Four years ago, on this day, I wrote –
You are the only one I know, who took bullets in his stomach,
to stop a maniac from murdering your city.
You were neither a top cop, a warrior, nor Batman,
you were neither a king, and certainly not a celebrity.
Why weren’t you? It’s a sin being what you are.
A faceless, penniless, common small man.
You have neither the looks nor the money to charm,
to pull off what a wannabe can.
You see, we run behind heroes on the screen
with their indulgent smiles and racing bikes.
Their page 3 lives and six pack torsos.
You get the bullets. They get our likes.
You would have perhaps been on our minds
had you “acted” as a hero, or danced Gangnam style.
Or perhaps romanced a hottie or just had tonnes of money.
You just sacrificed your life; it wasn’t worthwhile.
I sincerely hope your next birth gives you all
the accolades you deserved in this, but got none.
Maybe then, you would be utterly useless,
but at least, you would get your share of fun.
Dear Mr. Tukaram Ombale, we do not deserve heroes like you.
I stumbled upon this ‘memory’ on Facebook today, and it was one of those “oh, I wrote that?” moments. As I scanned through the poignant, cynic poem, I could barely identify with it because I do not write on such things anymore. While I do feel the same way, it is significantly less in intensity and frequency, and that too, because life and a busied mind have been successful in suppressing the thought into a mere reflection for moments of idle gloom.
And yet, I do not shy away from embracing the reality that was once me, four years ago. A college student driven by fairness and idealism, yet to be disappointed and then hardened by the ‘big, bad world’, I wrote what I wrote, not out of anger or hatred, but out of a feeling of deep perplexity about our choices and ideals as the human race. While I am still perplexed, it bothers me less. I do not know if I should be happy about that.
– November 2016