You unhold your shield. It falls down with a thud and a thunk. Your left hand grabs the lowest part of the hilt. You take your Kirpan and hold it lightly on the right side about the waist. And you run forth…

A sandstorm follows you. And your nemesis still holds his ground. He clanks his sword on his shield. He likes to invite trouble.

When you are within an approximate starting point of the trajectory, you jump. And now your grip on the Kirpan is firm. It hides behind you head, with its hinge breathing on your neck.

Your nemesis didn’t expect that. He stops and looks up. The sun gets eclipsed. His shadow disappears. And a new shadow forms on his face. He lets his defence down. He stands with his shoulders wide, and almost perpendicular to the incoming line of fire, the chop of doom.

And then you swipe down blade of pure iron. With a strength that could have cracked open the earth at its core. Or perhaps divided the universe as we know it into two.

This is the rage which lives inside me. It doesn’t die. It comes back. It is not very hard to contain it within myself. I sit in some dark corner of my heart, and let it pass away.

For if this rage has to become your Shakti, it shouldn’t steam out uncontrollably. You have to let it boil. Boil while you are sub zero.


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