blazeofglory
01-13-2008, 10:41 PM
Shaking off pains:
Traumatized I am, Ant’ I in this angst-ridden state? For, I am derelict herein, in a village that is totally abandoned with no faces around. With carcasses to live and see the blood –mired ground and nothing else I am rooted in this enisled state with an etherized soul, the one that is odds on to be submerged into eternity.
I loved her as a school boy, and both of us left the village for a city. Therein notwithstanding no one to help us we cared for nothing but love in point of fact and muffled in miseries of poverty, and abandonment for a year we ran here and there to make our two ends meet in Kathmandu .
We returned to the village with the saddening news that my father died of tuberculosis, an illness that beckoned a state of poverty in our village and indeed a great many souls fell victims to this deadly fatal disease.
Womenfolk in our village trail behind their counterparts, males, and mannishness is held in deference and things of feminine are attributed to baser elements socially and culturally. Indeed there are uproars of a few activists against this gender bias, social injustice. This sexual category has been taken with gravity at mass meetings going off over and over again.
It is indeed a matter of conjecture to see the bleak mindscape of my mother held captive of the traditional mores and social ethos she is hemmed in. As a widow she has no role in any familial decision takings and in socials. She is socially subjugated and is cowed if she retorts. Widowhood is a stretch of life in my part of the life women in general choose to cut short and Sati was vogued and goes adrift unabatedly in some parts of the country wherein a Hindu widow deliberately throws her husband on her husband’s funeral pyre.
My society, in substance a stratum with an order and class of certain people with their personal interests and values taboos women to go out and interact. If a woman survives the death of her husband, she is deemed an outcaste.
I was in a fix and circumscribed to put the yoke of the family responsibilities on my shoulder at an age that was not ripe enough for all these social obligations and odysseys. Nevertheless I was a wedded lawbreaker, a fugitive, someone who ran with a girl against the sacred institution of arranged marriage. I was just a fifteen years old, not a marriageable age by general standards and yet the appropriate age by our social standard.
My father was a laborer and had the job of a stone crusher, and had a meager income to run the family and my mother was of a little aid with a small earning she had as a dishwasher. Things were not that bad if we were not crushed by two big challenges: one the waning health condition of my father and the mellowing and ripening conjugal age of my elder sister. It is indeed a given that grownups are married in time and those who pass the limit respecting womanhood are looked down or mocked in our society.
Already stormed with a tempest of poverty and the weighed down by the yoke of family responsibilities I had no circumstances to heal the wound but to add something to enmesh me. One night a gang of offenders broke in plundering everything we have. They carried off the only sister I had. I remained left high and dry with a mass of heaps, my mother in the dark and ruined shack to live enduring the rest of time.
Disturbed and ossified with nothing to lean on, anything that could be merited or take a grip on she vanished into thin air.
My soulmate, my wife, died after going through a state of acute pains while birthing a baby, for in our village coming across a health care center or hospital is as hard as getting a pool of water in the desert. It is the common plight of the many here in this reclusion where no suns that shine in civil societies have shined in the lives of the destitute.
I am in for something here, not to survive on the carcasses of the departed. Desolated I live on with no motives, no spurs and no urges. I have no capacity for thinking. Yet this is not a memoir written on men of significance but fragments of the happenings pieced together birthed this and that is why this lacks something you seek for a story.
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Traumatized I am, Ant’ I in this angst-ridden state? For, I am derelict herein, in a village that is totally abandoned with no faces around. With carcasses to live and see the blood –mired ground and nothing else I am rooted in this enisled state with an etherized soul, the one that is odds on to be submerged into eternity.
I loved her as a school boy, and both of us left the village for a city. Therein notwithstanding no one to help us we cared for nothing but love in point of fact and muffled in miseries of poverty, and abandonment for a year we ran here and there to make our two ends meet in Kathmandu .
We returned to the village with the saddening news that my father died of tuberculosis, an illness that beckoned a state of poverty in our village and indeed a great many souls fell victims to this deadly fatal disease.
Womenfolk in our village trail behind their counterparts, males, and mannishness is held in deference and things of feminine are attributed to baser elements socially and culturally. Indeed there are uproars of a few activists against this gender bias, social injustice. This sexual category has been taken with gravity at mass meetings going off over and over again.
It is indeed a matter of conjecture to see the bleak mindscape of my mother held captive of the traditional mores and social ethos she is hemmed in. As a widow she has no role in any familial decision takings and in socials. She is socially subjugated and is cowed if she retorts. Widowhood is a stretch of life in my part of the life women in general choose to cut short and Sati was vogued and goes adrift unabatedly in some parts of the country wherein a Hindu widow deliberately throws her husband on her husband’s funeral pyre.
My society, in substance a stratum with an order and class of certain people with their personal interests and values taboos women to go out and interact. If a woman survives the death of her husband, she is deemed an outcaste.
I was in a fix and circumscribed to put the yoke of the family responsibilities on my shoulder at an age that was not ripe enough for all these social obligations and odysseys. Nevertheless I was a wedded lawbreaker, a fugitive, someone who ran with a girl against the sacred institution of arranged marriage. I was just a fifteen years old, not a marriageable age by general standards and yet the appropriate age by our social standard.
My father was a laborer and had the job of a stone crusher, and had a meager income to run the family and my mother was of a little aid with a small earning she had as a dishwasher. Things were not that bad if we were not crushed by two big challenges: one the waning health condition of my father and the mellowing and ripening conjugal age of my elder sister. It is indeed a given that grownups are married in time and those who pass the limit respecting womanhood are looked down or mocked in our society.
Already stormed with a tempest of poverty and the weighed down by the yoke of family responsibilities I had no circumstances to heal the wound but to add something to enmesh me. One night a gang of offenders broke in plundering everything we have. They carried off the only sister I had. I remained left high and dry with a mass of heaps, my mother in the dark and ruined shack to live enduring the rest of time.
Disturbed and ossified with nothing to lean on, anything that could be merited or take a grip on she vanished into thin air.
My soulmate, my wife, died after going through a state of acute pains while birthing a baby, for in our village coming across a health care center or hospital is as hard as getting a pool of water in the desert. It is the common plight of the many here in this reclusion where no suns that shine in civil societies have shined in the lives of the destitute.
I am in for something here, not to survive on the carcasses of the departed. Desolated I live on with no motives, no spurs and no urges. I have no capacity for thinking. Yet this is not a memoir written on men of significance but fragments of the happenings pieced together birthed this and that is why this lacks something you seek for a story.
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