It is told

That the rulers of old

Often preached that they were anointed by God.

When crops failed, draught hit,

The people looked up to their Lord.

Whether they saved the band

Or fled the land

Is unknown, one thing for sure – 

They never died the death their people did:

The privilege of the Divine

I find it extremely interesting that the past is tinted a hue of its own in memories; in present day terms – as if it has a filter on it. Whenever in thoughts, the past takes up the shade of old photographs and documentaries, the shade of coffee stain on parchment, as if they are stories stored away in rolls of Kodak film. And yet the lives that lived that life were as real as ours, their shirts white not cream, their roads sparkling with pristine rain – not necessarily dusty, their fears and hopes as exciting as ours. As years pass, I used to think, someone might tint us in yellow ochre and look at us in reverence as the people who lived a nightmare for years, green our skies, brown our homes and bleak our hopes.

But today the color play makes sense no more. We are all characters in ‘The Book Thief’, cramped up in the bomb shelter along with Liesel. Colors barely pass through and the hues are, at best, monochrome. We wait in anticipation and all we hear are silent explosions outside. Human emotions exploding and lives imploding while we wait, holding our breath as they crumble, waiting for their last. We hear the murmur, the virus can spread through air, beware. I wonder how pain spreads, clenching our hearts with its vicious tentacles as each person laments their loved ones across kilometers.

Is it uncalled for then, if we the people of desperation and guilt turn to our lords and bang on their doors? They hustle and buzz for answers amidst a fuss but isn’t it hapless if we see no laments among them? None who regret the rallies they held, none who admit their lapse of judgement, none who confess they wish they had acted before, none who let slip where they went wrong. All the while those who we placed at the helm keep playing the role of the alpha male, the patriarch, who preach their mind’s will with no shred of compassion and clamp down anyone who dares raise their voice against them. And if you risk dissent it makes you the villain, after all ‘how dare you scaremonger our precious fragile people who do not deserve an opinion?’.

A democracy where leaders have painted themselves as the epitome of patriotism makes any doubt of the leadership an act of sedition, as ridiculous as being charged with blasphemy in a land of atheists.

Heads still held high, no moral ground to question them on, I’m certain they will turn up again some years down the road. It is not ours to forget, the fact that they could have let the colors stay, they could have led us out of our homes than into the bunkers. They could have let us breathe than having to hold our breath.

Despite all this, in the not so distant future, someone might paint us blue, for all we know, for the strength and hope in every unelected warrior, every soul that became more than a shoulder to cry on, maybe even the lords of crisis praised. But even then it is not ours to forget, the time when they were so caught up spinning webs over the water that they barely noticed the fireflies fall and drown. Of course, they never died the death their people did.

<Originally published on Muffled>