Once upon a rhyme

The poet in our story was a simple man with simpler views about the world he inhabited. He cared more for the stars that appear on the sky at night than those that show up in the newspapers at dawn. With no regards whatsoever for the future or the term ‘plans’, he dealt with life on a one-day-at-a-time basis. He worked hard not because he wanted to grow as a professional but because he learnt how it’s the most effective way of shooing hatred and prejudice away from his heart. When you are busy, you don’t feel the urge to think evil or worse. So, our hero kept to himself during daytime and his insatiable pages afterwards. Every evening, he wrote poems which he never shared with anybody else. If only someone could tell him that this is a terrible way of getting back at the world he despised. However, the almirah in his tiny room bore witness to his commitment to poetry. He loved literature only to the extent of creating something on his own. His aversion to reading books stemmed from his desire to avoid getting influenced by others. In fact, he wouldn’t remember which was the last book he read as a young man. He simply wanted to find his own voice if that wasn’t too much to ask for. But then, the world neither cares about your idiosyncrasies nor your unique approach to life. Which could be the reason why he returned home one late evening to find his almirah empty. Not a single page left behind. Not for lack of valuables in the house, although the choice was evidently diminished, everything else remained untouched. Only his body of work was missing. Something that took him years to build. Something he silently cherished and sculpted with his emotions. A single tear made its way from the edge of his left eye down his almost-red cheek before settling in his moustache. He closed the almirah and went to sleep hoping it was a bad dream.

Moral of the story: The world exists for the sole purpose of stealing from you, no matter how much the poetry in you sucks.