We are a nation whose emotions are at the helm of our skin,not deep beneath the surface.
Pain paints it’s strokes just as visibly as the hues of hope-eyes are truly windows to the soul, but most often what we get to see is that these souls are wounded, beaming smiles and contentment a fragile shroud.There is a fury of frustration at the alarming disparity of classes, a begging question of why all ladders they climb lead to nowhere.
Their pursuit of education is futile;it is abandoned midway in hopes of learning a skill, whether in a shop or in a mechanic as a “chota”. It is what the ‘civilized nations’ classify as “child labor”. It is what those families call a source of survival.
And yet how many of us actually even listen to their tales? Or even stop to notice that their piercing eyes are having a conversation with our emotions, a plea in the smallest of pleas.A glance that makes the Heavens heave,often unnoticed,at times even hushed by us.
Who then hears the narrative of these fatigued eyes forever seeking a messiah to balm their wounds? If nothing else- to provide them with the basic human courtesy of being heard. And so desperate is their seeking for a messiah, that who the messiah is; becomes irrelevant,insignificant.There is a shape before them that takes the form of a fellow human,moreover he is prepared to attend to their gaping wounds.In their haste there is no time to see whether his eyes are kind or whether cunning ambition curves the edges of his smile.
The great listeners are not unlike the great liberators thrust upon people,they are most those who efficiently exploit the narrative effectively. The messiah is either hollow promises from tried politicians or heinous political parties in the garb of religion. Sometimes they are indifferentiable from the other.
The messiah’s greed feasts upon their diluted dredges of still remaining hope.
To say the messiah has a pulse on their heartbeats would be trivializing the expanses of his power-if he asks their hearts are his for the taking. It is not insurmountable faith and belief,this loyalties pledged in desperation to believe that relief has arrived.With words he sways their souls,hither and thither like the delicate feathers of a dandelion; as beautiful in their frailty as they are while falling and scattering.
Their narrative needs to be told,not sold. Their wounds need to be healed with the warmth of an embrace,with conversations which have no place for words.Affirmative action is what will restore faith in themselves.We need to quieten their fury and replace it with sensibilities. Education needs not to be just a pursuit of instructions but one with fruitful consequences;the taste as sweet in reality as the enchantment in it’s beckoning.
There is a paramount need to take action, if not for the very cloak of responsibility that burdens our conscience of being,then for the sake of our survival-though this means I find morally repugnant,the overwhelming need to do something would overpower the repugnance of why we take action.
A biased history of venomous words will not sway them then,or blind their minds to hate.Their fury of frustration is no more a river directed to melt into a sea of poison.Their emotions are in equilibrium with empathy,sympathy and reigned in by understanding.
It is the only way to stop being haunted by demons we set free.

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