He saw a girl today at the park, a little girl. She reminded him of his daughter. He hadn’t seen her in over a year. He misses her, very badly. She had meant the world to him even when she was just born. He could never forget that moment he saw her for the first time, her tiny face, her tiny arms. She was small, but to him she was much bigger, a world. I would do anything for her, he said under his breath.
The little girl in the park was playing with a friend of hers. She looked happy, giggling away and throwing sand at each other. He wanted to talk to her. But there were people all around. He didn’t know how to. He had lost his daughter a couple of years ago. Some freak accident, some natures’ fault, but he blame himself. He has never really recovered from that loss. The trauma had been painful enough for him. The little girls mother comes back to take her home. But the little girl didn’t wanted to. She wanted to stay and play. Her mother has some important work at home and so she drags her back to her car and drives her home placing her weeping kid at the back of her car.
He wanted to confront her. He wouldn’t let anything happen to the girl, this little girl. He would never make her cry. He would take care of her, the best possible way.
The little girl was playing as usual. Her mother is talking to another lady whose kid was also playing in the ground. Eventually, it was time to go butt her mother feels bad for yesterday, so she looks at the little girl and lets the little girl play a little longer. And waits while talking to her new friend.
The little girl was a little exhausted and was panting a bit. He offers a candy and takes the little girl to get an ice cream saying that it will give her the energy to play more. She wanted to play more, so she obliges opening the candy excitedly. The little girls’ mother comes back and doesn’t find her. She panics, shouts, screams, turns the playground upside down, checks every nook and corner. But in vain.
The little girl enjoys the ice cream sitting in the passenger seat of her new found friend. He takes her to his house, shows her room, his daughter’s room. It was pretty, pink, with ponies and stuffed animals and a million other play things. She gets excited and plays for a little while. She suddenly remembers her mother. She asks for her mother. She cries, cries for her mother. The cries become louder. He gets scared. He takes to the room in the basement telling her that her mommy is hiding there. And this was all a game they were playing. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her, he wouldn’t let anyone take away from him, he says under his breath. He wouldn’t let anyone do any harm to her. He wouldn’t let the people harm this little girl. He is going to protect this little girl, his little girl. As she goes inside, he locks up the door behind her.
While having a discussion about the kind of people and ‘psychos’ in particular, with a friend of mine, she said ” A psycho with complex ,layered way of thinking. Their brains work in such complicated ways,we can’t even decipher. It’s idiots who don’t think. Psychos do. And since we do not understand the mechanics of their brain,we label them as PSYCHOS. ”
I did think that the complex layered thought process was for the geniuses. Like the real geniuses who see the world differently and make something extraordinary. But psychos? Come on. They never had a brain, did they? We don’t understand them, sure. It’s because they are mad and don’t know what they are doing. They don’t look into the future. They live on a whim, looking at things in their twisted way with no conscious whatsoever. They lack the empathy. I could go on and on. I label people psychos who don’t think about other’s, who don’t think about what damage they would do to others, what their actions might implicate.
Why did I post this? Because after spending quite sometime on writing this so called story, I didn’t get the response I was looking for in the discussion we were having. So, here it is.
Did you read this post? Do care to share your point of view? I would really appreciate it.
What do you believe in? What do we believe in? What do I believe in? A question that strikes every realm of our existence. I believe in you. I believe in me. I believe in us. But why? Why do you believe in me? Why do you believe in yourself? Why do you believe in us? A question we can answer with a little or no hesitation. Because I know you. I saw your work, saw your passion, saw your heart beating loudly for it. I saw. But belief is fickle, you know. A flickering summer rain. A flash on a rainy day, not knowing where it comes from but you just feel it. Belief. It is hard to come by. It is hard to come to terms with. But what do you believe in, really believe in?
The night whispers sweet lullaby with the stars shining bright in the limelight of the moon. The wind ruffling through the hair, soft and cold. A rhythmic music plays among the countless stars flickering, the pale white clouds drifting in the melody, the silence that beheld the night. Among the perfect organized structure, a blaze of raging ball swifts across the horizon beyond our reach. Shooting star. That joy that it adds to the pleasant night.
Our hands intertwine, holding them close together, we bow our head engaging ourselves in a conversation, a conversation with God, thanking him for the life we thus had, and hoping that he would continue to do so. In out little intimate sessions, we implore for a better life, we ask, beg for forgiveness, if need be. We pray, pray for our own selfish needs, perhaps. Better life. Redemption. Forgiveness. Prayer. Belief.
Why? Why do you believe? How do you believe? What made you believe ? I believe in you because I have seen you, your passion, your heart. I know what you are capable of? But how do you believe in something that you don’t see, haven’t even felt ? Fickle, is it not? The stories that are passed on through generations that once created the world, the ones who once protected the world, the humanity from its extinction, the ones who led the mankind into extinction. Stories passed on, generation after generation. Stories. Belief.