67. Worn Man - Part I
He sat slumped, muddled in life and dreams,
Muttering to himself strange spells
That reigned over his words and deeds.
Clutching his sceptre like a cane,
From blackened bushes of white brows
Shone his eyes like striking violets—
Which, an eternity past, once glittered
From mirth, mischief to magic,
Betraying nothing but a trust that did not rust,
Turning stronger than steel when reimbursed.
A sight with sureness transcending
Beyond his gaze, capturing the wills
Of his well-wishers, turning allies
Of savages and rakes.
Eyes that drew words without speech
For they were forged in reassuring ease
Like the oiled sword drawn from the brass sheath.
But now they darted around
Like parrots in a cage,
Bouncing from sleek marbled floors
To doors, tall walls and pillars
He had helped create—monuments to his name
That madness made him forget.
Haggard, reddened with no sleep nor sanity
Did they flutter between vicars, rectors,
Public servants, friends and family.
68. Worn Man - Part II
When ministers in misery caught sight of his sight,
They found eyes fettered in hate; of a worn man
Bound in the chains of oblivion, simmering
Only in slippery rage, condemned
To eternal, decaying despair.
But for a second those eyes of fury seemed to see,
And their king yelled, “Edward! Easten!” in voice
Of remembrance, sense and glee.
Gushing came back the sights, the deeds,
The happy memories!
They saw the chiselled rocks, the jewels and halls,
Arched windows guarded by smiling sentries!
Legendary swords propped upon walls,
And a score of loyal subjects
Clustered around like eager bees!
And, for a second, Easten knew he knew
That his kingdom was truly one
Like fingers of a fist, like soldiers under siege—
He saw the blood, the sweat and the honesty
From which germinated with gradual finesse
An unity from ashes and lost lands,
Thriving like Ithaca, or like Baghdad!
Ah, those days of blood and glory—
When we had naught to our name
Spare our wits and industry!
When cattle and keeps trembled at our sight,
And warriors in fright impaled themselves
Before daring to point their swords
In the path of our might!
When warships rose like krakens from the sea,
Thundering through lightning, devouring
Schemes and foes with effortless mastery!
When all words, similes and philosophies
In the world failed the finest bards of our time,
Who could not picture the scope of our glory
Without seeming it like mere myth or fantasy!
69. Worn Man - Part III
In those brief periods of lucidity,
Did Easten deduce a wonderment, a happiness—
A thought trying to be free—
Before madness roped it into her arms;
Keeping him prisoner to brutish scars.
His king never knew that that brief moment
Of repose would be overcome by the black hole
Before he found time to flee;
Like the sudden tsunami swallowing the serene sea.
For not days after the end of our quests
Did insanity charge at him from the vanguard,
Caught us unguarded, and assaulted with success
Our saviour’s mind and heart.
His soul had died, yet the flesh survived,
Mocking his memory like poor parody.
Madness unmanned him, and him unmade—
A thorn without petals, a shell without meat
Was all that remained.
The night was once near; now it was here.
The subjects had mourned this night for weeks.
The night of trimming hedges, of planning losses—
Like the mariner scheduling the slay
Of the albatross—
As if marking dates on calendars
Would fashion order from chaos.
They looked on to Easten, chosen to do the deed,
Their stares of sorrow mingled with a silent plea.
70. Worn Man - Part IV
When white wisps escaped his stammering lips,
Did Easten find solace by suppression
Of his spirits, his souvenirs, his morals.
He poisoned his mind with lies that he did not care,
That this was fair, that the land came first;
Not its ruler, nor its heir.
‘Reminiscence is ignorance,’ mooted he,
Before he bit his lip bloody
In determined agony.
“No point in delay,” at last said he,
In tones as if he planned for Christmas Eve
Before walking across the hall, cutlass in hand
Toward the patron of his land, and his dear lord.
As a thunderous crack from yonder rung
And omens began their nightly howlings,
Easten grabbed him by the garb
Before he was aware of any misgivings.
He meant it to be gentle, but he knew
That the old chap could not see it so.
“Judas! Judas!” screeched he, lucid or mad,
Mouth spitting flame, and eyes transfixed in terror
At the actions of his most prized counsellor.
The hand that guided was now the hand that slapped,
Frailly; flopping, flailing against failure
Of escaping his friend’s soothing, yet firm force.
Clattered the crown that covered his bald pate
As, yanked from his seat by his crying minister
And dragged across the hall he built
Was he,
While his court, still as a corpse, filled with those
Who loved him more than most
Wept for his body and for his soul,
And followed him to his last journey.
He, for whom boys turned commanders;
Who became part of all he met
And elevated their lives from evanescence.
Who fought his whole life for them
As raider, leader and conqueror;
All for fruits he could not savour.
71. Worn Man - Part V
Out in the rain, came and walked they
Easten and his king leading the way.
“Horror! Horror!” kept yelling he,
Until he saw the fallen oak tree
Upon which throats of sinners, senile men
And those who attempted escape of arrest
Were put down to their final rest.
And, in that moment, he saw his sentence
In calm, solace and serenity.
He knelt to his knell voluntarily,
Reminding the subjects, the servants
And the bards, stood in sombre silence,
Before he bade them to part,
Of the fortitude inseparable to his heart.
He clung to his sceptre till he bled through his nails,
And only let go when down descended the swishing blade
From Easten—his mate, his bard; ever so kind—
Who chopped asunder his imprisoned mind.
P.S. I hid behind the moniker of TINTA since the account was opened on Instagram. Truth be told, this has always been my natural impulse. If I had my way, none of my works would be attributed to me. I write a lot of miserable stuff, which I don’t want attributed to my character. I am proud of my writing, but it is also comfortably the worst of me—where my most cynical, nihilist and antisocial tendencies come to fruit.
For a while, I hoped I could hide behind TINTA forever. Perhaps anonymity is cowardice, but it has always been my impulse. But people tell me there’s nothing sustainable about the moniker strategy—that I must put my name, centralize my content, ensure I take credit for everything in a brutal industry, blah blah blah.
So, briefly, let me introduce myself: I am Neil Nagwekar from Mumbai, India.
I don’t plan on abandoning the moniker TINTA though. Because there is a story behind TINTA, and I think it will take quite some time for it to be completed.
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