Skip to main content

Whispers and Words #16 | Haunted by Humans

***

I am haunted by humans.

It's not a line I came up with. I am not that good a writer.

This sentence is from my favourite book. I won't reveal the name, because I don't need to. If the sentence was good enough to pique your interest, you might have already arrived at the answer by the space-age device called Google. (If reading this in 2025 or later, replace Google with ChatGPT, Perplexity, Meta AI or Gemini).

There was a time when you had to know the right books or the right people to be aware of things. And asking a question, a genuine, spontaneous query uttered out loud, wasn't met with a look of disdain, but of wonder. Your inquisitiveness wasn't snubbed by the phrase: Why don't you Google it?

I recall asking a question during an age when the internet wasn't as commonplace as it is now.

Is Alexander Fleming related to Stephen Fleming, the New Zealand Cricket team captain?

My biology teacher had no answer, nor did my friends. It wasn't relevant to the syllabus, so nobody cared.

I carry that question with me even today. I still don't know. And I just won't google or ask any AI the answer, like some of you already have. Keep the answer to yourself. I am satisfied with my sense of wonderment.

Coming back to the book, now.

Written in third-person POV, the story is narrated by Death. Not some God of death or harbinger of death. Just death, with a kind of sadness attached to him. Or her. As far as I can remember, the gender is not revealed.

When I completed reading the book, I could not help but marvel at the genius of the author in choosing Death as a narrator, someone who is omniscient and omnipresent, who watches and observes everyone, then reflects in melancholy without interfering with the flow of the story, which comes to an end with the following sentence.

I am haunted by humans.

I always wondered if the closing lines were supposed to begin a poem, but the writer chose not to.

Over the years, I attempted to write that poem myself, hoping that it would live up to the author's expectation and mine.

I finally did, yesterday. Here it goes...

I am haunted by humans,
Both dead and alive.
Lurking in the darkness,
They catch me by surprise.

Blessed with free will,
They made a conscious choice
To leave me to my own devices,
With my virtues and vices.

Now I find myself
Immersed in their echoes, still,
In the vacancy they left behind—
Never to fill.

The poem has no relation to the book's story, just my personal experiences. However, the starting line is an homage to the author, because when I first read the book, I hadn't written a single poem. Still, I went on a random pursuit of writing the poem that I had somehow assumed the writer had chosen not to write.

A sense of wonder brings a smile to my face now.

Was my favourite book the reason I became a poet? It's poetic, don't you think?

***

PS: I wrote my hundredth poem back in 2024.



Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Whispers and Words #1

*** Finding solace In an air-conditioned space, The city slept While I wandered the streets, Restless, Perfecting the ending Of a sentence. The cool breeze made me forget That it was a summer night. Then, out of nowhere, A cold whisper Sent a shiver down my spine. "You have to choose, my friend. Be a writer or be content." "Why can't I be both?" I asked the emptiness. And the whisper scoffed at me, "You and your consistent pursuit To get the best of both worlds. Buckle up then! You are about to be tested." I stumbled over a rock And found the ending I was looking for. "If a river wants to meet the sea, Twisting and turning, It will somehow find its way Even through the mountains." If a whisper could smile, It did, and said, "We will see." *** I don't have a million readers - not by choice, obviously - just a handful. But they mean to me as much as the millions would do. And one of those readers reminded me that I had taken a lon...
1 comment
Read more

LIFE AND LIES #67 | The Shortest Story

Dedicated to a friend of mine who is no longer in this world. ********************************* A friend had died. Still, the world  Hadn't come to a stop. Perhaps, it should have. Because I gave my presentation Smiling from ear to ear. And later at night, I drank to my fill To honour him. Because life is too fricking short, But at times, Feels too bloody long. If you google 'Shortest Short Story' You'll get the following result: "For sale: Baby shoes, never worn." Popularly attributed to Ernest Hemingway. Ernest, I'm sorry  But I ended up writing  Something similar myself. "Hang in there, my friend. He did." I'm not proud of what I wrote.  It is what it is. "Who is this about," my friend asked after reading my poem. "He was my batchmate in school," I replied. "He committed suicide yesterday by hanging." "Why? What happened?" "Nobody knows. He had cut himself off from everyone." "Was he i...
1 comment
Read more

LIFE AND LIES #57 | Neil Nitin Mukesh (#2)

"Krishna is a married man but he's always revered along with Radha, his lover. What if... say Rukmani, said to Krishna one day, that she'd rather be Radha?"  Nitin uttered his thought out loud then looked around the room. While the others had stopped long back, Neil was pouring himself another drink. Only he could drink so much on a Sunday night, because unlike the others, his Monday had been declared a Bank holiday. It was Mukesh who was sober enough to reply to his question. "Radha spent her years in sadness longing for Krishna. Rukmani would not want to be in her place." "What if...'' smiled Nitin. He always placed the actual question he wanted to ask as the second question. "One day, after reading my work, my wife says to me that she'd rather be one of the women I write about so passionately." "The women you choose to write about are also inherently sad," Mukesh was quick with a reply. "Ask your wife then, would ...
Post a Comment
Read more