Two W.E.A.K Dudes

Featured

theme, new servers and whatnot

Posted by The Dark Knight on Friday, September 19th, 2008

Okay, so some of you might have noticed our comments being swallowed (only two apparently). Thing is, Node Six transferred us to one of their new servers, and threw in a fresh new theme as a bonus, custom pimped just for our royal weakness. We were worried our site would be down for ages, but [...]

The Dark Side

Posted by The Dark Knight on Tuesday, April 29th, 2008

Chapter One - Origins

Yoda: How feel you?
Anakin: Cold, sir.
Yoda: Afraid are you?
Anakin: No, sir.
Yoda: See through you we can.
Mace Windu: Be mindful of your feelings.
Ki-Adi-Mundi: Your thoughts dwell on your mother.
Anakin: I miss her.

Could I miss what I didn’t know? Yes. I missed her so much.

I’d never really known her, much of my childhood was spent aching for a love I could see in all families around me. The warmth of a hug, the teasing waft of a meal cooked with love, a tint of care and a generous helping of mama’s smile. Not the hastily beaten roughness of scrambled eggs mixed with tomatoes, nor the the scalding sugarlessness of half cooked porridge, prepared with increasingly worried glances at the wall clock. The visiting days at school when cars laden with good stuff, parents and screaming siblings were the bane of my existence. The one time my father came to visit me in my six years of high school, I was in shock. Truth be told, I liked it somewhat, those lazy days when it was just me and dear old dad.

What I liked more was the endless sunny days when we’d troop half naked to the local sugarcane plantation and raid it, dashing as fast as our scraggly little legs could carry us, fleeing from the raving madman charged with protecting the green and red stalked money machines. The panga he wielded was enough for us to never ever be caught.

The hills around would echo our joyous laughter as we shamelessly reduced our booty to a pile of husks, our rounded cane-juice stained bellies were a testament to the havoc we’d left in our wake. We’d return home triumphant, having once again reduced the ubiquitous Indian capitalists to tears. Of course, back then, our plans were not so grand, they centered more on the satisfaction that only excess sugar can bring. Still, we were conquering heroes, the envy of the sick and the grounded, and not even the merciless lashings we each received at the hands of exasperated parents were enough to restrain us. Every day, as long as time and speed permitted, we would do it all over again.

She crossed my mind many times.

I had a garden by the side of the house, a grand award winning garden of six bean stalks, a decent sized collection of germinating millet seeds and all of two half inch maize seedlings, the rest having died in all sorts of crazy experiments, with me, the lead scientist trying to make them grow squarely, or grow in four days, or trying to create plants with blue leaves.

Sometimes I would sit alone tending to my garden, the world forgotten as I immersed myself in my little world. And I’d stop, and tears would stream down as I imagined her walking up to me with a smile on her face, and sitting next to me asking what I’m doing. I’d imagine her laughing riotously as I explained why I was planting a chicken thigh bone so that I could reap cooked chicken drumsticks, and then she’d brush the dirt off my face, and kiss my cheek, and I’d squirm away, embarrassed at the icky stuff. More often than not, my reverie would be broken by the deep voice of my father telling me to hurry up and get inside else he’d hide me.

I rarely asked about her.

I’d made the mistake once, and the fleeting shadow that fell across my father’s face was enough to warn me such questions would not be tolerated. I kept my peace, and lived life as life would permit. I saw her even less. In my entire life, I believe I saw her four times after I turned four.

One of those times, she was on her deathbed, thin and frail, the brain tumour having taken away all her mental faculties. They told her I was her son, she looked at me and smiled weakly, then asked who I was. She didn’t know me. She told me to drink the splash I’d brought for her, that it would make me strong and healthy.

So could I miss what I didn’t know? Yes. Achingly so.

Yoda: Afraid to lose her I think, hmm?

I’m not afraid to lose her. I already lost her. At a time when I needed her most, I lost her.

Senior Two, a cold forgotten morning, a notice came from the school administration block. Your father needs you. My cup of lukewarm black tea was left by my bedside, the one single sip I’d taken from it would be the only warmth I’d know for a long long time. My father, wearing the stoic face I’d become so used to, said nothing as we got into the car. I didn’t ask questions, some things are best left alone. I knew my father only too well.

We drove in silence, my father making idle conversation with the driver, laughing occasionally at some cryptic joke they shared. I was in a daze, my father was not the type to make me miss an hour of school. So what could this mean? Were we leaving? Shifting again? I took solace in oblivion, staring at the scenery passing by, counting the trees in my innocent and infinite curiosity, until I dozed off, only waking when the car stopped.

We knocked at a door I’d never been to before. Me in a strange mix of apprehension and excitement. Was this a pleasant surprise my disciplinarian father had prepared for me, finally a sign of love in a life filled with grim smiles and hurried scurries out of the living room when he arrived home? I couldn’t wait.

Just before the door creaked open to a multitude of faces, my dad turned to me.

“Son, you have to be strong. Your mother has died.”

That was one of the four times I saw her.

Yoda: Afraid to lose her I think, hmm?
Anakin: What has that got to do with anything?
Yoda: Everything! Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. I sense much fear in you.

I’m afraid, because I am angry. And now, I realize, I am beginning to hate. I never thought it would happen, hate was beyond me.

I’d grown up resolute in my living, choosing only to see the positive in everything, situations, circumstances, people and most importantly, in myself. All my flaws, physical and mental, my weaknesses, my strengths, I accepted them. In school, I learned to believe my clumsiness and shyness when it came to the fairer sex was just a simple manifestation of the eccentric genius in me. I read hundreds of books from art, to philosophy, to mechanics, to complex biology, to chaos theory and I learned that those who had walked the path kismet had chaotically set before me had been just like me, frail, some skinny, not too popular, eccentric and with an uncanny tendency towards wierdness and obscurity.

I found solace in my ability to understand impeccably, to comprehend the deepest of ideologies and theorems without blinking. Machines were my friends. I could build anything I set my mind to. Half the time, they wouldn’t work as I expected, but whether I failed or not, it was always a sign to push harder, make better. All of this, to me was normal, it was part of a much larger puzzle and for as long as I worked on one piece at a time, the clues to this life handed down to me would slowly unravel, one string at a time, and it would all make sense one day.

One day.

Not today. Today, I am angry.

“Sometimes anger will keep you alive.” Ororo Munroe, aka Storm, X-Men.

Posted in: 1001 Tales, Darkness, The Dark Side.