A Silent Rebellion
He was not a brave man. But, he was honest at heart. He had no doubt of what’s wrong and what’s right; what’s black and what’s white; what’s dark and what’s light. A silent supporter of the good, he was; but had not the guts to fight the bad, outright! A silent supporter of the good, he was; he wailed that he was not brave enough. But he couldn’t change. He was scared. He was scared for his life, for his family.
He, silently, prayed. He prayed that the violence may end. He prayed that the rapes may stop. He prayed that the good may win.
Once in a while, a few tears, he shed, empathising with the dead.
He raised his children, taught them well and instilled in them, the right spirit, and the same boneless spine, for he cared for their safety as much as he cared for the good. Now, there were four of his kind, he thought, four silent honest souls in the whole world, maybe a few more, sparsely distributed.
He lived his life with a constant struggle. He was happy to see his family growing, sad to see them growing in that society. Many years passed. The wrinkles on his face dug deeper; the whites conquered most of the territory on his head; his struggle resonated in every part of his body. Now, he was just a very old man, who had a ton of tales to tell his grandchildren, where justice prevailed, but he knew, none were true. But, he still prayed, in hope of a good future for his children.
Eventually, he was restricted to just his bed. With lots of time on his hands, he wondered if he should have done things differently. A mediocre man, living a mediocre life, that’s all he ever was, he’d think. And then he would convince himself, for a brief period, that he still took the right path, that he was able to keep his family safe, until he’d ask himself the same question, yet again.
After a few days of running in this very same loop, he got the news. They attacked his daughter. Apparently, there were a lot of people around, staring, as it was happening, with sympathetic eyes. He finally knew the answer to his question. With his realisation, also came a stroke. His face became pale, his breath, weak. But his eyes were the same as before, no life.
By the time people arrived, he was no more. There was a great agony on his face, they saw. Some said it was because of the news he had heard. Some said it was because of the pain from the stroke. No one, except I, knew that it was none of that, but his inability to shout out the answer to his own question to all those fools in the world, who had nothing but sympathy for his daughter, to all those fools who were on the exact same path as him.
