I don’t know him (அவனை எனக்குத் தெரியாது) by Theivigan Panchalingam

 

This is an English translation of “அவனை எனக்குத் தெரியாது”, a poignant short story written by Australia based Srilankan writer Theivigan Panchalingam. Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam.

         1

Some consistories had requested the people to ring the bells in churches spread all over Australia at about six in the evening on the day Arul Kumaran was to be executed and offer their prayers for his soul rest in peace.

                                                                 2

Thavaranjini was wailing inconsolably hammering the iron gates of the jail with her hands. She bawled helplessly, struggled to drag herself out even after the permitted time to meet Arul Kumaran was over. The words, ‘This will be the last meeting’ got broiled again and again in her helpless, louder wails that rose up from her heart. The embers of that broil fell off as hapless, wretched groans “They are going to kill my son. Let them all perish”. Her screams laden with the profound misery of motherhood hit the prison walls that stood with all its indifference, and got receded into oblivion without any response. The prison guards dragged her out and threw her away.

Akila who was standing near her also tried to reason out with the officials but in vain. Thavaranjini’s husband Karalasingam was standing helpless, wiping his tired, reddened eyes with his shirt collar. He paced fast to Thavaranjini hearing Akila’s feeble request to hold her mother from falling. He brought her out carefully arm-supporting her,  with her one hand encircling his neck. Thavaranjini was completely worn-out without any traces of energy left in her body.

As they reached the entrance of the prison complex where stood a big arch made of iron engraved with block letters “Kerobokan Prison” on both sides, the prison guard opened a small wicket gate to let them out. They came out of the prison complex.

No sooner had they come out than a group of media persons carrying their paraphernalia-cameras, video and audio recorders and microphones - surrounded Thavaranjini’s family, nearly laid a siege around the three.

“Is it certain that Arul Kumaran would be executed tomorrow?”

“What did Arul Kumaran say you last?”

“What did Arul Kumaran eat last?”

“Has the government of Australia given any last hour assurance to save him from the death sentence?”

Thavaranjini covered her face with the hem of her sari with one hand, and strode fast holding the collar of her husband Karalasingam with another and whimpered aloud through her veil, “No…No…Please…leave us alone…please…please”

The journalists were intelligent enough that they could pull them out separately for quizzing. Some of them targeted Akila with some specific queries. The rest of them held out their microphones closer nestling against Karalasingam’s neckline. The news-hungry mob of journalists now surrounded their car as well, stuck out their microphones and recorders into the car through its glass windows and doggedly repeated the same questions they had asked a while ago. The driver closed all the glass windows. He grew tense seeing the unruly behaviour of journalists dashing against the car from all directions. As he tried exhausting all his tricks to take out the car from the crowd somehow, the cameramen were struggling to capture the faces of Thavaranjini’s family members from all possible angles as to publish them on their media. Akila covered her face with the hem of her mother’s sari. Thavaranjini seemed to have buried her face into her sobs. Karalasingam was sitting stiff, devoured by the gloom of losing his son.

                                                                  3

The dew drops were falling off through the leaves. After their training sessions were over, all the trainees were asleep in that long shed roofed with a blue tarpaulin whose edges were tightly pulled and tied to pickets.  I glanced at Balan lying near me. He had gone into deep slumber without even realising his mouth slobbering in its corner. My eyes grew wide open, astonished at what I saw in the training ground while slowly getting up without disturbing his sleep.

After we slept the previous night, Velavan Master’s trainees might have arranged those rifles in order. They were kept erect neatly in rows in a long corridor of the leaves-thatched shed near the training ground. The body quivered as if the sun entered into it at seeing them. I ran in, woke Balan up and narrated what I saw. He came out swiftly, and glanced at those rifles.

Shining in wooden hue in their middles and bottoms, those dark iron weapons seemed to be waiting for us with temerity. We smiled at each other. I stroked my left elbow instinctively. It had been an arduous training of running, jumping, crawling and somersaulting that lasted through several weeks along with Kottan. We just lived in utter despise thinking Kottan was responsible for all our callous skins and scars. We found solace in all our chatters that the rifle would save us from all perils the moment we could clasp it in our hands.

An old wound in the rough elbow was found dried up. Everyone rose.

The running session that day was more enthusiastic than usual. Balan was hopping, running elatedly. Velavan Master then arrived in, and announced something specific about rifles. We received it in our hands one after another. When it was given to our hands after making entry of its numbers, we felt its nippiness sending a shiver through our body like a bullet.           

When we came back to our shed after lunch, we found Balan cleaning every part of the rifle so attentively with a piece of cloth in white and yellow. I watched him cleaning it very closely, intently. He would wipe it vigorously and then blow on its butt and keenly observe it squinting one of his eyes as if to verify whether any dust particle was still sticking to it and escaping his close scrutiny. He would then clean it again rubbing vigorously. If he got a glance of me enjoying all his manoeuvres through his corner eyes, he would just give out a silent grin curling his lips. Gradually I began to feel that a component of my life had got severed from me and started living in that iron body.

R-56. It wasn’t a new rifle. It must be a military rifle captured in one of the camp attacks. Yet, it had been captured from someone, forcefully. We didn’t know how many men would have died or been blown up before it fell into our hands. But it was very certain that it had come to us at the cost of deaths. Those who fight on the field would only know not only their freedom but also their weapon comes at the cost of laying down their lives. I began to feel the waning worth of my existence since the day the rifle became a part of my life.

I had learnt conversing privately with my rifle when there were no trainings or conflicts around. I started sharing my experiences of reading books with my rifle. After cleaning it thoroughly, if I started reading along with my rifle, it would only last through up to some odd pages, paragraphs, and sometimes a couple of sentences. We could only enjoy that much of luxury of time. Balan would also listen to me lying near.

When a stray bullet takes away my life piercing my body tomorrow, this rifle might fall into the hands of enemy. He might shoot me once again with this rifle to ensure I am dead and then take this rifle to his camp. Worst, when my body lies dead in an uninhabited land, this rifle might cry for me lying near to my body. Its iron parts might shed tears listening to a story I recite that time.

I believed that the rifle had a life in its body. Balan too, like me, strongly believed that he had an inseparable life with his rifle.

                                                                  4

That day was my birthday. I was stationed at Balamottai forward post to watch the movements of army. We were hiding in a bunker along with an M-16 Colt Commando assault rifle captured in the previous conflict. We were enormously attached to that American made rifle. Apart from it being a captured weapon in fight, it had been a very precious weapon that anyone could barely boast of. An exquisite happiness of holding such a weapon kept blooming in us.

We were aware that the enemy would know every sound of our steps. Balan, as usual, was very attentive and careful more than me in my safety. He might have felt that he must do something eccentric that night. He got up exactly at twelve in the midnight and wished me happy birthday, went out with the M-16 and fired a full round of bullets into the sky. The bullets were shot into the sky streaking like fire flowers and disappeared. He then looked back, and told me proudly, “Look here, ordinary people would burst Chinese made crackers for their birthdays. But I have burst American bullets for your birthday.” An indescribable ecstasy in his eyes!

Balan was shot dead by an enemy sniper in the conflict occurred next day morning. He fell down dead right in front of my eyes. His body didn’t have any movement. The sniper must have sharpened his eyes through his rifle’s aperture looking for another kill who would come out of his hideout to carry the dead body. I thought of jumping onto where Balan was lying dead to pull him my side. A bitter liquid started secreting in my tongue; a deep burning sensation crept into chest and stomach. My whole body grew immobile as if frozen while seeing Balan lying dead.

Balan’s death had sowed in me a sort of massive emptiness. The last smile he threw at me previous night was still floating in my heart. My love for rifles had also left me since that day, and of course, the life in liberation movement too.

                                                                5  

On one of those my routine days of stay under a similar tarpaulin provided by the benevolent United Nations in an Indonesian refugee camp after having been fully uprooted from both war and my mother land, I had met Vaishali, a legal assistant working there. When she came there as a translator for a meeting with an official from the UN, I stuck up a conversation with her. To my utter shock, she brought a cake on my birthday though our acquaintance with each other was nothing beyond some odd telephonic conversations and occasional meetings. I had been happy the whole day. It was the day I felt fully pleased on a foreign land. Suddenly I rose from the bed just before going to sleep and deeply delved into thoughts. When I realised that my mind had been fully occupied with the thoughts of Vaishali blissfully oblivious of the death anniversary of Balan that day, I grew intimidated. I was sweating slightly. Next day morning, I understood my heart was fully occupied with Vaishali again.  

Vaishali hailed from Yazhpanam. A divorcee. She worked as a translator in the United Nations office in Indonesia and later learnt the laws related to immigrants and was now working as a legal assistant to the refugees. People in the camp gossiped that she had married an Indonesian government employee second time and later got divorced from him. I was inclined to believe that my indifference not to get involved in her personal affairs might be the reason for her affection towards me.

One day Vaishali told me under the shade of an egg fruit tree standing in front of the refugee camp, in a lowered voice “How long would it take to leave this camp for getting into another country? Without knowing when its furtive means would open up, please don’t ever get settled down under another tarpaulin somewhere. Indonesian government is recruiting suitable persons for its Narcotics Control Bureau. If you join there after you are freed from here, you can earn a handsome amount of money and get an opportunity to work closely with the government. So, it is wiser to try it now.”

I could understand that her words sounded as an invisible concern coming out of her untold love for me.

Vaishali was so familiar with the local culture that she would be able to assess the time of a tree bearing an unripe fruit and the methods of getting it ripe next day. She was fully aware of my life. If she could suggest a way to go forward, there would neither be check posts nor any snipers on my way, I strongly believed. My proficiency in Indonesian language which I could acquire during my two years stay in the refugee camp proved an important asset.

After freed from the refugee camp, I was lodging in a room in front of Vaishali’s residence. She thought that I had preferred staying away from her. She might have thought that I shouldn’t be under an impression to have taken a residence for the sake of my love. A heavy rain that lashed the vicinity on the day I was staying in her house caused severe seepage in my room, making rain water falling into my room like water falls leaving my only cot badly damaged. After that, I went to bed with her that night, and slept there.    

Next day the sky looked spotlessly clean and beautiful. Vaishali downloaded the relevant documents to apply for narcotics prevention training under Indonesian Immigration department and carefully filled in the details, and got them attested by authorities wherever required. Other than personally attending the training, she did complete all the requirement of application.

The classes began at a training centre of Immigration Department in Sukubota situated a little distance away from Indonesian capital Jakarta. There, I became friendly with Kattona, a man with buck teeth and never dying smile on everything. He was born, brought up in Indonesia and had even tasted the life in incarceration there. His nose with a tiny curve at its tip resembled Balan’s nose. He would burst out laughter for everything. It seemed that he would give out a laugh first before crying.

It was only after the start of training, I could understand that the job was no way better than catching stray dogs on streets - catching drug peddlers with no sign of mercy. Our work involved in catching people with narcotics, stuffing them into vehicles and throwing them into prisons by charging them under various draconian laws of the land. Going by the conservative estimate given by that upright, iron bodied Indonesian officer who had taken our classes for a week, I presumed that half of the Indonesia’s population must have been thrown into perdition.

One day, after lunch hours Kattona, while puffing on his cigarette advised me, “Even if you arrest someone and throw him into jail, he would somehow manage his release by way of bribing some officials. So, instead of wasting time resenting the laws and spoiling health, one should think of only his salaries and his household chores” Though his words fell off an innuendo amidst his trademark smiles, I could appreciate the compelling truth behind it.

He took out a photograph of three women from his pocket, showed it to me, and smiled till his dented nose became red.

“All three are your daughters?” I asked him, surprised.

“Cheee…the one in the middle is my wife” now his face blushed redder.

In the sixth week, we were exposed to shooting with fire arms in Bamukka Island situated very near to Jakarta. I never imagined that the classes would graduate into a full-fledged arms training. That iron bodied tutor told us specific tasks would be allotted to the trainees on the basis of their performance. I informed Vaishali of everything. I was scared at the possibility of them dig out my past that dragged me till Balamottai.

“No one would come to apprehend you on the basis of your skills in shooting. It is almost like a government job. Salary will be more. Don’t waste your time anymore” Vaishali assuaged my fears in her usual style and put a full stop to my anxiety.

At times, Vaishali could gauge my moods very effectively when I was troubled with my past which was laden with my life with guns. She would take the role of a doctor with assuaging words to dismantle the heaviness of my thoughts. Her words would carry plenty of finer aspects which I had never experienced in my life. The thoughts that were pulled apart in her presence would come again and hover over my head as low lying clouds.

Kattona once told that the Indonesian Special Forces were using Italian made Beretta guns and the guns for other ordinary police forces were locally manufactured in Indonesia.

We were divided into two groups on the basis of our performance in the training at the end of seventh week. A part of them was allotted to work on field in urban areas as Special Narcotics Control Bureau personnel. The officer wearing medals in different colours standing in front of the class called out to everyone by their names. I was eagerly watching his lips for my name to fall out of it.

My name didn’t come out of his mouth. I looked at Kattona. I saw him for the first time struggling to smile. Those who found their names in the list were led to another classroom. Three officers in dark uniform entered as the last person on the list was leaving the class. They looked stiff bodied, as if they were the siblings of my iron bodied tutor. They seemed to have understood that we stood utterly confused. One of those officers whose haggard right cheek bearing five or six big scars as if bitten by honey bees began addressing us.

“We have decided to have you both in the specialised team that executes capital punishment on the basis of your performance in shooting training. We seek your opinion on this”- the officer spoke straightway without mincing words. When he was done with his speech, I felt a stone got struck in my throat.

“The Commander of the special force will explain you the special allowances and concessions you are eligible for. I don’t expect you to reply immediately today itself” he concluded his intimidating speech with a mild smile. Other standing there gave their customary speeches after him. I ran out of the hall, got a cigarette from Kattona, lit it and picked the phone to dial Vaishali.

Vaishali repeated her cool words again, with a couple of additional important words of advice.

“In life we would come across such unexpected opportunities. Since you are not accustomed with such things, you get shocked at it. It is just a plain opportunity given to you for your skills. Other teams didn’t get it. Right? This is an opportunity destined for you and it has come to you. Do I have to teach you how the life with weapons would be?

My second cigarette was also over.

It was dreadful to think that the weapons could still pull me towards their swirls though I had come a long distance away from them. Further, the thoughts of Balan still remained fresh in my memory rendering me crippled not to come out of guilt I was wracked with. Those thoughts of despondency were trying to raise up in me again as bands of thick smoke.

After dinner, Vaishali and I went out for a stroll. She could assess the mental turmoil brewing in me. Before I began talking about it, she remarked, “You have grown rusty with rifles”. I could feel her presence deep in me when she uttered those words suddenly. She spoke looking straight into my eyes.

“We presume that we hold rights over many things in life. This society and laws of this land invariably accept it and acknowledge it. But the truth is something else. Practicality is something different” Some workers were filing the sand in the ditch dug for giving outlet to the water tank kept in a corner of her house. We crossed the street and went to other side.

“It includes husband, children and friendship…everything”- resuming her talk from the point where she had left and concluded with an amiable tone “They might belong to us, but we can’t own them”

She was walking silently. I understood that it was a silence to prompt me to introspect. Balan, rifles, struggles- all came over my mind in sequence one after another.

                                                                  6

The commander of the execution squad and his team led us to Komodo Island. We were imparted an extremely secret training there. The training modules included exhaustive deliberations on procedures to bring the prisoners who were awarded death punishment by shooting as per Indonesian laws, how to send their dead bodies in coffins and other tasks the team had to execute collectively. The trainer said that one should be mentally strong and poised to execute the punishments. He further explained various cruel methods of putting one to death that once existed under the reigns of ancient kings. Our government had devised methods that rendered the criminals face death with minimum pain compared to those brutal ones of ancient times, he reasoned.

As a part of our training, a live telecast of awarding death punishment given to a Philippino that month had been arranged. The criminal tied tightly to a pole from head to neck is shot simultaneously by nine members of the execution squad and dies as his head hangs in the front. The show got just over leaving me reminisce it no way second to any English movies and a tiny part of array of incidents that I had come across in my past. A tingling sensation caused by an old thorn jabbed my feet flashed for a second in mind and disappeared. Then, they announced that they were going to take us to the real execution fields in Indonesia and show us the arrangements made there.

Later, we were led to Nusa Island lying near Indonesia. We were given our uniforms. The military vehicles would pass through a small narrow land strip made of gravel from the main land to reach that island. Kattona told me that the villagers called that uninhabited island as “The Island of demons”. The criminals carrying death penalty for the heinous crimes they committed in Indonesia were incarcerated in a big prison complex there. Most of them were languishing, serving their terms in that prison for a long time. Others were brought there as criminals carrying death punishment. Sooner the date of execution is decided by the government, they would be led to “Vadimutram”- the place of execution- straight away from their sleep in the early mornings and would be delivered with summary execution.

Blood and death are very familiar to me. I have bathed in it happily. I have grown with a perception that life is nothing but one’s body. I share an intimate relationship with rifles. I had felt a streak of love only with Balan. I lost it in a brutal way. Now Vaishali has been filling in that gap. Without them, I would just be as inanimate as a rifle. My feelings never existed in me rather they existed outside. It seemed that I lived my life liking it that way.  

So, the procedures built around this death punishment and the dark truths surrounding it just did look like festivities happening other side of the world.

                                                                  7    

 We, the squad delivering death were called “Mobi Squad”. The letters ‘Mobi 16’ were inscribed on my dark uniform. We were all given M-16 assault rifle for execution. American made rifle. Shined in our hands. When I received it in my hands, I felt Balan was standing near smiling at me. I turned back instinctively. Kattona was standing near. The uniforms have been made as tightly as possible sticking to our frames accommodating other essentials along with rifles. They had been made in such manner that a deep sense of fear would be evoked in the minds of prisoners the moment they looked at us in uniforms. A gear fully covering the head barring eyes and noses had also been provided. Kattona could be identified only with the help of the digits he bore.

We came to know that a Nigerian national charged with the crime of possessing narcotics was to be executed that day we had gone to Nusa Island. When we were taken to that island in the early morning, we could comfortably infer that the entire task would be over shortly.

That Nigerian in blue T shirt and black pant was brought to the Vadimutram. Well-toned muscular bodied man. We couldn’t see how he looked minutes before he entered the gateway of his death. The officials with their faces fully covered were standing around him. They were scrupulously checking the arrangements with the sole aim of not allowing him to escape his death under any circumstances. After tying him to a pole, a pastor went near to him and recited some psalms. All the nine gunners collected their respective rifles that were kept in rows. They aligned their front foot with the white line drawn in front of the pole. One of them went near to the Nigerian, placed his finger in a circle drawn in white colour on his chest. All the laser beams streaking from their rifles focussed on that circle. In seconds, that officer returned to the white line where squad was standing. Laser beams, looking static were still focussed on Nigerian’s chest.

I had heard that the criminals to be executed would be given sedatives in order not to feel the pain of death. I could hear a mild moan unceasingly coming out of the Nigerian’s face mask. I first thought that it was the sound of pastor singing psalms. His moans were clearly audible now.         His last moans of misery for this world that floated around the air were coming out of him in intermittent bouts of heavy breath and whimpers.

During our training, we were taught that the bullets would be discharged only from three gunners as though all nine gunners would fire shots from their rifles. Both the shooters and the ones who kept the rifles ready wouldn’t be even aware of those rifles from which the bullets were to be fired. In flash of a freaking sound, we found the Nigerian’s head covered in black cloth leaning left, and hung immobile.

All the shooters were still standing on the white line without movement. The head of the firing squad went near to the executed Nigerian along with a doctor wearing a black over-coat. As soon as the doctor declared the Nigerian dead, the gunners came in queue, kept the rifles neatly where they had picked them and entered the hall.

The thick black smoke rose up in me again.

‘Who’s this man? Why do I have to shoot him down? This place is neither meant for valiant actions with guns nor reading books. All what they need is just a life tied to a pole. I just need to chest up with pride that I have served the laws of Indonesia the moment I see him lying dead. Perhaps, my pride will be complemented with more money.

The hatred and bitterness for guns that sprang up in my heart at seeing Balan’s dead body had now started enervating my very soul. I couldn’t come out of the mess I created. Someone who had received military training would nevertheless treat his feeling just like a worm crawling on his body. He might sometimes find comforts with it scratching the spots it crawled. But it loses its value beyond it. I remembered the voids that were filled in with my thoughts while walking along with Vaishali.

The head of our squad asked us to go to bed early in the evening for adequate rest since the prisoner who was to be executed next day had already been brought to the island. They led us somewhere outside Nusa Island and housed us in a military base very near to the island. While everyone retired to their rooms, I went to mine, bathed, changed my dress and dialled Vaishali. When I told her I would be able to return only after completing the assigned task, I realised she could catch the change in my tone.

“It’s nothing. We can discuss it after my coming”

“I guess you face no troubles” she asked me again.

“No” I told, tossed my body onto the cot.

It was seven O’ clock when I woke up. Bathed again and went out. The meals were kept ready in the dining hall of the military base.

“The prisoner who’s going to be executed tomorrow is an Australian” Kattona brought his mouth very near to my ears, and told in a hushed tone. Would the nationality of a man make any difference once I have decided to wield the gun to shoot? Among those nine rifles, there was no guarantee that the rounds would be fired from my rifle – a probability that assuaged my temporarily growing anxiety. I kept the plate washing it, stepped out of the dining hall.

The head of the squad asked us all to don our uniform. The black powell military van sped away towards Nusa Island at about half past ten.

                                                                  8

People were crowding in front of the gravel strip leading to the island. Big electric lights backed by generators were throwing their bright lights onto the streets. The place was abuzz with sudden business activities- fruit shops on the platform, and roadside eateries where one had to stand to eat-all  that showed up there all of a sudden. If any foreigner got a death punishment in the ‘Island of demons’, the island would witness an enthusiastic crowd flocking to its gateway. These ‘new’ shops would remain open for at least two days to cater to the needs of the crowd. “These shop keepers would see a good business during these days”, Kattona told.

Some boys with baskets of pine apples on their heads were found striding through the crowd busy selling the fruits. Since entry to the “Island of Demons” was banned, a multitude of journalists were waiting very near to the gravel strip with their cameras fixed on tripods. Sooner our car neared the land strip, their cameras began flashing against us. The escort van speeding behind us gave out a loud siren and dispersed the crowd that surrounded us. Local policemen were also deployed there to control the mob. They were standing on both sides of the road, prevented the curious onlookers at bay and paved us way to march ahead. Opposite to media men, some were standing under a tarpaulin resembling that of one given by the United Nations. We, somehow, managed to cross the barricade placed by the police across the land strip and entered the island.

Nusa military base and Vadimutram were fully illumined with flood lights like previous night. The lights were so bright that it shone like day enabling one to see even the tips of grass blades clearly. The squad leader read out the list and thus got my place confirmed among those nine men who had to go to the white line. Following it, a doctor came, checked our pulse holding our wrists. He ensured we had normal blood pressure.

Exactly twenty minutes past midnight, we, all nine, were led to the white line. American made M16 rifles were kept neatly in a row. When we reached the white line wielding our rifles, we found the condemned Australian whose head was fully covered with a mask tightly tied to a pole, and kept ready to receive our bullets. Our squad leader checked our face masks once again to ensure that they didn’t obstruct our view.

A Christian pastor went to the prisoner tied to the pole, took a circle around him singing some psalms. As he left the prisoner, our squad leader and the doctor took positions on our sides, stood near to us. I sharpened my ears to hear the prisoner, but no sound came from him.

When the reverse count-down from three to one gets over, we should have completed our task in the laser circle. It was very difficult to reconcile with the fact that my hands which once carried weapons for the freedom of a country were now carrying weapons for some other purpose in a different country. But where is the weapon that could save me from the drudgeries lying between weapons and life?

Thoughts came through, gushing again in the heart. A bitterness seemed to have stuck on my tongue. My jaws grew stiff and heart beats became faster. I could feel my face emitting hot air in the face mask.

“Thdmm…” a sharp bursting noise.

I felt a strong recoil of rifle’s butt on my chest! I stood frozen that moment. O! My God!

                                                                  9

My squad leader and the doctor went to the pole to ascertain the prisoner’s death. The assistants in Vadimutram came in a queue, untied the rope fastened with the pole, gently tilted it and left with the dead body on a canvass stretcher.

When our powell military van came out of the island through the narrow land strip, the supporters of the Indonesian Welfare Association who were in favour of death penalty assembled in front of it, shrieked cheerfully bursting crackers. The media took photos of our van from all directions spinning their cameras in various angles. It just appeared that it was a dance of night in that street due to the relentless noises of vehicles.

I stood totally shocked when I saw a woman standing under the tarpaulin other side of the street came running towards our van, scooped out handfuls of sand from the ground, and threw it on our vehicle cursing us in Tamil, “You, the ruined! You have killed my son! Your families would never prosper!”. The feeble Tamil curse “You, the ruined! You have killed my son! Your families would never prosper!” kept ringing in my ears.

I kneeled down, my hands soaked in blood that hadn’t dried yet, glanced at the direction from where the hapless yells of that mother came, and prayed, “O! My land! My land! Please don’t curse me anymore”.

Yet, her voice was still stalking me like an echo of despair. 

                                                                ***Ended***    

 

                                                       

Noor-Un-Nisa by Ku.Pa.Raja Gopalan

This is an English translation of “நூருன்னிசா”, a Tamil short story written by Ku.Pa. Raja Gopalan. Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam.

***

It must be about one week since I was released from the jail. One day, in the morning I was deeply contemplating reclining on a chair as to which of the lands the flood of my soul would flow into. I didn’t see any task which I could efficiently undertake. There was a lull in the National Movement and the Congress party’s efforts to rebuild the country were in disarray.

The postman gave me a thick bundle of newspapers along with a cover. I opened the cover, read it, brooding over on who, on this earth, could have written this lonely soul a letter. The letter written in English read as followed.

                                                  Madras Qulam Khader Khan, M.A., Pro. Deputy Collector.

My dear friend,

I don’t dare think you had forgotten me. As I don’t know where you are living, I haven’t been able to write you letters for these many years. But, now, the person who is behind this letter and our probable meetings in future after this, is none other my sister Noor-Un-Nisa.

She used to play with us during our school days. Do you remember it? She incidentally came across your name in a magazine published on tenth, and showed it to me. She could identify that it was you as she could keep as simple things as your initials in her memory for long. I sent a ‘Demi-official’ telegram to Vellore as she had suggested seeking the address of your residence. I just received the reply today. Do you remember the childish pledge we undertook at the age of twelve while studying in Trichy that we both would never get married without informing each other? This letter now intends to fulfil that pledge. My marriage is taking place in Chennai. I am sending the invitation along with this letter. You must attend my marriage.

With love,

Qulam Khader.

This letter at once got me rid of the darkness of my mind like a lightening. I had been growing very anxious at the face of a woman that appeared very frequently in my mind, got me love-struck all through these past ten years of my aimless roaming as a vagabond and six months of imprisonment for participating in the Salt-Disobedience movement. It was the face of Noor-Un-Nisa. The innocent face of a girl with the head scarf. Two naughty, complaining eyes in that face floating between eye lids wearing eye liners. The teeth line resembling jasmine buds amidst the rose flowers, slightly visible out as if biting the lower lip a little. It was her face that had dwelled in my mind, got me love-struck like an enchantress. Would she also feel the way I had felt? If not, she couldn’t have been instrumental behind this letter. Right? It seemed that she had called me out by my name from the crowd in which I was roaming incognito. It was an interesting story how the friendship between Qulam Khader and I had started. My father got me admitted into third grade in a middle school in Trichy when I was ten years old. Qulam was my ‘neighbour’ in the class. He was a young boy with some feminine appeal. One day he copied, wrote it down on his slate while I was doing maths in my slate. His secret act became open when his slate reflected the very mistake I made in my slate. The teacher found me guilty thinking that it was I who copied from his slate, and caned me. Qulam called me out, snapping his hands, while going back home that evening.

“Why didn’t you betray me?” he asked. I didn’t reply.

I wasn’t sure what he thought of after that, he asked me to board his car to go to his house. “I’ll leave you back home” he said. We got into his car. My long desire of travelling in car had thus been fulfilled. In fifteen minutes the car stopped in front of a palatial bungalow in Thennur. Gyasuddin Saheb was a big business man. It was said that he was a descendant of Arcot Nawabs. We saw him sitting, leaning over velvet pillows in the front hall of the house. A hookah pipe and a big vessel were placed before him. Big sized mirrors and portrait of various Mughal kings were decking all over the walls. A thick fragrance of incense sticks planted in peacock shaped marble holder was wafting through the air. Velvety carpets were spread on the floor. Qulam jumped off the car and went to him running and told something into his ears. That man gestured to me when I was standing nearly stunned at watching everything around me, and said “Come here”.

When I happened to meet Moulana Shougat Ali later in my life, I would invariably remember this man. Qulam almost dragged me to him. The man called out to his wife as he fondly stroked my back. His wife along with their two daughters appeared from inside. I could very well say even now without betraying my memory that she must be about thirty years old. Tall and very beautiful lady. The sound that came out of her anklets was rhythmic, regal for every step she walked steadily. The elder daughter Alima was short and stocky. The younger daughter, Noor-Un-Nisa resembled Qulam. She must be eight years old. Don’t ask me whether I had the ability of penning down everything this elaborately at that age. Definitely I didn’t have. What I am writing now is what all had got registered in my heart like photographs. The image of Noor-Un-Nisa stands tall as an indelible painting drawn in my heart,

When I saw her first that day, she was wearing a green skirt shining with embroidery, a light shaded yellow jacket and rose silk Thavani. She didn’t wear anklets, sandals, bangles in wrist, and rings in fingers. She had chiselled earlobes unlike protruding ones found among the Muslims in Karnataka. Her face is still carved in my heart. Her long eye brows and lock of hair were found pitch dark. She had tied her hair without plaiting it and it added up to her beauty. Her complexion did seem to have no comparison. Her eyes- words were insufficient to explain exactly how they looked. Were they looking like lotus? Or resembled fishes?- we could try explaining it with the mortal words of an amateur poet, if at all we wished to do it. Gyasuddin whispered something to his wife. She glanced at me a second, and told something to Alima. Alima went in, and brought a bag full of apples, oranges, and pomegranates. I would never be able to forget the eyes of Qulam’s mother, brimming with love when she gave me that bag of fruits. She stroked my cheeks with the fondness of a mother.

Qulam led me to the car, we boarded it. While leaving, I turned, looked at the doorway. Noor-Un-Nisa was looking at my face, biting the end of her scarf. The moment she looked into my eyes, she ran into the house. I and Qulam became thick friends since that day, we played together, gossiped together and fantasised about life building forts in the open sky. I spent most of my times in Qulam’s house. Noor- Un-Nisa used to be there when I was present keenly listening to our chatters. She would also play with us. Closing my eyes with her palms from behind seemed to be giving her immense happiness. I would also feel something inexplicable when she did like that. Her hands were as soft as rose petals. When she laughed cheerfully taking her hands off my eyes, I found dimples on both her cheeks. My heart would be filled with an unfathomable happiness, something beyond explaining in words. We had spent such wonderful days together till we reached fourth grade.

All of a sudden, my father was transferred out of Trichy and I lost contact with Qulam. How would I explain my happiness at receiving this letter that had come to me after twelve years? I boarded the train next day night for Chennai.

Qulam, sitting with me in that big bungalow full of his relatives and guests, was eagerly talking about our olden days. A music concert by one Mohammed Kasim, a singer of some repute was going on. Rose flowers everywhere. Everyone in the house was offered attar and rose water as copious as water. Qulam led me to a room upstairs. We were chit chatting for a long time. Qulam’s mother came there searching for him. On seeing me, she pulled her face inward, and covered it.

“Amma, do you know who he is? He is our…”Qulam didn’t complete his sentence. “Yes. I remember. How are you Thambi? She came forward as she fondly enquiring.

“I am good Amma.”

“Where are you now?”

 “I am in Trichy now”

“Are you married?”

“No”

I felt someone looking young was standing behind her, like a shadow as I was speaking with her. A minute long yearning came over- It should be Noor-Un-Nisa. Would she appear in front of me now? Next moment, I thought it was impossible. How would it be possible? She was a woman wearing purdah. Other than the petty reference in the letter Qulam had written, I didn’t mention anything about her while speaking. I was hesitant even to ask about her. Only after I was securely sure of not getting an opportunity to meet her, I grew comfortable with Qulam as usual while chatting. Qulam left me at about ten for bed. They had allotted me a separate room. I was rolling on the bed in the loneliness of that lonely room. As I couldn’t bear the electric light, I switched it off and kept the window doors open. The moon was throwing its cool light into my room through the window. Sitting on the bed, I was thinking of almost everything unthinkable in my mind. Weren’t she roaming other part of this house that time? Would she be aware of what my heart is feeling now? Impossible.

The desire of a flower comes out as its fragrance and hits one’s feelings. How would the waves of my longingness hit the shores of her heart? Impossible anyway. Why did she then bring me here using her brother as a tool in that letter? Has she fallen in love with me? ….How would I ask her this? My guileless heart was tremendously as troubled as a roaring ocean with pounding questions after questions. It was midnight, I didn’t feel sleepy. The bustle of the city settled down. I could hear only the howls of the waves afar that came floating in the air. Suddenly I felt an unusual desire exploded in my heart. Would it be possible for Noor-Un-Nisa to come at this hour to meet me? Or is she waiting for me to meet me at some unknown place?’ I thought.

I heard a sound of soft footsteps. Yes. It was Noor-Un-Nisa. She came near and stood by other side of the window. The same image of hers, with a little difference in her toned build for her age. I could see her face clearly under the moon light. Unable to assess my words as to what I spoke, I just mumbled, “Things happened as we feared. Didn’t it?”. She gestured to me, closing her mouth with her one finger.

She took out a cover that she held along her chest. “Read this letter only after going home. Leave this place in the morning itself. We have met, seen each other. That is it. No more delay even by a minute” she said, turned after a couple of steps. I noticed drops of sweat on her beautiful face, might be due to pressing anxiety. I jumped a leap, and grasped her hands, and we stood there looking at each other for some time. She released her hands off my clutch, very softly and left.

Qulam’s face hung as he saw me getting ready next day morning.

“Any problem?” he asked.

“I think a day is enough for now. We can meet some other day. I have some urgent work” I told him. In a short span of half an hour, I went out of the bungalow. On the banks of River Cauvery, sitting in my room by the window, I was again watching the same full moon through the window- but as a totally changed man now!

I read Noor-Un-Nisa’s letter again and again. It read as followed:

“You can keep this letter with you treating it either as my words or my existence in you. I am still unable to come out of the love I felt for you when we played together in Trichy. It might be because I feel that your image still stands in my heart as a statue. I am just dreaming that I have been playing with you all along with a never-dying youthfulness. My desire to meet you again in this birth has also been fulfilled. I am just going to spend my remaining days the way Jebunnisa, the sister of Emperor Aurangazeb, spent her days. It is very satisfying to hear your words you spoke to my mother that you are still unmarried. If you could live your remaining days without getting involved with any other woman having your heart aligned with mine, I would be able to live in this world without being worn-out. You don’t have to write me a reply affirming this commitment. I strongly believe that you would do it. It is the very basis of my life. I am always thinking about you, fully unmindful of what I am. We aren’t living as husband and wife in this world. We don’t need sexual gratification either. Let us not defile the full moon of ecstasy that blossoms in the sky of our sweet thoughts. I hope I sound right. Don’t I?”

Yours

Noor-Un-Nisa.

I felt Noor-Un-Nisa had come in person in the moon light and solemnly sought my words of pledge. I have been roaming in all possible mundane ways as ordered by my dearest enchantress. She just appears in front of me like a golden damsel the moment I think of her, encourages me in all the tasks I do and pacifies me by her soothing appearance in my mind when I am down with anxiety.

                                                             ***Ended***

The Journey by Ashoka Mithran

This is an English translation of “Pirayanam” written by Ashoka Mithran. Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam. 

…

I turned back again hearing the moans of pain. My master’s eyes were visibly strained, closed, due to unbearable pain. The long wooden plank I was dragging having him lain on it was partly drenched. I reached out to him in a leap. 

“I don’t believe I would make it anymore”, he said. 

I looked around, and found not a trace of white patch on the sky. The hill locks nestling each other on the sprawling landscape as far as my eyes could see were covered with small bundles of clouds. The edges of the hill lock where we were walking down ended in a vertically descending gorge of about hundred feet with a brook at the bottom. Though it looked a pool of stagnant water from above, it was a running stream fiercely hitting the rocks and was falling into a valley at a little distance away. On the other side, the hills stood high. Walking down a distance of twelve miles along the edges would lead us to a mountain pass. After that, there lay a plains full of small bushes. They would gradually wane as we enter the forest area. Beyond the forest was there flowing a small river. We would then get in to a village, Harirambukur where we would find the first traces of human settlement, sitting on the fringes of the forest on the river bank. It took two full days when I and my master were on our way by foot passing through Harirambukur to reach our hermitage six months ago. ‘Now half of the day is over even before crossing half of the mountain. In half an hour, it’d get dark’  

I opened my rug sack, took out a big towel and long bag woven with rough woollen fibre, removed the woollen rug wrapped up around my master’s body and other clothes, wrapped him up again with the long towel and helped him to stuff himself into the woollen bag. Though the bag could accommodate his whole body including his head, I kept one end of it open to expose his face out. I covered his ears with a woollen muffler, wrapped it up around his head. 

“Can I make some gruel for you, Master?” I asked. 

He gestured with his eyes, ‘yes’. 

I took out a small tin box, a round shaped utensil usually given to soldiers during the Second World War and a ‘military’ water bottle from the bag. Half-filled the utensil with water, opened the lid of tin box in which frozen kerosene half a quantity of the tin had been kept. I struck the match stick, brought it near to the brim. The frozen kerosene started burning in steady flames at once. Holding the handle of the utensil deftly, I heated up the water in the flame. Sooner the water reached its first boil, I mixed a handful of starch flour I carried in a bundle on my back, with it and stirred it with a dry twig, continued boiling and added some water to prevent it becoming a thick paste. The porridge was ready. I closed the burning tin box with its lid. The fire was off except some streaks of flame popping out. I kept stirring the mixture in the utensil itself and made it considerably cold. When the hot gruel reached a tolerable level of safe consumption, I gently lifted my master’s head a little, kept it on my lap and started feeding him with it. Within a couple of gulps, he gestured that it was enough. It looked he had mustered up some strength in his body. I drank up the remaining gruel and packed the utensil after cleaning it with cloth instead of water as there was only a little water left in the ‘bottle’. I had to go to the creek below to bring water, possibly only in the next morning. 

My master was lying, with his mouth open. With my year-long Yoga training under his guidance, I had hard learnt not to breathe with my mouth under any circumstances. But my master, who had lived his life as a complete ‘Yogi’ for the past fifty years was now struggling even to breathe with his mouth. Until the day he fell down with a sharp shrill clutching his stomach tightly, hardly anyone could have felt his breathing unless they employed their keen eyes on him to notice it. Even if it was visible, they would be able to feel his breath coming out in long and steady spells from the previous one. Now he was struggling to breathe through his mouth. 

The sun was setting behind the hills and spreading monstrous shadows on its slopes. It would take only a couple of minutes for the darkness and those shadows merging with each other. I collected some dried twigs from the creepers and plants grown thin like sticks here and there. I didn’t feel cold. My master who had never worn the upper clothe in his life was now lying bundled up in a woollen bag wrapping his body with a woollen towel. He needed warmth. The dew drops would descend heavily in the midnight. Unlike with its usual vapour form, it would fall in the form of smoggy bundles. My master would require warmth at that time. The warmth was required for one more reason- One could see the puck marks during the day. The owners of those puck marks would surely come that night. 

I brought some dried plants uprooting them. I had to squint my eyes very often to look around before completing two rounds of collecting those dried twigs carrying them as much as I could cuddling it along my chest. I had a bundle of wood secured with the wooden plank I was dragging with my master lain on it. Those wood pieces were hard nuts, wouldn’t pick up fire fast. Even if they did, they wouldn’t last even a night. We would never carry wood beyond our requirement when we used to make visits to Harirambukur on some emergency needs from our hermitage twice or thrice a year. But this time it was very clear that those firewood wouldn’t come sufficient enough.

I handpicked some smaller palm sized twigs and heaped them conically near my master’s legs. There were no signs of birds around. Though the wind was breezy, it nevertheless made a deep booming noise as it had to hit on the slopes of the hills. The creek in full spate flowing about a hundred feet below, at a distance of half a mile away, was giving out its continuous rumbles. Other than these sounds and the sound of my master’s choked breath, there were no sounds around for my ear to hear. 

The dried twigs were burning like wicks of crackers. I poised five or six pieces of firewood sticks like equidistant hands of a wheel just for the tip of flames to reach it. The stars started twinkling in groups in the sky. One of the sticks caught fire and burnt with flames. I swiftly took it out from the rest, swung it fast across as to put the flames off, and kept it down again as a live ember. Only one of those sticks was emitting a thick smoke. I flipped it, tabbed it on the ground a little. The smoke was now thin. I sat near my master with a long bamboo pole keeping it under my custody for meeting any eventuality. The cliffs of the mountains around us that looked monstrous frozen waves were visible as dark shadows even in that pitch dark. 

Having left with no other options, I had to sit and keep watching them for hours till dawn. Sitting in tranquillity, I began to feel the ever growing presence of my being in me. I used to bring such consciousness in me in my earlier days, deliberately awaiting it every day, sitting on empty spaces when my master was lying on bed inside the hermitage without any ailments in his body. Now I grew worried to get rid of that consciousness surging in me without my consent. At that time, I felt the two cliffs at the distance became one and were moving in my direction. An unfathomable fear appeared to rise from my abdomen. My super-conscious state of being vanished at once. Shifting my attention from the mountain cliffs, I started watching on the sky. The stars which were found strewn around the sky a while ago were now visible in individual clusters. Those clusters didn’t first bear any resemblance of images that could be perceived in some way in my mind. But, very soon each cluster seemed to have developed limbs of different kinds, and resembled various images flying wildly extending their limbs. It also seemed that even my breathing while closing my eyes did come out with an appeal of musical rhythm. I felt my consciousness dragging me into slumber when my mind was actively engaging itself with it. Cutting it off abruptly, I opened my eyes and threw them over the stars above. When the stars were changing into different clusters and then into different images, I glanced at those cliffs. The moment I became aware that my mind was inclined to merge with the rhythmic sounds of master’s breathing, I grew alert and sat down straight. I mustn’t lose my consciousness that night no matter whatever the situation. I must reach Harirambukur somehow crossing this mountain, plains, jungle, and river. I should make medical treatment available to my master. The snowfall started descending, heavily. I wrapped my head up with an old towel that was lying with me unused and sat down with my one thigh upon another. 

I could hear the roars of wind blowing across the mountain cliffs bang in me. The sound of brook was also heard. I was expanding, expanding in all directions and kept expanding as if I had started losing my weight and frame every second. Though every sound around me was audible in my ears, I felt that they all had been active only on some common base. That time, I heard an odd sound coming above all. It didn’t get along with other sounds around that time. Again, that sound of hissing with ferocity! I curled myself in seconds. The proficiency I had mastered through my year-long training towards concentrating one’s mind did seem unnecessary that moment. I heard that sound of ferocity once again. Grasping tightly the bamboo pole, I threw my eyes at the direction the sound came from. I saw two twinkling fireflies. I swung my stick only to see those bright sparkles feign a move. I swung the stick again, this time stretching out my hands further. It hit somewhere followed by a sharp, shrill howl which made me shudder. Next moment, that wolf retreated, fled. 

I turned to my master. All the firewood I kept near him were on the verge of going off. It must be past midnight. I understood I had fallen asleep moments ago. More than half of those wood pieces which remained alive as ember had gone ashes. The wolf must have come only after that. I blew on to a foot size stick that remained half burnt, and made it burn with flame. I examined my master with the light of the flame from head to foot. The woollen bag in which he was lying was found torn on it left near his leg. Had I been careless even by a couple of minutes, the wolf would have torn open the bag and clasped my master’s legs in its teeth. 

The wood was now fully blown out and only emitted smoke. I scooped out a small amount of frozen kerosene in my finger tip and dropped it on ember. It caught up with fire again. I went near my master’s face under its brightness, and called him mildly, “Ayya”. My words didn’t fall into his ears. He was sleeping with his mouth open a while ago, but now with his mouth closed. He might have been thirsty or hungry when I fell asleep. I called out to him again, moving his body gently. He lay there without any movement. I checked his breath with the back of my palm. I placed my ear on his chest, tried to hear something from his chest pit. But nothing remained there for my ear to hear. 

I wasn’t shocked with the death of my master. I was mentally prepared to accept the worst when I happened to see his body, which once walked on here with its purest form,  completely immobile having lost all his energy even to move his body while allowing urine to trickle down. I would have to relinquish my training in yoga. It took more than three years to find out a master like him and oblige him accept me as his disciple. I wasn’t sure of how many year more it would take to find another master of his stature. It remained doubtful anyway. I might meet another master according to the dictates of my destiny. My deepest prayer at that time was nothing other than my master safely reaching Harirambukur without any dangers on the way. Long ago I heard my master telling me that a dying person should be fed with cow milk just before he was about to leave out his last breath. Today his words stood completely irrelevant. His words in another occasion that people like him should be buried in six feet grave also sounded absurd now. I had already missed offering him cow milk and now at least he must be buried in six feet of grave. For that I had to reach down the plains leaving this rocky mountainous area. He must be buried in six feet of grave covered with big stones instead of sand in order to prevent the wolves digging his grave out. A wolf from the pack had already sniffed him and it wouldn’t take much of time for the remaining wolves to come for waging attack. 

The ‘under-developed’ moon appeared. I slowly removed the woollen rug, bag from his body. My master’s face shone with an unfathomable, splendid peace bearing the resemblance of a person in deep sleep with a solemn countenance if at all no efforts towards checking his breath and heart beats were ever made. I tore an old cloth and tied his toes together. With another piece of cloth I tied his hands too. With his single dhoti, I covered his whole body from head to foot, carefully stuffed his remains into the woollen bag, closed it tightly and waited for the dawn keeping the embers alive by slowly burning it. I was sitting with my legs folded against my chest snuggling my face between my knees. By the time the dim rays of the sun appeared in the eastern sky, I saw two-inch layer of snowflakes around me. When I started towing the wooden plank with my master’s mortal remains in that half-light, I saw something moving behind me. When I looked at it again second time, it was walking at the same distance. This time the wolf was yelping, mildly. 

I failed to understand how the dead ones gaining weight. I could feel dragging the wooden plank with his dead body seemed relatively more difficult than pulling it when he remained laid on it but with breath. The plank moved a little smoothly as long as the snowflakes were sitting on my head in the morning. But before noon, everything dried out completely, leaving one wonder if at all that place ever received such a heavy snow fall. I was now moving on the descending side of the mountain. Most of the times, I was literally pushing the plank from behind instead of pulling it from the front. It proved an extremely difficult task to drag it with its ever increasing weight carefully avoiding it falling into gorge. As I had drunk the remaining gruel which my master left the previous day, I didn’t feel hungry though I hadn’t eaten anything after that. It was only my shoulders and waist that ached a lot. I didn’t halt anywhere and was moving with a singular aim in mind that I must reach the plains crossing that hilly terrain before the fall of night. My body remained strong enough to match my mental strength, though it proved insufficient. I had to tread very slowly, one step after another. It seemed the hills kept extending endlessly as I saw them. It would be sufficient if I could manage getting four or five hours of sun light. It would remain utter foolish if I was forced to collect the dried twigs again to spend another night by not utilising the available sun light to the best of my ability. At many places, the rocks were found split open and descended so steep hundreds of feet down. I could see the plants grown even in that rock bottom. Within the very short span of journey during that day, I could see the rotten remains, decomposed and limbless bodies of dead animals which might have fallen into that gorge accidentally. 

My ever increasing tiredness was being compensated by the receding light. My body grew so sensitive that it could feel even the slightest change in the light. Despite the spurt in the efforts of my body, it failed to see the corresponding increase in my speed. I had to try enormously even to drag myself, let alone walking fast. I could see thousands of insects flying in front of my eyes. The journey was left by another two hours. My confidence to cross the mountains before the sun set began waning as the time passed. I would have to stay another snow-falling night again amidst these mountains. Though I didn’t find anything troublesome during the day, the sense of caution once experienced did remain with me. That wolf knew every movement of mine. Now, it wouldn’t definitely come alone. 

The plains were visible at a distance. But I couldn’t afford continuing my journey hoping to reach there now. I carefully placed the wooden plank down on the ground and began searching for dried twigs. I couldn’t find them in sufficient quantity like yesterday. I was one day older than yesterday. I was more tired and weaker than yesterday. I lit the fire with the available wood sticks. I had only four pieces of fire wood with me. I lit each one of them, and went around my master’s dead body with a burning brand of fire stick. That night too, I saw a steep gorge descending near the place where I halted. There was no creek below at the bottom, it might be running in different direction. At the bottom of the gorge, were there thickly grown wild bushes. When I halted my journey yesterday, I wasn’t frightened. It was true that my master couldn’t extend me any assistance with his near-dead body yesterday which could well be meant that I remained alone yesterday as well. But the fright which didn’t engulf my psyche yesterday was now truncating my intellect. All my achievements in life, aims, and bases of my thoughts, desires, and feelings did vanish just like vapour leaving me with nothing but a singular resolve to bury my master’s whole body with honour in the plains. I was sure that the snow fall would never do any harm to my master’s body howsoever denser its volume might be. But I was waiting with fear that seemed to have crept into my teeth and bones. I was so attentive as if my body had grown with ears all over. After the thick darkness descended heavily, I didn’t have to wait much to hear the distinct sound, that came streaking through the roars of wind, I was waiting for. A dense galaxy of fireflies was moving towards me with mild yelps.

Holding a burning wood on one hand and the bamboo pole in another, I was waiting for them to come nearer. My eyes did seem to have learnt seeing through that pitch dark. Though they were moving towards me in a group, they formed a circle around us sooner they came near about fifteen twenty yards from us and began circling, squealing, walking short steps front and forth, and pouncing once ferociously coupled with fake retreats. The minutes were passing like aeons. The circumference of the circle formed by the wolves around us started becoming small inch by inch. Five or six wolves in the pack were fully grown. They circled us keeping their tails between their hind legs. I stood by my master’s head, and swung the burning wood across furiously in all directions. The feeling that the wolves which I hadn’t come across during the day were now following us at some distance to attack, kept me in a persistent dread. But when I saw them closely, I felt a solemn peace filling in me and at times I began feeling that I had ceased to think anything. 

My hands were swaying, slowly, calmly. The wolves were still pacing in circle around us. It appeared that they were waiting for me to launch the first attack. If there was no pressing situation between us which could prompt any one of us to initiate attack, the remaining part of that night would remain uneventful and the wolves would possibly flee at the crack of dawn, I believed. 

I was firm in my stand. The controlled yelps of those wolves now seemed to have merged with the silence of the surrounding. They were walking in circle as if they didn’t like to break the rules they had set for themselves even a little by mistake. I started feeling an enormity of love for them. I felt that I had known them for ages. At one point of time, I thought I also joined them and walking around me in circle. The burning brand of fire wood I was holding in my hand went off suddenly. I swung it fast in the air to produce flame in it. That time, it looked as if the entire hilly region stopped breathing and stood still. The fire wood in my hand completely went off. Dropping it down, I bent down to the fire place to pick up a fire stick that remained alive in their tips. Hardly was it half a moment, I didn’t hear the snorts of wolves. Within a moment of that gap, a big wolf among them pounced upon me with deadly roar. I thrust the wood into the wolf’s wide mouth that came straight in front of my face. The wolf withdrew with meek howl of hurt. Other wolves began tearing off the woollen bag that covered my master’s body. 

The deadly silence and the respect for rules that seemed to prevail there a while ago had now vanished in just a matter of seconds. The wolves attacked me one after another. But they attacked my master’s corpse in packs. I swirled my bamboo pole like a wheel. My shoulder experienced an excruciating pain due to the effect of resistance it received whenever it hit its target. Now the wolves started attacking me in pairs and sometimes in threes. The darkness seemed nearly absent between us. I and wolves were drenched with each other’s blood that kept sprinkling on both of us and falling onto the ground like a sparkling cracker burst after catching fire. 

The wolves didn’t cease their attack, continued panting, pouncing with short steps, biting, getting beaten, withdrawing and again pouncing on me. That time I could realise one thing- I was making loud noises, frantically screeching which I would never fantasise even when I am fully conscious. I had become a terrible animal in that war. Sometimes, we were equally strong for each other. I had become one of those wolves. 

Yet, it couldn’t last for long. A good chunk of wolves was terribly beaten, got maimed and fled the scene. Only three were posing challenge. My upper garment was torn at many places and dangling loose with blood stains. The woollen bag in which my master’s body was kept had long been torn into pieces and lay asunder.

One of the wolves, a lonely wolf kept waging its attack on me tirelessly from different directions without coming under the swings of my bamboo pole. If I swung it below, it would jump off above. If I threw it above, it would slouch its head onto the ground. I was fighting it with all my might and fury as to finish it off. It looked well aware of my moves. I was throwing my blows at it with the love and rancour one would have for his own twin brother. Driven by frantic madness, I started chasing that lonely wolf completely forgetting where I was standing, my master’s dead body and other wolves howling around. It fled the spot howling and disappeared into the darkness of the wild. Its yelping didn’t sound like its usual howl, rather it sounded as if it had fled affirming its victory over its war with me. Other two wolves were fast sinking their teeth into my master’s dead body and tearing it apart. 

Seeing the gory scene, I shrieked, “Aiyo” and pounced upon those wolves. Before I could reach them, they dragged his dead body along with them and fell into the gorge. Unable to see it more, I ran to them screaming loudly, “aiyo…aiyo”. I stumbled on something; must be the wooden plank I was dragging to carry my master laid on it. I fell down, and became unconscious before I touched the bottom of the gorge. 

When I regained my consciousness, I found a thin layer of snow covering my body. The rays of morning sun were piercing my eyes. I rose with a jolt from my long slumber. The snowflakes fell off my body like a cotton fibre. I peeked into another rift lying at some distance. I ran along its edges, reached its bottom only to see my master’s stomach completely eaten away by the wolves. His head was missing, seemed severed. The blood that streaked out was found clotted all over his body as if frozen. The piece of cloth used to bind his fingers together was found ripped off. 

The leg of a wolf avulsed along with its shoulder plate from its body was found tightly clasped in my master’s right hand. 

                                                          ***Ended***