Hitler and What he was to Me.

Smiling at the happy ending in the book I was currently reading I put it down. The story stayed in my mind for a long time, the parts replying itself in my head. However, my thoughts were in a conflict, my previous beliefs being  questioned.  

                I always admired Hitler for his bravery, his leadership, his way of carrying himself. I know, know well all the atrocities he committed and I didn’t respect him for that. But I truly admired the way he had the whole country in his fingertips, the world dreading the short man with a silly mustache.  He brought the shattered Germany back to a stable form, he reformed may things.  He did his part of good things.  However, am I right in admiring a man who caused the death of innumerable innocent?

    The book I had been reading described his anarchy in depth, the emotions and hatred towards the war depicted in detail by the protagonist who was a victim under his rule. Even though the story was fiction his crimes where the same, his evil plans for the Jews having the same effect. The hatred I felt for him throughout the story was real and I couldn’t help feeling guilty for having admired him. He was bad. He did things not right. What kind of leader is the cause of killing of people in cold blood just because they were Jews? What kind of revolutionary man does that? He wasn’t great, he hid from his true fears behind the wrongs he did. His bad outbalanced his good. As I put these words down, my thoughts are arranged. I know whom I look up to and whom I don’t. I know the why for it now.

                A simple story changed my thoughts and viewpoints. Maybe this is the strength of words woven in perfection.

  

Words of a Poet

Nature, our mother, asks man, “If there was something you would give me what would it be?”

The soldier says, “My life.”

The farmer says, “My service. I shall take care of your riches.”

The poet says, “Words, for that is my greatest treasure.”

Why I name my things

The name of my water bottle – VEGAS (its just an abbreviation and you don’t want to know what it stands for)

The name of my bag- Nala

The name of my favorite pen- Brains(I thought it would be funny to say “can you please pass my Brains?” the other person’s expression would be priceless!)

The name of my watch – Miss. Tick

                                  The name of my laptop- Ellie

Not going on anymore but you get the idea: I name my possessions. It was a silly habit I got into and now its become an obsessions. Some say I am mad, some say it is funny, some find it amusing. Whatever the case maybe, in the end I come out looking..well…crazy.  

Why do I name my things?

I don’t have a sure answer but it must be something about me being an author and naming characters is what I do, so that must have exaggerated and I started naming my belongings too. However, very recently I stumbled on a more satisfactory answer.

   There are times when I go through a “phase” where the world has become super glorified yet it has left me very lonely; times when I swim and sink in the blues. No amount of consoling works though my friends try hard. These are the times when the everyday things I name come alive. They become my consolers, my companions, my best buddies. All I have to do is think about them as real and I am all right.

No, I am NOT mad. I think writers/authors shift between reality and imagination now and then. This keeps them sane. (right?)

Maybe or maybe not its right, this kind of escape , but I have always been able to string myself between the worlds and I find my way back into both fine.

Conclusion- I am not mad. I do crazy things yes, but that is what makes me me, and I know that the me isn’t all that bad. I am awesome in my own way. When I name my things I do I because I find it fun and what’s wrong in having some fun right?

Note: Image does not belong to me.

Divinity

It was a few days back, when the night sky looked fresh from the first monsoon showers. Even the high city lights could not put out the darkness that enveloped the vast endless blanket like sky. As I stood there watching the phantom depth a memory clambered its way up to the surface, a memory associated  to the past when I was very little.

   My mother had ushered me into a temple, all the time telling me about the might and significance of God. She steered me until I was facing the idol, which then looked like a big glittery doll to me. Flowers and jewels of all shade adorned the idol, making me remember the phrase “color color which color do you choose?”

My mother had whispered to me “that is God. Ask her anything you want and you will get it”

     I remember vividly the awe with what I stood there, transfixed by the idea of a statue fulfilling my wishes. The jeweled eyes, which stared back at me made me, want to reach out and touch the magic rock that made the magic doll.

      It was with the same wonderment that I stood in the present, staring at the black night sky. This was magic, I thought, as I gazed into the deepness of the darkness, jeweled by the stars.

Oh Goddess of Night, now you have come,

to grace us with your song.

Singing the song of gods,

doing the dance of cosmos

drawing man into your embrace

in which he gets lost, spellbound by your divinity.