We scramble to understand the real struggle

Each of us is a Mujahid. A struggler. Terrorism and trouble across the boundaries may have covered the maximum space of the canvas but some corners are also left unsettled. If we look at life as an onlooker and zero in on the micro events of our lives we find bits and pieces of struggle lying everywhere around us.

We are justice fighters. We fight for the extra dose of blessings from the hundreds of spiritual babas, we fight to catch the first metro to office and we fight the uncertainty of future. It is in our instincts to fight, to move on with the little baggage called struggle.

The struggle for a man to shave off the acre of stubble hiding in a remote corner of his chin, the struggle for a bowler to pitch the ball in the right place and the recurring struggle of an old man to recollect the memories that bring smile to his face can never be gauged.

It is no less a struggle for us to bring smile in a mourner’s face and to grow up with an insensible heart. A student’s struggle to complete an equation in a hurry and a newly wed bride’s struggle to please her partner are all obnoxiously difficult. The desperate attempt of a deer to not to become a leopard’s prey and the constant effort of a thirsty crow to get his beaks closer to the water in a long vessel are more than sheer struggle.

Is n’t it horrific to see a dumb struggling to cry or a dog walking with three legs? How horrific it is to see a drowning man raising his hands for the last time and how grievous it is to find a young boy watching a cricket match sitting on a wheelchair.

Everybody is a freedom-fighter. If a baby struggles to free himself from the monotony of milk and diaper others fight to free themselves from the ugly looking curse called poverty.  The craving of an orphan to find a refuge when thunder strikes, the frantic search of a father to arrange blood for his child lying in a critical condition are more poignant missions than the terror-mongers. We notice the horror of getting killed in a terror attack but never read the lines that come from a deserted wife or a person soon to meet his death.

The old man’s attempt to get his pension running even after decades of his retirement is just another piece of struggle. Fear of losing one’s much waited first child and the forceful submission of a soldier before a fanatic general are no less terrifying. Do we give a stare of concern to the school boy who hurts himself while boarding an overcrowded bus? Do you fathom the terror of the family members who have not received any news of their sole bread winner for months?

Open your eyes and hearts, purge your ears and beckon your power of introspection before you can mull over this omnipresent struggle. You really need to be a struggle fighter for it.


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