»
Archives
»
Voices on the Web
»
Failed To Blossom!
| Voices on the Web |
|
Failed To Blossom! |
|
|
Sudhir Iyer Member Ascendant
since 2000-04-26
Posts 6943Mumbai, India : now in Belgium 
|
Authors Note: If sentiments are hurt, I will have succeeded in my mission in bringing out the evil of men. However, if too strong emotions are generated, and I happen to cause deep misery and sorrow, please forgive me! Very young and adolescent members, please do not continue futher! Failed To Blossom By Sudhir Iyer This is probably just another grim story to be read and forgotten. There are many such depressing stories, many such matters. How many can one humanly think about, humanly solve, let alone humanely treat and humanely listen to? Maybe, this is just another stark reminder that though life in its own form and shape remains beautiful, man himself often raises the ugly hood of the snake, the evil that the devil himself set loose amongst us mortals, his own brethren. This is just another one of those tales that speak not for the truth alone but to see the form of justice in the light of truth. This only goes to prove how man unleashes the poison within himself through what commonly starts as a simple craving, a desire to conquer, a lust to subdue, a thrill that he seeks and ends up losing all humanly characteristics of compassion, mercy and respect to a fellow being. She lay there raped, assaulted, dazed, bruised, battered and shattered. She does not even realise the deathly rate at which she is losing blood, of the sparkling red fluid between her legs, seeping through the shredded cotton skirt of a commoner that she adorns with no pride anymore. All of sixteen, till yesterday, she loved life, its fragrance, the scent of happiness, the whiff of childishness with a teenager's wish for celebrating many fun-filled days ahead. She had also liked the same person who committed unto her this hara-kiri. Images flashed before her sullen eyes, spilling exasperated tears on her swollen cheeks. She had been subdued, conquered, defeated by a singular intention, a moment in time, by the person. The person who, after her dead father she had cherished most, the person who was almost like a foster father, a moral support, a story teller and a reliever of the stress caused by many a drab day at school. Images through the mist created by the smoky eyes, tired of crying. Though still she realised no bodily pain, stunned she still was. What was it that she had done wrong, whom had she hurt to endure this, why was she the chosen one, why, why, why? She had loved him like her own, her own blood, her own blood father who had died when she was four, and left her in care of her ailing mother and him. He used to help out their small family for a certain wage that her mother used to give him for taking care of daily matters like groceries, gardening etc including taking her to school. "Used to call him uncle didn't I?" thought she. Images of what was a fun-filled past, a childhood sparkling and fresh like a flowerbed ready to bloom. Images cluttered around her hallucinating head, visions sapping her energy, those moments of yesterdays, bringing back memories, bringing back the past. Several sights, from the book of her own history, were haunting her. Each year, she remembered, was a chapter of her incomplete life, traditionally marked with the start of rains and school, and beginning of summer and vacation leading up to the results of her exams. He used to walk her to the school to get her results. They used to enjoy a sweet or two each year from the same sweet shop. And she was happy! She used to be so! A tiny smile came across her swollen lips, yet tears were flowing incessantly, and she couldn't stop them, as hard as she tried to do so. Images of yesteryears, he was a handsome, hard-working man, always willing to help the family. He was the only man sympathetic to their family in the entire village of helpless souls. Starting with the grazing of cows, gathering of milk, cleaning up of the courtyard, he used to wake her up in the morning with a shrill sound as sweet as a bird chirping in spring. He used to wait for her to get pompously dressed and then walk her to school. He used to be there always when she came out of the school. She had always believed that he waited till the end of the day there in the school ground to pick her up and take her back home. He always had a nice story to tell her in the evening. Later he would give her a chuckle and a kiss on the cheek and pat on the back and left for his home. Such a kind soul, such a nice person, and yet he had become the demon, the snake who bit his master, for blood instead of milk that he used to drink. She could hear faint hooves of horses far away, yet the monsters were screaming hard in her ears making millions of painfully sharp and shrill sounds. Images still kept floating around her head. She remembered her father, just images of him, he used to go out to work early and return back late. The only time she saw him was on Sundays when he used to clean the cattle, and their horse, and then take her for a ride with him. She used to wait for Sundays to come. She could remember herself asking him if she could have a small brother. He had said "Sure my little dearie, a brother for you when you start going to school, to play with him as you now play with your dolls". Oh the dolls that she had, she remembered them all. Alas! She was never to have a brother, her father left the month after she had this talk with him. She remembered her mother wailing and become hysterical, and she did not know why. The only answer she got was her father had gone away, never to come back. Little did she know then that death was what it was and life was what that was not! Later she learned from her mother that it had been an accident during work, and the money and the years that he had put for his work and the land that her grand father had left was what was keeping them alive. Oh! How much she hated being alive now! She had not yet realised that emotion yet, neither did she yet know about the blood oozing out of from her body, and the bright colour on the ground and dress was just fading out. Her vision was fading and strangely she was feeling relieved of a burden that she was carrying on her heart. Images still persisted and kept coming back. Her mother had got sick and remained sick from around the time her father had 'left' them. Later, neighbours told her that sadness and grief due to the loss of the most loved person in her life was the reason. Doctors sometimes called it asthma and at other times called it cancer - she called it despair. Her only solace was looking at the only cheerful face in the house. Years passed on, and she had taken control of her life and her mother was recovering at least in the mind. She could go to school alone, yet she longed for the stories that he used to tell her. So she again waited for Sundays till she could see him around at their family farms, and plead him to tell her some stories. Waiting on for Sundays, she never missed any Sunday and so didn't she miss today. Today was the day of the fair, and her mother had let her go to the fair with 'uncle'. And there she lay in a pool of maroon coloured blood, mixed with brown soil and hay, she still couldn't feel it. Lonely she felt now, things around her seems to be in motion. There was a cold wind, and she started feeling a shiver down her spine and suddenly a sharp pain. A sharp pain, she felt way down, just below her stomach. She tried to look at it, but couldn't get up. Her neck started paining now though she could feel nothing below her waist. She could not move her neck, and now her neck hurt more, more so because she couldn't turn to see what was that what was hurting and why she couldn't feel a thing that was so naturally to be there below her waist. Her limbs were numb and frozen, the coldness of a winter night added up to the coldness of a man's limbs that rubbed her limbs hard against her wish, that mutilated her and had left her sore. She tried to lift her arms to pull herself up, but her arms lay as if they knew no motion. Arms lacking any blood or energy because of struggling too much and crashing onto the rocks and staying there for the night and also because of the man's strong arms pushing her arms to the ground to keep her still. She tried to shout for help, but she was aghast that she could not open her mouth or move her jaws. She had screamed for too long that night, but had been gagged all the way down by the man's forcing tongue and the man's mouth that pushed ever so forcefully on her mouth. Oh! Little girl, did she feel terrible? All she could do was weep, cry and die crying, die of cold, die of mutilation, die of utter disrespect to her human self by another human, die of the lack of strength within her to hold on for much longer. The crimson blood further mixed with the ground, and the hay stack hurt her back, the rocks crushing from below her arms, and her neck almost split and rigid, eyes barely open, and around the waist excruciating pain, the rest she could not feel. A gush of wind and the clothes on her body swept away sending shivers through her battered spine. Yet when she wanted to scream out to the heavens, she couldn't even do that, tears trickled down her cheek, and kept trickling, A few weeks later, a search party found the naked figure of a young girl with decomposed lower half and stinking. Ants had made an anthill around her face, and much of the innocent ever-so-smiling face had been mutilated beyond recognition. Vultures and crows had gauged out parts of her limbs, stomach, and chest. It was a horrendous sight. Her 'uncle' was there too. He became hysterical, crying aloud, wailing and shouting names to the Gods above him imploring them to tell him who it was who did this to his dearest flower, whom he had loved like her own child. He shouted "May the devil take over the body of the one who did this to my dearest bud of the most beautiful flower and rip apart his heart and may he die a ghastly death burning in hellfire". The Gods did not answer. The police held him consoled him, burnt the remains of the body and took the news to her mother who couldn't handle the news and died at the very instant to join her beloved husband and her ever so lovely daughter. The family was joined again, but the ways and means of the act was a disgrace, a blow to humanity. Strange are the ways of man, stranger are the ways of humanity and still strangest are the way of the Gods. If they had been listening or not to the wails of the girl, if they had been listening when she was being tortured, and if they had been listening to even when he prayed for death for himself at the hands of the devil, why couldn't they act? Why did they not weep? Why did they not give the deliverance? Or were they not listening at all? God, it may seem, might not be for the meek and the week, after all. But what could the Gods do when the snake summons his master, the evil asks his master's enemies to deliver him their antagonist to take away a heart that he did not even possess! Only he lived. Only he knew. Only he survived. For he was smart, he was strong, he was cunning and he was a wily wretched creature! Strange are the ways of the world, so sadly strange. The heartless gardener lived to cultivate another crop, but the little bud that was to be a beautiful flower, failed to blossom! --- Author's footnote: Each year Millions of girls are victims of abuse, physical, mental. They often face the trauma in a closed cocoon built around them or simply die. They become very weak to challenge anybody because of the terrible amount of hurt in their minds. Many girls soon die or commit suicide whilst others simply cave in to another misfortune of life, a sad unfortunate victim of beastly lust, undergoing a death of the mind... |
||
| © Copyright 2000 Sudhir Iyer - All Rights Reserved | |||
|
Corazon Senior Member
since 2000-02-02
Posts 1209 |
sudhir, I do not know if prose will get in the book, but this is an incredible piece of writing, I am glad that you shared it with us, it shows such a truth of humanity, but is told with such compassion.... nice to finally *see* you also  |
||
|
Sudhir Iyer Member Ascendant
since 2000-04-26
Posts 6943Mumbai, India : now in Belgium |
Corazon, Well, Ron says that prose and poetry will be on the same level with same rules. So if the prose is 2 pages long, then it will require twice as much votes. Poetry is more popular than prose in many cases, so I don't know if this gets a place in the book. But I don't mind. I am glad to have made an effort, and put forward my contribution against this ghastly evil perpetrated by mankind... I am pleased that this moved your heart. That is more than good results for my efforts. A bit of a show-off, am I not... to put my photo huh ?? Smiling at you.regards, sudhir. |
||
|
Dawn Eclipse Senior Member
since 2000-01-31
Posts 637The Horsehead Nebula |
I read this prose a while ago on our prose forum. This needs a bump I think. I enjoyed this story, though it is incredibly sad. Wonderful job, an incredible piece. "Even a fool knows you can't touch the stars, but it doesn't stop a wise man from trying." Harry Anderson, "Night Court" *Cassandra Roseen* |
||
|
Colin Senior Member
since 1999-06-05
Posts 596Callington, Cornwall, England |
A tragic and poignant reminder of man's inhumanity to man. *shaking head sadly* Eric. "We are the music makers and we are the makers of dreams." - Willy Wonka. |
||
|
Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Did not see this the first time around, Sudhir... you exhibit amazing compassion as your preface and footnotes exhibit. This is a strong piece of work. I am pleased to put in my two cents, a boost up, and certainly a vote... Sunshine ~~~Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see the shadow. Helen Keller ~~~ |
||
|
Sudhir Iyer Member Ascendant
since 2000-04-26
Posts 6943Mumbai, India : now in Belgium |
Dawn Eclipse, Thanks for your lovely words again...and thanks for the bump... Eric, Thanks for reading this one... Karilea, I am pleased that this was seen by you, read by you and felt that this was a 'strong piece of work'. I used to be a writer of short stories and fiction before starting poetry (an area where I am still an upstart)...This was my first work with prose after a gap of 2 years, and one of my most moving articles... I was often in tears when I tried to write this piece...Thank You for reading this one...It means a lot to me. Regards, sudhir. Death, be not proud, though some have called thee, Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; - John Donne |
||
|
Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
Ok Sudhir... I liked this the first time I saw it in prose, I like it now. Prose can be in the book. However, if you read the "conditions" which go over the votes to lines issue, I think you may want to reconsider this piece and perhaps look into posting another, smaller prose piece! Chris |
||
|
Sudhir Iyer Member Ascendant
since 2000-04-26
Posts 6943Mumbai, India : now in Belgium |
Chris, I am pleased that you liked it... I am taking a chance with this since this is very close to the way I feel, and I wish to make a social message if I get the chance... And its fine with me if this does not reach the book. Atleast all my friends from here would have read this and that gives me lots of pleasure... Thanks for your concern and suggestion... If this is really good, and all of us feel that this deserves a place, then it will, but even otherwise I will have succeeded in my goal of reaching out to all concerned people in one way... Please don't take this as if I am obstinate slob... Thanks for everything, Chris. Regards, sudhir. Death, be not proud, though some have called thee, Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; - John Donne |
||
|
brian madden Member Elite
since 2000-05-06
Posts 4374ireland |
Strange are the ways of man, stranger are the ways of humanity and still strangest are the way of the Gods. If they had been listening or not to the wails of the girl, if they had been listening when she was being tortured, and if they had been listening to even when he prayed for death for himself at the hands of the devil, why couldn't they act? Why did they not weep? Why did they not give the deliverance? Or were they not listening at all? God, it may seem, might not be for the meek and the week, after all. But what could the Gods do when the snake summons his master, the evil asks his master's enemies to deliver him their antagonist to take away a heart that he did not even possess! Sudhir, I hope this makes the book, you have my vote. An extremely powerfully piece very effective. very well written. An amazing piece. A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry |
||
|
Sudhir Iyer Member Ascendant
since 2000-04-26
Posts 6943Mumbai, India : now in Belgium |
Thanks a gret deal Brian... Thank you rgards, sudhir. Death, be not proud, though some have called thee, Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; - John Donne |
||
|
Janet Marie Member Laureate
since 2000-01-22
Posts 18554 |
I remember this powerful piece from prose... well written and strong imagery jm |
||
LoveBug
Moderator
Member Elite
since 2000-01-08
Posts 4697 |
This is such a sad piece, my friend. The saddest part of it is that similar things happen every day. I hope it gets in the book to bring awareness to this terrible occurence that happens so much, that it's almost become commonplace. "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." -Oscar Wilde "The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief" -Shakespea |
||
|
Sudhir Iyer Member Ascendant
since 2000-04-26
Posts 6943Mumbai, India : now in Belgium |
Janet, Thanks for the support and encouragement... LoveBug, Thanks a lot for feeling that way... Regards, sudhir Death, be not proud, though some have called thee, Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; - John Donne |
||
|
Jamie Member Elite
since 2000-06-26
Posts 3168Blue Heaven |
A very sad work of prose. Sadder still is that these vile crimes occur at all. The length will hurt its chances, but here is a vote. jamie Tu ne cede malis, sed contra audentior ito. - Virgil. "Yield thou not to adversity, but press on the more bravely". |
||
|
Denise
Moderator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-08-22
Posts 22648 |
Very sad tale, Sudhir and very well written. It is a shame that innocents have to suffer at the hands of such evil people. Denise |
||
|
Sudhir Iyer Member Ascendant
since 2000-04-26
Posts 6943Mumbai, India : now in Belgium |
Jamie, Denise, Thanks a lot for reading... and your many kind words of appreciation... regards, sudhir [This message has been edited by Sudhir Iyer (edited 07-06-2000).] |
||
|
BSC
Moderator
Member Elite
since 2000-02-04
Posts 2919New York, USA |
What a powerful piece Sudhir...How hard it must have been to have written this, and to have done such a wonderful job. So sad to think of how often these things happen to such innocents....Terrific writing, sad but necessary read. Bonnie |
||
|
Sudhir Iyer Member Ascendant
since 2000-04-26
Posts 6943Mumbai, India : now in Belgium |
Bonnie, Thanks for your kind words... feel much appreciated... regards, sudhir Death, be not proud, though some have called thee, Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; - John Donne |
||
|
Elizabeth Santos Member Rara Avis
since 1999-11-08
Posts 9269Pennsylvania |
This is a tragic topic However this piece of writing is astounding. This is on of the first things of yours I read , and it left an impact to this day. This one needs to be in the book Liz [This message has been edited by Elizabeth Santos (edited 07-31-2000).] |
||
|
Sudhir Iyer Member Ascendant
since 2000-04-26
Posts 6943Mumbai, India : now in Belgium |
Liz, Thanks a lot for the continuous support and appreciation through your kind words... Many regards, sudhir |
||
|
|
⇧ top of page ⇧ |
|
| All times are ET (US). All dates are in Year-Month-Day format. | ||
