Often, things don’t make sense. Why does the Sun rise every day to set? Why do the flowers bloom only to be plucked by mischievous little bratty hands or to be offered at the feet of stone idols of the same Gods who created them in the very first place? Why are examinations more valued than the lives of those hundreds of young who succumb under their pressure? Why is a job position much greater than a friendship you’ve nurtured for years? Why is the money more important than the ailing parents you’ve left behind? Why is it selfish to love oneself and idiotic to love others (either ways, I’m slandered)? Why do we run after fame when oblivion is all that destiny can give us? Why is immortality a boon when you know all others around you will die? Oh and why we do we bake those immaculately beautiful and fabulous personalized cakes only to dismantle and eat them within a day or two?
I’ve diverted enough from what I really want to say out loud (or in this case, write).
Why do I hate loving you?
Often, things don’t make sense. And this is just the beginning of it.
Image by 4freephotos.com
The scratching of pens wouldn’t stop. The overhead fan was whirring at full speed. Yet, she could sense the beads of sweat forming over her brow. A couple more minutes and she would wipe it off again. The students had just another 30 minutes and then she could go and rest in the staff room.
This was the third consecutive day her cook hadn’t turned up. Her ailing mother in law was demanding even when on bed. Then there was her husband who couldn’t see her burdens even if she threw them in his face. Well, he was dead anyways. He met with an accident while he was on a trip with his mistress. The world thought he died alone and mourned him for all that he wasn’t. She didn’t care to correct their assumptions to save her daughter from the society’s cruel impending jibes.
She could see two students passing papers at the back of the room. She didn’t care! They were old enough to know what was right and what wasn’t. If they thought these marks could secure their future, she wanted to roll on the floor laughing at their silliness. The real world would make them repent for their underhand methods. Or at least life would. She let them enjoy the short lived moments of adrenalin rushed success. And noted their roll numbers for further reference.
If they were good, she was better.