The Lament

So this is a tale of a sect. A sect of people who hoped. People who revered and venerated a virtue. Not iconoclasts, but people who simply believed that if anything made them survive, it was happiness. It was a challenge everyday, while the creatures that made them shiver every night came and preyed viciously so as to make sure that a dark thought or two would permeate their mind. But all their ventures were in vain as the people of this town were dogged and never stepped out of line. It wasn’t a question of moral fiber as some of the older lot liked to believe. It was the fact that every locust that swarmed in was greeted with a smile and left untouched. Eventually, they reached a stage where the farmers were left with no option but to sense a bitter strain towards the locust. Then came a silence about the town. Ardor and strawberries that existed endlessly earlier were not to be seen really. The kind of a depression the killing of a locust would bring about surprised the vagabonds who noticed the people of the town while smoking their opium and ideating or perhaps just stopped at the well so to see men drink water in a setting so somber that every drop could be heard find its way down their throat. So the breezy young one broke the silence and said “we killed a locust”. “We killed seventy five, that mustn’t take away from our happiness”. She followed it with a dance where she showed her buttocks to the crowd at the well and said “there,you have an adolescent buttock, that apart from rather fine structure only wreaks of desperation to break her people out of a grim”. They stared, smiled and walked away. The next year was hard as the realization had dawned upon the people that they needed to remain upbeat through hard times, that’s how the concept of the Hillers came about. The Happy killers as they were known were the brave men entrusted with the responsibility of the killing of the locusts and the other not so appealing odd jobs that the fancy happy men refused to do. They went about their job with a proficency that was disconcerting as it was amusing. ‘Smile and stab’ was the emblem they carved on the barn they used for their afternoon siestas and the entertainment of the womenfolk. Passionate lovers, they had a stream of women ‘visit’ them . The hillers continued to do so till the drift of the winds shifted with years passing by and the locusts weren’t seen for a few years. They continued to feast,orgasm and grew obese. Suddenly, they were liabilities, once nominated and revered by the ‘happyfolk’ who never got their hands dirty. These creatures of filth were lowlifes who had killed locusts and that oddball man who tried to force himself on the chiefs daughter. The hillers now were barely either of the two,killers or happy. So, they walked out and decided it was time to smoke the leaves that the old men in neighbouring villages smoked to feel profound. Silently smoking for a month, they dawned upon the same realization,that there was a possibility of pigs impregnating the villagers’ wives and daughters but their job was one that would never go. Happy people need hillers. No sadistic obscure reasoning existed, none required. They walked back to the barn and left a message outside for the happy folk. ‘We wont leave , burn us down if you care. But wait ,youre happy folk Not youre scene or would you dare To leave your uptight bubbles, And your idea of happiness, To look at yourselves like us, And perhaps one day grow a pair’ Screw you.