So, I see God one day, sitting in his chair. I say “his” because I refuse to believe a Female God could have been such a traitor. However, the God doesn’t have any face. Or body. Or hands or legs. I don’t know why I think I see him but I do. I know I do.
God looks at me with disdain, the kind which make you careless enough to step on an ant when you’re getting late for classes. My pride does rise up a bit before I collect myself and beg for answers. Someone as mighty as God must have an ego, I think. So, I keep begging and annoying God before I’m forced to shut up.
My tongue vanishes and there’s a hole in my mouth I didn’t know could exist. My eyes become too sharp for me to be able to see what I could now. And it hurts. It hurts like death couldn’t. I know because I knew death before I knew peace.
God speaks, in a way that doesn’t sound like any voice or noise could ever, but I know it even in the absence of soundwaves. God has spoken.
“Humans have the ability to tap out. I don’t. It’s why you’re you and I am me.”
I realise that I don’t need my tongue to speak. At least the rules are same for us both, I think. Then I ask, “So, does it ever get overwhelming for you too?”
He laughs at me before telling me that it doesn’t matter what the answer is. That I would forever blame him.
I feel a bit ashamed at his accusation because we both know he is right. But then, am I truly wrong for expecting better?
As soon as I ask myself this question, God looks at me, I don’t know how since God doesn’t have any eyes, but God looks at me and says, “Your heart is too small to accept me. This is why you don’t have any faith.”
I feel threatened. So, I do the only thing I learnt to do whenever I feel lost. I turn the question on him. “Do you even want my faith?”
God smiles very gently, if such an expression can be called gentle instead of disappointed, and tells me, “It’s better you don’t have any faith. You don’t need it to do what you have to and need to do.”
He disappears before I can ask about whatever it is that I need to and have to do. My tongue is back. It still hurts a lot. It doesn’t make any sense. But then, that’s why God is God and I am me. If I could make sense of God, maybe I would be God too.
So, I go on with my life, hating God and learning to live a bit more everyday. For some reason, it feels like I’m being watched. I swear to myself that if God is paying special attention to me, I wouldn’t be pleased because it’ll be stalkerish behaviour on his side. But then I realise that God must not be bound by human laws. It is an annoying realisation. I write up a letter to God telling him about the crime of stalking and how it’s a crime in India and so many other countries. I don’t know why I write to God when I don’t even expect or want an answer but in the letter, I make sure to mention all the crimes against women and also blame God under veiled jabs. It is a bit funny and very self-serving because he who doesn’t care about so many people in pain could never care at all in the first place. He’s all-knowing. It’s stupid to write a letter to someone who sees and knows everything by default. Maybe this is why he doesn’t care much? Because he didn’t work to know anything and just gets everything in his lap?
When I wake up in the morning, I open my phone to check WhatsApp. There’s an email in my notifications which is weird because my Gmail doesn’t work well enough to send me notifications. The subject title is “Dear Friend” which is creepy because I only have best friends of various degrees and no friends as such. I open the email and it says, “You know, I think I prefer a friend more than a devotee.” It’s a sweet text but when I realise who it probably is from, it makes me pukish. I instantly reply, “I don’t befriend the cruel.”
He replies, “Really?”
I reply, “Yes. And I wonder if you don’t have better things to do instead of texting me.”
His reply arrives, “Oh I have a lot to do. You procrastinate and so do I.”
I take my chance and type, “But I’m human and you’re God. You can’t procrastinate.”
He replies, “But why? It’s not like the world I made isn’t self-sustaining.”
That angers me. I delete all texts and think to myself, “We’re just cogs in your game, aren’t we? Fuck yourself for being self-obsessed enough to not care about us.”
And my phone tings again, “I need someone who would get angry at me while holding me accountable.”
I cannot hold myself back anymore. I reply, “You’re God. You need no one.”
He smiles sadly at that. I can’t see him but I feel it in every nerve – the profound sadness in him. I find it manipulative of him to show me himself to such degree when I didn’t consent to it. He chuckles sadly at my thoughts and I put my hands to my ears. I don’t want to hear him.
My phone tings for the last time and it reads, “I wasn’t God always. I’m trying. I am as cruel as you think I am. But I am not careless.”
It’s a contradictory text but it makes sense to me. I feel like this may be manipulation too but I don’t care enough. I get on with my life. After all, what will a human like me do around God? I’ll do what I have to and need to anyway.
And when I think that, I shiver. God was right.
But then, God is God and I am me.
Aru Shan 