Monday, August 24, 2009

I just hate it!

I have a certain flamboyancy about me when I try to talk about hatred. I have always felt that maybe a part of me is cynical, even pessimistic to bring about such elaborate imagery whenever I talk about or listen to something that talks about sheer hatred. It moved me to paint a certain picture of myself in my head. It was not a pleasant picture. So I decided to go buy some new canvas. I threw away my old cans of paints and I bought some of my favourite shades from Williamsburg. I decided to paint a new me. I had a green picture in mind. Why green? Well everybody is thinking green these days and if I am thinking of an image revamp, well why not make it green?

I placed my tools and the rest of the paraphernalia under my bed. Then, I waited for Sunday. Sunday is a good day to paint. Ever since I was a kid, I had this soothing picture of Sunday in my mind. A nice warm breakfast with no rush to go to school. No bread-crumbs on my fingers when I did that last touch to my hair with my hands. Finding myself watching television at 11 a.m. instead of looking at my shoes while being scolded by a teacher. A lot of time to watch the ants move around the house with their little boxes of food. I will talk about that on another day but the most important thing about Sunday was that it was the day when I did things that I liked to do and not what "they" liked me to do. Sunday was a good day to paint back then and I presumed that it had not lost it character.

Sunday started with good vibes. I was about to flip the brush and do the first touch thing. Something made me stop. Now there is one thing common about both introspection and conscience. They have a knack for bad timing. Just like in the movies when they get good people killed. When they make the protagonist tell the truth and be slapped. You get the drift! Something inside me told me to ask myself about the last picture. What was wrong with it? Was it not very much like most other people?

So I brought up pictures of my friends first. I looked at them patiently at first but I soon found myself sifting through them rather fervently. Everybody had the same ugly purple thing on their left shoulder and a giant yellow hate medal. They loved to hate something. They were passionate about their hatred. They loved to talk about it, form groups with people who shared their hatred, wrote about it, painted about it and most frighteningly loved to motivate people to build up a similar hatred!

I told myself that it was probably because I was looking at my friends and they are likely to have similar characteristics as me. I fixed my tunnel vision and I brought up pictures of great people in history. The freedom fighters, the world leaders, the CEO's of household-cleaning-agent-companies, the car makers, the person who invented the steam engine, Mr. Bell himself, all of them. I was flabbergasted, shocked beyond reasonable comprehension and very scared. There was that purple thing and the golden medal. They hated things with all their heart. The stronger their hatred, the deeper their strife, the more wondrous was their passion and accomplishments.

So I argued with myself that they hated bad things. They hated the dependence, the dirt, the distances, the week-long caravans, the lost letters and what not. So maybe it was fine but I knew just then that I had wasted money on the paint and the canvas. The brushes? Well yes, on them too. I realized that it was getting more and more difficult to paint a different picture. I had to find a precedent but there was none in sight. I looked up the news, the television and even the monthly magazines.

There was love. There was beauty. There was glamour. There was all the amazing stuff in the world but there was a problem. Every single of those was like a coin with a bad side. We hate authority, we hate diseases, we hate misery, we are the modern knights of salvation and the mercy killing vagabonds. We are connected to the roots of reality with our hatred for being disconnected. Our chivalry lies in our crusade against the abominations of our lives. Our salvation, in our antipathy towards the loathsome entities of the universe.

We are ready to get on the Yellow Submarine and go disrupt the blue meanies. The blue meanies are ready with their anti-music missiles to disrupt our singing voices. We are sprinting our hundred metres on a landmine while we ready ourselves to pounce on the title of the fastest man in the world. Each one of us has a hole in his pockets that connects us to the constant void of the universe. The void that is full of belligerence, racism, unending spite, bigotry, malice and thousands of conflicts that represent our combined hatred.

I look around to realize that most of our lives, our buildings, our friends, our festivals and our celebrations have a story of hatred woven into it. We tell it nicely, even gloriously but it is there and you cannot ignore it. It is such a deep part of our lives that we do not really see it as a bad thing unless we see the dark side. If we see it at all. If we are able to perceive it's darkness.

So I leave the purple thing on my left shoulder and I put on my golden medal. I walk out of the door while I am thinking of places where I have seen or otherwise felt a proximity to a place and time without hatred. I realize that I have read it in some fiction text, as a conclusion of some mythological stories, as a rare end of a fantastical animation series. They are our fairy tales! Our hope lies in the fact that one of those people got it right when they described their Utopian world and that it will happen. Till then let's tell these stories to our children so that they have peaceful dreams in their otherwise frightful lives. Let's tell them to ourselves and let our mind wander in the dream worlds. There is no point in painting a new picture. It is ironical to try that. So I write something to express my hatred for hatred. How is that for an irony?

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