Begetters of Misfortune

By RAM GARG

'an anecdotic tale of unintelligible human modulations, of its dummied up musings and wool-gathering imaginativeness, which gets denoted in autobiographic narrative of the lives of an insane old man, on one side of hostile international divide, and of a child of eight, on the other, putting subtleties of innocence against the bluster of wiseness, and, through it, against calamitous declaim of the godly' 

• Language: English
• Publisher: RAM GARG
• Release date: Oct 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386361138

Book preview

(Part – 1)

THE  INSANE

1.

Foolishness, the adscription I would often be accredited with, was multifaceted, divalent of manifestative buoyancy, to say the least, each one of its two interfacing miens contradictorily complimentary to the other, It getting nurtured, as a result, of paradoxical susceptibilities, from the very beginning, causing behavioral recalcitrance to antagonize the command of reason but staying put an inspirational source, in itself, to command whatever causative penchant it coagulated the reason to. It was, thus, a means to the psychological bluster that would keep haunting the locale, but a self-regulating accordance, at the same time, in conformity to psychic figuration, to render it impervious to the ranting declaim, anabolic transformation of the vibes of mind, if there were any, along the time line, being the result of self-evolving metabolism, little in harmony with evocative but intricate substantiality of logic. Fledged not of the solemnity to fly into the realm of intellection such a state of idiocy, however, did permeate a paradigmatic hue, it, by phlegmatic credence of the willing, ever remaining unaware of the quixotically induced achromatic heights that it would, of its own, often fly into. 

The over the top phrenic interdiction notwithstanding, the foolishness did, indeed, evolve itself, steadily, over the years, small stupidities of early days getting gradually but continuously emboldened, to finally land the fool into the immutable realm of insanity. The process could have been obscurely slow but it was distinctly definite, which I, the fool, readily walked along the abstraction of, and which others watched, from a safe distance, helpless or grudging.

Fatherly rumble to such a misbegotten cogency would often meddle in the concatenating progression of, but only to add to its refulgence, whereas, motherly inquietude, if, at all, the timid of a woman dared voice her concern, had been too weak an interposition to stand up to trammeling intransigence of totalitarian overshadowing of the husband. And the two younger women, the one I was ritualistically married to, and the other I was supposed to be in love with, were just systemic concomitants, the first enjoying ectopic conundrums relative to the development, and the second decrying the suffusion of ill-defined relationship. 

Then, decades back, when I did not know how to laugh the way others laughed they would call me a compulsive fool who was unhappy by choice, and later when I finally started laughing compulsively the way others would never learn to laugh I was termed insane who would enjoy even in grief. Journey through the thick and thin of mindlessness was long in time, but it had remained revolving around the nature and kind of happiness I indulged in, or the absence thereof.

Father, seemingly a little concerned of implausible ructions on the part of his adolescent son, did wish him good. To feel happy is a sacred human right he had once said, trying to bring the fool out of a long drawn compulsive fit of gloom. The man must be joking, I had construed, considering the glint of sadness that I could discern glimpsing from behind the thin veil of meaninglessness of his words. Moreover, human right to feel happy is very personal, I did believe, whereas, sadness was being dispensed by the likes of him, the masters of the notion of happiness, or by the likes of the fool, a slave to the joys of sorrow. 

Happy over what? unhappy of the unbidden trespass, I had wished to ask, but did not, getting suddenly engaged in an encapsulating intercorrelation, and had, instead, pointed towards an ongoing fight between a small cat and a sturdy stray dog, in a corner of the street not far away. The animals wrestle had continued for some time, before the cat had finally managed to disengage itself of the scuffle, escaping unhurt. I was frighteningly surprised, as much of the cause of just ended war in between the biologically unequal, as of the astounding mismatch of physical strength of the warriors involved. Forgetting my gloominess, the very purpose of his accosting me at the time, father had, however, laughed, unashamedly, an unrestrained loud laughter, as if he was immensely enjoying discomfiture of the smaller animal. How long will it survive? he had sadistically exclaimed, after a while, or, perhaps, it was arrogant wistfulness on the part of a pleasure seeking propagandist of the notion of happiness. Since the dog has tasted blood, it would get her sooner than later he had concluded, prophesying or anticipating. 

But the compulsive nature of sadness was as false as the falsehood of arrogance of happiness, for the zenith of insanity was far beyond the easy reach of human prejudices.  Somewhere, unknowingly, I had strayed into other side of the line, under the command and control of an authority, which had no qualm for needs and which had no need for emotional upkeep, where living amongst humans I considered myself more humanly than all others, and, as such, privy to the human right to feel placated, always, whatever the circumstance.

Was it some kind of jealousy on the part of the sane, or the fool was being a source of inconvenience, I knew not, for sure, but, of late, people started complaining that my merry making had turned quite louder, so boisterous that it would often frighten them out of their wits, and that it would often terrorize their small ones into hiding. Considering that the foolishness would not hurt even a fly, I had pleaded innocence, many a times. Selfless inappositeness affronts no one I would reason, requesting them, on the contrary, the complainants and the onlookers, to join the fool in those moments of conviviality, instead. But the contemptuous moronic that I had, by then, turned to be, was always spurned. Perhaps, happiness too, like the sadness earlier, did need an explanatory footnote, or the support of a cogitative musing, in the absence of which it was the psychological fear of getting hurt at the hands of illogicality of idiotic divertissement that could have frightened people in general, and that could have terrorized their small ones.

Or, perhaps, I was really one of the renegades, akin to each and every-one of the pack of terrorists, someone had called them thus, decades back. But I had been unsure then, inclined not to agree. A terrorist, to be called thus, had to be ugly of the look, I did believe, and there had been nothing ugly-like about the men, the gang of four, foe turned friendly goons though they could have been if I considered them right, but not the arsonists, who, on a requisition, had dawned down into the village, from across the long hostile international divide, to help father getting married to the girl I was rumored to be amorously related to. But something had gone awry, suddenly. They had killed father, instead, immediately escaping back to the enemy land they had come from, abducting my dear wife along, perhaps as a recompense for the trouble they had taken.

But it was decades back, more than four decades, to be a little specific, during which time I did not hear of them again, not until the self-appointed and self-willed caretaker of mine warned of the possibility of a terrorist attack, from across, cautioning his not so painstaking master to be careful of strangers, of unknown persons of dubious looking character. They are infiltrating in, in hordes, these days, it is heard he had grudgingly revealed. I had just laughed at his well meaning but stupid hearing suggestion, perhaps, conveying unsaid that an insane would have no enemy to fear of.  Moreover, I was with no other woman, at the time, to fear the loss of, and nor did I wish them to help me acquire one.

The man seemed to have read the silent interpretative wonderment of the fool, intelligently considering the objection, in turn, but deciding against ultimately. Is not terrorism, likewise, an act of insanity he had jibed. But such a resolution to the silent wonderment was no less puzzling. I was confused, utterly perplexed. The well considered sane opinion did not seem to make sense. It was against the fundamentals of insanity, for psychologically an insane mind is beyond the purview of hatred, or of enmity, the provocation that would exhort it to act hostile, or to cause harm. I had known this much from a long drawn personal experience. Seemingly harassed at the hands of such tautological intervention that dared glare from the circumspection of two foolish eyes, the man had dived down into the subject afresh, for a short while, before he concluded, But they carry no friendly conviction, either he had said, compulsively adding, mindless that they all are. 

I was still not convinced, considering the new found elaborateness of the man to be an obfuscatory outburst of a  prejudiced mind-set, surviving from olden times, perhaps, dating back to almost half a century, hibernating in some inconsequential incidents that the time enfolded in bygone moments, ever since. That makes me a terrorist, as well I had, however, responded, laughing, as if chiding him for the numeration that seemed to equate terrorism with insanity. If a terrorist has the makings of an insane, as he had supposed, every insane person, likewise, is bound to fit into the parity, equating with terrorism. He had kept silent, thereafter, offering no further comment, or an explanatory rebuttal. Perhaps, there was no need to. A sub-standard mind would understand little of exponential curvature of logic, or would distort the meaning thereof to suit his intelligence quotient, he must have surmised. Departing, however, he did comment, not in a direct reply to me, but murmuring to himself, out of frustration, perhaps, for putting up with the fool for so long. Who is not said he, holding up his breath, for a moment, for the fear of being overheard.

So like my mother, her sacristan of hope, and him a Samaritan of the willing. Human mind is a part foolish as it is part intelligent she had once said. Everyone is a part terrorist the man could have meant currently. Perhaps, these were the phrases of consolation, hers and his alike, coined purposefully, to make the fool feel concentric to the orderly human dispensation. But the obbligato was integral to differentiation, wistfulness of the subjunctive notwithstanding, holding the fool on a different footing, away from epicentral gracility of the wise, or of the dare of an incendiary, the only concern seemingly being as to who of the two, the sane or the insane, was on ominous level higher than that of the other, if the wise overawed the fool, or the other way round.

Contrarily, I was playing a half-witted, for a change, contemplating thus, while all others around, of the sane standing, the caretaking elder including, would often make me believe, warily though, that no loss, be it of the faculty of mind, is unworldly to make such a fuss about. 

2.

Behavioral exactness, if it corresponds to