8/4/2019 Rebellion on Rise

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Lord Kronos Starflare 

Desperate Measures I made myself another cup of coffee. My seventh.

It was nearly twelve and I still had nothing to salvage my job, that is to say, no story that could satisfy

my editor, annoy him into keeping my ‘worthless’ column in his ‘esteemed news daily.’ 

My chances of survival were minimal.

Caffeine was having its effects, and my head was heavy. A short nap would be nice.

The old grandfather clock, a remnant of this office’s and this newspaper’s colonial legacy, standing

 just beside the time-weathered polished-oak door of this hallowed office, like a vigilant angel,

chimed the midnight note in its heavy, dull ‘gong’. My nap was shattered. 

I looked frantically at the opened Word page on my laptop screen. It was blank anyways, but gauging

from my intensity of looking at it, you’d think there was a secret code, some cipher, that I was trying

to read. Apparently, that was my intention – to make those glad souls all around my cubicle, glancing

now and then at me like I’m some game tied up for a sacrifice, think that I was really, really working.

It would strengthen my case, and might even earn me some respect, or consolation (it’s the same for

me) when I got kicked.

The worst part of the matter in this case was that I had been set restrictions regarding my topics by

my Editor Sir. No sports for me (“Your sports quotient is really low, you know.”), neither could I step

into the Agony Aunt section (“The last thing the reader’s would ask for is an anti-social giving them

advice on social problems.”), no politics either for me (“You’re too young for that”) or films (“There

are better people than you”). I am not allowed to write on seasonal free topics like the advent of 

Monsoons, or the Pujas, or history or geography or science or something spiritual (“Honestly, I don’t

know why I even bother to keep you?”). Being just in my mid-twenties, I am not allowed to touch on

‘sensitive’ issues, like the Indo-Pak relationship, the migration problem, the caste-based racism, or

the same-sex marriage (“O Lord! We have kids who read this paper for a better understanding of the

world!”). What that basically leaves me with are gossips and scandals which are not really my forte.

Therefore, I am left with no topic at all to write. Still, God-knows-how, I have managed to keep my

place and weekly column in this paper. But not anymore.

I sensed the plan to ouster me was well set by old ruler, but I just couldn’t afford to lose this job. 

Desperate, I felt a sense of carelessness coming about me. It is these moments of intense pressure

that the genius in man reveals itself in the queerest of ways. I was hit by a cheeky idea.

If I can’t write an article, then I can most certainly write my resignation letter.

I considered a bit, taking the future in to the scope, this could well be the end of my writing career.

Thus, I would be ending my own career with the letter. So, strictly logically, this resignation would be

my suicide note. The irony, I felt, was justified, after all, this is India.

And so I began,

8/4/2019 Rebellion on Rise

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Lord Kronos Starflare 

“To whomsoever it may concern, 

I write this with a heavy heart. For twenty-seven years, I have lived a life, just sailing through. But

now this has become a loathsome burden. I am sure many of you would agree. Therefore, I’d better

be off, and do my part to the general good.

Now, I will need to justify myself, but trust me, I have pretty solid ones to the effect.

Firstly, being a proud Indian(honestly and truly), the citizen of the largest democracy, and a country

in which everyone has a voice to speak, although not everyone is willing to hear, I must serve a

‘nationalistic’ reason. We are not a poor nation, but a nation of the poor, where it pays more to

show you are a penniless politician than be an educated engineer working for a MNC, and, I am done

with wasting the resources. It’s better therefore for me leave the scene, make way for someone less

privileged.

Secondly, for two months now, my bank account has been stationed at zero. In shoter phrase, I am

broke. What am I supposed to live on after I lose this job (which I will anyways)?

Thirdly, my employer does not like me, and I am sick and tired of being bullied by him, not even be

acknowledged by my colleagues for things I work on, be the centre of all pity in the entire office.

Thank you for your cares, but I’ve had enough of it. 

And finally, I have been threatened to be taken off my job if I don’t have an article to give. And now

that I have written, my literary career is at an end. So if you, my readers are not reading this, then

you must know that this was the curtain call for my literary career.

Thanking you,

Poor me.” 

Finishing it, I was filled with an amused glow of satisfaction.

I drank up my coffee, and proof-read the document again.

Yes, it was good enough. Might even save me my job (I wished that badly).

Before mailing it to my Editor, I added “You may print this if you like.” 

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