Oh My God!

I am an atheist, but I wasn’t always so. There came a point in my life when maintaining a belief in God became impossible for me. But, atheism is a useless practice—all it gives you is the satisfaction that you do not lead a life where deceptive doctrines of religion make a fool of you all the time. You think you are superior because you refuse to be deceived like the majority that visits places of worship to see its God.

But, how much of a use is this? You only end up marginalizing yourself; you willingly become a part of the minority. However, this is just a minor problem. The major problem is that you lose something vital by foregoing of your belief: you lose your God to whom you could go and pray for your future, to whom you could ask for penance, on whom you could load your sins and walk around peacefully. If you are an atheist and you are depressed or distressed, you only have yourself for company; if you are in some danger, you can’t leave everything to God and let Him take direct charge.

You see atheism involves a lot of hard work. That’s why I want to come over it. But the problem is I can’t. How can you look around yourself or know about history or read literature and still believe in God? Also, if you do believe in God, then you are likely to choose one among the existing options. Doing so would most likely make you a part of a religion. And that religion would have certain codes and rules that would be imposed upon you. An alternative to this would be to believe in a nameless, faceless supernatural entity but it’s not very effective. Vivid imagery, it seems, is crucial in these matters.

So, herein lies a serious dilemma: I want to have a God but can’t have one. So what do I do?

Well, I have found a way. I have decided to create my own personal god. This god would be a human female. Why? Well, human because a non-human god doesn’t make sense and female because they look more beautiful than men. Since beauty doesn’t exactly lie in the eyes of the beholder, she, this God of mine, would be pretty: young, medium-length blonde hair, fair, bluish eyes, well-endowed, tall, flawless, and lean—a mix of Madhuri Dixit and Kate Winslet with a generous sprinkling of Miranda Kerr and Sofia Vergara.

She, my god, would dress as the occasion demands. If I am sad, she would be dressed in a white mournful saree. If I am happy, she would doll up and don a cool pair of jeans. And, if I am all excited and pepped up, she would don a sexy mini skirt. She would not control my life all the time; she’d do it only when I ask her to. She won’t control all of my future either, she would take care of only those parts that I ask her to take care of. If I am sad, she would console me. If I want encouragement, she would say, ‘Go dude, I know you can do it!’ If I am happy, she would get all drunk and dance seductively for me.

Since she’d be my own personal god, I won’t be able to blame her for others’ suffering. However, if I suffer, she would have to listen to me with all the pity and patience in the world. In addition to being smart and pretty outside, she would be smart and pretty inside too: sensitive, intelligent, prudent, affectionate, considerate and so on. I have even thought what I am going to call her. I have named her Goddy.

Problem solved, then. I am no more an atheist now! Now, I have my own personal Goddy, and she is right now laughing loudly at you.

About it…did she…?

What kind of girls wear dresses as short as that? The kind who would never want to sleep with me because of the way I look? Or the kind who would let anybody enter them? You know the kind that just want it regardless of where it comes from? You know what, it does not matter what kind of girl she is. The fact is that I want it. Really badly. And it’s only natural that I want it so bad. I have kept myself in control all these years and may have to keep the control on for four more years. But it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep it on. Especially because all my friends have done it, and, more importantly, have done it many times by now.

Was it then the taunts that made me do it? Or was it the alcohol? Or was it the fact that the circumstances were congenial: the time, the place, me, her and the possibility that no one would ever get to know about it? Or was it something else? I mean it’s inhuman to expect guys to keep it in control until the usual age of twenty-five, isn’t it? I don’t exactly know what it exactly was. But, I have told them it was a whore.A prostitute.

I never expected them to be so nice, so sympathetic. Everyone has needs, they say, and everyone makes mistakes. The pressing matter on hand is that I’m dying and not how it happened. They are all out to support me. They hug me, eat with me, get me bouquets, cry for me. It sickens me all. I mean why the fuck does not anybody ask questions? Why doesn’t anybody slap me? Thrash me? Abandon me? When it happens with many others who carry around this virus like me, then why not me? You know what, damn those campaigns!Damn them! They have got into their fricking heads! All these hospital people and all these well-wishers of mine, all of them may just end up killing me before the virus does.

I guess I would have confessed long ago had I been a man without a family. But, sadly, that’s not the case. My family’s become my tragedy now. And I have to keep quiet about it.About all the pain.About that day. About the animal that I can be, that I became that day.

In hindsight, I don’t even think it was fun. She bothered me too much. I mean, honestly speaking, my hands have served me better than that many times. If only she hadn’t tried to fight me off as brutally as she did, it could all have been at least slightly worth the risk. I would have at least had the satisfaction of feeling that if only her eyes did not have that hollow painful look when I was entering her. Did they want to shout out loud? Her eyes.Had she wanted to say something? Heck, did she even know?About it?If yes, did she want to say it? Did she say it?
What kind of girls wear dresses as short as that?