“The Police took him in the van, the Retard who sits at the Square… he must have done it last night. Creep…” the shop shutters were opening, as I heard this from one of the shop owners. Couldn’t stop to find out much, had to go to office. The shutters went down today morning as soon as, someone spotted a shoe-garland hanging from the neck of the statue at the square.
The statue had been there, standing, since I don’t know when. There’s board under it, telling the date of inauguration, but less I know about the man whose statue stands there and the lesser I care… Whom I know for sure, was the Retard, who used to sit there. He wouldn’t talk to anyone, or yell at people like most of them do. He wasn’t harmful either. He would just sit there; some local shop owners would offer him food. Never saw him do something that I recall now. Since I started going to school passing that square, was told that he’s a Retard, and he’s dangerous. When I was in school, I used to watch some school kids, who used to make fun of him. I saw some of them today, pelting stones at shops and shouting bad words. They are all into social service now.
That evening, I came back from office, a bit late than usual. I saw the Retard, seating behind the statue, as he does everyday. I went towards him; he was beaten up badly… but was composed as he looked at me and smiled, as if he was greeting me. I felt the need to take him for some medical help, I said, “Come, let’s go to a doctor. You are injured” He came along with me, and my family doc nursed his wounds.
I asked him, where he would go now. To the statue, he replied. He continued, “My father sculpted it. When I was in my mom’s womb, he finished it. He died of cancer. He told me to take care of the statue, before he died….” I assured him, that there are people in Municipal Corporation who will clean the statue, and will take care of it… at least once a year.
“You don’t understand”, he said, “The old grandfather is just standing here with one stick in his hand and wearing a dhoti. In shine and in rain, and in the cold nights of winter… who will help him up, if he falls down?” I looked in his eyes, there was determination that I can not persuade…
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Monday, September 3, 2007
The Board
The day would begin for him at the black board. He would dust it clean, wiping off even the tiniest mark of chalk powder that’s left on the board from the previous day’s class. When he was young, his hands wouldn’t reach the top of the board. He would take a stool to help him. Sometimes when someone has kept the stool out of his sight, he would stand on his toes, make his hands reach the board’s top as if the hand was a long stick. The chalk powder, at those times, would fall in his eyes as he would write. He would then make his eyes small as those of someone from Japan and he would go on with his writing. He would always write in his beautiful big letters. All in CAPS.
Don’t remember exactly when, but I think it was the Third standard, when he was given the work of writing the “Thought for the Day”, for the month that followed. They would usually assign it as per your number in the roll call muster. From that day onwards, he would come to the class before anyone else did and would open his small notebook. He would then dust the board clean and write the thought he would have noted down in that notebook. The next day, he would do the same. And the next…
I remember, I was in Tenth and it was the last day of the school. We had all gathered early in the morning, to play one last game of football together. A bit too early rather. He came on his bicycle, when we had stopped for a breather. He entered the class and went up to the board. I followed him, without letting him know of it. I noticed, somebody had written foul words about a teacher in shabby handwriting on the board. He opened his notebook, it was looking very old but I could see that still all its pages were in tact. He opened one of the last few remaining pages. He had a look at the board, and started rubbing it clean. Those heretic words had been written using a wet chalk, so he was finding it difficult to wipe off. He opened his water bottle and sprinkled some water on the board, it was easy to clean it then. The board was looking brand new again, he then had a look in his notebook and wrote the thought for that day. For the last day of the school.
I don’t remember if I ever wrote a thought for the day. My roll number happened to be one count after his. Maybe he never wanted to give anyone else a chance, so that he could be the teachers’ pet year after year. That’s how we used to see it… Or may be he took the job that was given to him, to write thoughts, as an honor or may be he took it as a responsibility. I never took his thoughts seriously, but I never forgot to read them. As I grew up, I found them all one by one occurring to me, around me… His thoughts? We used to think he would copy it from some book, someone told me that his Dad used to write him a thought every night in his notebook of thoughts. He never would write those with a wet chalk. Even when he was young and the powder would fall in his eyes. Who knows, he may not be smart enough !! But, I remember almost everyday one or the other teacher had to wipe the thought off when there was no space left on the board for a new question for the test or for a maths equation… It would have been a waste of time for the teacher if the thought was written using a wet chalk… I don’t know what he’s doing these days. May be he’s still writing, or may be he’s just cleaning up things, someone messed up…
Don’t remember exactly when, but I think it was the Third standard, when he was given the work of writing the “Thought for the Day”, for the month that followed. They would usually assign it as per your number in the roll call muster. From that day onwards, he would come to the class before anyone else did and would open his small notebook. He would then dust the board clean and write the thought he would have noted down in that notebook. The next day, he would do the same. And the next…
I remember, I was in Tenth and it was the last day of the school. We had all gathered early in the morning, to play one last game of football together. A bit too early rather. He came on his bicycle, when we had stopped for a breather. He entered the class and went up to the board. I followed him, without letting him know of it. I noticed, somebody had written foul words about a teacher in shabby handwriting on the board. He opened his notebook, it was looking very old but I could see that still all its pages were in tact. He opened one of the last few remaining pages. He had a look at the board, and started rubbing it clean. Those heretic words had been written using a wet chalk, so he was finding it difficult to wipe off. He opened his water bottle and sprinkled some water on the board, it was easy to clean it then. The board was looking brand new again, he then had a look in his notebook and wrote the thought for that day. For the last day of the school.
I don’t remember if I ever wrote a thought for the day. My roll number happened to be one count after his. Maybe he never wanted to give anyone else a chance, so that he could be the teachers’ pet year after year. That’s how we used to see it… Or may be he took the job that was given to him, to write thoughts, as an honor or may be he took it as a responsibility. I never took his thoughts seriously, but I never forgot to read them. As I grew up, I found them all one by one occurring to me, around me… His thoughts? We used to think he would copy it from some book, someone told me that his Dad used to write him a thought every night in his notebook of thoughts. He never would write those with a wet chalk. Even when he was young and the powder would fall in his eyes. Who knows, he may not be smart enough !! But, I remember almost everyday one or the other teacher had to wipe the thought off when there was no space left on the board for a new question for the test or for a maths equation… It would have been a waste of time for the teacher if the thought was written using a wet chalk… I don’t know what he’s doing these days. May be he’s still writing, or may be he’s just cleaning up things, someone messed up…
Monday, August 13, 2007
आश्रित
साठा पैकी तेवीस मी पाहिली. उरलेल्या सदतीसामध्ये काय होऊन गेले, तेही मी शिकलो. "इतीहास" लिहायला गेलो म्हणून हातावर पट्टी बसली, मग "इतिहास" लिहित गेलो. मराठी शब्द हे जसे उच्चारतो तसेच लिहायचे असतात, ह्या वाक्याला पूजून इतिहास पण तसाच वळणदार अक्षरांमध्ये लिहित गेलो. पण ते शब्द तसेच का उच्चारायचे, कधी कुणाला विचारले नाही. इतिहास, खरच तसा होता, असे मानून चाललो...
सातवी 'ब' मध्ये होतो तेव्हा, दूसर्या वर्गात असलेल्या जोशी, खरे, आपटे नावाच्या मुलांवर माझ्या वर्गातले हसायचे. "भांडखोर भट्टांच्या बरोबर आपण नाय खेळणार" असा माझा मित्र बोलला की मी ही त्यांच्या बरोबर हसायचो, का ह्सायचो माहित नाही... पण सगळे हसतात म्हणून मी पण...आठवी 'अ' मध्ये आलो. तेव्हा जोशी, आपटे माझे मित्र झाले, त्यांच्या बरोबर हसायचो, ते म्हणायचे "गान्धीला अजिबात अक्कल नव्हती". वाचलेला इतिहास बहुतेक तेव्हा मला आठवत नसेल. इतिहास घोकून मार्क्स मिळवणार्यांबरोबर शिकलो होतो मी. मला सामाजिक शास्त्रात का नाही एवढे चांगले मार्क्स येत नाहीत, असा प्रश्न बाबा विचारायचे...
एके दिवशी टीव्ही वर, भगवे कपडे घातलेल्या कुणाला तरी मशिदीवर हातोडा घालताना बघितले. हिंदुत्वाचा तो विजय होता असेही कानावर पडले. घराच्या दरवाजावर "गर्व से कहो, हॅम हिंदू हे" असा स्टिकर लावला, तेव्हा बहूतेक विसरलो होतो, हिंदू - मरण नाही शरण देणार्याचा धर्म आहे...
एकदा एन.सी.सी. च्या सरांनी विचारले, "तुमच्या मधले किती आर्मी जॉइन करणार?" हात वर करणारा मी पहिला होतो. दहावी झाल्यावर सर्व म्हणाले आर्मी एवढा चांगला करीअर ओप्शन नाही, फार रिस्क आहे... मी ही हो म्हणालो...
आश्रित होतो तेव्हा मी. आता सुद्धा आश्रित आहे. कधी माणसाला त्याच्या समाजा वरून ओळखणार्यांचा. कधी पाठ करून मार्क्स मिळवणार्यांचा. एकदा सुद्धा, प्रश्न विचारला नाही. पण आता वाट सोडून पुढे जाता येणार सुद्धा नाही. म्हणून अजूनही आश्रित आहे मी, ए.सी. कारमध्ये बसून ओफीसला जाताना, साठी उलटली तरी सायकल वरुन कामाला जाणार्या वृद्धावर, कारच्या रस्त्यामधे आला म्हणून डाफरणार्या कालीग्सचा. मॉल मध्ये बसून भारताची ईकोनोमी स्टडी करून झाल्यावर, पार्किंग लोट बाहेर भीक मागत असलेल्या पाच वर्षाच्या मुलाची घाण वाटणार्या मित्रांचा. आश्रित आहे मी, "सेफ" आणि "सेटल्ड" जगण्याच्या मनोवृत्तीचा. आश्रित आहे मी, साठी पूर्ण होत असताना, मागे जे राहीले त्यांना विसरणार्या भारताचा...
सातवी 'ब' मध्ये होतो तेव्हा, दूसर्या वर्गात असलेल्या जोशी, खरे, आपटे नावाच्या मुलांवर माझ्या वर्गातले हसायचे. "भांडखोर भट्टांच्या बरोबर आपण नाय खेळणार" असा माझा मित्र बोलला की मी ही त्यांच्या बरोबर हसायचो, का ह्सायचो माहित नाही... पण सगळे हसतात म्हणून मी पण...आठवी 'अ' मध्ये आलो. तेव्हा जोशी, आपटे माझे मित्र झाले, त्यांच्या बरोबर हसायचो, ते म्हणायचे "गान्धीला अजिबात अक्कल नव्हती". वाचलेला इतिहास बहुतेक तेव्हा मला आठवत नसेल. इतिहास घोकून मार्क्स मिळवणार्यांबरोबर शिकलो होतो मी. मला सामाजिक शास्त्रात का नाही एवढे चांगले मार्क्स येत नाहीत, असा प्रश्न बाबा विचारायचे...
एके दिवशी टीव्ही वर, भगवे कपडे घातलेल्या कुणाला तरी मशिदीवर हातोडा घालताना बघितले. हिंदुत्वाचा तो विजय होता असेही कानावर पडले. घराच्या दरवाजावर "गर्व से कहो, हॅम हिंदू हे" असा स्टिकर लावला, तेव्हा बहूतेक विसरलो होतो, हिंदू - मरण नाही शरण देणार्याचा धर्म आहे...
एकदा एन.सी.सी. च्या सरांनी विचारले, "तुमच्या मधले किती आर्मी जॉइन करणार?" हात वर करणारा मी पहिला होतो. दहावी झाल्यावर सर्व म्हणाले आर्मी एवढा चांगला करीअर ओप्शन नाही, फार रिस्क आहे... मी ही हो म्हणालो...
आश्रित होतो तेव्हा मी. आता सुद्धा आश्रित आहे. कधी माणसाला त्याच्या समाजा वरून ओळखणार्यांचा. कधी पाठ करून मार्क्स मिळवणार्यांचा. एकदा सुद्धा, प्रश्न विचारला नाही. पण आता वाट सोडून पुढे जाता येणार सुद्धा नाही. म्हणून अजूनही आश्रित आहे मी, ए.सी. कारमध्ये बसून ओफीसला जाताना, साठी उलटली तरी सायकल वरुन कामाला जाणार्या वृद्धावर, कारच्या रस्त्यामधे आला म्हणून डाफरणार्या कालीग्सचा. मॉल मध्ये बसून भारताची ईकोनोमी स्टडी करून झाल्यावर, पार्किंग लोट बाहेर भीक मागत असलेल्या पाच वर्षाच्या मुलाची घाण वाटणार्या मित्रांचा. आश्रित आहे मी, "सेफ" आणि "सेटल्ड" जगण्याच्या मनोवृत्तीचा. आश्रित आहे मी, साठी पूर्ण होत असताना, मागे जे राहीले त्यांना विसरणार्या भारताचा...
Thursday, August 2, 2007
The Glimpses
It’s on my wrist today, the thing I was so amazed at, as a kid. It’s still the same, it still walks the same distance, and it still moves its hands. I remember how I would get touched by an unparallel excitement, for that moment… The moment, on which I could get a glimpse of, the minute hand moving one step, into the new minute. Or even better, that of an hour hand…
I remember, how sometimes I would sit in front of it and wait for it to happen. I would concentrate on its hour hand, as if it’s the only thing that mattered. Sometimes, no matter how hard I tried, I wouldn’t get that chance to freeze my eyes upon that hand, for that one glimpse. Don’t know how, but time just seemed to past… Maybe I wasn’t concentrating that well or maybe it was just eluding me that it never happened. I would get upset then… very upset. Then on some rare occasions, I would just look at it and voila, it would take place, that very moment!! I would try very hard to remember that picture as if to record that glimpse into my mind, it would make me forget all the waiting I did for it on some other day… But, it would bring me back, to where I started; I would want it to happen for me, again. Rather without waiting for it, or maybe when I would start thinking, I had waited just enough…
All this while, I never seemed to care about the second-hand, who would be moving and would be there to give me a glimpse of its move into the new second, every now and then… Maybe he was caring enough, but I wasn’t. Maybe he had to keep doing it, despite not getting my attention, because if he wouldn’t move, nor would the other two. But I ignored him, as I wanted more and more of the hour hand.
Maybe the hour hand didn’t know me well; maybe he had too many others to remember names of. Maybe I was just ignorant, when he really came for me, or maybe he never came. Today as I walk, I just want things my way, just like the way I wanted to have the glimpse of hour hand’s movement, whenever I would take a look. I don’t think about any of these things I did as a kid, just like the way I didn’t think of second hand much. Nor do I think about those today, who walked with me then and after, only to teach me walking…
I remember, how sometimes I would sit in front of it and wait for it to happen. I would concentrate on its hour hand, as if it’s the only thing that mattered. Sometimes, no matter how hard I tried, I wouldn’t get that chance to freeze my eyes upon that hand, for that one glimpse. Don’t know how, but time just seemed to past… Maybe I wasn’t concentrating that well or maybe it was just eluding me that it never happened. I would get upset then… very upset. Then on some rare occasions, I would just look at it and voila, it would take place, that very moment!! I would try very hard to remember that picture as if to record that glimpse into my mind, it would make me forget all the waiting I did for it on some other day… But, it would bring me back, to where I started; I would want it to happen for me, again. Rather without waiting for it, or maybe when I would start thinking, I had waited just enough…
All this while, I never seemed to care about the second-hand, who would be moving and would be there to give me a glimpse of its move into the new second, every now and then… Maybe he was caring enough, but I wasn’t. Maybe he had to keep doing it, despite not getting my attention, because if he wouldn’t move, nor would the other two. But I ignored him, as I wanted more and more of the hour hand.
Maybe the hour hand didn’t know me well; maybe he had too many others to remember names of. Maybe I was just ignorant, when he really came for me, or maybe he never came. Today as I walk, I just want things my way, just like the way I wanted to have the glimpse of hour hand’s movement, whenever I would take a look. I don’t think about any of these things I did as a kid, just like the way I didn’t think of second hand much. Nor do I think about those today, who walked with me then and after, only to teach me walking…
Monday, July 30, 2007
The Matchboxes
When I was young, I used to pour them all on the floor. Then I would make them all lie flat on ground, make sure no one’s over the other. I remember, once I had made shape like a car, then a snake, a house… using those cool matchsticks.
But today, I am trying to make a palm, palm of someone who made them. I still remember, he would try to sneak a few boxes in his pockets. I wouldn’t know, what he used to do with them. Then once I went to his house, It was an evening that belonged to the storm and the rain.
There was no electricity in his house, a hutment… Dripping rainwater made its way through the roof and into the utensils his mother would keep on the floor to collect it. In the corner a lamp was fighting with the wind that came in as I opened the door, and a couple of flies on the verge of doing the daredevil self-immolation act into its fledgling flame. The only thing that I still remember apart from their faces, with eyes seeking something which I could never give, as I had nothing but money… what I remember, was the place to worship they had in that small hut… I remember, it was a place where they had kept the idol of the god they worship. They had made sure, there was no rainwater coming over their god’s small temple. They had kept it so clean, that no pest could come there.
Before I knew, my palms had touched each other to praise the god in that holy place. I was absolutely amazed at the temple more than the god’s statue inside. The temple was made by that kid, said his mother. I looked at the lad and smiled with utter respect in my mind. He smiled back at me.
I had to leave then, somehow we didn’t talk much. Its not been very long, but I just don’t recall much… Today as I lit the lamp in front of my god’s idol, I wish that matchstick helps bringing light to that kid’s hut. Because, he no longer will… Maybe the god that he placed in that beautiful temple he made with his own hands, helped him save so many lives in the fire at the factory today, finally took the kid away from his mother and closer to him…
I just wish to make his palm’s shape, with those matchsticks on a paper. I do not know, if his mother still prays to the god in the temple that her son made with his own hands, and with the same matchboxes and matchsticks, he used to steal from where he worked… I do not know, if there is a temple holier than the other, or there’s a god different than other, because as I lay those matchsticks on the paper, I only remember the boy’s face as he denied the money I offered… I remember, his smile when I was moved by his temple… I remember his trust in the god, who can not stop the will of the rich who employ a kid’s hand to make them fancy matchboxes to collect and matchsticks to lit their cigarettes…
When I was young, I used to pour them all on the floor. Then I would make them all lie flat on ground, make sure no one’s over the other. I remember, once I had made shape like a car, then a snake, a house… using those cool matchsticks.
But today, I am trying to make a palm, palm of someone who made them. I still remember, he would try to sneak a few boxes in his pockets. I wouldn’t know, what he used to do with them. Then once I went to his house, It was an evening that belonged to the storm and the rain.
There was no electricity in his house, a hutment… Dripping rainwater made its way through the roof and into the utensils his mother would keep on the floor to collect it. In the corner a lamp was fighting with the wind that came in as I opened the door, and a couple of flies on the verge of doing the daredevil self-immolation act into its fledgling flame. The only thing that I still remember apart from their faces, with eyes seeking something which I could never give, as I had nothing but money… what I remember, was the place to worship they had in that small hut… I remember, it was a place where they had kept the idol of the god they worship. They had made sure, there was no rainwater coming over their god’s small temple. They had kept it so clean, that no pest could come there.
Before I knew, my palms had touched each other to praise the god in that holy place. I was absolutely amazed at the temple more than the god’s statue inside. The temple was made by that kid, said his mother. I looked at the lad and smiled with utter respect in my mind. He smiled back at me.
I had to leave then, somehow we didn’t talk much. Its not been very long, but I just don’t recall much… Today as I lit the lamp in front of my god’s idol, I wish that matchstick helps bringing light to that kid’s hut. Because, he no longer will… Maybe the god that he placed in that beautiful temple he made with his own hands, helped him save so many lives in the fire at the factory today, finally took the kid away from his mother and closer to him…
I just wish to make his palm’s shape, with those matchsticks on a paper. I do not know, if his mother still prays to the god in the temple that her son made with his own hands, and with the same matchboxes and matchsticks, he used to steal from where he worked… I do not know, if there is a temple holier than the other, or there’s a god different than other, because as I lay those matchsticks on the paper, I only remember the boy’s face as he denied the money I offered… I remember, his smile when I was moved by his temple… I remember his trust in the god, who can not stop the will of the rich who employ a kid’s hand to make them fancy matchboxes to collect and matchsticks to lit their cigarettes…
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
The Line
I used to teach him things, he would use in his school, before he actually started going to school. I felt, it would prepare him, for what’s he going to study there.
For this chap, even holding a chalk was like holding a thing from a fantasy novel coming to real. He would stare at it for long after holding it in his tiny fingers. Sometimes he would hold it tight, so much that I had tough time rubbing the chalk’s dust off his fingertips. Sometimes, he would just hold it softly, but not so soft that the chalk would fall.
He then would like to get the feel of the chalk’s shape, at least that’s how I could analyze it… He would twist the chalk around itself, turn it upside down. I made sure that I was giving him a chalk of a different color every time when we met. He would be amazed equally regardless the chalk’s color, that I would ask him to hold, he would welcome it with the same wide open eyes, gazing at the chalk.
He had a black rectangular slate. I though of giving him a board, as for a child of his age, I was expecting him to make the walls of the house, his canvass… But he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t draw a thing, unless I was in front of him. Sometimes the slate would be left with no space to draw anymore, sometimes it was just me, who would stop him, but I don’t recall a single day, when he stopped, by himself… until that day.
Until that day, I don’t recall a single picture, or the imagery he would draw on the slate, picture – too orthodox a word to use… Never in the worlds he would draw on that small slate, you would see things that are around you. Nor, you would see things that he was growing up with…
That day, instead of handing him over the slate, I took it in my hands. Held it in my left hand, in my right hand was a chalk, white – conventional white. I drew a straight, vertical line, on the right hand side of the slate. I carefully left a lot of space on the left side of the line I drew. Then I gave him, the slate and the chalk. For the first time, instead of staring at the chalk, he was staring at the slate. Hopefully, he was staring at the line, or maybe he was staring in the empty side of the slate… Then I asked him to draw a line just like the one I had drawn for him. The next moment, he drew it. There was a smile on my face as he was looking at me with his big beautiful eyes. He then handed me over the slate, and the chalk. And then he kept staring at me… waiting for me to ask him to draw, something else, from the little that I could draw on a slate of everything around me or maybe of the things I could remember myself drawing, when I was not drawing what was around me…
I used to teach him things, he would use in his school, before he actually started going to school. I felt, it would prepare him, for what’s he going to study there.
For this chap, even holding a chalk was like holding a thing from a fantasy novel coming to real. He would stare at it for long after holding it in his tiny fingers. Sometimes he would hold it tight, so much that I had tough time rubbing the chalk’s dust off his fingertips. Sometimes, he would just hold it softly, but not so soft that the chalk would fall.
He then would like to get the feel of the chalk’s shape, at least that’s how I could analyze it… He would twist the chalk around itself, turn it upside down. I made sure that I was giving him a chalk of a different color every time when we met. He would be amazed equally regardless the chalk’s color, that I would ask him to hold, he would welcome it with the same wide open eyes, gazing at the chalk.
He had a black rectangular slate. I though of giving him a board, as for a child of his age, I was expecting him to make the walls of the house, his canvass… But he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t draw a thing, unless I was in front of him. Sometimes the slate would be left with no space to draw anymore, sometimes it was just me, who would stop him, but I don’t recall a single day, when he stopped, by himself… until that day.
Until that day, I don’t recall a single picture, or the imagery he would draw on the slate, picture – too orthodox a word to use… Never in the worlds he would draw on that small slate, you would see things that are around you. Nor, you would see things that he was growing up with…
That day, instead of handing him over the slate, I took it in my hands. Held it in my left hand, in my right hand was a chalk, white – conventional white. I drew a straight, vertical line, on the right hand side of the slate. I carefully left a lot of space on the left side of the line I drew. Then I gave him, the slate and the chalk. For the first time, instead of staring at the chalk, he was staring at the slate. Hopefully, he was staring at the line, or maybe he was staring in the empty side of the slate… Then I asked him to draw a line just like the one I had drawn for him. The next moment, he drew it. There was a smile on my face as he was looking at me with his big beautiful eyes. He then handed me over the slate, and the chalk. And then he kept staring at me… waiting for me to ask him to draw, something else, from the little that I could draw on a slate of everything around me or maybe of the things I could remember myself drawing, when I was not drawing what was around me…
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The Blade
The blade that my father gave me, I was too young then… It was so sharp, could cut through years of love easily, and in a blink of an eye could erase memories of a lifetime…
He asked to hold it in my hand, the glaze lit my face, so bright that my eyes couldn’t see… But I could hear him tell to me and to the god that resides in the temple, the blade shall now be mine and after me, my son’s.
Today I hold that blade again, rusted now, but still the one; still can guide hordes of mindless hate… I don’t quite know, why I must ride, but it was the call of our old and I must obey…
The blade, that once brought the freedom of our land, freedom we love so much to hold it in our fists… So I ride again, beyond the hills on which I played as a child, and towards the plains where children of our enemies play, and to burn the farms where they spent their quiet lives…
The blade, that was forged to destroy the evil that ruled from our palaces, shall now satisfy the greed that now rests within our hearts…
All Hail…
The blade that my father gave me, I was too young then… It was so sharp, could cut through years of love easily, and in a blink of an eye could erase memories of a lifetime…
He asked to hold it in my hand, the glaze lit my face, so bright that my eyes couldn’t see… But I could hear him tell to me and to the god that resides in the temple, the blade shall now be mine and after me, my son’s.
Today I hold that blade again, rusted now, but still the one; still can guide hordes of mindless hate… I don’t quite know, why I must ride, but it was the call of our old and I must obey…
The blade, that once brought the freedom of our land, freedom we love so much to hold it in our fists… So I ride again, beyond the hills on which I played as a child, and towards the plains where children of our enemies play, and to burn the farms where they spent their quiet lives…
The blade, that was forged to destroy the evil that ruled from our palaces, shall now satisfy the greed that now rests within our hearts…
All Hail…
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