My Irrational Bond

Rational thought, rational thought, rational, rational.

I keep telling myself this. These are just molecules, atoms dissolving away. Covalent bonds, ionic bonds, forces that pull each other finally letting go. This is chemistry and physics. It’s okay, it’s fine. Let it be, let go. It’s the ultimate metaphor for freedom. The grand ascension.

There’s a force in my heart that does not want to let go. The irrational bond. The square root of minus Pi upon 2.

I dread the moment of unhappiness. I don’t think I can face it. I will be forced to face it. The unholy cruelty of it. I think my heart will break. Not shatter like glass or break like wood splinters but break like steel with too much carbon in it, it develops a crack and the crystal lattice shifts so that steel can never be used for load bearing tasks again. Too many cracks and the steel might as well be salad, no load bearing capacity. I dread that with each crack I’ll have to bear more load unless I can break that irrational bond.

I was able to avoid the occasion of his death. I never faced it. Some days, even though I hated the man in the latter half of my existence, I think of him and a sob escapes me. Now they say there will be another passing. And then another. And then another before there’s a lull.

One day finally, either I’ll see my sweetheart depart or she’ll see me go. I cannot picture this ultimate fate, no image looks happy to me from where I stand. My heart is already giving up from the anticipation of the impending heaviness.

Our tragic universe.


I cannot find a rational way to break my bond.

Not 10 minutes before I started writing this, Yann Tiersen was playing a solo piano concert, live on Facebook. I think he was playing a wistful tune, before finishing up. People in the audience were smiling. It was such a perfect moment to be alive. Life. Fucking chemistry and physics.

I want my rational mind to consider all irrational explanations. That this is a beginning not the end. That they live in our thoughts. That it’s the circle of life. That there’s a heaven. That they are happy after all was said and done. Collective consciousness. My rational brain rejects it all as imagination.

The only thing that I know and can understand is that the bond remains. The irrational bond, is an entity of it’s own. It will break of it’s own accord. When one day it finds seven consecutive prime numbers. What will be lost is other molecules participating in the bond.

And I can’t make excuses. I can’t make rational or irrational rationalizations. I have to face it head on. Let my heart bear the heaviness, let it break but not be broken because of it.

I have to acknowledge the cracks, then mend my heart like those Japanese people mend their pots with gold and silver. Keep mending it till the day my heart will be nothing but gold and silver, the day I’ll discover seven consecutive prime numbers, and after that day, it would not matter.


Small souls

They are inconvenient because they are thinking, human minds that are constantly learning new things. They are not your pet dog, they are not circus animals, they cannot comply, because their survival depends on exploration.

That child depends on you for emotional and psychological security, not just money.

My neighbour is hitting his child and I can hear him scream through the walls. The child alternates between hic-cup-y sobs, coughed out pleas and loud complaints.

The Man:
He is a noble member of the great Indian middle class. Servant class morality, melded with utter mediocrity. Double standards on everything. Behind the fa├žade of self-respect and dignity, he lacks both. He seeks avenues of power, not in the real sense, but where he can subjugate a fellow human and feel less insignificant than he really is. Such moments are rare in the outside world, so his need for significance drives him to establish dominance over his helpless family. Sometimes this goes too far. Like today.

The child is shouting “please!” and “why?”.

The Mother:
I am pretty sure the mother, a “housewife”, would be looking helplessly, asking the man “politely” to stop abusing the child. These polite requests are sometimes hollered so that they register above the din of the man’s middle class brain rebooting and the child’s helpless screams. She should’ve been an independent woman, taken the child and left the man forever, but no, she stands there, equally responsible. She chooses to remain insignificant, inconsequential, inferior.

When today is over, the mother will caress the child, listen to his complaints, will soothe him and will say “let it go, he is your father” and spit stories in the child’s face that make the father look like a mythical hero. This subtle betrayal will register in the child’s psyche, but, he is still too young to articulate it in words, too young to ignore the only soothing sounds around him. The child will remember that even his mother, was an accomplice.

The Child:
He will bear the session, yet another one in a series. He will learn to hide things from his parents, learn to hide himself, learn to steal things, learn to steal himself away, learn to be small, learn to let go of the ‘values’ and ‘virtues’ in order to simply survive, gain disrespect for others and for himself.

In his teens and twenties, the son, comparable to the father in size and strength, may unknowingly exact revenge on the parents for all these betrayals.

However, the father will win the endgame. The son, the forever soiled survivor of these ‘sessions’, will grow up to be just like his father. Mediocre.

The tragedy is that on the son’s 30th birthday, the father, mother and the son will meet and think warm, happy thoughts about each other.

Mr. Father will turn grandfather, Son will turn Father and then it will all go on again, in a cycle, unless one offspring decides to subvert every single pattern of thinking that he has inherited from his family.