash light from across the building shone upon them. It was their turn now. He hesitated for a moment , and that moment was enough for Sethu to move ahead. At the edge of the terrace Sethu stood , his hand still clasping the blanket. It was cold tonight , but his body was numbed with painkillers. He held his hand out to balance himself , he could feel his head spinning around . Just a few more minutes he said to himself.

And then as the flash light settled on him , Sethu let his blanket slide to the floor. He stood staring blankly into the darkness from where a single beam of flashlight , explored his body.

‘You there remain standing . Where is the next guy’

That poor bastard , Sami thought to himself , must have done something really bad to be made to stand for long in this cold. He felt sorry for , but then a strange feeling of happiness filled him. The NRI bastard unlike himself , deserved every bit of this humiliation. He deserved this for keeping waiting. The poor drunk , he thought to himself , probably does not realize he has to move. He smiled realizing that today even a simple postman’s son carried more pride than a well bred NRI.

At the edge of the terrace , Sethu remained standing . His mind raced faster than the beats of his heart. He knew he could end it all . It would take only one step , and perhaps he would have ,had he not closed his eyes. His mind was filled with images of his father waving at him , as he passed their small apartment in his stinking municipal garbage truck .

Sami stepped forward . he hands tightly clasped around the waist band of his boxer, as though he feared wind would blow it away. He stood waiting for the flashlight to register his attendance. He waited but the flashlight remained on Sethu . Out of curiosity he stole a glance towards where the flash light was directed. He let out a gasp as his gaze fell upon Sethu’s exposed groin.

‘Are you mad ? They asked us to come in our boxers!’

It was then, in the silhouette of Sethu’s face , that he found the answer to why his seniors had let him off easily in the afternoon.

It was in the tear stain , bruised and battered face of Sethu , that Sami had first felt the seeds of a strong friendship being sown.

Seasons of Reflection

donyalex — Mon, 22 Mar 2010 06:35:33 +0000

In an orchard filled with none like me
with branches reaching far and wide.
And leaves that glistened in the mornings light
In pride , amongst them ,I stood apart

With the winds , she came one day
Caressing , but, what was then a stump
In tempting hope, my leaves did sprout
To feel her touch far and wide.

But came unto us , a Septembers light
When songs faded , and color lost
In silent tears , we shed our leaves
As hope departed , when she packed her bag.

In an orchard filled with none like me
with branches reaching far and wide.
Bare and naked in morning ‘s light
In despair , amongst them ,I stood apart

In silence she departed , leaving me with dying hope.
In days that passed , upon me a frost did settle
In loneliness I stood , listening to the zephyrs that blew
In silent hope , of hearing her song.

The wait was long , and journey tough
But when springs tune did sing
In mornings dew , the frost did melt
A stump but waiting for her touch to return.

In an orchard filled with none like me
When summers chariot did come
In morning’s light , my leaves did glisten
In pride , amongst them ,I stood apart

Memoirs of a fictional world

donyalex — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 20:09:50 +0000

‘ It is a place so very much like where we are , and yet it different in many ways. The roads are just as untouched as you see here , yet its fragrance is like early morning’s dew. The sky is clear, untouched by the smog of industries , yet unlike this place , it is more of green , by the trees that shade us all. The roads have holes much bigger than those here, with bigger trucks that roll by. And yet their ruckus lost , amidst an orchestra of chirping birds , gossiping old women , and chattering children, like you my son. The schools are bigger and noisier, with so many children around, who eagerly await the clatter of the lunch bell. And when the bell rings , steel tiffin open , filling the air with the aroma of ‘sambhar’ saturated rice. When the final bell would ring, the children would run out into the open ground , where under the pipal tree , grandfathers and grandmothers would be seated , some half asleep. Then at day’s end , when the sun begins to set , old and young walk back home together , sharing stories of both past and present. That my children, is the land that your father grew up in.’
Taking a sip of brandy , his father would gaze at the fireplace , lost in the flames as though a movie was being played. Crouched at his feet , would be his two children , eagerly hoping for the story to continue. For the 5 year old Kaksi , and 7 year old Seth , listening to their father speak about the land he grew up in , was a luxury that seldom came their way. He only spoke of it , over two glasses of brandy , and stopped at the third.
They were too young to understand what their father spoke. But the words hardly mattered to them, for the poetic rendering through quivering lips, combined with the fragrance of a brandy saturated breath , took them to a land where their imagination filled words into the story.
At the corner of the room , witnessing the scene , would be the children’s mother. Her lips would be curled into a smile , as she watched the lit up faces of her two children. She too would find herself , hoping for the words to continue . It was not often that her husband opened up, and after seven years of marriage , she had given up trying. Two glasses of brandy achieved more than she could have hoped for. So she let him drink , allowing her children to live in the moment with their father, but always aware of the number of pegs taken. At the third glass , when silence would follow , she would motion for the children’s nanny ,Mae , to tuck them in. She never allowed her children to see their fathers tears , hence allowing their imagination to frame a happy story.
The children would obediently follow Mae to their rooms ,stopping to kiss their mother good night. Mae was a small lady , with even smaller feet. She was fondly known as Mae , though her real name was Jumapiu . The literary meaning of her name was one who was born on a Sunday, and her nature was just like a pleasant Sunday afternoon. She swayed as she walked by, as though the living room , was a field of maize. Rarely young Kaksi , would insist on staying , but her stubbornness would not last as Mae’s monotone voice brought stories of African lions devouring disobedient children. The small kingdom of Lesotho carried many superstitions , which on more than one occasion served as effective disciplinary tools.

Lost in Translation

donyalex — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 08:52:40 +0000

For the seventh time that day , his phone beeped with the same number. And just like the previous six times , he chose to focus on the rustle of the leaves . In silence he slid his phone into his jacket pocket. He stared blankly ahead , across the flowing river upon the landscape that had once been a dream.

Every single day, from the day he had first arrived in Canada , Seth would sit on the same bench and stare into the horizon ahead , breaking his gaze only to munch on the cold sandwich which served to be his lunch. Every single day had a flavor. Monday’s meant a chicken sausage, Tuesday’s were Salami , Wednesday’s cold cuts , Thursday’s cutlets , Friday and Saturday were tuna whilst on Sundays he chose to just avoid lunch. Sunday’s remained for the past 3 years , his claim to a fast to a heavenly calling . But the truth was that as time passed by , his lunch had just lost its taste. Every Sunday he would take a break , with the hope that in the following week , his taste buds would return.

The sandwiches were always prepared the same . Oregano bread toasted , just enough to give the edges a crisp whilst maintaining the softness of the core. Melted cheddar cheese lined the entire area, covered by a layer of freshly plucked lettuce , olives and a single pickle. Upon it the layer of meat would be placed, but not before being dipped into a combination of ranch and mayo. He never liked his sandwich soggy. It was always prepared in the same way and by the same person, yet the taste had slowly began to vanish.

There was nothing wrong with the sandwich , and he knew it . The problem lay with the sight ahead. For years even before his arrival to Canada, he had upon his dreams colors so bright. But reality had only filled his palette with shades of gray and black. As his bitterness grew upon the panoramic view of Edmonton’s downtown, his tongue slowly lost its taste buds.

A cold wind send chills down his torso. Frost had covered small portions of the trees, but the pigeons still perched on them . It was nearing the end of September , and the leaves had still not fallen, and it felt as if autumn had just been forgotten. The cold had just barged in , freezing time in its wake.
His phone beeped again, and the temptation to switch it off , grew further. And he would have , if not for the pang of the religious guilt that field him. As a child he was constantly taught the sacred commandment, ‘Thou shall honor your parent’. With the thought , his eyes instantaneously welled up. He shielded his face as though the wind had made his eyes water and hidden from an outsiders view , he allowed a single tear drop to fall.

He rose as the hour hand of his watch approached one. A lips curled into the tiniest of smile’s as he watched his only friends swoop the branches upon the straining their beaks to grasp what was left of his half eaten sandwich. He would see them tomorrow. He was sure they would be there , if not for him ,without a doubt for his half eaten sandwich. With that assurance , he turned and walked towards his office , ready to live the life he found solace in.

Twisted Fate and Exams!

donyalex — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 22:59:35 +0000

I sit here on the eve of yet another exam , drawing inference to the term twisted fate. Exams are just like a zit , that appears on an otherwise clean face , bringing with it the threat of many more to come. The fears of having it burst right open , and having its infection spread , throws one into a frenzy fit. When you are young it really doesnt matter much . It only when you hit puberty , that zits start appearing. And surprisingly , it finds an
odd co relation with the occurrence of some significant even in your life. For those who stayed in Dubai , exams meant taking the fun away from the Dubai Shopping Festival. The were model exams to prepare for the board exams , and a failure in those, meant a second model exam. If I were a cold cut foot long on a sub way menu , those exam grilled me to the perfect Hors d’oeuvre. And that was just what it remained. The crunch and aroma of it remained for only a few days , and then it was back to Cold Cuts.

My journey with exams has been like the climate in Canada. Either its cold , or its warm. Whilst my high school experience proclaimed , the flavour of a rich chocolate eclair , my college experience , carried the stench fo fermented yogurt. Gone were the glory days , when everyone looked at you as a genius. On the contrary ,the gutters seemed to be a place where no one bothered to give you another look. Bidding goodbye to all those years of education, carrying nothing but a dented confidence , I found myself in search of a job . Exam once again , just words vomited on a piece of paper. There was no human interaction ,except for the Bold rink of the Rejected sign , which vociferated the shame of a fallen knight. Who cared about the 90% i carried for
17 years of my life. 1 year of my college had taken that away. Rejection after rejection , followed , but then one day perhaps a result of someone misfortune, I stumbled upon an Approved sign. With nothing to lose , I held close the reigns of my battered house. We rode , like a black horse amongst the fine white sands, scared to stop , lest we walk no more. in the wind , our shackles broke , the dirt upon our body , vaporized with not much of a
thought. And when i stopped , I was silver among the fine white sands. I passed on my resumes to those that came. All i saw now , was Approved signs. The marks were same , but the red ink was old. People forgot , but I did not. Today I sit on the eve of an exam , wondering , what difference does it make . My marks will just be but ink on a paper, justified by the holder of the pen. Is it who I am ? Is it who I will be? If the zit has to break , it will . If many more come , they will . But will that change who I am ? Is that the definition of beauty and life ?

When all was lost

donyalex — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 04:01:05 +0000

Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, accumulating for a moment at the bulbous tip of his nose , before finally free falling into the vacant space below. His forearms ached in the cold, as they clung tightly to the metal railing. It had been fifteen minutes , since he had lost the feeling in his toes , all that remained now, was sporadic tingling that rose up the length of his spine.
He turned his eyes towards his watch , straining in the light of the night , to see the time. His eyes remained fixed on the second hand. His mind raced with every movement it made.
It was 5:43. The sun had been forecasted to rise at 5:57.
His eyes followed the cloudy textures to the hills beyond. His eyes felt moist, and for a moment he thought it was a bead of sweat. He wait for the burning sensation , but it never came. It was a ear , the very first of the night. He closed his eyes hoping to hold it back. He was so close , and he could not give in to emotion. It was all practical. He had nothing left to go on.
The wait had been symbolical to him. It represented a new dawn , a beginning where the past would no longer matter. The plan for the first time in many years , was not a complicated. . Nights of contemplating and reasoning had eaten away at the fear of his inevitable destiny. His plan was as simple as a single step into thin air, after that gravity would do its bit. And then there would be no more sleepless nights . The guilty thoughts would vanish , and there would no longer be any loneliness.
He had long lost all his belief in the existence of a God. But the sight in front of him made him doubt his own disbelief. Perhaps God did exist , for such a marvel , no human hand could have painted. Upon the darkened textures of the clouds, shadowed by the silhouettes of distant mountains, the first tinge of orange had appeared. He closed his eyes.
His watched beeped 5:57

Kaksi

donyalex — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 02:06:41 +0000

The melancholy rose as the gentle breeze caressed the fallen leaves. For those who cared to listen , it seemed like whispers floating in the wind. The sun peaked shyly between the mountains , its orange flair , merging in the darkness of the clouds that rumbled in the distance ahead. The birds had turned silent , and the silence of the tree’s gelled with its surrounding.
The church on the top of the hill , remained just the same as it had been the last year. Old and abandoned , it stood fixed to the ground , protected only by a wrought iron gate and a rusty old padlock. She could see the archways of the gate from where she stood. There were tears in her eyes as she glanced back at the tall, lanky man, who silently gave her a reassuring nod.
A strong gust of wind blew , as she pushed open the gate. She clasped her fingers the rusted iron holding , half expecting it to collapse, but it held on. The pebble strewn path ahead of her , remained the very same. The grass was longer , and she carefully chose her footing, narrowly missing the splattered cow dung on many occasions. The shattered glass pieces on the ground , probably belonged to the broken window ahead. The broken padlock hung lazily on the door. No one had bothered to change it. It only took a simple push to open the termite bitten door.
She covered her nose with her scarf , expecting a dust laden hall. But surprisingly , the hall breathed of life. Windows stood shattered on either side. Their culprits lay on the floor beside them , mangled into a rubbery mass. What had once been the altar for the sacred mass, was now a wicket. The red carpet on which, the glorious choir had once carried the cross , now was just a cricket pitch. Time sure had passed by , and people had forgotten this church , once the new church had been constructed down the hill. Oddly enough , the gully cricket kept the life of this church.
It was not so very long back , when this church had sprouted with life. This church had always been the greatest highlight of Kaksi’s life. Her childhood memories remained within these walls. It was within these walls , that she spent hours mourning the death of her parents. It was within these walls, that Father Dominic , had held her . And it was within these walls , that she was first introduced to the person who she had shared her closest bond with.
‘Ammachy’ as she fondly called her grandmother, had always been old and withered. Kaksi had not known that she had a grandmother, until the day , Father Dominic placed her little hand , within an old wrinkled one. The tear that fell on the clasped hands, had sealed the bond between the two.

There could be no day , better than a Sunday, Kaski would say. Sundays meant sitting beside Ammachy , staring into her animated expressions as , father Dominic’s voice boomed across the hall. Kaksi , would silently count the number of wrinkles on her grandmother’s forehead. Her teacher had once told her , that the age of a tree could be found by counting the number of rings on its bark. Kaksi, had wondered if it was the same with humans.
They said people died , when they got old. Perhaps her parents had ran out of space for their wrinkles. But Ammachy still had a lot of space on her forehead. The fear of being left alone made Kaksi , silently search for vacant spots on Ammachy’s forehead.

That was a very long time back. The pathway which she used to navigate to her mother’s grave, whilst holding Ammachy’s hand, was not hard to find. Kaksi , looked into the horizon ahead , the dark clouds would be upon them soon. She turned back to have a glance at Roy , half expecting him to be irritated. Roy returned her gaze , with yet another reassuring nod.
The wind blew hard , the leaves hurled themselves at her. The graveyard shrieked and cried. Every soul beat their chest , in memory of those who had left them to rot here. It took her a while to find the grave she was looking for . She could see her mother’s tombstone form where she stood , but she did not move. She stared down at the tombstone in front of her. All of a sudden , the place went quiet.
She knelt down in front of a tombstone , that bore marking of her beloved Ammachy. It seemed like it was just yesterday , when Ammachy clasped her chest , whilst she disowned her. It was the following year that Ammachy had died. No one even bothered to inform Kaksi.

Perhaps if Kaksi , had continued counting the wrinkles , she would have realized that her Ammachy was finally running out of space. Kaksi closed her eye, fighting the tear that had swelled up. All alone , and guilt , she felt herself collapse on the granite block that separated her from her Ammachy. A strong hand grasped her . As she looked backed at Roy, her tears flowed as river. Her cries masked by the rumble of the clouds, and then the heavens opened up and cried wit her.

If only I could be…

donyalex — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 22:49:39 +0000

Sometime’s I wish , I was the sun
To shine upon you , with all the warmth I have
A glitter in your eye , to see every day
And then I wonder about the night, when sleep comes to me
No dreams be there , sole the worry of having scorched you

Perhaps , a flower I may be
Colourful and lively , a smile to you
Fragrances divine, your heart seduced
And then I wonder of how short today will be
And tomorrow , when wither and die, I will

Perhaps , I could be so many things
Of so many gifts I wonder
To keep you smile wide and sweet
Yet all I need is to be myself
For my love is deeper than an oceans thirst

When the Sun stopped Shinning

donyalex — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 18:30:51 +0000

Standing on the edge of the balcony , the wait had felt so serene. It did not matter how long it took for the first rays of light to peak over the horizon. I would wait patiently. These rays were symbolical to me as the rays of a new dawn. It naturally felt as the auspicious moment to execute my final plan. There was not a single thought or emotion. The plan, was for the first time in many years , not at all complicated. Nights of contemplating and reasoning had eaten away at the fear of my inevitable destiny. My plan was as simple as a single step , a step into thin air. After that gravity would give it, its final touches. There would be no more sleepless night , no more guilty thoughts and most of all there would no longer be loneliness.

It was 5:43 in the morning, and the cold bit at my skin. The papers had forecasted the sun to rise at 5:57. That gave me fourteen whole minutes. For a person whose 26 years of life was about to come to an end , these fourteen minutes seemed like a torturous eternity. I refused to close my eyes , for I feared the images that would pop up. I fought against the cold and the shivers that had come over my body. I gripped the railing harder as my watch struck 5:50. I willed to look back into my room , to have one last glance at the photo’s of the people who had meant a lot to me, but I could not bring myself to it.

I had left no note. I did not know how to say goodbye. I did not know how to prove that my act was not one of a selfish nature. I had fought as hard as I could, struggled against the tide of life, but life had quit on me. I had been in the face of death many times before, and each survival had only boosted my belief that I was meant for greater things. I , a graduate, from one of the best in the nation, and my education and skills had only provided me with the opportunity to sit in front of a monitor for 13 hours a day , raking mere peanuts under those who were a lot under qualified than myself. The world had stood still for me , when those who had edged past an education had turned out to be more successful. I was rejected by every one, I had cared for. No one had bothered to respond to the text messages I had sent. My phone had remained silent for a very long time. I had waited all night , hoping for the phone to ring. For someone to convince me to fight on . I had hoped for a call from that one person around whom my life had found some meaning.

I did believe in God. After all , such a grand finale could not have been made possible by human hands. Upon the dark palette that filled the sky, the heavens opened its door , and it could have only been the hand of God ,that had started painting across the sky a shade of orange. I closed my eyes .A bead of sweat trickled across my cheeks and merge dwith the tears that I had been unaware of till then.

Out of silence came the first noise that I had heard in the silence of the night. My watched beeped 5:57.