A road to nowhere..

11. Their share of pain

"Will you pray for us?"

I turned around to face them. They were sitting in another corner of the room.

They had uncovered their faces by now. Robust faces, engraved with the harshness with which life had handled them.

Strangely, they had a strong resemblance with each other.

Maybe all those who endure pain start looking alike in one way or the other. Or maybe my eyes were somehow envisioning the sameness in their outlooks.

Their expressions depicted the storms that they were going through, for they looked dejected.

I looked into their eyes. The hallways that lead to the depths of their souls, the wounded, restless souls.

The eyes that were lit by the tiny lanterns of hope, that they were still loveable, that despite anything and everything, they can still get a place in someone's prayers.

Their voice was pleading, conveying a humble request that their wish be granted.

We all need a bit of reassurance at times, the sort that can uplift our scarred spirits.

"Why not? I will, definitely."

It felt pleasing saying this.

Their eyes shone brighter, this time with an additional tinge of surprise mixed with glee.

And I raised my hands and said out loud,

"May you get the peace of heart and mind...May you be blessed with all the good of the world...May your wounds heal soon...May you fall in love with your existence."

They smiled as I said this.

I folded the prayer mat.

My heart which was pounding fast earlier, like a boat among the storm-striken waves, now felt at peace.

That was the thing about speaking the heart out to God. It settles peace in souls, and distressed hearts needs peace, more than anything else.

I sat against the wall and closed my eyes.

Her calm, tranquil face appeared and enlightened me.

Sometimes, our eyes make us visualize picturesque scenes only when we close them. And just like that, closed eyes, sometimes, see more than open eyes.

Just then, the curve on her face started dimming, to the point where, ultimately, tiny lines of stress appeared on her forehead and the fear made her look much older than her age.

The happy face turned into a gloomy one.

And i couldn't do anything except muffling my sobs. Tears of helplessness flowed out of my closed eyes.

"Are you thinking of your mother?"

I opened my eyes, wondering why were they concerned about me in the first place, and if they were, why had they captivated me here.

"Yes."

I replied shortly.

"She will be fine."

"No, she will not be. She cannot be. Why don't you understand?"

I lost my temper and yelled at the top of voice. My calmness vanished into thin air in those moments.

My words echoed in the silent dim moonlit room, only to be engulfed by thick curtains of silence again after few moments.

Minutes after,  my sobs were interrupted as they spoke again.

"But we can...We can understand what you are going through...all that you are being inflicted with..."

Their voice carried the tiredness of burdens they had been carrying for long, perhaps for ages, or maybe even longer.

"You?"

It was surprising.

"Yes, we. Every tyrant has been oppressed at some time...Life keeps on shifting our roles. We maybe the hero of someone's story and yet villain of anyone else's. This is how it is."

He shrugged helplessly, giving a clue his inability to comprehend the riddles of life.

I nodded.

"Yes. This is how it is."

Silence hung down between us. We three were engrossed in the ocean of our thoughts.

It was then that I realized that their presence was not threatening my sanity.

I mean they were my kidnappers, and anyone who picks you from a street by the use of force can be expected to be even more violent with you later.

But somehow, that element of fear had silently drifted from between us.

I was no longer keeping an eye on that pistol gripped firmly in the hand of one of them. My mind was no longer anticipating them to shoot me with it.

Oddly, they seemed harmless, like so many people we come across each day.

And we just drift through their eyes, if we get a chance, or if we happen to be oblivious of them.

And we, at times, see the broken pieces of the glass named soul, and the stones named pains scattered here and there, responsible for all the catastrophe.

But we move on, perhaps, because our own pains aur burdening us too much, and the mere thought of sharing someone's load seems so burdensome in itself, let alone put this thought to reality.

We innocent humans, sometimes, spend too much of life in this misconception, only to realize later that sharing burdens and pains, lessens them.

"Are you good at listening?"

They were asking me.

"Ummm...me...Maybe. I guess you can try me."

They looked at each other, as if seeking permission.

"When we were young, our mother used to pray,

"May you be given the wisdom to understand that the paths that seem approachable do not always lead to the destination. May you get that, that all which shines is not always worth sweating for."

Strange that we got to see the things in the way our parents did, only after it was too late."

He sighed heavily. I was all ears.

For life stories are always worth listening to, no matter where you are and who you are with.

For someone who is vocal about themselves is brave.

It takes a lot of courage to narrate your share of pains, your misfortunes, and in general your tale of life.

And with such courageous people, the least that can be done, is to be patient, while they struggle with their unspoken, unheard words.