Prince from Paradise | ✔

XIV. Under the Shadows

Adar

He waited for three days. 

Laying on his hardened bed, the constant tick of a clock marked a rhythm in his mind, insanity a mere second away from consumption. If it was not the clock, then it was Rabiya's voice burning his soul with a fond memory. Her scent, her laughter, her mesmerizing eyes embedded into his every thought, weaved into his daily life.

An acute pain erupted in his abdomen as he struggled to sit up. Adar hissed, biting his lip to prevent the agonized scream that begged to be released. His father took his anger out on his body once he saw that his son fell madly in love with the enemy's daughter. 

In hopes of preventing Adar from meeting her, he harmed Adar. With the splintering creak of a wooden bat, his father lifted it high and slammed it against his torso, his legs, his arms, at every limb he could reach. His father had no mercy, and Adar did not dare to scream.

He stayed silent, allowing his father to break his body in cruel ways. His body ached all over, yet his heart's flame never died. His resistance only fueled from his father's actions. Adar would not shatter like glass when his country depended on his letters, when his future thrived off his escape from his family. 

Sighing, Adar slowly swung his leg over the bed, ignoring the pain that seared from his harsh movements. Gripping the headboard, he shakily stood, limping to his desk. A pen and blank paper sat before him, a clean slate to the sins of the world, a window to pain and suffering, a testament to his sorrows waiting to be told. He bit his lip, contemplating his choices.

Lifting the pen, he continued yet another piece to his collection.

I used to think think that the external war was the cruelest to our people, the bloodiest slaughter of humans throughout generations. War crippled the strong. Blood tormented the weak. Death haunted all, and that was the purpose of war, complete, brutal destruction among the inferior. 

Little did I know the underlying effects of centuries of war.

Our ancestors from the Mughal Empire, right before the British invasion, thrived in strategical warfare, expanding our borders from the center of India to the north, south, east, and west. They had the most advanced weapons, the luxury items, and a special diplomacy, yet the constant war from history led our people to slaughter.

History repeats itself as we engage in another attempt to division as if we never learned from our past mistakes. External war is not the only war. Our internal affairs are often much more cruel than enemies rooted from the same tree. 

Have our own people turned a blind eye towards their brothers and sisters? Have we abandoned faith in search of greed? 

Hate is not a new concept. Hate thrives as much as success, and in its blazing wake lies the souls of those consumed by their disgust, their shame, their willingness to sin for personal growth. As we push young men to rally support of this war, we also leave women and children in their own warfare, their own village politics. 

We claim justice, yet we are unable to deliver it. We claim to love our people, yet we abandon them. Why must the innocent suffer? Why must we harm the people we vowed to love for our own selfish reasons, for our need of validation?

These internal conflicts are what cuts our country in pieces, into fragments of corralled evils. There is no unity. The voices that speak justice in volumes are the ones silenced for their plead of peace. When will we learn?

He exhaled deeply, feeling the agonizing wounds begin to bleed again. Dropping his pen, he reached for the white bandages on his desk before replacing the soaked ones.