Envy

The shimmering surface of sprakling blue water, as pure as the purest, shines throught the crack . there is a world underneath that crevice- a world where life contimues untouched by the brutal pangs of winter. Everything else now lies enshrouded in the serene white of the cold that is as deadly as it is spectacular. Winter’s here, spreading its cloak of  snow, sparing not an inch of green, Except the moss, that slipcover of rocks who remains unmoved, untouched still enthroned on its stone-hard abode.

The winds beneath their wings, that once assured them there was no limit to their flight, had now betrayed the birds, shunned them away, forced them to leave. They seek the warmth of the south. They migrate.  And yet they pine. For they have left behind one unfortunate parched soul, one  maimed bird. Abandoned him to die.  Nature makes no allowance for those who cannot survive.

They feel the first rays of sunshine and hope touch their wings, they feel the pleasant heat of warm spring, even as the last drop of blood in the abandoned’s body freezes, solidifies. He shall choke to death. He shall yearn for one gasp of breath, for one touch of warmth, for one moment of recluse. He shall have none. He shall call out for help in his mind, scream for endless hours. Feeble cries shall escape him. Feeble unheeded cries. He shall wonder why no one is comin to hisrescue, why no one helps. He cannot see they  have already left. He is blind.

Even though the heat bathes their body, their hearts remain cold. They are warm. But they greive. The guilt overpowers the sunshine on their backs, burdens them with heaviness they shall find difficult ot shake off for a while. And then they shall forget. They shall learn to cleanse their memories of unpleasantness, of the voice that shall wring their heart and shout out loud in their years that they ran away. They shall learn to supresss that voice, they shall learn to supress their conscience and live, while he dies.

 And yet there will be atleast one who cannot forget. Next summer, when they will return, this one will look at the unmoved moss, and envy it for its quiet strengh, for its ability to witshtand the stinging cold, for its power to protect the rocks from the harshness of the cold unlike the birds who left their injured for dead. Atleast one will be ovewhelmed by the sweeping current of jealousy that will make him wish he was like this constant patch of green, never abandoning its home, that which it loves. 

Envy you say is a sin. I say it is inevitable.