July 3: My birthday today

My hair is a moody bunch, with a mind of its own. Like a petulant child, it follows its own whims and fancies. But today, surprisingly, most of it settled down quite well while I combed. Most of it, except one. One strand of hair would not budge. However hard I combed, it kept standing.
A rebel?
I look deeper into the mirror. It is.....a grey hair.
It is my birthday today.And I have got a grey hair.

Will the rebel live?

I look outside the window. The dawn is breaking. The sun is just out on the horizon, but not out of the woods yet. There are clouds surrounding him. The clouds are many, dark and sombre. The sun is alone and outnumbered. The clouds seem adamant on letting the darkness remain, on not allowing any light to pass through, on maintaining the status quo.
The sun is the new kid on the block. He is the gladiator for whom the whole sky is the arena. It is in the sky that he was born, and
it is here he will reach zenith or perish trying, here itself.
It is an engaging battle. At this moment, the clouds seem to have upper hand. The sun looks hesitant and unsure, not of the clouds , but of himself.
I am alone inside the room, or even outside it. The walls of the room appear tall and insurmountable. Like two men at a gathering, trying to avoid each other, but still managing to run into each other and going through forced motion of exchanging pleasantries, the walls of my room meet each other perpendicularly , without any smiles, with stiff lips in straight lines. What do these walls talk about when they meet at the corners? Do they talk about the occupant of the room? Do they sing paeans about him, saying how brave and persistent he has been? Or do they lampoon his efforts, as those of a hopeless romantic?
My room is just on the side of roads. It is still early in the morning and the roads are deserted. They seem wider when they are empty. A journey on road is metaphor for life itself. Sometimes the whole world travels with you, sometimes you travel alone. To stop travelling is to stop living. At this moment, the roads seem without any life, leading to nowhere. The long drawn moments of stillness are punctuated by the very occasional whirring of a motor engine or the seldom appearance of a bicycle. But these moments are few, and the concrete used to pave the roads seems to have frozen to death last night.
I take out an old diary from my drawer. It contains a poem which I wrote a long time back. The poem , titled "Truth", goes something like this:
I am the truth
The slayer of evil
The healer of wounds
The harbinger of hope
The champion of those who try
I am the last man who stood his ground.

I have been decried, been laughed at
But the last laugh was always mine.
I was dusted to the ground in many battles
But the war I always triumphed.
I was threatened and crucified
But every time, I rose Phoenix like.
I was outsmarted, outsprinted
But in the long run, I always won.
Civilizations perished when I was bound and gagged,
but it was my voice which delivered the final blow.

I am the chuckle of an infant
The profundity of a saint.
I am the strongest armor of the soldier
The map and compass of a traveller.
I am the anger of youth
The bugle of revolution.
I am the wisdom of the old
The voice of the conscience.
I am the guilt of a sinner
And the forgiveness of a enemy.
I am the mojo of the dame
The loyalty of the lover.

I am the truth
The slayer of evil
The healer of wounds
I am the last man who stood his ground.


I read the poem and look out of the window once more. The sun seems to have won his battle. The clouds are many and for a while they looked very powerful. But the sun held its ground. And now sunlight is streaming in through the window into my room. Against the majesticity of the sun, the walls of the room appear puny and small. The sunlight has revealed their true colours. It has shown how inconsequential the walls really are.

The sunlight has infused a new breath in the dead concrete of the roads outside. Slowly life is beginning to flow. Cars are zooming at ferocious speeds. Buses are honking. The hustle and bustle of the city is on display in its full splendour.

I look into the mirror once more. The grey hair is still standing tall, still rebelling. It is alone now, but over a period of time, it will be joined by others. These others, who are afraid to take a stand now, will soon realize how inexorable the march towards greatness is, if you have the desire to grow and the courage to suffer alone.

Happy birthday...
May the rebel live a 100 years !