D stands for Dark

The trees were swaying back and forth in the cold of the night, while the gusty winds produced a sound of their own. The leaves of the banyan tree started falling, and soon covered the ground, like a carpet. A beige cat found its little kittens, and proceeded to look for a safe haven. The two barking dogs fighting across from the street, suddenly became quiet.The door of the distant lighthouse started to swing with the winds, making a sound so loud every time it closed, that it almost seemed like some invisible hand was trying to push it as hard as possible. The branches of one of the trees, in the way they were shaped, resembled a ghost. Or maybe, the Dopplëganger of a ghost. The small yellow bulb inside the lighthouse fused, and darkness invaded every corner of the landscape. The door which was swinging very hard with the winds, stopped moving, and fixed itself at a 45 degree angle. The storm, which refused to die down, had now joined forces with torrential rains. At the top of a tree, whose radius was covered with leaves, was a black, horned owl. The owl gave the impression of a spy. A ferocious looking and unforgiving spy, that would send all the alarm bells into a tizzy. The swaying of the trees, back and forth, could be easily mistaken for a demonic spirit, inching closer with every move, and trying to scar any being on its way, physically and emotionally.

Tossing and turning in the bed with disturbed facial expressions, and eyes shut as tightly as possible, loathing every bit of the way the nightmare unfolded, I decided to end my sleep. I exhaled, but not before I could grasp that what I had experienced was just a figment of my imagination. I spent the next 10-15 minutes in bed, trying to understand what had led to the disastrous dream. There are some nightmares that hardly ever leave a trail beyond the time they last, and then there are some others that continue shaking you up, long after they have transpired. As surreal as some good dreams are, a bad dream tends to lurk for much longer, in one's memories.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

As someone who has confronted fears and nightmares quite well, or at least pretended to do so, I was shocked to see my heart fill with trepidation and anxiety, when I recently watched a movie inspired from the real life story of a teenage girl's brutal murder. So much so, that I felt petrified while walking towards my room, after watching the murder mystery. Maybe, there are times when the connect with a particular thing becomes overwhelmingly strong, and thus, internalising a lot of aspects of which one is a mere spectator, some of which may not even seem real, becomes inevitable. And most of a layman's exposure to horror and dreadful experiences comes from movies. Much has been spoken about and debated, when it comes to the existence of paranormal activities and spirits. As curious and intrigued as I may be about mysterious episodes, I haven't quite been able to understand what it is that is scarier, the timing of the occurrence of the mysterious incident or the incident itself. What is it about the dark that makes the world of murders, horror, and mystery take shape. But, as is quite palpable, some questions only add to the mystery.      

After catching an afternoon show of Conjuring 2, I was more thankful for having chosen the right show timing than for being able to watch the much-talked-about movie on the first day of its release. But the one thing that remains sure is that it feels much safer to experience horror and mystery through someone else's eyes, knowing full well that there are others who are sharing in the experience of shutting their eyes every time a loud and scary sound hints at the arrival of the evil spirit on the 80 inch screen, jerking off their seats when the ghost finally arrives, and slightly leaning on a shoulder next to yours when you are scared as against visualising oneself falling prey to a ghost or blackout, and trying to hide when the ghost tries to follow him/her, until he/she finally wakes up with a thousand minor heart attacks. Also, I plan to watch Conjuring 1, which I have been told beats its second instalment with its fear quotient. This time, I think, I will be sending invites on social media platforms to find good company for the movie, which I plan to watch in the morning.

Autobiography of an abandoned goat

Please help me!

I'm an Asian goat who is currently on the run. I was bred in a farm in North India for milk. My mother gave birth to me and my two siblings in the same farm, which was owned by an elderly man and his sons. We were well-fed to ensure that we grew up healthy enough to fetch our master a good price for our quality milk. Unlike me and my sister, my brother was sold off to a butcher at four months of age, who would eventually slaughter him for his meat.

As new-born babies, when our farm owner didn't depend on us to serve any commercial purpose, I and my siblings enjoyed following our mother everywhere in the farm, grazing through the green pastures of land and indulging in some fun and frolic. I grew fond of my life in the farm, not realising that soon all of us would be separated. My mother was soon sent to another farm, after she was plagued with a rare disease that mired her ability to breed. She went out of favor with the elderly gentleman, who transported her to a farm where she would be reared for meat. My brother met with a similar fate after he outgrew the nursing phase. My sister and I bred once a year ever since we turned one year old, except that my sister died at three years old. She hadn’t been milked for four days in a row, a few months after she gave birth, causing internal congestion to take her life. I realised that as I kept getting older, the attention given to me kept reducing. I knew that I would soon be traded for younger goats, once I stopped giving enough milk. There would be days when I would cry for long hours in my shed, thinking about my family and how much I missed them. Sometimes I wish my flesh wasn't edible and tasty for a goat's meat. Now that I'm baring my heart out, let me also say that being an animal in a world selfishly dominated by humans is a bane.

The day I had been dreading arrived sooner than I imagined. My owner soon started to look at me as a liability, and saw my rearing as unproductive. Like most other goats, I started giving smaller quantities of milk as I grew older. My farm owner was looking to sell me off when he was approached by a local butcher who offered him an attractive price for purchasing me and a few other goats in the farm. Before I knew it, I was already on my way to face the dreaded sword. My owner, who I had thought of as a very kind soul as an infant, now became a demon in my eyes. His actions would only mean that the bond and attachment that I had forged with him through the years were also going to be sold. I desperately wanted my mother to come to my rescue. I felt cheated and vulnerable, and my eyes were filled with terror. I did not know what lay ahead of me. I could now come to think about all the poor animals who, in the past, had met with horrific fates. In no possible way could I get myself to think about many a young goat, whose lives would end in a fashion similar to mine. On my way to the butcher's shop, I tried to escape from the vehicle that squeezed 15 other goats along with me. Alas, the human on the road gestured to the driver of our vehicle about our escape, who in no time jumped to his feet to catch me by the horn! I was pulled inside the vehicle with bleeding horns.
I wasn’t done with my struggle yet.  I tried to escape for a second time when I was inside the shop.

On entering the shop, I  saw a tonne of goat meat lying in the garbage can. As it turns out, the demand for our meat varies on a daily basis. Hence, a lot of our meat goes to waste when stored in mass quantities. I was eighth in a line of sixteen goats that were meant to be butchered for their meat and skin. I could sense the fear building up in the eyes of all the goats. The butcher picked up a large sword that had dried blood stains and sprang into action. And, we were one down! Blood spewed over all our faces, taking our fear to its peak. Some of us indulged in loud cries, but even our loudest screams seemed to fall on deaf ears. Our cries got worse as the next three goats shut their eyes, one after another. The butcher, now, decided to attend to his customers, but not before chaining the rest of us inside a room. The room looked like a store-room for all the live animals that were brought in. The room had two exits, with the second exit leading to the main street. My brain started running helter-skelter, trying to find ways to break away from the confinement. I tried to pull myself away from the chain that held me close to a wall. While I was helplessly trying to loosen the grip of the chain, I heard something snap. Bravo, I had finally managed to set myself free! I decided to make a secret escape using the second exit. I pushed the rickety door hard and quickly made a non-fussy exit. I felt very sorry for the other goats that were left inside, and sincerely wished for their rescue. I, still, was not totally safe, but experiencing some freedom for the first time, while I was on my own, surely added enough value to a goat's life in this human-centric world.