Patience. A word, which reminds me of my past and questions
my present. I taught my cubs how to run, hunt, fight, stand up for themselves
and answered every little question I was asked. Really, after all I’m the only
one who could’ve answered them. Questions ranging from why a bird chirps to why
the stone looks grey to why other animals didn’t look like you and I. I taught
you two that there are all sorts of animals around us and you can’t treat every
animal the same. Patience now, however, has a new meaning. It is now an
unfulfilled expectation that should’ve protected my old bones. But how do I
tell you? The protector that I am, I must camouflage my weaknesses. This story
will answer why I never received the patience I expected and you are raised to
be the royal one that you are.
There was a time when your brother and I would go for walks
in the jungle. One day, we went hunting. The courageous boy that he was, he never
told me about the bullies. The sensitive cub that he was, he’d get picked on
again and again. As a parent, one just trusts their child to such an extent
that a tiny hindrance in his life would be shared. The bullies were the sort of
wild wolves that live with vengeance for the lack of a luxurious lifestyle. A
pack of wolves began to growl reeking of the filth in their minds. The tear in
my son’s eyes was enough to reveal everything that disturbed him. That was my
reason, my window, to fight for every teardrop he wept. But the more the wolves
would growl, the farther the window would shift away. Torn apart that I was, I
plunged onto the wolves, the giant leap that slapped me so hard, it scarred me
for life. I silenced the wolves. I wasn’t wrong was I? How could I have watched
my son getting tormented, when all my life, I have fought against all odds only
to watch him smile? But I guess it was a job horribly done. Within a week, one
of the wolf’s family members slaughtered my son. It was then did I realize that
the bullying was all for an ancestral revenge that wasn’t called for.
The news was unbearable. It is a curious thing, the death of
a son. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually
all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is
always a surprise when it happens to the only one you’ve survived for. It is
like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is
one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there
is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought
of things. My legs started to shiver but I ran. I ran as fast as I could to the
peak, the cliff, where all you could hear was your mind and my mind was filled with
chaos and the unforgettable growls. Where you could roar your lungs out and not
a soul could hear you. It is in that place, where isolation and melancholy are
in sync and you breathe those energies hoping for pacification and
consolidation. I began to have vivid images of how brutally they could’ve
ripped my son apart. I couldn’t bear the loss, my legs were still shivering and
I gradually collapsed on the edge. I woke up to assorted animals staring at me
wondering whether their king was alive. I had asked for light but this was
blinding. The blurry faces and gleaming light brought me back to my
consciousness and I quietly got up from there while the voices were still
ringing in my head. I did not have the courage to look at anyone straight into
their eyes when I was the reason their new king happened to compensate for the
wolf’s dinner. The lion was now a lamb.
Today, I am almost on my deathbed. I still wake up, staring
at the white and blue ceiling without walls, to those growls, those voices that
have left a scar in my mind reminding me of how everything I have ever done had
been washed for an action I never could take back, for an action that did not
give a second chance, for an action that has instilled so many fears in me, for
an action because of which you have been brought up to be the lion you are now.
In time, I had formed my type. I faked it, yelled at you, tried my best to
measure you with great accuracy, evaded the uncomfortable and glossed over the
painful padding the historic records of my sorrows and accomplishments. As much
as I subjected you to the display of rich, so did I manifest sarcasm when that
was the last thing you needed. I tried my best to teach you lessons even at
moments you couldn’t have absorbed but even now I will believe that I have
always been right and will be, never more than immediately after I have been
wrong.
I write to you seeking forgiveness for everything and accept
all the decisions I ever took for you. Had I told you this before, maybe you
would’ve been a little more patient and understanding with me and answered
those millions of questions I’d shoot at you each time you returned home just
the way I did when you were a cub. Its too late now but I hope you channelize
your patience towards your child. There is a lot more to fatherhood that is
left unsaid but is necessary in the journey of life.
Love,
Mufasa.
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