It is one of those days. Days, when I blame it all on, in Jibananda’s phrase, “flaws of my stars“. Staying abroad and being atheist are, in a way, a dual edged sword: Can’t reach the place where I ought to be; can’t pray to the almighty.
I don’t respect too many people in my life. But one of those rare ones is very sick. My rationalist self says this is inevitable. As I grow old, I am bound to lose people all around me. But my human self cannot justify losing my familiar “paradise“. I know, slowly but surely I am going to lose everyone, then one day “thou soul of my soul“. But “I was ever a fighter“. So here I am, praying, not a battlecry, but a hymn of the battle for the lost paradise on the plains of heaven:
Innumerable force of Spirits armed,
That durst dislike his reign, and, me preferring,
His utmost power with adverse power opposed
In dubious battle on the plains of Heaven
And shook his throne. What though the field be lost?
All is not lost—the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield:
And what is else not to be overcome?
And may the dubious battle be won.