Autobiography of a Gun (non-military)

Ever since I came off the assembly line, I've dreamed of being used. But what I made to do?

Should I obviously pray that my master had a history of mental illness. And:

• I kill dozens of people in a deadly rampage;
• I mow down an entire schoolyard of shrieking children;
• I might actually get the chance to let loose a torrent of bullets on a roomful of rubberneck.

But, I have to say, the idea of that happening is massively disappointing for me and for my life.


I remember a poem 'Pushp Ki Abhilasha' (by Makhanlal Chaturvedi)
Hindi (original):
    Chah Nahi Main SurBala Ke Gehano Mein Goontha Jaaun
    Chaah Nahi Premi Mala Mein Bindh Pyaari Ko Lalchaaun
    Chaah Nahi Samraato Ke Shav Par He Hari Dala Jaaun
    Chaah Nahi Dewon Ke Sar Par Chadhoon Bhagya Par Itraun
    Mujhe Tod Lena Banmali, Us Path Par Tum Dena Phaink
    Matra Bhoomi Per Sheesh Chadhane,Jis Path Jaayen Veer Anek

English Translation:
    I don't desire to be a part of garland for a beautiful girl,
    I don't desire to woo the lady love,
    I don't desire to rest on the mortals Of Emperors,
    I don't desire to be on the head of Gods to take pride in mere fortune
    Just pluck me O Gardner! Strew me on the path
    On which the Brave tread to sacrifice for Motherland! Let me, in obeisance, bow my head!

Well after reading this poem, not exactly what you’d call a bright future for a precision-engineered killing machine like me. But now I think, it would be fantastic desire, ‘obviously’, that:

• my master had no history of mental illness, and I rest in his wardrobe safe,
• At best, probably end up in some responsible gun owner’s basement and rust,
• Spending the rest of my life plugging paper targets at a shooting range.

It’s awful. I mean, what else am I supposed to do with my life?

Abashed,
The Gun