Round 2 - Team # 14 (Ajitesh & Siddhant) #ftc1516

*) - Eighty Four

I wipe off the tears from my bloodshot eyes,

As I peer at the images stuck on my bedside wall.

Of the religion of my people being raped and humiliated,

All in the name of law, order, national security and all.

I put on my turban and strap on my uniform,

Careful not to stain the khaki with my tears.
I am in the manliest of all manly professions,

I can not be allowed to cry out my fears.

Yet tears of blood and humiliation were cried,

When the Lady of Iron went ahead and charged.

She passed over a million other ways that she could have taken.

And into our shrine with her army she barged.

The fight was bloody, the aftermath bloodier,

With Gold and bricks and mortar falling to the ground.

She offered to build what she broken down herself,

But in the gesture, no consolation was found.

I walked out picking up the heavy piece of metal,

Cold and still as the witch's heart would be.

Duty comes first, they always say,

But what higher duty can be?

Than the duty to your soul, you conscience,

Than the actions you owe to your people everywhere.

And so the Protector became the Hunter,

Impatient to look into her dying, betrayed cold stare.

I picked up my bike, and kicked it to life,

I set out on my way, my nerves made of steel.

Justice shall be served today, I reminded myself,

It was too late for cowardice for me.

I reached her castle, to witness a siege,
I had not quite expected to see.

Liberty! Freedom! Tyrrany is Dead!

The old witch was no more to be.

I stood stunned at the gates, my feet of stone,

My prize snatched away from me, now laid to rest.

My people, on their own, had done the dreadful deed,

Deciding that I was too slow for their taste.

Jubilant, but stoic, I walked into the gates,

Brimming with excitement to look upon the face,

Of the woman who had taken away our pride,

Our dignity, the most religious of our space.

And even as whispers and muttering and pointings,

Grew steadily louder behind my back.

I walked on, full of joy and disappointment,

To look at the visage of that old hag.

But what happened next, was something that I,

Had not quite expected to feel.

I did not feel joy on seeing the Woman dead,

Instead I felt remorse and pity.

Her wispy hair, her shapeless lips,

That had brought many a score to heel.

Ordered nothing, talked still less,

Yet spoke though they were cold and still.

They spoke of trials and tribulations,

Of ordeals and a crown of thorns.

Of sorrow, of separation and desperation,

Of seeing everything she loves begone.

I could see through the tough decisions,

I could feel the pen strokes wounding her heart.

I could hear the truths she could not yell out loud,

I could smell what she had called a Fresh Start.

And in that instant I understood the explanations,

Which my intellect had failed to demand.

Things Mother did were beyond question,

For reasons bigger than I could pretend to understand.

I was humble, I was small, I was too small,

To walk around and see the other side of the coin.

She had her reasons, what I could not understand,

She had a headspace I could not join.

Confuse me not with a blinded follower,

That would kill himself off, staying a nameless face.

Consider me a believer, a convert to the faith,

Of Mother's Wisdom and her Infinite Grace.

In that moment of clarity, I bowed my head,

Humbled and marvelling at her reach.

Though Mother was gone, not by my hands,

She still continued to teach.

I turned around to hide my tears,

And walked out ignoring what I shouldn't have.

The murmurs and whispers and pointings,

Had grown louder and clearer and stark.

I walked out of the ruins, tears streaming down,

Unable to comprehend or recall,

I kicked up my bike, and rode into the night,

Unaware of what was about to befall.

They came in mobs, swarms, like vultures,

They plucked me from my life.

They tore and snapped and clicked their beaks and stung,

Their swords, torches, clubs and knife.

I stared into the eyes of death myself,

Quietly marvelling at the dark irony.

To see myself be on the other side of it all,

The perp becoming the victim of the felony.

I would love to ask you to marvel and express,

complacency, awe and shock.

On seeing this cruel twist of fate,

But Alas! I can not.

Thoughts become actions, actions become the man,

I had had thoughts that did not befit.

And so here I lie, broken, bruised and bloodied,

But my end, as I see it, does fit.

Call it my penance, my retribution, my punishement

Call it whatever you want.

But at the end of this long, lonely day,

Bemoaning my fate is something I can't.

I believe I do deserve it, do not ask me why,

For I would not have an answer to it.

But I had planned to kill Mother in a moment,

Of righteous, pretentious rage's fit.

My punishment is true, and just,

And truly befitting my crime.

And I accept it graciously,

Bemoaning nothing but the time.

For I would not see the glorious tomorrow,

One where what Mother taught,

Would be heard louder and clearer,

Her death spreading the message her life sought.

Her death would galvanize, every Indian,

Maybe in ways we could not expect.

But Mother would never be gone from this country,

Till for Determination there is still an iota of Respect.

==========================

Rating - 30 stanzas!!.. beautifully written, goes well with the powerful image....quite emotive, it was like reading a story as you tied them together well. This is what I call a comeback. Well done! 

Rating - 174/200 Points 

Total Points after 2 Rounds - 279/400

Judge - Mohit Trendster