घुड़सवार

Having waited in the queue for almost an eternity,

I was ushered in to his

Mess of an office

Swarmed by files – some peeping sadly out of a shredder, some adorning the tiles.

“He’s got a throbbing headache. Reason well, you get it?”

The assistant warned. And waned. Without a trail.

I sat across, pondering, with a voice so frail, should I talk? Wait for a sign?

Until I was shaken, and definitely stirred by a whine

“What are you waiting for?”

I clear my throat, “Sir, I am…”

“We know the rudimentary. Why grace us with your presence?”

I was already losing this fight.

“Sir, it was, umm, about my Application for Cosmic Respite.”

“What do you identify with?”

I look around, confused. “Identify, eh?”

“Yes. Battles. Sorrow. Grief. A cause. What makes you weep?”

“Umm, Losses”

“Go on?”

“Well, a heart-break, for starters…”

“Pfff! I wouldn’t touch that with a sixty foot pole.

Besides, that’s how each of you roll. What else you got?”

Okay. One down, I thought.

“Fatalities by negligence – medical, or otherwise.”

“Now that’s just statistic. Plus you never know if it was oversight or outright sadistic.”

“Well, you can’t ignore the damages

On account of action, well-intentioned, or abhorrently otherwise.

Behind closed doors, beyond the scenes, under the table,

Over a coffee, scratching a back, returning a favour

With fixated fervour!”

“Son, I don’t deal with losses attributing to a misplaced sense of earthly morals,

Regardless which faction. Or those perpetrated by inaction, refusal to subservience,

Or lunacy, of not toeing the line.

So speak not of petty troubles inflicted by almost alike.

Drag me not into first-world problems. Clearly, not my type.”

I am taken aback, upset, and frozen,

Bashed by an ideology such blatantly brazen.

“So, what other problems have had you wail? Was your sandwich stale?

The train ride too bumpy? The bus conductor too rude?

Get over yourself and your fairy-tale snags.

The bemusing of the un-marginalised, it seems! Now go home and relax.”

I throw up my hands. The prejudice is killing me.

“I… I don’t get this bias!”

He signals me to shush.

“Don’t speak if for yourself, you can’t a case make.

It’s people like you that give me all the headache.

Go find a real trouble, and a pool of shame

To bury yourself, and your elitist propaganda.

Personal conquests are not on the agenda.”

That’s when I lose it.

“You’re clearly blinded by your misplaced notions

about my alleged supremacy, by virtue of a supposed upper hand

At social constructs that I didn’t create, nor believe in; and wait,

My privileges? My endless, glaring privileges?

Taken away by political pilferages!

My dreams shattered, nay, plundered

By foes. But far too often by friends.

Murdered by hopefulness, and several unflinching egos that I must have bruised unwittingly,

While I lay drowned in a pool of my own naivety, harbouring a false sense of reality

Fostered by a school of thought made obscure

By this maddening world that I must now endure.”

Left aghast by the outpour, he frantically orders, “Get out!”

I slam the door. My application and other such clutter, I fear

Will soon meet their fate in his shredder.

On my way out, I find myself laden with more self-doubt than ever

Buried under the weight of guilt for having even raised a voice.

Guess I must learn to stay quiet, so other causes can see the light

of the day; But first, I must, find myself a counter

Where I can encash

My vigorously re-instated and hitherto unclaimed

brownie points.