It was a hot summer night.
Even the crickets and the fireflies seemed to be tired from the heat. Silence mingled effortlessly with the sweat of the farmers that still had the fields wet. And scraping, half-crawling through the mud was a young lad of about 20.
The full moon reflected on his face – blackened hollow eyes leering eerily into empty darkness. The iron chains on his feet stopped him from standing up. His face, arms and bare back glistened with blood, oozing out with every movement of his muscles, from deep lacerations made by a thousand hits from the whip.
The whip that dangled like a snake spewing venom.
From the hands of one of the dozen men wearing heavy military boots. Thud after Thud, they followed the crawling, half-dead corpse. Like wolves following a dying foe.
“That is his fucking village, alright”. “Ji, Saheb.”
The village courtyard had been swept clean. Only to be dyed dark red as the boy panted onto it, muddied by the boots following him. They stood there – 12 men and a half-dead corpse, waiting for a door to fling open and a woman shrieking out to comfort her son.
Nothing happened. Except that the crickets were awake now.
The Brit officer was losing his patience. A four-mile walk through muddy paddy fields and mosquitoes for nothing. He whipped the boy hard on his back. Half the whip hit the ground, producing a weird ‘Crack’ that mixed with the boy’s gurgled shriek.
“Motherfucker.”
“Water.” The boy half-whispered into the night.
You could almost see the dozens of pairs of eyes flinch shut from behind the boarded doors and windows. Yes, they were watching. The whole village was watching their son. Dying, under a full moon night.
“Show us the house. And you shall have water.” The boy spit blood onto the brick floor of the courtyard, “Ha. Ha. I sure will.”
The second officer kicked him in the head. The boy writhed in pain.
“Bloody Fucking Natives”.
Inside the second house on the left lane off the courtyard, someone moved.
“Ma, please. Let me go. Dada will die.”
“NO. Please Reema. He killed Inspector Sands. If they know that this was where he was hiding, they will burn the whole place down”, the mother knew she had to choke her tears, if the village was to live.
“But Ma..”
“NO. Give that glass to me. GIVE IT TO ME..”
*CLAANKK*!! The bronze glass landed with a thundering clatter on the windowsill, and rolled off onto the floor.
The sound echoed around the village courtyard like a giant bell ringing to the chimes of death.
Was that a smile curling up on the corners of the Officer’s mouth? Was it failure that now shone through the eyes of the battered lad? Could this be the end of it all…
*TRRRINGGGG*
Oh fuck! It is 8:00 a.m. already. Yours truly is going to be really late for office today. Damnation be damned! I leaped off my bed and ran towards the bathroom, grasping the day’s paper on the way.
Waaaait a minute. The big tri-colour on the front page could only mean one thing! It’s Republic Day.
Haha. Fuck you Alarm Clock. I am going back to sleep! Yaay!
What? What happened to the young lad and his village? Who cares?
They probably died. Trying to get us our freedom. To sleep.
I mean what else could you do on a boring holiday, right?
What are your plans on this Republic Day by the way?!
Even the crickets and the fireflies seemed to be tired from the heat. Silence mingled effortlessly with the sweat of the farmers that still had the fields wet. And scraping, half-crawling through the mud was a young lad of about 20.
The full moon reflected on his face – blackened hollow eyes leering eerily into empty darkness. The iron chains on his feet stopped him from standing up. His face, arms and bare back glistened with blood, oozing out with every movement of his muscles, from deep lacerations made by a thousand hits from the whip.
The whip that dangled like a snake spewing venom.
From the hands of one of the dozen men wearing heavy military boots. Thud after Thud, they followed the crawling, half-dead corpse. Like wolves following a dying foe.
“That is his fucking village, alright”. “Ji, Saheb.”
The village courtyard had been swept clean. Only to be dyed dark red as the boy panted onto it, muddied by the boots following him. They stood there – 12 men and a half-dead corpse, waiting for a door to fling open and a woman shrieking out to comfort her son.
Nothing happened. Except that the crickets were awake now.
The Brit officer was losing his patience. A four-mile walk through muddy paddy fields and mosquitoes for nothing. He whipped the boy hard on his back. Half the whip hit the ground, producing a weird ‘Crack’ that mixed with the boy’s gurgled shriek.
“Motherfucker.”
“Water.” The boy half-whispered into the night.
You could almost see the dozens of pairs of eyes flinch shut from behind the boarded doors and windows. Yes, they were watching. The whole village was watching their son. Dying, under a full moon night.
“Show us the house. And you shall have water.” The boy spit blood onto the brick floor of the courtyard, “Ha. Ha. I sure will.”
The second officer kicked him in the head. The boy writhed in pain.
“Bloody Fucking Natives”.
Inside the second house on the left lane off the courtyard, someone moved.
“Ma, please. Let me go. Dada will die.”
“NO. Please Reema. He killed Inspector Sands. If they know that this was where he was hiding, they will burn the whole place down”, the mother knew she had to choke her tears, if the village was to live.
“But Ma..”
“NO. Give that glass to me. GIVE IT TO ME..”
*CLAANKK*!! The bronze glass landed with a thundering clatter on the windowsill, and rolled off onto the floor.
The sound echoed around the village courtyard like a giant bell ringing to the chimes of death.
Was that a smile curling up on the corners of the Officer’s mouth? Was it failure that now shone through the eyes of the battered lad? Could this be the end of it all…
*TRRRINGGGG*
Oh fuck! It is 8:00 a.m. already. Yours truly is going to be really late for office today. Damnation be damned! I leaped off my bed and ran towards the bathroom, grasping the day’s paper on the way.
Waaaait a minute. The big tri-colour on the front page could only mean one thing! It’s Republic Day.
Haha. Fuck you Alarm Clock. I am going back to sleep! Yaay!
What? What happened to the young lad and his village? Who cares?
They probably died. Trying to get us our freedom. To sleep.
I mean what else could you do on a boring holiday, right?
What are your plans on this Republic Day by the way?!
Hmmm the satire is evident my friend!
ReplyDelete@Typo - Thanks bro. Be cool.
ReplyDeleteI hatez your alarm. Cut short a rather gripping story. Salut.
ReplyDelete"They probably died. Trying to get us our freedom. To sleep. "
ReplyDeleteDuh moment here. We didn't get our freedom on republic day. :P
@KKK - Danke.
ReplyDelete@Shirshendu - LOL I was waiting for this comment to pop up. I agree. However, you wouldn't have a Republic Day without getting your freedom first, would you?!
go back to fucking bed!!!
ReplyDelete@Anonymous-who-I-know-is-Bald -- It seems you have a thing for bed springs, Sir. I don't. :-P
ReplyDeleteI don't know what to comment...just too good!!!
ReplyDeleteinteresting story....ur dreams r quite imaginative.....
ReplyDeletevery vivid.. I like the slap-on-ur-face ending
ReplyDeletenicely carried out I must say. Awesome blog.
ReplyDeletenice DJ....i am a little late in reading this though :)
ReplyDeleteWhat did I do on republic Day...well I slogged at work..thats the importance the day held in my life...worrying about gettin to work on time. If not, wat else, I would have slept thru the day..big deal. Sad..you would say. Well..you got an alternative ? Thats how true an Indian you get to be.
ReplyDelete