Today I'll tell you the story of a kid, not unlike mine.
Fair and plump. Black hair and a thick brow. Grew up like most of the kids around. Trying to ape the smart ones. By being observant, the feeling that comes when you think that you don't belong, not yet. Loving, scolding parents. Ice and fire. Doting grandma. Delicious food and a truckload of stories.
Stories. So many stories. Of Lord Ram and his battle against an evil king. Of five Paandavas fighting there own kin to get back their empire. Of kings and queens and wars and battles. Of good and bad. Of right and wrong. Of truth and lies. Of gods and mortals. Of victories and defeats. Of blacks and whites.
It was easy growing up this way. He was easygoing too. Because he believed in what people told you. People were either friends in whom he confided or foes whom he chided. But soon he wasn't that easygoing as he used to be. Friends weren't right all the the time and foes weren't wrong all the time either. He started reasoning. He started questioning. He wanted rationale. He demanded logic. He wondered what if Kunti had never let Karna out of his sight? Or was a king right to question her queen's purity when he was himself a demigod and her a demigoddess? Were the wars fought were for the right reasons? And even if they were, was the victor always right initially?
Why can't there be an overlap? Why does a white have to be so far away from a black? Why can't they be close? And why can't they overlap, sometimes less and sometimes more, to form a grey?
And so he decided, to focus on those grey areas. To venture to the far end. To fall apart and to pick up the pieces again. To talk and think and write and question about things; black white and a little grey.
