Clan of Hyuuga

The cold-blooded clan was what they labeled them but what they never realised was that it was the cost of their existence.

The Hyuuga were hailed as the masters of Byakugan. They were born with the untainted brilliance to perceive but what people forgot was that they were also born with the ability to feel.

Humans strive on the instincts to survive and it was their instinct that sealed their fragility beneath voracious stone.
Because from the beginning of life, no material force has let the purity survive. It is the feat of the world to taint the virtue of a man with the turmoil of the times.

In consequence, no hyuuga had lived with the delicacy of the heart and still lived with the orbs that hadn’t been defiled by the malevolence they saw.

Chain of Virtue

A short story told in first person narrative. (It may or may not be based on a teensy instance of my life.)

The sun was setting in the hues of purple, the sky shifting towards the starry dark of the night. The air was filled with the hum of the ‘Azan‘ and our car rolled to a stop at the large doors of the mosque whose bulb flickered menacingly in the dark, swarmed with a horde of mosquitoes dancing around the dim flicker.

Tired after a day of work, my mother sighed as we stepped onto the paved sidewalk seeing the car, that carried my grandfather, roll into the gates and vanish from the sight. Looking at the address written on the paper, of the wife of the Qazi who had once known our family, my mom held my hand. The heat of the July day was melting into the cool of the night and my mother, with a small look about her, at the isolated road took to the dark alley at the back of a magnificent house.

What a contrast was presented on the first view! Behind the patrician mansion, we came to the alley reserved for the plebeians. The trenches on the road were filled to the brim, their murky depths emanating foul stench that made me cling to my mother’s shirt.

The house we stopped at bore an old wooden door, ragged to its end and the walls of the house were cracking blocks of cement. With a moment’s hesitation, a knock resounded in the dark alley. The doors opened to reveal a woman covered in a scarf. The words (that my grandfather was saying his prayers just around the corner and we needed a space ourselves) were barely out of my mother’s mouth before, with a bare hint of surprise, she ushered us into the rooms. What should’ve been a satisfactory abode, was a shabby quarter bearing a tiny room and an even smaller kitchen. All for the family of the ‘Qaari‘ who led every prayer for the many ranks of people behind him. Yet, even in the run-down conditions, the home was furnished with warmth and the joyously flushed faces of the Lady and her small daughter made us relax into our seats.

Without any hesitation, we were allowed to pray and a sweet ‘Sherbet‘ was served whose cool, tangy essence made the heat of the day melt away. The conversation with the lady, who although was shy and demure was also amiable and had an elegance to her mannerisms that not many possessed.
We were taking up our things, about to leave when out of nowhere the question arose, “Are you acquainted with my husband?”.

My mother turned to her with a furrow in her brow, and a question at the tip of her tongue, “You don’t know who we are?”
With the same smile, she shook her head, her gaze falling down to her hands folded on her lap.
“Yet you let us in?” my mother’s words were now filled with an indecipherable hesitancy.
“How could I refuse someone who came to my door asking for assistance?”
Was the answer we received as the lady’s face bloomed into a smile that was no longer only demure but held a sweetness that seemed to shine from beneath.

It might’ve been a small instance, a few words or even foolishness in the eyes of some but that day, standing there as a small child of six who was growing up in a country caught in the crossfire of powers, where the peace of mind was nonexistent and where every man, even those with whom you associated love and compassion, was a stranger whom you couldn’t trust, she became a woman stronger than most I’ve ever seen.

In the end, the strength that we always measure in the grand gestures; in the thickness of the muscles or in the deepness of the pockets some people still measured their strength in the goodness that was inherent in a man’s soul.

What that woman did that day, was not just an act of kindness. To let people who are strangers to you feel comfortable and welcome while not a grand gesture, is surely a beauty that not many can contain. But what she’ll perhaps never know is that she made a small child, who would’ve grown with a mind catering towards only their needs, realise what the true essence of courage was and now as I type these words on the paper, I can’t deny that that small child whose days revolved around her own self grew into a person whose only mission in life became a struggle to hold upright the virtue of humanity.

They say that a single act of kindness can start a chain of beauty that can lend fiery compassion to the cold and stoic man of the twenty-first century, and that moment was a reflection of that truth.


A/N: Do you realise what I wanted to say, Cuz I sure don’t, lol :’)

Freak.

They throw him against the wall. Punch him, pummel him. Until his world is tinted, coated in a haze of colours. Until his eyes darken, and his shaking limbs fade to the bliss of unconsciousness.

Weak they label him. A coward. A freak.

There is a darkness they’re still blind to.

The screams of pain that he is now deaf to. There are bruises and slashes that he has learnt to ignore. There are broken noses, there is a damaged face, a damaged body that he’s learnt to cure.

But still, they’re right, he thinks, as he wipes a hand over the face wet with his own tears. He was a coward who bowed in the face of his own destruction. A weakling who couldn’t even protect the fragile tendrils of his heart.

Hero

What is the most heroic life?

They ask him, expecting some animated response. He is a writer, a man behind the greatest of the comics and so he smiles,

‘He is that character that rushes to help the person that struggles. The person that smiles, so that his own darkness doesn’t effect the others, the one that laughs so his own tears don’t mellow their hearts. He’s the one who lives, and lives with a love that is contagious. He’s the one that loves, and loves with a heart that is pure. Who is not willing to compromise, not when it comes to the joy of others. The one that hopes that beneath every smile, there is an even happier heart that follows.’

They stare, the oblivious heads coked. An old man, they call him, with ideas too unrealistic for life.

But what they never realise is that his heroes were never loved for the powers they boasted, they were only hailed for love that their meagre hearts possessed.

A Quick Reminder.


Not every moment of your life demands strength and courage, and that not every person in this world demands perfection. There are some that just want to know you, those that love you despite the tears, the failures, the imperfections. Those that embrace the broken pieces of your heart.

It is in those ‘Some’ that true joy of life is found.

Curse of Hatred

The Curse of Hatred was what they labeled it. But what they never realised was that it was the cost of their love.

No sharingan developed without the desire to protect and no desire ever stemmed without the roots of love.

It was pure in its execution this simple compassion. The world had never let the pure survive, the heart that had once blossomed was dripping with blood.

It was then that the tomoe began to churn.

Did you ever…?

Has there been a minute now, with all the anxiety riding your brain, and the heaviness weighing down your shoulders that you looked at something? Truly, for a fraction, gazed at it?
A still scene, so normal in its actuality that its serenity makes you stumble to a stop. That, perhaps, your gaze takes in the dew resting on the leaves. It shines there, does so every morning and in all the long hours of the night, but for once in that chilly January morning, you just see it. The glimmer catches your eye, draws you from your periphery, and you turn your face, an inquisitive little instance in your busy life.
For a moment you halt, and take in a breath. It is cold, it should’ve been stifling, but it’s pure, filtered calmness takes you by surprise. You breathe in, yet again, just to take in the serenity? That for a moment, you feel that the peace around you, the quietude, an order that prevails even in the calm breeze filtering through the leaves, was truly the intent of this world.

Did you perhaps smile at the colours, their bursting vividness filling your gaze? Or you scooted down a moment, caressing with a soft finger the velvet of the nature. That, perhaps, for a second, you closed your eyes to take in its fragrance. Letting the perfume trickle your nose, making you giggle.
Tell me did you ever take a moment to shake away your worries. For a moment it was you, smiling, content in the warm embrace of the ancient mother.
That for a moment you let the breeze ruffle your hair, you let the strands caress your face.
Tell me Amigo, that even for a moment, did you ever let the winds call you to their abandon?

Courage

Courage, they say. It’s the loud yells, the lavish stance and the yearning to graze the heavens. It’s the spunk that you feel and the passion flowing rampant in your veins. It’s the valour with which you jump in the gallows and the roars of victory that follow the enemy’s defeat. It’s the ability to stand tall and proud, and a quality that others admire.

But No one speaks of the greatest courage. No one says that they’ve lived. They don’t say that they’ve loved and they’ve watered the feeble blooms. That for every smile that they had flowered, laughter had rang across. That they’ve lived, with a love for themselves and a heart that pattered for all the others. That they’ve lived a life of ardour, with a compassion that kindled the souls. That when they stare at the days they have spent, they feel nothing but a loving pride.’

Aristotelian Tragic Heroes.

They say that there are two tragedies in life. One is when you lose your heart’s desire and one is when you gain it. But unless it ends six feet under the ground (with death) it is not really considered a tragedy.

If it were to be the case then we all are living lives fated to end in a tragedy of their own; the biggest one being the ability to gain one’s desire only for it to be your last pitfall. What you struggled with and fought for every breathing moment of your life razes your own breaths until you’re left with nothing but a life that ended too soon and the promise of the unknown eating up your soul.

People prefer comedies to tragedies but what people remember the most is the bittersweet taste left after a heartbreaking tale.
Not everyone remembers the drama but what people most remember is the connection sprinkled on some pages or in the gazes of those characters.

It is perhaps why, no matter how much the tragic heroes were hated, they were also loved. In the end what connects all the people is the the inevitable promise of death.
Perhaps that is why the earliest heroes were left stranded, stranded and with the certainty of a tragic fate. Because the hope that is inherent in the soul of a man always draws the same conclusion, “It’s not a tragedy if you’re still alive.”

It is why, eventually the Aristotelian hero dies a tragic death having fallen from great heights and having made an irreversible mistake.
Even more painful is a character that makes no mistake but still ends with a demise that shatters the heart. It is painful to watch because it connects the most with the reality of every day life.
In this world there is a life taken for every birth. Everything that begins with a tragedy ends with one too. That is why as this kaleidoscope of memories, (some dark some bright, some grey and dull, but most importantly fleeting) begun with the greatest tragedy ( a death) it is also fated to end with the same dark beauty of its beginning.

The same dark end.

The same demise.

The same death.

And the same face buried six feet underground.

Diversity of Life.

The beauty of nature has never been redundant. There has always been a new diamond, hidden beneath its embrace, waiting for the appropriate being to draw it out.

The rainbow can never sparkle with just one colour. The garden can never flourish with just one flower.

The beauty of life is always in the diversity, in those array of colours that paint the world of grey to reveal an amazing picture

And thus, my darling, you with all your originality, complete the last piece of this eternal puzzle.