GOD IS AN ATHEIST

By

R.L.GARG
Flat No.302
Shivalik ‘B’,
Hermitage Complex
Mira Road (E)
Mumbai-401104
91-9833470902

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(part 1)

THE INSANE

I had never met a terrorist before, so I believed. Or perhaps no

terrorist had considered me worthy of a meeting.

No, they were the not the terrorists, the gang of four, foe turned

friendly goons may be if I knew them right but not the terrorists,

who had then killed father and had frighteningly escaped to some

unknown land abducting my dear wife as a bonus. I had heard

someone call them an ugly bunch, but had not been so sure.

Contrarily, I was not inclined to agree. There was nothing ugly

like in their appearance, despite the despicable act of cold-

blooded killing, and of abduction, on their part. But then it was

decades back, more than four decades to be a little specific,

during which time I did not hear of them again, until the day my

servant warned of the possibility of a terrorist attack, cautioning

me to be careful of strangers, of unknown persons of dubious

looking character. But I being the insane, the mentally retarded

that I was said to be, had objected, laughing at his well meaning

but stupid suggestion, perhaps conveying unsaid that an insane

person does not have enemies to fear of. He seemed to have

intelligently considered my objection, but decided against

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ultimately, “Are not they insane too?” he finally said. I was

puzzled, unbelievingly confused, because his well considered

sane opinion did not make sense. It was against the fundamentals

of insanity. Psychologically, mad persons are beyond the purview

of hatred, or of enmity, that would provoke them to act hostile, or

to cause harm, I had known it from personal experience. But he

sounded serious, meaning what he said, seemingly concerned for

the well being of his master. “But they are not friends either,

mindless that they all are” he however concluded, as if reading

my mind.

I considered it to be a prejudiced mindset surviving from olden

times, dating back to almost half a century, that could have been

hibernating in inconsequential incidents which the time enfolded

in bygone moments ever since. “That makes me a terrorist as

well,” I laughed, chiding him for his remarks that seemed to

synonymously equate insanity with terrorism. If a terrorist is

insane and mindless, as he had said, every insane person,

likewise, is bound to be a terrorist, I reasoned. He did not offer

further comment, or an explanation. Perhaps, there was no need

to. A sub standard mind would not understand, or would distort

meaning of different words and phrases to suit his intelligence

quotient, he must have thought. Departing, however, he did

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comment, not in reply to me, but murmuring to himself, perhaps,

out of frustration for putting up with the foolishness for so long.

“Who is not?” he said, holding his breath for a moment, lest he

would be overheard.

Every man is part terrorist, he could have meant, as father had

once said that every mind is part foolish as it is part intelligent.

But then those were the words of consolation, said purposely, I

presumed, to assuage hurt feelings, whereas, the subdued rhetoric

now seemed to be purposeless, uttered purposely for its

meaninglessness. Going by the simile, I was not supposed to be

much different from others, from the knowledgeable, the sane, or

from the depraved, the terrorist. But I was different, much

different, an outcast the sane would hesitate to deal with, a

weakling the terrorist would avoid to associate to. Perhaps, on

way to the present my insanity had become synonymous to

terrorism, frightening the society, and had pronounced itself

loudly, more aloud than it was humanly admissible, and certainly

louder than it was socially acceptable. When and how I

outperformed all others, I did not know, but when I looked back,

I realized that transformation from small stupidities to insanity

was gradual but continuous, as if foolishness had kept evolving

itself over the years. Process could have been slow, but it was

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definitely distinct, in which, others, other than me, saw the

symptoms at an appropriate early stage, but watched its growth

helplessly. Then, decades back, when I did not know how to

laugh the way others laughed, they had called me a fool who was

unhappy by choice, and now when finally I started laughing the

way others would never learn to laugh, I was termed insane who

would enjoy even in grief. Journey through the thick and thins of

mindlessness was long in time, but it had remained revolving

around the nature and kind of happiness I indulged in, or the

absence thereof.

“To be happy is a sacred human right, the very purpose of life”

frustrated, father had once tried to bring me out of a fit of

compulsive gloom. The man must be joking, I had thought,

considering the glint of sadness that glimpsed from behind the

thin veil of meaningfulness of his words. Moreover, human right

to be happy was very personal, I had believed, whereas sadness

was being dispensed by the likes of him, the masters of the notion

of happiness, and by the likes of me, the slaves to the joy of

sorrow. “Happy over what”, unhappy at the unwanted imposition

I had wished to ask, but instead had silently pointed towards a

fight between a small cat and a stray dog, in a corner of the street

not far away. That the cat had finally escaped unhurt was a little

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consoling, though I was frighteningly surprised, as much of the

cause of just ended war between the biological un-equals, as of

the mismatch of physical strength of different warriors involved.

Forgetting my gloominess, father had laughed, unashamedly, an

unrestrained loud laugh, as if he was immensely enjoying in the

discomfiture of the smaller animal. “How long will it survive!”

he had sadistically exclaimed, or perhaps, it was an arrogant

wishful-ness of a pleasure seeker, the propagandist of happiness.

“Since the dog has tasted blood, it would get her sooner than

later” he had concluded, prophesying or anticipating.

But compulsive nature of sadness was as false as the falsehood of

arrogance of happiness, or the zenith of insanity was devoid of all

sorrows. Somewhere, unknowingly, I had strayed into other side

of the line, under the command and control of an authority which

had no qualm for needs and which had no need for emotions,

where living amongst humans I considered myself more humanly

than all others and, as such, privy to the human right to be happy,

always, whatever the circumstance.

Of late, people started complaining that my merry making had

turned quite louder, so noisy that it would often frighten them out

of their wits, that it would often terrorize their children into

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hiding. “But I did not hurt even a fly” considering the opposition

a kind of jealousy on their part more than it being a source of

inconvenience, as selfless happiness does not affront, I had

pleaded innocence many a times, requesting them, the

complainants and the onlookers, on the contrary, to join me in

those moments of endless joy instead. But the contemptuous fool

that I were, was always spurned. Perhaps, happiness too like the

sadness earlier, had needed a logical explanation, a meaningful

consideration, in the absence of which, it was the psychological

fear of getting hurt at the hands of illogicality of a laughter that

could have frightened people, that could have terrorized their

children, more than the fear of terrorism of life that was said to be

around, always.

I was resultantly left alone with my happiness, or the madness if

it was really so, all others chasing me away, always, fearing of

the ill effects or of its infection. But was my loneliness now any

different from the solitude of bygone days when I was not

whisked away in fear, or from the loneliness of others who

remained frustratingly lost amongst the explainable gatherings, or

compulsively allusive to meaningful considerations? Why I was

different from the boys of my age, mother had once lovingly

asked, concerned more of father’s apparent displeasure than of

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the general disposition of my daily routine. Not knowing how to

properly respond but concerned of motherly concern

nevertheless, I had casually said that perhaps it were they, the

boys she had referred to, and not me, who were different. She had

just smiled, perhaps appreciatively, not dwelling on the topic

again.

No loss was bigger than the loss of faith in his son’s capability to

look after the small empire after he would be gone, and the first

ever sign was not very encouraging. Yet he had to try, hoping

that the first impression was a deception, an aberration.

“Business is more like a scientific equation that we work out to

arrive at a definite, a pre-determined profitable solution” father

had tried to educate, impressing upon me the true nature of

science, and of business, and bringing out, in no uncertain terms,

fallacy of a logic that had resulted differently. “Is science then a

heartless monopolization of the mind?” understanding a little, I

had asked, unintentionally meaning thereby that business

certainly was if it were that kind of science. Stunned of the curt

hearing response, father had gone red in the face, red of

helplessness perhaps, more than that of anger. He instantly knew

that I was a gone case, that there was no use of further discussion,

of further explanation, or of remorse, as the dye was already cast,

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dye that would churn out materials much inferior in value.

Sighing, he had kept silent, perhaps, anguishly wishing that he

had another son who would take care of the estate in his absence,

who would know lender’s arithmetic well.

Father had needed a clever mind to help him in multiplying

figures at astronomical speed, whereas, contrarily, I at seventeen

was said to have a heart that would beat faster at the abnormality

of those calculations. Money lending, the family venture that

ancestors had built up over the years, thus, was ruled out for me,

but he saw no other business as profitable as the business of

earning interest that would keep doubling itself every second

year. Depressed but calculative he had then decided to marry me

to the daughter of one of his friends, to make good probable

future losses, it seemed. “I need my grand children to grow

before I die” he had justified. Or before he would grow weaker to

collect debts, he could have thought. Mother must have known

the girl, as she was up in arms, fighting for the lost cause. “Is she

not a little haughty for his meekness?” before I would dare voice

my objection, mother had doubted, objecting to the proposal in

her own meek way. But she must have known as did I that her

doubts, as always, were unauthorized, and her objection short-

lived, as a single angry glance from the master of the house

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burned both her doubts and her objection to instant elimination.

“Only he, who is naturally attracted to the manipulative pull of

the core of powerfulness, is well suited to reign” unsaid his angry

stare seemed to have ruled, seemingly sure that the protestants,

being unethical to the spirit of the commandment, did not

understand intricacies of so simple a system of polity. Being

ruled is the easiest way of leading peaceful life, he could have

meant, as indecisiveness does not call for a calculative mindset.

I was dubbed as a psychological weakling and an intellectual

insolvent, I knew, and so knew mother, who wished that I had not

acted impulsively, a day before when father was away, had not

returned back mortgage papers to the elderly borrower, in final

settlement of a small part of the sum due. Unethical conduct,

father had regretfully remarked, when he later learned of the first

business deal of his young son, against the rules of the business

we were in, he had said. Rules were meant to be insensitive of the

heart and blind of eyes that these always are, I had known even

then. But the silent but meaningful pleadings of the elder’s blank

stare, who, as told, had needed the papers back to raise further

debt for his young daughter’s marriage, and a quick but generous

calculation that we were still not the loser, despite the waiver,

had prompted me to act, as I had acted, ethical or otherwise.

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Thankfully appreciative of the graciousness notwithstanding, the

man had feared if father would not terrorize him to go back on

the settlement. I had feared as much, more so after the man

expounded his fear, and had suggested him, perhaps in a fit of

intelligent cunningness, to do away with papers as he planned,

before father would reach him. Father, however, did not take up

the matter with the man again, rather he had used the forced

opportunity, partly to pronounce his benevolence, and partly to

terrorize me and mother into the marriage proposal that I was not

ready for and she not agreeable to.

“Have you someone else in mind?” mother had asked, when

father left, after making the announcement. I did not have. Yet I

had laughed, impulsively, aware of the fact that mother’s asking

was simply casual, insincere, perhaps sure of a negative response.

“Suppose I have.” She had looked at me, surprised, may be a

little hurt, of my unexpected admission or of father’s irrevocable

decision, I did not know. Nothing was said again and nothing was

asked again. There was no use to.

Did I waive the loan to impress his daughter? The question was

simple, straight, but cunningly meaningful. It spoke of things I

had not even dreamt of, and it enfolded in itself a perception, and

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perhaps castigation. Father had shared the news with his new

daughter in law, or she could have learned it otherwise, I was not

sure, but my bride was well informed. She seemed to know of her

new household, its members and their minds. She seemed to be

qualified to interpret behaviors. She was well suited to the

standards of a role that father had envisaged for her, as the casual

hearing and smilingly said simple interrogative, in the first night

of our conjugal life, to which she could not have expected a

reply, established, beyond doubt, superiority of her intelligence

and the wit of her determination. I had not responded and she did

not ask the second time. She needed not to, as she had already

killed the cat, literally, just like a friend of mine had asked me to.

He had suggested me to frighten the bride, in the very first

meeting, by recounting a story of my killing of a cat, but

contrarily, I had got frightened by the ill-timed query of her

make-believe insinuation.

Marriage had bonded relationships but not individuals who

remained wedded to their different ideological necessities, to the

arrogance of their strengths or to the inalienable peevishness of

their weaknesses, each one silently wishing the other to attune to

his or her kind of behavior to suit to his or her outlook to life.

True to the nature of richness father always aspired for more,

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building upon his wealth, ruling out further loan waiver, ever

thereafter. Debt collection being the purpose and source of his

life, and a professional hobby, he would never lack in enthusiasm

or in resources to enforce his right to recover, whatever the

repercussions. Emotional fool that I were was a misfit, he had

ruled, and, as such, was virtually condemned to idleness,

surviving on regular admonishments and an occasional piece of

advice. I lacked confidence, they, father and his daughter-in-law,

would say, and would often encourage me to come out of the

false spell that I had foolishly woven around. Father had been

authoritarian, as always, in his encouragement, dictating terms

that he wanted me to strictly follow, laying conditions that were

to be the alma-mater were I to join him in business, with a further

rider that I were to decide nothing, absolutely nothing, and was

supposed to seek approval for every action and for each

transaction, his if he would be around or of the younger woman if

he would not be immediately available. Wifely possessiveness,

however, was a little considerate, a kind of emotionally

benevolent, as she generally disapproved domineering of the

elder, on his back at least, but on her part would start recounting

my failures and my weaknesses, which she said, were the cause

of disgrace. Occasionally reminding me of my foolishness was

the best way to make me aware of my deficiencies, she had

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reasoned, to help me to shed the garb of ignominy, to prepare me

for future challenges. That her recitation of these rhymes, which

had now become a daily routine, hurt a lot, she did not seem to be

aware of, and I did not dare ever complain. Or she did not care, if

she knew even without my complaining. Repeat performance,

over and over again, however, was educative as I soon came to

realize that I was simply a bundle of vices and weaknesses with

nothing to cheer about, and my failure included her failure to

conceive even after many years of our marriage. But the more she

harbored my past the more sullen I became in the present, the

more she was critical of my failure the farther away I moved

from the wish to succeed, faltering in the critical moments,

incapacitated.

“Is she frigid?” I once heard father, asking mother. He had

looked more concerned, more than her, the woman at fault,

perhaps rightly so, because despite being the intelligent kind that

she were, had acted unintelligently, defying so far the purpose of

value addition, the purpose very dear to him, rendering the

intervening period unproductive and un-remunerative, and

denying him the future successor he earnestly craved for, to look

after his estate and to take control of his debtors. Mother did not

commit. She being a little more truthful could not have. “I do not

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know” she had responded, adding hesitatingly, perhaps a little

regretfully, “Perhaps your son is not a man enough.” It was a big

mistake, it seemed, and she must had repented for long thereafter,

for having candidly espoused an opinion on the biological

probability, so great was the violent reaction to her daring,

casting doubts on the hierarchical prowess of the dominant man,

and for being abusive to his genetic prowess, as she must have

then heard. Father had looked like the fiery dog in the street,

ready to pounce upon the weaker, the unequal, that, unlike the

cat, had nowhere to escape.

As nothing escaped her attention, wife had asked me, when we

were alone, a little later, as to what transpired between the elderly

couple that left the woman nursing her jaw. She knew of the

provocation as well, I was sure, its cause and the end result, but

had intentionally wanted me to undergo the traumatic experience

yet again. I had given to impulsive enrage, for the first time in

life, wishing to hit her the way I had seen father hitting mother,

as much for the sadistic insolence as for her frigidity, for her

failure to become mother. Momentarily borrowing confidence

from the manly arrogance that I had been a witness to, a little

earlier, and holding her responsible, despite elder woman’s

opinion to the contrary, I considered her unworthy of the status of

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a woman, or of a wife. But the vicious smile that she always

carried and that had outdid me the very first night, instantly undid

my resolve, deflating the hot air that otherwise was as false as the

falsehood of the bigness of a bubble.

Father decided to remarry, to keep the succession alive down into

the distant future, he had justified, to take care of the hard earned

wealth, he could have meant. Mother had not recovered from the

blow, which hit as severe on her inner self. Dieing, she had

asked, curiously expectant, if I was happy with the younger

woman, as if her own happiness, post death, lied in the kind of

response she were to receive. Was I? But then happiness to me

was a riddle that I had never been good at, particularly in regard

to the mystery if it is with or without that one feels happy about.

Mother valued my silence and had left satisfied that I was

uncertain. In uncertainty there is always a scope.

His friend, wife’s father, in whom he confided first, had been

startled. He was undecided if the proposal was a vice or a virtue,

if he should have been for or against the proposition. Father was

at philosophical best in his reply. “In the interest of bigger virtue

to always have at least one male descendant in the family down

in the line, I will carry the burden of a small vice” he had said.

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Apparently he was referring to my incapability, the lack of

fatherhood, and wanted to have another son who would bear him

grandchildren, and who, in turn, would carry the hierarchical line

down. None dared object even if he or she had wished to. Father

held command and a sanctified notion to enforce the

commandment, the best way he deemed fit and proper. After-all,

social laws are only reflections of the will of the mighty, as

morality is a burden of the weak. Mother, when alive, however,

had considered even legal rights of her husband to forcibly

enforce decrees to collect his dues as immoral. That is why,

perhaps, because of her weak willed approach, she raised a weak

minded and weak limbed son, I had heard father accusing her a

couple of days before her death.

What was the guarantee that the new woman, whosoever she

would be, would bear him a son? The question could have

remained embedded unasked in different minds. Again, what if

he were to be a fool, a weakling, like me, non-performing, if at

all it would a son, or his bride too, in turn, some thirty years into

the future, might prove to be frigid. Phrasing of the question,

when I finally but reluctantly asked the wife, however, was far

from being smart that I had then willed it to be. A hint of male

chauvinism that got unintentionally reflected had invited instant

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opposite reaction, though, the tone and texture of her rebuff, this

time, remained sarcastic more than it was offensive. “If the

succession goes by the male, as your father says, then certainly it

must always be the man who is responsible for the success, or of

the failure.” Reference was all too clear. Perhaps, mother had

been right in assuming that I was not a man enough. Father too

could have lately realized, deciding to remarry, not asking me to

find another woman, if the earlier one was frigid.

Many things had happened, in the interim, since my marriage.

Mother had finally escaped all accusations, leaving for good. I

was now, more or less, a certified fool, ignoramus of the honor of

being human. Father, by stint of his businessman-ship, had grown

still richer and influential, controlling lives and destinies of his

debtors, list that included vast majority of the villagers, and the

elderly farmer’s young daughter for whose marriage I had once

defied lender’s logic, having been abandoned by the husband,

had returned back to the house of her sire.

Word would get around, easy and fast, in our parts. My intimate

liaison with the girl, before her marriage, that had prompted me

to forgo a fortune, was now a talk of the town, or rather a matter

of hot discussion, given my foolishness. The wife, carrying on

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with her playful tirade from the first conjugal night, was said to

have first breathed a word to someone from the crowd that had

gathered to mourn mother’s death. Soon the news had spread like

a wild fire, each subsequent listener adding a little to the fuel. “I

had only wished to project you as a man, in the right perspective”

confronted, wife had boastfully justified. Perhaps, being married

to the unmanly was a provocation, a stigmatic compulsion, to

loudly pronounce otherwise to the world, whatever way possible.

Denial was of no use, rather it had given a new color to the whole

affair, a color of attempted falsification of truth. Labeled impure

and unfaithful the girl was resultantly back.

The husband of the girl was apologetic but incorrigible,

apologetic because of his helplessness against the might of the

village financer and incorrigible out of a notion, howsoever,

misconceived it could have been. “Poor live by the richness of

their faith and purity of their beliefs” he was stubbornly

determined when I had requested him to reconsider, citing

falsehood of the rumor as a reason. “Are not you being poor of

faith and impure of the belief anointing a hearsay and

consecrating a falsehood?” But he did not believe in the rich,

their words or their actions. They are always there to exploit the

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poor, physically and economically, he had said, concluding the

meeting.

Would I like to have the peasant girl as my new mother? Initially,

the proposal, casually referred, had seemed just a deliberate

wifely taunting in continuation of her vicious playfulness. But

soon I had learned it to be one of the probabilities, and perhaps

the most sustainable, that father was working upon. He had then,

years back, not objected to the loan settlement, had not reported

the man for his intentional act of cheating, perpetrated on the

unsuspecting minor, thereby facilitating the marriage of his

daughter. But now the matter was different, the girl was back,

divorced, and the matter of unlawful and fraudulent act of forced

settlement could still be reopened. Moreover, father being the

most influential and now an eligible bachelor any father would

have happily given him the hand of his daughter, more so if it

was not her first time. Age of the man was a non-issue, as the

man and the horse were said to be young as long as they would

keep running.

If father were to re-marry what difference would it make if it

were to be the peasant girl or someone else, seemingly

unconcerned, I had asked. “But she was once your lover”

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sounding shocked, she had mocked, indignantly, mischievously

smiling, at the same time, perhaps undecided if she should have

reveled in, or be shocked of the relationship perversity, which

otherwise was not the truth, she knew, I was sure. But then truth

is not always about what is true, rather, more often than not, truth

is what people generally believe to be true, she had said. It is only

the public perception that is more true than the truth itself, and

she had, through her deliberate faux-pas done her best to

Christianize the falsehood as a truth.

“Rumors, false though these are, must have reached him too” I

had mumbled. “So what, he knows his son more than all others”

brushing aside pretensions of the moments before, she now

seemed to sportingly justify the elder, out of fun may be, to have

a younger woman, younger to her, as her mother-in-law, or in

disgust, saying unsaid that she knew the fool well, more than her

father-in-law. But it was not the matter of personal knowledge, it

was a question of public perception, she had herself said so, I

objected. As always, she had just laughed off, intentionally

scandalizing the matter and perhaps her thoughts, as well. Father

did not seem to care, of the rumor, or of the truth, if at all it could

have been so. He never asked me. Perhaps, there was no need to,

as socially and legally, we, me, and the girl whom he intended to

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take as my new mother, were miles apart. Scientifically,

sentimental foolishness cannot be a substitute for logic.

Villagers, for a change, were up in arms against father’s decision.

“The very thought is sinful” elders of the village, after a long

meeting, had resolved, unanimously. Marrying the lover of a son

was a disgrace to the whole society, they had said, and they

would prefer dieing to the indignity, they declared. But validity

of their resolution had remained questionable and declaration a

hoarse cry, as unanimous will of the entire village, without the

support of requisite veto, was more an advisory, unacceptable at

that, and the fear of death, nakedly displayed in arms carried by

goons employed by father for the purpose, finally prevailed upon

their determination to die. Father, riding high on his newfound

obsession of taking the young girl as his new wife, was defiant of

the show of strength of powerlessness, as he knew, from

experience, that sum total of as many zeroes would always

remain the same.

The elderly man, would-be-bride’s father, hesitant in the

beginning, had finally bowed down to fate. “Do I have a choice?”

he had asked back, in resignation, when I asked him as to why

did he succumb to the pressure. I had thought over. No, he did

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not have a choice, despite the support he got uninvited from the

villagers. As I then understood, father had a strong case to

implicate the man in criminalities, for cheating the minor. With

the young daughter back, for good, he was precariously put to

leave her unprotected, losing his freedom to the blindness of

justice. Others who supported would soon forget, he believed.

Rather, the abandoned and the unguarded young feminine flesh

would invite attention of eagles, always circling around in search

of a prey. He had finally been terrorized, as he had then feared,

years back, on account of the settlement, if not to go back on it.

“Notion of morality is meaningfully relevant only for those who

first survive legally. But legal identity of the unprivileged is more

a matter of theoretical discussion, because it survives only in

statistics, which too are cooked up, most of the time, to suit the

interests of the statisticians, or of the finely laid colorful charts”

the wife had earlier summarized the man’s vulnerability, in the

face of father’s will which was more a command. Still the man

was morally shaken, not vocally rebellious, as others had been,

but silently broken. Was there an iota of truth in the rumors, he

was reluctant in asking, perhaps fearing of the worst. I had seen

the pain, acutely cold and merciless. The blank but expectant

looking stare that had been forceful in its pleadings the other day

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when he had sought back the mortgage papers, now seemed to be

a lifeless medium through which he was seeing only the sullen

emptiness, beyond life. Expectedly, he had not asked his daughter

likewise, as probability of a positive response, howsoever bleak it

was, could have tormented the sanctity of relationship more than

it tormented two individuals psychologically. Affirmation to the

contrary, it being an instantaneous relief, did bring a small

purposeful glint, which otherwise was short-lived. Perhaps, he,

being the despised father, was hard put to believe veracity of the

statement of a known fool.

I saw the girl for the first time, emerging from the inside of a

small one room house, intentionally deaf to the sign language of

her father that had asked her to stay put behind closed doors, at

least until I was around. She was a beautiful girl, uncommonly

beautiful, simply attired, without an aura of false vigor that the

youth of her age generally carries around, and sans the rigors of

her present predicament, at the same time, as if she was oblivious

of the cause of her abandonment, and of nefarious designs of a

man of the age of her father. Momentarily, I was entrenched,

wishing that it were her I had been married to. But it was too late

now, as presently she was the choice of the elder, likely to be my

stepmother if things would turn the way father wished. Moreover,

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I now knew for sure that I was not the marrying kind, a known

fact that had necessitated father to marry again.

She was forthright, unlike her father, snubbing me, her make

believe lover of bygone days, and my sire, her suitor presently, in

the same breath, for the blackness of our evil influence that had

colored her life and her image dark. “Perverts” she had said,

remaining cool but sarcastic, consciously aware of the true

meaning of the word. Perhaps, there was no better word to

express the nature of emotional terror she lived under. I had

wanted to flee, away from the village, away from father, taking

her along, if she would agree, telling her that it was me who

owned her absolutely, from the olden times, even if it was only a

rumored falsehood. But I did not have the courage, nor a key to

unlock the big if, if she would ever agree. Fools are not adorned

with flowers. Expressing the suddenly arisen and hitherto

unknown desire in words would have compounded the sin, more

so because of over-riding probability that answer to the big ‘if’

was certainly a big ‘no’. I was not worthy of desiring a woman,

people must have known that much.

Whom would she curse for her ignominious entrenchment?

Perhaps father, the ring -master, who carried the baton, or it could

25
be me, for criminalizing, in the guise of benevolence, a humble

fatherly act of an unsuspecting elder, to enforce law later, years

after. But then it would be the other woman, perhaps, and her

spiteful tongue. Subtle meekness and vulnerability of villagers,

including her own father, would not escape the condemnation

either. Different persons had conspired differently, or perhaps

they were members of the same league, each supplementing the

other, unknowingly though, to incriminate fate. Destiny would

laugh, as it must, because terror, by its very notion, is averse to

the feeling of pain, or of sadness.

“Who are the new men, not seen around earlier?” I had asked the

wife, uncomfortably surprised of the group of persons who

frequented our house, for the last few days, to see father, as they

had said. They were not from those parts, I was sure, a group of

four men, all in their late twenties or early thirties, good looking

and homogeneously built. The accusing glance in response was

as uncomfortable, and it seemed to chide me for the foolishness,

asking such. She was contemptuous of the elder, however, when

she finally decided to reply. “The strong man, after-all, is as weak

as all others, needing help of the ugly bunch.” Father seeking

outside support to snub brewing protests, howsoever shaky these

were, was understandable. Earlier too he had used extra hands to

26
collect debt, to force chronic defaulter to pay-up. But then they

were small time local goons who worked for him on a small

commission, or on the promise of deferment of their own due

installments. Contrarily, the ugly bunch, as she had termed four

men brought in to the village for the specific purpose of

terrorizing villagers into submissive deafness, was a group of

strangers. No body knew who they really were, or where did they

come from. But they were not the ugly bunch as she had

discredited them. They being like all others, the people of the

village, there was not much of a difference, and the difference, if

any, was on the positive side, making them, rather, look more

beautiful, more manly, a lot more manly than her husband ever

had been. “Ugliness lies in their minds” she had, however,

persisted, informing unasked that perhaps they were the enemies

from across the border, members of some gang of ultras, the

terrorists, infiltrating illegally. “Does enmity makes beautiful

look ugly? Had she described them differently were they not

from the enemy territory, behaving alike?” I did not dare ask.

Perhaps, asking would have shown me in bad light, more fool

than I really was.

They needed no killing to terrorize, if they were terrorists. A

sample but obscene brandishing of naked arms, to display their

27
unlicensed might, had done the trick to turn the moral brigade

into heathens, the turncoat lions into poor lambs, which they

really were, which a man generally is.

“Perhaps, it is the will of God” finally affirming his assent, the

elderly farmer had called it a destiny’s privilege to dispose off

matters the way it liked best. Apparently, he had submitted to the

dictates of the powerful, to the threat of codes of law of the state

as much as to the piercing glare of naked arms brandished

obscenely. But the daughter, in no better position to opt

otherwise, had dared challenge the celestial notion assigned to

her subjugation, if not the enslavement itself. “Why would God

will one to enforce his will and the other one to suffer it

willingly?” The man had no answer to offer, nor she expected

one, as she knew that to rebel against the mighty, be it God or a

man, was beyond the capacity of the old man, and he on his part

could have believed and rightly so, I was sure, that He too, being

the powerful that He is, always wills to side with the like-minded

and the like abled, the powerful.

It was then that father had formally informed of the proposal,

advising me not to make a fool of myself when the day would

come. “Behave or else” he had seemed to convey. While there

28
was no intention or a will on my part to behave of being

unworthy of a son, I did behave contrary to my reputation, daring

to suggest that he being a diabetic should refrain from eating

sweetmeats on the occasion. He had left frowning, but wife

laughed for long, thereafter. “Why would he marry then if not to

eat sweets of marrying?” I had remembered the day I got married.

The menu contained sweets of different varieties and I had eaten

to my fill.

Other than immediate family members from both the sides, there

were no invitees to the Wedding ceremony, except the gang of

four. Father must had invited them for a purpose, to ensure that

there was no last minute change of hearts, that the sanctity of the

occasion if not of relationship, in case there were to be a trouble,

was maintained. Somewhere during the ceremony, amidst

chanting of mantras, the youngest of the terror lot, perhaps the

leader, and cunningly far more smarter than the other three,

mischievously cajoled God, thanking Him for His mercy, to

finally unite a pair of lovers, after so long a time. Jest was

deliberate and seemed to be directed at me and the girl more than

it was directed at father and her. Apparently, he too had heard of

the rumors. Uncomfortably put for the untimely and uncanny

divine invocation though, father had feigned a smile. He could

29
not have acted otherwise. Powerfulness, after-all, is comparative

and the all-powerful that he was, was too weak to stare into the

eye of the gun that the other one was carrying.

Whereas, the sinful insinuation had rendered the referred lovers

speechless, the other woman present, perhaps, offended of the

suggestive relationship equation that would make her position

vulnerable, and probably to make the other woman, junior in age

but senior in status, aware of her authority, willed to intervene.

“It is me they have to cope up with, more than the God” she had

said, “ and I will be merciless, unlike Him, to keep them in their

assigned tracks, to assign them rooms far apart, needing them to

interact if they ever will, through a third party that would always

be me.” The man had laughed, as if making fun of her and of her

impure resolve to act the spoiler. He did not take the ruling lying

down. “But you will no more be there to play the anti-God” he

had interjected, smiling, mischievously meaning something that

no other one could immediately guess of. All saw up to him,

waiting, expecting, fearing, and trying to read the unsaid. He took

his time, relishing the prevalent discomfort, intentionally

prolonging the mystery moments, psychologically tormenting the

woman, and all others present. “Why? Why will I not be there

30
any more?” cutting short the suspense, she had finally asked,

uneasy, perhaps having outlived the fearfulness of uncertainty.

He had stopped laughing, but continued carrying the murky smile

the kind of which I had first seen on wife’s face, years back,

when she had playfully but amorously linked me to the peasant

girl. It could have been after ages that he opted to speak. “You

will not be there because I have decided to take you along to the

other side” he declared, maintaining his cool composure, but

authoritatively meaning each word of what he said.

All were awe struck, analyzing the simple hearing short

incredible statement that they now knew to be the incorrigible

will of sin, the final and irreversible dictum of the sinful, or of

fate, or of God, who, as is said, finally disposes of each and every

will of the man. The woman who mattered, frightened of the

ugliness of its meaning, saw around at different faces, hoping for

support, perhaps, a straw to hold on to swim through. None came

to her rescue, at least immediately. I, the fool, devoid of the sense

of emotional belongingness, did not know how to respond, as to

what was expected of me. The man had said ‘other side’ if I had

heard him right. I just remained mentally busy solving the puzzle

if by ‘other side’ he had meant other side of the village, other side

31
of the long fence that people called border, other side of the earth

where it is seen meeting the sky, or other side of life where

mother was said to have gone earlier. The ceremony girl and her

father, reeling under a different kind of threat, were too engrossed

to notice momentary diversion. Eerie silence was finally broken

by a whimpering sound accompanied by a fake noisy smile. “I do

not like this kind of joke” I heard father complain, keeping the

expression friendlier, purposely of course, not to antagonize the

goons. “Do I look a joker?” the man complained back, seemingly

unhappy at the uncalled for interruption. Father had got unhappy

too, despite being disadvantageously placed, irritatingly unhappy.

Commander in him could have revolted against the trespass of his

authority. He reminded the man that he was there to help him get

his woman and had been well paid for the job. Now the work

finished, he wanted him to return back safely, or get reported to

authorities. It was him, who must now be joking, instead,

threatening the man, inviting his displeasure. The man had again

laughed, murkier than ever before. “Are you not being a bit

greedy, keeping both the women, and denying me the reward I

deserve?” he had mocked, looking at me for a moment, perhaps,

to denounce the relationship that existed socially. Before father

would react, one of the other three intervened, uninvited,

asserting that it were they, the goons, whose writ then ran around,

32
and no objection, howsoever logical, was sustainable. “Why boss,

what if we take along both the beautiful women, to teach him a

lesson of-course, for his greed, as you say?” Undue assertiveness

of a man of lesser authority could have hurt his ego more or the

suggestion of abducting his new bride was far more heinous a

crime then the abduction of his daughter-in-law. Father lost

control of his mind instantaneously, objecting, abusing, and

calling the man by all kind of names. Bad tempered snarl met

with alarming silence that suggested onslaught of impending

storm. The man saw at his leader, for a moment, extracted from

his right hand side pocket a country made revolver, and before

the other would waive him to desist, fired twice, killing father on

the spot.

The leader was silent, for a while, as if analyzing the situation,

but soon returned to the laughing mode, ruling, perhaps in reply

to his subordinate, “No, we will take only one of the two, the

elder. As I said earlier the God is merciful to finally unite lovers,

and I will dare not undo what pleases the God.”

Alone during the long chili night I had laughed too, imitating the

desperado, trying to be louder than he had been during the day.

Others, the unseen and the faceless, whosoever they were with

33
me in the emptiness of big house, seemed to have imitated me, in

turn, perhaps, laughing at my stupidity to laugh when I should

have wept, over the unbearable loss, over death, and over

abduction. After the killing, the group of goons had waited for a

while, looking for further resistance, if any, and finding none, had

left, forcing the woman to accompany them at gun point, and

firing in the air indiscriminately, could be to mourn the death, or

else to celebrate victory. I had then remembered that death is the

ultimate victory lap in the run to life. Mother had said so, when I

was weeping, seeing her dieing. She was displeased with the fool

for the first time in life, advising that mourning, sometimes, leads

the man to a situation of discord with fate, which is ungodly.

Perhaps, she could have meant that the God is an unjust medium

of justice, a non-being entity that enfolds in itself as much of

despair as it enfolds joy, and one only chooses to be sad or gay at

the dictates of the falsehood of his mind. I was then not too sure,

had heard her discoursing such only to forget immediately

thereafter. But, presently, seeing father’s power equation, first

with the weak, the elderly farmer and his daughter, and again

with the powerful, the gun wielding ultras, I had emphatically

believed that the God is as unreliable as the man is, because

whenever He exhorts someone to play the aggressor, frightens

34
some other one to suffer the aggression willingly, all in the name

of fate, thus absolving Himself of lawlessness.

I did not mourn father’s death, or the abduction. No one in the

village had. The other two present, the man and his daughter, had

sighed a long sigh, a sigh of relief, it seemed, running away from

the scene, as soon as the group, carrying along the unwilling

woman, was beyond the line of their vision. They must have

feared that father might rise from the dead to claim back his

betrothal, I had initially thought, but then suddenly recalled

having once advised the man to dispose off the mortgaged

property, before father would return back from his debt collection

tour, to combat future objections to the settlement. Father now

finally settling for death, perhaps, they could have feared me, the

successor to his will and to his estate, objecting to the

circumstantial settlement that had led to woman’s release.

Perhaps, no settlement is ever absolute, as there is always a fear

of resurrection of the shadow of a person, or of an incident, to

influence future disposition, to object to the terms, whatever

these are. I had not restrained them from leaving, though I wished

to, as leaving a sacred ceremony, midway, was a bad omen, and

I, being his legal and the only heir, was still there, willing to

continue from where father had left.

35
Why did I not resist to the abduction, someone from the crowd

that had gathered after the ultras were gone, had asked. I had not

replied, thinking him to be mad, talking foolish. Perhaps, he had

not heard the leader of the ugly bunch that one does not dare

undo what pleases the God. Or, contrarily, his asking was a kind

of intentional nagging, a deliberate ploy to remind me of the loss

they all had gathered to mourn, as they too, like me, had

remained stationed, wherever they were, silently watching the

proceedings from afar, waiting the group along with their prize to

pass-by, before they would console the bereaved, considering the

unfolded act a will of destiny they had no control over.

Festivities had continued till late in the night, after the cremation.

Yes we had celebrated. Was it over the death or abduction no one

had seemed to care. No one had asked. Earlier, an elder from the

group had asked as to what I would like to be done to father’s

body, bury it under the earth to decay, put it on a pyre to burn, or

leave it in the open for the eagles to feed upon. Unaware of the

rituals post-death or implications thereof, if any, I could not

immediately decide upon the preference, as asked for. Confused

but seemingly concerned for the comforts of the departed soul, I

had then asked back innocently as to which one of the different

36
methods of cremation would be least painful. He did not seem to

know, nor any other one from the crowd, as without replying they

had taken the dead away to cremate, by whatever method they

would think proper, leaving me behind to follow them, if I would.

But I did not follow them. I decided against as I had not the will

to, instead, had thought of celebrating the occasion, the ultimate

victory of death in its run to life, as mother had once said. Father

would not have approved of the expenses, I was sure, but he was

no more around to dictate terms.

Proposal to celebrate the occasion was met with contemptuous

surprise. Elders looked displeased, as if horrified by the

suggestion, but had let it pass, uncommented, perhaps

considering me what I was, a fool. But a youngster from the

group, when I approached them with the request, on their return

from the cremation ground, had jokingly asked, “Is it really the

victory of the dead, or of the living for the spoils that you wish to

celebrate?” adding further, of his own free will, and without even

waiting for a reply, perhaps concluding, “or it must be the sudden

richness that the dead bequeathed to the fool.” Each turn of an

event is purposeful, I had once heard some one say.

37
I did not impose my will. I could not have, as I lacked

determination as was often told, ultimately deciding to

commemorate the occasion alone, all by myself, in the emptiness

of a big house, laughing the way the leader of the ugly bunch had

laughed, before and after. But others too had celebrated

nevertheless, despite the opposition earlier, inviting all from the

village, except me, and had continued with festivities for hours

till late in the night. It was not the victory of the dead, as I had

proposed that they were celebrating. Rather theirs were

celebrations over death in its naked manifestation. I did hear

drum beats, occasionally cutting into the shrill of my laughter,

disturbing me, and my serene loneliness. Intrigued, I had joined

them, uninvited, in the later part of their merry making, when

most of the men were subconsciously down with the intoxicant

that they could have used to mark the occasion. “We are in

mourning” trembling, partly with excitement and partly of the

alcohol he had consumed, the man who had earlier asked my

preference of the kind of cremation, seeing me joining them,

confessed. He had looked sad, contentedly sad of the irreversible

disposal of fortune. Soon, others had collected around,

concurring with the man, and raising their glasses in unison,

mourning the dead. I was unhappy, promptly remembering

mother’s parting advice that mourning sometimes leads to

38
discord with destiny, wishing to admonish the villagers for their

utter disregard for the old woman, if they were really in

mourning, but had joined them instead, in the mourning,

becoming a part of the group, accepting a glass of cheap wine

that some unidentified hand extended.

Laughing was, perhaps, my kind of mourning over the dead that

continued for days, for months, for years and then for decades,

till the present when I got a sudden premonition that the man with

the gun had returned back. I was told that it could not be him who

had abducted my wife decades back, but someone else in the

same-like guise. I was told that he could not be an ordinary goon

from the olden days, but a terrorist of modern times. The man

could have changed and so could have changed the garb, but his

sudden advent seemed to be an extension of a distortion that

innocent fates have parallel authorities governing them, all the

time, which rewrite fortunes and are as ruthless and as heartless.

After father’s demise there had been no one else in the village

who commanded complete obedience, who frightened the way he

used to frighten, or who would dare sponsor a goon to

demonstrate authority or to appease his needs and beliefs. But the

arrival of the terrorist revealed, beyond doubt, that such like

sponsors continue to exist, in different attire at different times, as

39
the hunger of their needs and falsity of their beliefs is ever

insatiable. The man was back, this time uninvited, to terrorize, to

kill, and to abduct. I feared of the worst. I had always feared of

the bad omen that would someday befall over the village leading

to a terrorist attack, and I had feared of the barking of dogs,

before and after the attack, whenever it would come.

Father’s death, decades back, had been a good omen for the

village, I had heard people say, leading to truce with fate,

instantly settling all pending accounts, and reviving a thin line of

smile that had remained lost within the layers of wrinkled dry

lips, I had observed. It had given me an opportunity as well that I

exploited to the best of my ability, to laugh off the foolishness I

was saddened with, when he was alive. Soon, happiness and

sorrow had ceased to have a meaning, meager survival needs

becoming merely an effortless tool to sustain, at the will and

mercy of the villagers, who fed me, by turns, for first few

months, till affording a parasite had become an unnecessary

burden, beyond their psychological capacity. Slowly, they had

started avoiding, putting up excuses initially, and then calling the

fool by all sorts of names, often leaving me hungry, occasionally

throwing a piece of loaf, in disgust, as if feeding a stray animal.

40
The elderly farmer and his daughter too had a few turns, during

these few months, to feed the hungry. She was business like,

always, never talking of father, of the wife, or of rumors, serving,

as she must, to the beggar. Yet I had a subdued feeling, or it

could have been a subconscious wish, that each time she had

awaited her turn anxiously, the food, whatever it would be, would

taste better and sweeter. “Why do you beg for a living?”

accepting a piece of loaf, I once heard her asking, perhaps a kind

of reprimand, considering begging a vice, or it was an advice of

the sincere, or perhaps she had displayed her displeasure over the

unwanted imposition. Not knowing true nature of her concern, I

had left without attending to the query. But had I known her mind

well were I in a position to respond? Did I know of an efficacious

answer? Did I beg for a living or I lived for begging? Are the end

and the means distinctly separable? Does not means, sounding

euphonious, often become an end in itself?

It was during these times that a man who once worked with father

as his collection agent and was said to have since joined a group

of vagabonds, returned of a sudden, to wait on me, to act, un-

appointed, as the care taker of the lonely insane, in exchange of a

simple living. It was through him that I learned of my worth,

money value of sum total of debts that people of the village owed

41
me, as the legal heir and the only successor to their creditor. “But

the richness, without an inclination to collect and in absence of a

will to pay on the part of the other, is only notional” I had said,

presuming that perhaps he had returned back purposely, to share

the booty. He had laughed, “Yes, the world is made up of abstract

lives, wherein every thing is notional, a make believe,

comparative to the alike. Each one is born rich, but he is poor to

his needs and his aspirations that are ever un-ending. Each one is

intelligent, but a fool to the intelligence of foolishness that

generally dictates lives. Each one is victim to the terror of fate,

but terrorizes, in turn, fate of others, the less worthy, the weaker.”

Not even trying to comprehend, I had objected. “It is the disposal

of the will of God” I had opined. But he did not seem to agree.

“The notion of the will of God is as notional as the notion of your

richness without an inclination to collect, and, of-course, without

a will on the part of others to pay back.”

But I did not enforce my right to collect, despite now being

equipped with an able hand to do so, and despite his willingness

to collect for me had I authorized him to. Perhaps, the

graciousness, howsoever reluctant it was, with which the

villagers had fed the insane, in the interim, qualified them for

absolute waiver, or I was otherwise not interested. He too,

42
without proper authorization, did not talk of the matter ever

again, and my relationship with villagers, as a creditor, remained

as notional as it had always been after father’s death. The man

had stayed put with me, attending to my needs, and if there was

ever a resource crunch, he did not complain of, managing the two

of us, the insane and the insipid, the best way he could.

Times passed, the man continuing evolving himself, both in his

mindfulness and in his mindlessness, and as the God too needed

to invent a cause to remain in circulation the time-tested old

falsehood of superiority of one faith over others that makes the

existence of different Gods relevant again finding voice.

I had grown old, when the servant warned, for the first time after

decades, of an impending threat. “Just like the other time, he

plans to invade the village, to kill people, to abduct a village girl,

perhaps” he had said, cautioning me to be on the guard, always,

and to be careful of strangers, of persons of dubious looking

character. “He, who?” I was surprised, as much of the

information as of the mystery if character of a person is ever

discernible simply by looking at his face. Was the man still alive?

It was most unlikely. And if at all he was still alive he must have

grown too old, like me, to plan an abduction of a young woman,

43
or to think carnal. But no, he was not him again, the servant had

finally declared. “Instead, the new age leader of terrorism

presently is your son.”

He must have gone mad, more insane than I had been, talking

nonsense. There was perhaps no better explanation. But he had

sworn that what he said was not the madness. He had affirmed on

oath that what he told was the truth, an absolute truth. “It is your

son who is in league with terror, synonymous to the key word,

reviving it after decades of peace, threatening mankind and

destabilizing society. It is him who has turned a bigger anti-God,

bigger than what he then had been, long years back” the servant

had revealed, perhaps comparing him to the goon who had killed

father, or it could have been father himself who was referred to.

In his revelations, the servant had seemed to complain unsaid, as

much against the terrorist he was talking of as against me for

fathering such an evil. But I was not convinced of the disclosure,

was not rattled by the complaint, despite apparent truthfulness of

his affirmation. It could not have been the truth, I was sure. Very

basis of the premise had seemed ignoble, questionable, a big

falsehood. Terrorism as I had seen, was an institution, concurrent

to the man, and perhaps a part of his behavior, to need revival, as

people suffered threats as much from within, even without the

44
intervention of an outsider, as life in itself had been a kind of

upheaval, dispensing terror at times and falling victim at others.

Sons were not grown on trees, I did know, not even then, as they

were not now, to surmise likewise. Again, terrorism presently

was said to be a fight for the supremacy of faith, I had heard so

some where, and a person subscribing to the different faith could

not have been remotely related to me, much less a father-son

relationship. But the attendant, for a change, turned philosopher,

which I knew he certainly was not. A man of dubious character

himself, who had lived carrying father’s terror commands, could

not have been the holistic. But he turned to be a preacher,

voluntarily, preaching the philosophy of faith, and of faithfulness.

“He who boasts of faithfulness is the ultimate faithless, as the

faith commands complete subjugation that colors the man

colorless to boast of faithfulness, and as the subjugated to the

faith is too strong in his belief to talk or to fear belligerence,

which undoubtedly is the weapon of the weak, the faithless” he

said.

“What is faith, anyway?” comprehending little, I asked, foolishly.

He looked surprised, not expecting me speaking thus, asking a

basic question concerning the man. After a long while, the time

45
during which he had kept thinking, perhaps, finding a plausible

reply, asked me instead as to what I did understand by the term

faith. He kept waiting for my response and I for him to dwell

upon the term further to appease my curiosity, because to the fool

that I was, faith had meant nothing other than peculiarity of

names, different set of names for different set of persons. As no

reply was forthcoming, I had a sudden apprehension that he too,

despite posing to be a person of philosophical leanings that he

had heard to be a short while ago, did not exactly know as to

what faith really is. Perhaps no one does.

“Your wife, when she was abducted, was a few days pregnant,

but knew it, for sure, only after a month, and by that time it was

too late” he later revealed, describing the truthfulness of

relationship as he knew it. He was then a go between the father

and a gang of ultras and as such a part of the terror group. She

had confessed nine months later, when the boy was born. He,

then, stirred by nature’s disposal and his loyalty to the erstwhile

master, had returned back to the village to relay the news, but

disturbed by the prevailing circumstances had opted to keep

quite, staying back, for good, looking after the insane.

46
Keeping in touch with the group, through some intermediary, he

had then learned that the leader, my wife’s current man, had

considered the confession a falsehood, a deliberate lie, for the

sole purpose of tormenting him, and, as such, relations between

the two had started worsening till the time the boy, whom he had

raised, for the last more than twenty five years, as his son, in

league with his mother, revolted against the tyrannical

authoritativeness of the elder, killing him in the embroil and

taking over the leadership of terror. “Your wife, considering you

and others, for the unmanliness that you all displayed at the time

of her abduction, and the other woman who were then the

primary cause of turn of events, responsible for her present state,

has turned her son, the terrorist, against the village, exhorting him

to take revenge, destroy it completely, kill all who would cross

his path and abduct the young daughter of the woman to suffer

fate worse than her” the servant had finally disclosed.

“How do they know that the woman has a daughter? She was an

issueless divorcee then” astonished, I asked, presuming that

perhaps it was him, if he was telling the truth, double-crossing,

passing on the village information to them through the

intermediary he was keeping in touch with, whom he had earlier

spoken of. But he maintained static composure, not showing if he

47
was offended of the unsaid accusation. “They have their means to

know………even without me” he responded adding the later part

after a pause, perhaps purposely, letting me decide if I believed

or not, for my satisfaction, as if it mattered little to him if I did

not. “They knew it when she was remarried, a few months later,

to safe-guard her honor against future risks, likes the one she had

then undergone. They knew it when the old man had died, a little

after, now contented and carefree. They knew it when the

daughter was born, and they know it now when the daughter has

come of age to suffer fate worse then that her mother had once

mercifully escaped.”

How long can one remain contented and carefree, even after

death, if soul remains behind wishing well of the dear ones, and it

now, being free of restrictive nature of worldly falsehoods, sees

through the opaqueness of future to find that the past it dreaded

most keeps sitting on the fence to jump back, getting a chance?

But I did not burden my servant for an answer, as I was

undecided as to whom to side with, notionally though, with my

son or with the daughter of a woman who was once known to be

my lover. Moreover, the question itself, arisen surreptitiously,

was a little philosophical, beyond my comprehension, and I was

48
sure that his answer, whatever it could be, would fly high, much

beyond my reach.

The disclosure was based upon an assumption, assuming that

what she confessed voluntarily, twenty-five years ago, was the

truth. But knowing her, it could have been otherwise, her way of

demeaning her current man, the current relationship, and her way

of taking revenge. The abductor, for the reasons best known to

him, had doubted the veracity of her confession, and he could

have been right. But then truth is a matter of perception, she had

said so, long back, more true than the truth itself, and the man

then had perceived the newly born as his son and raised him as

such, despite the confession. It was now my turn to veil the piece

of information in a cloth I deemed proper. Though propriety

would have called for detailed examination, a kind of

circumstantial audit to conclude one way or the other, I was

instantly fascinated by the nakedness of information to

immediately enfold it in the creases of my cloak, bothering little

if the gesture looked obscene, perhaps in a hurry to convince

myself that I was not unmanly if she was not frigid. I laughed,

suggesting impulsively, “Father, wherever he is, must be happy

to know that his son, after all, is father to a heir to keep the

succession alive down in the future.” But he did not take the

49
laughter kindly, it seemed, looking at me in disbelief, as if

reprimanding me, for the joke, if it were so. He had, however, not

commented back, perhaps, concurring silently, despite jocular

nature of the disposal.

Terror attack, when it finally came, confirmed the belief that the

God was getting older and weaker with passing moments,

relinquishing His authority, in the process, to the man, who now

possessed magical strength to destroy the entire village, with a

single gun shot, fired from far off. Gun shot, if it was really so,

was soundless, unlike the one I had heard earlier, decades back,

when it was fired at father, but powerful enough that it seemed to

shook the very foundation of His creation, the men and the

material including. He had come in the dead of no moon night,

under the garb of blackness, perhaps the color of his identity that

would always remain unreal and doubtful, to catch his victims by

surprise, to cause maximum possible loss. I felt the earth tremor

under four legs of the cot I was sleeping in, so great was the force

of terror. Terrified, the earth, in turn, passed on the dreadful

vibrating shock to the concrete walls of the house, which seemed

to tremble too, perhaps, laboring to stand straight, as these had

been standing for the last many decades. The servant, knowing

the terrorist and aware of the strength of his terror, must had been

50
concerned for the safety of his master. He rushed in from the

outer room where he was putting in at the time, and before either

of the two of us would speak a word, I saw him hurriedly cover

me under the girth of his body weight, to take the falling concrete

slab on his head.

Somehow, wriggling out from under the dead, I looked around

for my son, the terrorist. But he was no more there. He was gone

unseen, as he had come unseen moments before, perhaps,

considering me dead too, like the other one hiding me under.

Rising from the rubble that the house had now turned to be, I

ventured out, looking for others, the villagers, but instead walked

into the ruins, which until the previous evening was called a

village. It seemed that the intruder, true to the advice of his

mother, had struck big, destroying all that came his way. People

lay scattered, dead, all around, and the few who survived were

crying for help. I heard the street dogs barking, as if frightening

the terrorist away if he was still around. Having escaped the

mayhem, they had gathered in a group, perhaps, to help each

other, in case of need. I saw a man in his thirties hurriedly enter

the debris of a big house. Perhaps, he intended to extend help to

the occupants, who must be entrapped inside, I thought. But no,

he soon came out, carrying the cash box instead, a feeble voice of

51
protest or of anguish following him from the inside, it seemed.

Confronted, he hesitated for a moment, but immediately

regaining his composure, justifiably smiled, saying, “Only the

pharaohs of Egypt carried wealth along, beyond their destinies.” I

had not heard of pharaohs of Egypt, or of their destinies, but the

man’s excuse seemed to be untenable, as I had seen father,

certainly not a pharaoh, accumulating wealth disproportionately

more than what he would have needed in life. As to destiny, I

believed that people perceived it differently, sometimes predating

it to make the means as an end, and at others perpetuating it in

the future, post death, through genetic hierarchy, down in the

line.

Someone heard pleading, requesting me to extricate him from

under a boulder. But I did not have the strength, or the will to.

“Each one serves his fate” I repeated, recalling the words the man

had once uttered, years back, snatching a loaf that his father, on

his turn, had then given to feed the insane. I walked past leaving

him buried, in pains, hearing him complain on my back, “you are

no different.” Was I supposed to be? Different from whom, from

him or from the terrorist? But then I was different from all others,

I had been hearing all my life. Mother had said so decades back. I

was therefore different from them too, him and the terrorist, he

52
being my son notwithstanding. They were not fools, like me.

They were sane, the wise, knowing pretty well what they had

been doing, aware of their actions, of their thoughts, of the

implications. Perhaps, each one is part fool as he is part

intelligent, as father had once said.

If it was the foolishness or the intelligence of an insane mind that

I suddenly felt intrigued at the thought of abduction of peasant

woman’s daughter, I did not know. Decades back, when the

incident involved another woman, the wife, it had looked

impersonal, necessitated by man’s infatuation and compounded

by circumstances, but presently, the incident, if at all the girl had

been abducted, concerned me, my liaison with girl’s mother, and

it concerned my successor, the heir apparent to father’s estate,

including the right to debt collection. He was a bigger anti-god,

the servant had opined, but the God, contrarily, seemed to be in

league with him, just as he was said to be in league with terror,

leading His disposal to the present where he wished to abduct the

girl whose mother would have been his grand-ma had things not

gone awry on that fateful day, had father not got himself killed,

then.

53
Unmindful of the will of mind, feet led me into the street where

the peasant woman lived with her young daughter, perhaps, to

confirm the inevitable, the inherent fearfulness and the subdued

wishful-ness, at the same time. Scene there was no different. The

terrorist had preceded me to them, it seemed, abducting the

daughter and killing the mother who could have objected, and

was, perhaps, lying buried under the heap of fallen roof,

presently. Unlike little earlier I did not walk past, rather tried to

move deposits of rubble aside to get to the woman, who was once

said to be my lover, save her if I could, if she was not already

dead of-course. Dogs had followed me to the site. I could hear

their barking getting louder with each passing moment. But

perhaps it was not me they were after, as I had just passed by

them conferencing over the sudden attack and resultant

destruction. Moreover, we were one of a family, me and the dogs,

sharing grief for years and sharing food occasionally. It must

have been someone else that they were following the scent of,

perhaps, the terrorist, who could have returned back unseen, to

get others, the survivors, to get me. He would not know that I was

his father. He would not believe it either. The notion of

sacredness of faith, after-all, was more sacred than the sacredness

of God ordained human relationships. I suddenly panicked,

instantly fleeing, subconscious will to survive overwhelming the

54
desire to die, if there was any, and ran for miles, often stumbling,

occasionally falling, immediately getting up and running again,

towards the long barbed fence, that the people called border,

perhaps to garner support of national guards, the only force the

terrorists were said to be scared of, or to cross over to the safety

of the other side, from where the terrorist had come, I was sure,

and, as such would not harm a soul there, I believed.

55
(part 2)

THE CHILD

The demon had finally struck the village, just like I had feared

that it would strike someday, just like it had always struck in

bedtime stories that granny used to narrate each night, when she

was alive. There was no other explanation, otherwise, of the

sudden furious attack and of the resultant all round devastation. It

had to be a demon, the monstrous creature who lived on the

exploits of his evilness, I was sure. In each of granny’s stories,

there had generally been a demon, who would attack villages at

will, who would destroy households at will, and who would kill

the villagers at will, and sometimes even gobbled up persons

alive. The big creature had, invariably, been the central character

of her narrations, around whom, moved the life and the death,

both of which had always seemed to be mere extensions of his

will, and of his pleasure.

These were the stories of ancient times when demons were

abound on earth, she had once told, perhaps to wave away the

prevailing fearfulness that had then gripped me, hearing of the

monstrousness. But I had not believed. She had seemed to

56
contradict herself. Stories are simply an extension of life I did

remember hearing her on a previous occasion.

Did she ever see a demon? Granny had laughed. “The God and

the demon make their presence known at will” she had said,

evading a direct reply. But she must had, I had thought, given her

knowledge of the monster and of his evil adventures that she had

been narrating, night after night, for years.

“Why is there never a fairy in your granny’s stories?” one of my

two friends, with whom I, sometimes, used to share stories, had

once asked. Granny was not very pleased when I had asked her

the same. “Fairies live in some another world, somewhere up in

the sky, or in far away lands where they make wings to make a

fairy” she had said. And why did they not make wings in our

lands, in our village, to make a fairy, I was tempted to ask back,

but before I could gather courage to test intelligence of the old

woman and even before I could phrase my words right to put up a

supplementary, granny had volunteered to respond to the

unasked, “One needs a golden thread to make wings to make a

fairy” she had disclosed. Yes, there was no golden thread in our

house, I knew, as I had always seen mother using white thread in

57
mending and re-mending torn clothes. Perhaps, other households

of the village too used only the white.

Friends, however, were not convinced of granny’s color logic.

The old woman could be myopic, suffering from color blindness,

one of the two had said, as fairies are naturally white, pure white,

needing no golden touch to their feathers to fly. Or all of her

stories were set in the darkness of no moon night, because fairies

are said to venture out on their occasional frolics only on full

moon nights, the other one had opined. But I knew nothing of

fairies, of their colors, or of their preference of one kind of night

over the other for their occasional frolics. I knew only of demons,

of whom I had been hearing for years, of their evilness and of

their monstrousness.

But I knew somewhat of God as well, occasionally hearing from

the old woman that it was by His grace that people survived

demonic attacks for so long, and, who, like the demon, was said

to have willed to remain incognito most of the time. Without

asking I knew that granny had never seen a God, as other than

invoking his grace, in case of need, she had seldom referred to

Him in her stories.

58
The demon’s hunger, as described, had always been un-satiable

and his strength always unmatchable that no one would ever

stand up-to and no one would ever dare to resist to. “Smallest of

the unleashed evil is mightier than the mightiest of all persons”,

granny had once said, whereas, the demon had usually been a

monstrous proportioned evilness, for whom, even the combined

might of all the villagers put together, was too small a resistance

to scare him away. They, the victims, would then look up to the

king for their safety. But unable to dare the demonic onslaught

with a sword, the king, the queen, the princess (yes, there was

generally a princess in granny’s stories, as far as I remembered,

and never a prince. It was logical too, as the demon could not

have proposed his marriage to the prince to spare the village and

its people of his wrath, the proposal that was, though, never

accepted. Hearing granny describe princess’s beauty and the

comforts the royals lived in, I had often got tempted to be a

princess myself, to change places with the character of the story

that I could have been then hearing, but the fear of the

abominable giant, who I knew, would demand my hand in

marriage, in due course, and uncertain nature of future that might

end up in my marriage to the evil creature, in case the king and

the queen succumb to his threat, would instantly overrule the

wish with the same alacrity with which it could have born earlier)

59
and all the kings men, including his army, if he had one, as there

was never a mention of conventional war, would, thus, invoke

godly grace to fight the giant, and it was always the magical

recitals of some magician or a sorceress that would have the last

laugh, that would finally help encage the monster, or would

frighten him to retreat into unknown lands, beyond big mountains

or across high seas, to reappear again in the same village, or

somewhere else, depending upon geographical location of

granny’s next narrative.

“Why does the demon not die in any of the stories?” I had once

quipped, suggesting unsaid that perhaps with his death, subjects

of her further stories could have lived in peace, free of the

dangers that they knew always yawned in readiness. Granny had

thought over the matter for a long time, as if considering the

suggestion, the peace proposal that was though rooted in

mortality, and, perhaps, thinking at the same time, as to why such

an option she could not think of earlier. But she had waved her

hand in negation, negating the proposal and negating the

probability of peaceful living. “Demonic danger does not die

because the Godly grace has to keep surviving” she had said,

meaning clearly that both, the God and the demon, were co-

existent, that both being inimical to each other had to keep

60
fighting, and that existence of one without the other was

unworthy of making a story, any story, and, as such, was

unthinkable of.

Granny had died a year back and there was no story telling

thereafter. There was no one else I could have turned to for the

purpose. Mother was always busy attending to household chores

that included rearing a small herd of goats, with or without

occasional addition of a couple of chickens, the only livelihood

she would say, and as such a valuable possession. Unlike others I

did not have a father. Why, I did not know. No one ever told me.

Whenever I asked, granny had kept mum, immediately

withdrawing into some forgotten thoughts, and mother would

often be furious, calling me names for asking a question that

perhaps did not deserve reply. “Perhaps, life is like that, most

have fathers and some unlucky one does not” I had thought. But

why it had to be me? My two friends, who always had different

opinions, spoke differently. “It is God’s curse that you don’t have

a father” opined one of the two, while the other one was

congratulatory in her stance. “Fathers are no good as they know

only of beating and scolding the youngsters,” she had reasoned. I

did not know if I needed to repent for not having a father, or I

should have been happy.

61
Yes, I had a brother too, an elder brother, thirteen years elder in

age, but he was now more like a casual guest, who, despite

mother’s repeated warnings not to show his face ever again,

would visit back once in a while. Why they, the mother and her

son, were at such a pass, I could never understand, but always

saw mother uncomfortably hesitant whenever he would suddenly

drop in unannounced, and him seemingly uncaring for the

opposition or its cause, whatever it was. They would not say

much. I feared asking mother and he had been evasive, always,

not giving an inch, perhaps, considering me too young to

understand the relationship intricacies involved. Grandma, when

she was around, could not have been any wiser, or she too was

being intentionally evasive, whenever I asked her. From what I

got a wind of, though I had never been very sure, he had joined a

group of the like-minded and the like-bodied to fight kafirs, the

non-believers, from across the long serpentine fence that seemed

to flow like a river, at a distance, in the extreme south of the

village. I immediately knew, without telling, that non-believers

were yet another kind of evil, the monstrous creatures from the

demonic family, as granny had used to call the demon differently

in her different stories. Why would, otherwise, someone like to

fight with, if it was not a demon? Knowing that he, like the

62
magicians of granny’s stories, was on a mission to fight the evil,

mother’s acrimonious looking attitude in dealing with his young

son, who, being the savior of the village, rather should have

commanded respect and appreciation for his acts of courage and

bravery, was unbelievably strange and mysteriously

incomprehensible. Perhaps, mother feared for the well being of

her only son, as dangers involved in fighting a monster were too

great to be proud of his adventurous character, more so because

he did not even know the magical tricks that were needed to

overpower the monstrous strength of the giant.

In last of the stories that granny had said before her death, the

demon had proved to be much stronger and a lot more cunning to

the magical effect of rituals and rhymes of the sorceress. He,

thus, escaping the protective net of godly grace, had neither been

encaged nor could be forced to retreat back, as had always been

the case earlier. Apprehending the unprecedented danger, the

villagers had then approached the king, requesting him to marry

his daughter to the beast to save them from the beastly wrath, and

the village from imminent annihilation. But the God’s

representative on earth, that the king is always said to be, had his

own kingly way of disposal. He, contrarily, had entered in to an

agreement with the monster, according to terms of which, the

63
villagers would send him for his daily meal, a human being and

an animal, every morning, and the demon would stay put, living

peacefully in a hut, on the outskirts of the village, without

bothering the royals or the princess, postponing his attack till

some future day when villagers would fail to comply with terms

of the agreement.

“It was cunning of the king” aggrieved at the unusual

arrangement I had commented. Granny sighed, perhaps,

concurring with my viewpoint, but had immediately differed in

her explanation. “But life is like a small lifeless life-boat that

keeps floating unevenly for a while, ultimately to sink” she had

remarked. “People keep rolling from one to the other, from the

demoniac fear to the kingly disposal, and finally to the godly

grace, as more often is the case, because when demon grows too

powerful to care for the invocation of His graciousness, the king

is always the first to change boat to swim through, to join hands

with the anti-God to survive” granny had concluded, justifying

the final outcome of her story, maintaining that the arrangement

rather was mutually beneficial to all, as it got the monster regular

supply of his meal, protected the princess from unholy alliance,

and saved the village from immediate devastation.

64
“Perhaps, the God was a facilitator to the protocol” I had been

sarcastic, more of granny for her justification rather than of the

king or of God. She had smiled, seemingly enjoying the sarcasm.

“No, it is only the fear of death that facilitates an accord with

destiny, wherein the God is made an unwilling witness.”

The demon had survived in her last narration and grandma was

dead, the very next day, with now no more chance of the evil

being conquered in any of her next stories. He would have, thus,

stayed put, as per the arrangement, on the outskirts, expecting

each morning delivery of the daily dose of his meal. I had often

pitied people and animals of the village of the story, all of whom

could have ended up, slowly becoming his meal over the last one

year that the old lady was no more around to change the course of

her narration. Or they would end up soon, in the near future,

depending upon the population of the village, I had feared, and

once the kingdom is finished of meal for the demon to survive, he

would turn his fury to some other village, to some other kingdom.

And it was now the turn of my village, I was sure. The demon

had struck big in the dead of night, as had always been the case in

granny’s stories. “Yes, evil gets its strength from the darkness of

night” echoing with the spirit of my friend’s opinion, she had

65
then agreed. “So there is never a fear of demonic attack on full

moon days”, purposely not quoting the friend, I did comment.

Perhaps, subconsciously, I had wished to register my intelligence.

Granny had laughed brazenly, as if intentionally belittling the

belief of my intelligence, castigating me and the moon, at the

same time, me for foolishly downplaying the powerfulness of the

evil giant, and the moon for falsely boasting of its

resourcefulness. “Borrowed glare is seldom a source of sparkling

truth” controlling her satirical laugh, she had finally said.

I had not understood then, but later, a day before granny’s death,

when the demon in her story had outlived the magical prowess, I

did wish the God to take up to fighting the evil Himself directly

and not through his accredited agents, who, like the king, would

ultimately prove weak, whereas, they both, the God and the

demon, being the powerful, would always remain playing their

sides of the game, no moon day or full moon day.

As the sleep alluded, I had been consciously lost in the events of

the past, in repenting over endless fights between the mother and

the brother, which had, last night, abruptly ended in his storming

out again, in anger, leaving the food that mother had cooked for

him uneaten, in memories of all those days when granny was

66
alive, in the not so understandable but meaningful looking

evasiveness of the elder brother whenever I asked him of his

encounters with the monster, in recounting, over and over again,

mother’s behavioral approach towards different members of the

household that included small animals as well, in the recollection

of seemingly intelligent responses of my two friends both

younger in age by an year, when the earth trembled under my

feet, with an almost inaudible gurgling sound, as if announcing

the sudden advent of the monster. If it was fright induced sound

of the earth, or an angry frown of the advancing demon, who

could have been long time hungry because of non-availability of

meal in the village he had been earlier in, I was not aware, as

other than describing physical proportions and the dangerous

intent of the beast, granny had never said much of his other

behavioral details. Perhaps, the low gurgling sound could have

been the screeching impact of anger with which the monster

planted his feet on the earth crust that got reverberated by the

earth’s core to caution people living thereupon, of the impending

danger.

I had been angry too, living with the anger from the previous day,

at mother for again fighting with the son who was visiting her

after more than a month, at the big brother who had left angrily,

67
leaving the cooked food untouched, at mother again for throwing

away, in disgust, the cooked food and keeping us both, herself

and me, her eight years old daughter hungry for the remainder of

the day. It was unlike mother to feel disgusted and to act

wasteful, who, I knew, cared for her two children, despite the

acrimonious looking relationship between the two, herself and

the son, and who, I knew, valued a grain as precious as she would

value a coin of gold. It was unlike brother to be so disrespectful,

who, I believed, did care for the motherly care, despite her

repeated abusive admonishments, but who, I knew, had left the

house hungry, the previous day, disregard of the fact that mother

had cooked for him. Mother had wept, for hours, thereafter, over

her uncontrolled abrasiveness, or over his vehement insolence, I

did not understand. I had, though, impulsively wished to question

mother, to admonish her, in turn, for the un-seeming and un-

motherly way of dealing with her young son and for her never

ending unpleasant hearing rhetoric, but was frightened at the

same time, fearing of the reaction, if she would unleash her pent

up anger on me. Simultaneously, I had wished to console her of

the invisible silent torments that she could have been undergoing,

at the time. But caught in between two emotions, I had wept

myself instead, with no one else to console either of the two.

68
Later, hungry that I was had went out to play. Contrary to her

known behavior mother did not ask as to what I was up to, nor

did she advise, as she would otherwise do, to return back, in time.

Attitude of cold unconcern had hurt all the more, instantly

reminding me of the silent wish, a little while ago, to side with

brother’s cause, to question the lady over her unbecoming of a

good mother. I feared that perhaps she had read my mind and the

apparent unconcern was a kind of silent admonishment for the

dare.

The two friends, both cousins through distant relationship, granny

had once told, were waiting. Every one in the village was related

to all others, so it seemed, as names were seldom used in calling

a person and the relationship nomenclature was being invariably

referred to whenever one would address the other. Granny had

laughed, “Yes, perhaps, the sanctity of nomenclature of

relationship is the only sacredness we are left with in mutual

dealings” she had said. Apparent laughter was not worth the

hidden contempt. She could have suddenly remembered the

behavioral disposition of her daughter-in-law towards her own-

self and towards her only grandson. Or, perhaps, she had

suddenly remembered her own uselessness to them both, and to

all others whom she called by different relationship names.

69
Different still it could have been the indifference of all others,

who knew her by different relationship nomenclatures, to be of

any use to her had she ever needed. “But then the whole world is

inter related, as all are descendants of the sin of first two persons

on the earth, and of their foolishness of eating an apple” she had

concluded, remaining contemptuous but smiling.

My two young friends had interpreted granny’s behavioral

contradiction differently. Whereas, one of the two did not see any

contradiction as “laughing at unpleasant thoughts is a sign of

maturity and intelligence” she had said, the other one had pitied

mental condition of the old lady, who must be on the brink of

insanity, she feared. “Laughing at no laughing matter is a matter

of madness” she had reasoned. Granny had again laughed when I

confronted her with divergent view points to ascertain as to

which of the two was more correct and why. “There is not much

difference between intelligence and madness” she had replied

still laughing, “as both are beyond the call of emotions, and as

both are beyond the purview of relationship compulsiveness.”

Granny, thus, was not as intelligent as she had then seemed to be,

nor she was mad, as like all others she was not beyond the call of

emotions or of relationship compulsiveness, as she had herself

70
put it. Her not so secret fearfulness in interacting with the

younger woman of the household, for whatever reason it could

have been, and the resultant prevalence of uneasy calm were

indicators of some kind of emotional arrangement between the

two, which though seemed to survive more in silent conflict

rather than in harmony. Again, despite visible dominance of one

over the other, she, in her own mild way, would often try to

emotionally side with her grandson, whenever there was a fight

involving him, disapproving mother’s handling of the youngster

and holding her responsible for further precipitating the already

worsening relationship. I had occasionally heard granny

remembering a son she once had, who, she told, had left for good,

more than six years back, a couple of months before I was born.

Remembering she would sigh, though unlike mother she had

never wept. But the unusually deep breath that she would take on

those occasions had always heard to be one big suffocated groan

of anguish. Concerned at the agonizing despair that had just

flashed across in two aging but expectant eyes and, perhaps,

disturbed at the feeling of pain that I imagined having seen

instantly percolating though out her frail body, I had once

suggested that, perhaps, like magical characters of her different

stories, her son too could have remained engaged, all those years,

in fighting with the demon to guard the village against the evil

71
monstrousness. I had even wished to compare her son to the

courageous adventurism of my brother, but uncertain of the

magical prowess of the younger, and being aware of allergic

opposition of two women to his life disposal, had not dared

pronounce the wish. Granny, however, had sighed again, so soon

after the first one and even without apparent provocation of her

memories, so it seemed. The sigh this time was much deeper and

longer and the suffocating groan this time had heard more painful

but weaker, almost inaudible. “Only if he had fought the

monster,” she had said, still sighing, and had added, after a long

while, during which she kept whimpering, “the monster within”.

Mother, who at the time could have been with the animals, had

heard us from behind the tattered jute curtain that divided the

small room into a roofed enclosure for the goats and a little

sleeping space for the old woman. As usual she was angry with

her mother-in-law for talking of a man who was no more needed,

who she knew, would never be back again, and who, she cursed,

might be dead. Granny had gone silent instantly, blank in the

stare, as if hurt of unpleasant hearing comments, but fearing the

younger, though traces of anguish still remained buried deep

under the blankness of her stare. The curse had transformed the

feeling of despair, flashes of which I had earlier seen in the

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suffocating groan, into a deep-rooted sadness. After mother had

left, granny, somehow, found her voice again, releasing the foul

air that she was holding in her lungs, this time not to speak of the

lost son, but of her daughter-in-law, instead. “She is my real son,

your mother, I mean. I wish I again get her back as my son, in the

new life, if there is one” she had murmured.

The unusual wish had seemed to be a diversionary trick to befool

me of her humiliation on the one side, and to avoid further

displeasure of the daughter-in-law on the other, but the shadow of

despair remained coursing in her restlessness. I was hurt too.

Unhappy at mother for wishing death to granny’s son, and to save

the old woman from the unpleasantness of her despair, I had

wanted to change the topic from him to the demon of her stories

or to the powerfulness of its magicians, but why I did not know, I

asked her instead, if the death of a person absolves us of his

memories. For the first time I saw tears in her eyes, two tiny

drops of translucent pain, one in each eye, sliding down onto the

wrinkled cheeks. “Rather it is the falsehood of life that ultimately

absolves memories of the pain of our love and of the arrogance of

our hatred” she had replied.

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Did mother know granny’s son? From her impulsive but

momentary reaction that did not escape me at the moment it

looked certain that she must have known him. As all in the

village were seemingly related to one another, they, mother and

grandma’s son, too could have some kind of relationship between

them. Mother would not tell and I did not ask granny, fearing of

her anguish, and of her restlessness. The elder woman, as she had

once revealed, was apparently unhappy at the lack of dare on the

part of her son to fight the demon, the monster within as she had

said, but mother, in response to my insistence, without giving

much, had called him a demon himself, who knew only of

devastating the very earth he would stand upon. Extreme

contradiction in describing the man differently by two women

could have been the result of their liking and disliking for him, I

had imagined, or, alternatively, it was the knowledge of his

behavior differently by two different women that could have led

to liking by one and disliking by the other. Whatever be the valid

explanation, the revelation was disturbing.

Granny’s son a demon? It had seemed unlikely. But mother had

sounded contemptuously serious, meaning what she said. Even

the sorrowful hearing deliberate addition of the word ‘within’

that granny then used had sounded evilly mysterious. That was

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why, perhaps, granny had known many stories of the evil

creature, I did now think. That was why, perhaps, there had

always been a demon in her story telling and never a fairy. Those

were, perhaps, real life accounts of different encounters of her

son and the make believe story of golden thread to make a fairy

was a mere concoction to hide the truth. It was, perhaps, motherly

concern that the demon had always survived, finally winning

over the magic in last of her stories, ruling over the village he

then lived in, dictating his terms. “The old woman’s apparent

criticism of her son for his lack of will to fight the monster is,

thus, a big falsehood” one of my friends, with whom I shared my

doubts, had said, “as, unlike men, demons do not fight amongst

themselves” she had opined.

Inter-se relationship between two women had remained

indiscernible. It was not harmonious, as far as I could understand,

nor was it warlike. It did not seem to be a relationship of love,

nor of hatred. Mother’s anger would often flow from one to the

other, from brother to grandma, from me to her or to him, from

her to me and more often from him to us both, but granny, on her

part, would seldom react, remaining cool, outwardly at least.

Hearing mother shout or complain, the elder would usually

maintain static silence, even if the shouting were directed at her,

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letting the other to exhaust her pent up fury before she would

dare speak. As against occasional duel between the mother and

the son that would often end in a flare up, granny’s compulsive

surrender would soon ease the built up tensions. She feared the

younger, it was evident, but what the fear emanated from. It was

perhaps subjective meekness against the dominant arrogance, or a

considered sense of propriety of an elder to play cool. There is

only one central kingly authority in every system including a

household that commands obedience, respectful or not, granny

must have believed.

Yet, many a times I had seen granny reacting, grumbling, as if

challenging the king, on the back of the authoritative adversary if

not on the face. But her voice on such occasions had generally

been low lest the other would hear it, and more often than not her

grumbling had been incomprehensibly illegible lest the other, if

hears, would understand it. Though, things would soon seem

abnormally normal again, as these always had been, mother

would usually be aware of granny’s silent opposition to her way

of disposal, particularly to the acrimonious looking relationship

between the mother and the son. “Ma, you know I am his mother,

not an enemy” I had once heard mother complaining, almost in

resignation. Granny had been considerately vocal then,

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irritatingly rebelling against the central authority for its un-kingly

disposal, but hearing the helpless mother, had cooled down

instantly. “Yes, I know. Who will understand it better then me?”

she had responded, turning meek again, perhaps remembering the

son she once had.

Losing, the enemy often swears to be back again to take revenge.

Granny’s wish, thus, to have mother as her son, in the new life,

could have been a kind of admission of her defeat, and, perhaps,

a challenge as well, to settle scores in the future. But more than

the possibility of a new life of which granny herself had not been

very certain, I was surprised of the probability of mother

becoming granny’s son, even if there was new life. I had

suddenly remembered my occasional but impulsive wish to

change places with the princess of the story that I could have

been then hearing. But in my case it was always the matter of a

girl wishing to remain a girl. One of my two friends, however,

had found fault with both, granny’s desire to have mother as her

son and my wish to change places with the princess. She, terming

such a thought as sinful, had called it a perversity of mind, as

more than physical inter-change of two individuals, the wish had

envisaged a change in the will of God that is reflected through

different fortunes. “One can shed clothes not his fate” she had

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ruled. But, as always, the other friend had wished to differ. She,

being aware of magical strength of various characters of granny’s

stories, saw in the desire a probability, if all those magicians and

sorceresses would pool up their knowledge to help out the old

woman in her endeavor. Granny’s wishful-ness, therefore, was a

half-hearted falsehood, I had presumed, as, had she really wished

so, she could have invoked the pleasure of magicians at her

command to have mother as her son, in the present life itself. Or

perhaps, she had already attempted and not being destined such,

as the other friend had ruled, did not succeed.

Granny, when alive, did not do much except to keep watch over

the small herd of goats during nights. As cases of small thefts,

and big quarrels, thereafter, over these small thefts, were

common, mother had asked granny to remain extra cautious in

guarding the property. “There is no man to fight for us, in case of

need” she had exclaimed, as if repenting the lack of manly

support, not counting brother for the purpose, of-course. But the

exclamation had not only been unfounded, it was unnecessary

too, as I had always seen women of the village fighting over

small matters and seldom a man. Again, if at all, the matter had

come to a fight, mother would not have proved herself weaker to

another woman, I was sure, or to another man for that matter. Yet

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she had generally avoided having altercation with outsiders,

despite the stigma of being quarrelsome, as we all knew her.

Perhaps, male support was pressing but more a psychological

need for inimical dealings with persons other than the kin. I

recalled that cold morning not so long back, when she had let a

fight, that stared nakedly, gone by, when, on counting, she had

found two chickens less. It was a big loss. Frightened of reprisals

for the lapse, granny hesitantly revealed that she had seen a ten

years old boy from the neighborhood loitering around for

sometime, the previous evening. Accusation was point blank,

sufficient to raise temperatures. But contrary to her known

behavior, mother did not only not take up the matter with the

alleged thief or with any member of his family, she had even

instantly pardoned granny of the dereliction, sadly murmuring,

“Ma, you know two chicks could have fetched us a new lantern.”

Granny was relieved and so were I, she at her exoneration and I

at the thought of a new lantern. Yes, we had needed a new lantern

for long, as the small oil lamp, the only lighting device in the

house, would dimly light up a very small area around the place

where it could have been then placed keeping the rest of the

house plunged in black, pitch-black. It was always granny and the

animals, who had a bigger, much bigger share of the darkness,

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and rightly so, as the lamp would usually be needed by the lady

of the house to attend to her daily routine. The prospect of buying

a new lantern, how bleak it had though seemed, because of the

loss of two chicks, thus, was a pleasant surprise. It had revealed

mother’s concern for the comfort of the old lady and of the

animals. Perhaps, next time when she would sell chickens, she

might remember to buy a new lantern. But the pleasantness was

short-lived. Late same evening, during her story telling session,

granny had un-asking suggested that, perhaps, mother’s casual

comment valuing the stolen chicks worth a new lantern was

superfluous, as she was sure that had the birds not been stolen,

mother would not have talked of the lantern. Perhaps, by talking

of the new lantern, on the loss of chicks, mother had reprimanded

her for the lapse, justifying future days of darkness, at the same

time, granny had sadly surmised.

Did the darkness of those black nights add to the evilness of the

monster, or the demon of granny’s stories added further to the

darkness that usually surrounded the story telling session?

Having lived without light for more than six years I had not given

much thought to the matter before, but the missed opportunity to

buy a new lantern, because of the loss of chickens, suddenly

made the darkness of the room look like one big abominable

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giant, ever ready to gobble up all, granny and me including, in a

single bite. Granny too could have felt the same, as she, in no

way, helped to lessen the unexpected surge of fear either. “Both,

the evil and the darkness, are not only contemporary, they are

complimentary to each other too, they are inseparable, each

lending support to the might of the other” she had said. “As both

wear black, the color of absolute falsehood, distinguishing one

from the other is ever meaningless and unnecessary” concluding,

however, she had further remarked, “But then the black magic of

the sorceress too gets its strength from the core of darkness.” The

last she had added thoughtfully, it seemed, to somehow assuage

the atmosphere of all surrounding fearfulness. But the

dreadfulness of the dreaded creatures of her stories had remained

lingering in the prevailing fear, despite a small relief now

available in the form of magical potentials of the black magic to

fight back the black deeds of evil. Though, until then, in none of

her stories, the magic of the sorceress or of the magician had ever

failed to repulse the advance of monstrousness, I had, on that

fateful evening, a sudden unexplained insinuation that, someday,

the magic of all the magicians and sorceresses available at her

command would ultimately prove too weak to withstand the

combined might of evilness of the demon and of darkness of the

no moon night. I had then desperately wished that we had a light

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in granny’s room, at least during the course of the story telling

session, to ward of the darkness, if not the demon of her stories. I

had then wished that granny had been a little careful in guarding

the property, to stop the pilferage. Perhaps, mother did really

mean, as she had said, to buy a new lantern with the price of

stolen chicken.

Story telling session, thereafter, had become a big puzzle, an

entertaining engagement, as

it always had been, and a source of fearfulness that it had lately

turned to be. I would eagerly await, each day, the unfolding of

new exploits of the monster, to hear of minute details of the

ongoing war between the evil and the good, to know that the

magic of goodness had not yet failed to repulse the might of the

demon, but with the first sign of descending evening, the all

enveloping fear of blackness would suddenly start mounting.

Gripped by intense fearfulness, I had once wished to stop the

advancement of time, to halt the fall of evening. Granny had

laughed, a satirical laugh, as if making fun of me and of my wish.

“You should not have born in a poor village like this, as nights

get the sun only in a silver roofed house that has the magic to

reflect its rays at will, at any time of the day, or of the night” she

had mocked grudgingly. But roofs of all village houses were

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made of mud, I knew for certain, and the sun had already gone

down in the big river to cool off its heat of the day.

For a change, however, the small oil lamp in mother’s room had

remained burning beyond the stipulated hours. It was unusual, as

mother did not believe in the luxury of small wastages and had

passed on strict instructions to put off the lamp when not in use,

to save on oil, she had said. Perhaps, she had dozed off,

forgetting to put it off. But it was not forgetfulness, I had soon

learnt, when granny told that mother was nursing an ailing goat.

The dim light of the oil lamp, coming from the interior of the

house and filtering through small pores of the thick woven jute,

was a surprise relief. But if the darkness of the room and the

monster of granny’s stories were demonic earlier, the changing

shapes and sizes of the demon-looking creatures on the opposite

mud wall of the room were not less frightening. Instantly, a new

fear that, perhaps, the demon, frustratingly angry at the untimely

and unexpected glow, how faint and dim it was, willed to emerge

from the darkness or out of the story, had took hold my

weakening senses. Were the demons as magical as the magic of

the sorceress? Granny had smiled again, but the smile this time

was not satirical or contemptuous. Rather it was a meaningful

looking smile of the elder, concerned for the well being of her

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kin. “Evil in itself is magic, blackest of all magic that needs no

black magic to empower itself, but which turns powerless once it

faces the magical glow of truth” she had said, clarifying further,

for solace, it seemed, that the emergence of faceless creatures on

the wall had been a false display of might of the demonic, as the

source of truth then had still been a little far away. “The nearer

the flame gets, the shorter the monster turns, shrinking in size and

in its might, out of fright, of-course.”

But the display of might of evil presently was not, at all, false.

There was no light source to ward of the evil looking darkness

and there was no flame to belittle the powerfulness of the

monster, or to frighten the demon, who, surviving from granny’s

last story, had invaded the village, as I had feared it would.

Mother had not talked of the new lantern again and the small oil

lamp in mother’s room had been put off, hours before, as usual.

Granny had died a year back and it was now me, ever since,

keeping awake during nights, guarding the animals. As a

compensatory relief I had been absolved of all duties during the

day, to sleep, to compensate for the loss of sleep of long nights.

“You know I cannot keep awake twenty-four hours” mother had

regretfully whispered after granny’s death, sighing, perhaps,

wishing if she could. I had understood. She needed to work

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during days and take rest during nights, to recoup the strength for

next day’s labors. Lonely nights had turned colder, and a lot more

darker than these had been earlier when granny was around.

Fearing I had often wished that she were alive guarding me

against the all-surrounding evilness, as well. Though there was

no story telling any more, I would often suddenly remember

excerpts from some old narration, heard earlier. Unintentional

and involuntary recollection of the menace would instantly add to

the atmosphere of fearfulness, prompting me, in turn, to exhort

my sub-conscious mind to find an immediate escape route, to

think of other things, of mother, of the big brother, of granny, or

of animals. I would succeed sometimes to repulse the shades of

danger and sometimes I would not, and, thus, would spend the

night shivering, perspiring and fearing of the worst. More often

than not I would then think of granny, of olden days when she

was alive, of her death and of her new life, if she had born again.

Granny had wished to have mother as her son in the new life.

Remembering, I would often wonder if there is another life

beyond the present, or was there another life prior to the present.

What were the relationship then between mother and her,

between me and her, between mother and me? “What if granny’s

wish to have mother as her son is fulfilled?” The thought was

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frightening as I feared to be left alone to fend for myself, to fight

the demonic evil all by myself. But, as yet, mother was still

around, had not left for the new life.

“Life is a small bubble that soon gets deflated to get lost in the

oceanic vastness” I had once heard. But bubbles were formed

again and again, I had seen many a times, though no one knew

for sure if it were the same water particle that got filled with the

air again, immediately thereafter or later ever, and no one ever

knew if that particular water particle was still floating around

somewhere nearby, or had gone down into the depths of the sea

or was carried away by strong sea currents to some other

unknown destination, to some far-away shore.

But there must be new life if the story of seven worlds that

granny had once narrated was to be believed. “There are seven

worlds, three somewhere up in the sky and three somewhere

down under the earth” granny had said, meaning the earth to be

the seventh. “All seven worlds are millions miles apart from each

other and are placed one under the other in order of godly virtues

or demonic tendencies of the people living therein. The

uppermost world is the house of Gods, where there is no demon,

no monster, no evil to disturb the prevailing goodness, and the

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less virtuous are relegated to the worlds below in order of the

degree of their demoniacal traits, the lower most world being the

world reserved only for the most sinful, the complete demonic.

Our world being in the middle of the seven-world universe, is at

equal distance both from the world of Gods and the world of

demons, and, as such, people here are both good and bad at the

same time, they are as much godly as they are demonic, they are

as much virtuous as they are sinful. Accordingly, they behave

differently, from person to person, from time to time and from

place to place, depending upon impulsiveness of the moment,

upon compulsiveness of the life disposal, upon the falsehood of a

belief, or upon the truthfulness of a person that the man

inherently is. Virtues and sins of each person are evaluated in the

end, the former being weighed against the later, and the person is

assigned to the world he or she then deserves, goodness leading

him or her to one of the upper worlds and the demonic joining

their ranks in some of the lower worlds, depending upon the

strength of his or her virtues, or upon the weakness of his or her

sins” she had revealed, continuing further that as most of the

people on earth practice both virtues and sins in their life span,

they stay put in the middle, life after life, till the proportion of

each one’s behavioral disposal finally takes him up or down, in

due course.

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Was granny sinful or virtuous, I had wondered when she died a

year back? Had she then headed for some world up in the sky, or

the proportion of her sins had led her down to the more demonic?

How hard and long I thought had not been able to discern with

definitiveness. There was nothing monstrous-like in her, as she,

in no way, resembled the evil characters of her stories who would

gobble up persons raw, or who would destroy households.

Contrarily, she was quite weak physically and temperamentally

fearful who would not dare harm even a goat, much less a human

being. I had heard her once, despite her fearfulness, admonishing

mother, who, taken angry by the mischievous playfulness of

goats would often try to discipline the animals with a long, sleek

and flexible stick that she always carried for the purpose. “They

hurt too, like us” granny had said, sadly but forcefully, leaving

little to guess that she was not happy at the beating. Mother had

not responded in words, but the beating had stopped, thereafter,

at least for the day. The goats did not seem to have liked the

intervention. I had imagined them frowning and staring at the

elder woman, as if in anger for the unwanted display of concern,

as if they were hurt now, not earlier. Granny had feigned a smile,

perhaps, to hide her discomfiture. “But she loves them too” she

had muttered to herself, meekly, apparently absolving mother of

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the accusation and thereby giving the animals reason to withdraw

their displeasure.

“Why were they so worked up, ganged as a herd against the well

meaning intervention?” surprised at the animal behavior, I had

asked. Still carrying the hurt of repentance, granny had responded

with the same amount of meekness. “Because they know only of

love,” she had said. “But the anger with which the animals had

then stared defies the logic” I protested. Granny had smiled,

coming out of her meekness. Fighting for their cause could have

helped her a bit. “No, they are not men to know the meaning of

hatred. Rather the impulsive display of momentary anger was an

act of faithfulness, of their love for the master” she had replied.

If she was not demonic in appearance or sinful in her deeds, she

was not godly or virtuous either. As far as I could recollect, it had

always been the magicians and sorceresses of her stories who

would repulse the advance of monster and not her. She would

simply recount his exploits spicily, making the demon retreat

finally, keeping him alive to emerge in the next narrative. It was

brother and his friends, as I had learnt, who fought the non-

believers from across the long fence, whereas, she along-with

mother had generally been unhappy for the adventurism and was

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never appreciative of his courage. “The sin always speaks louder

than its might to make the evilness look magnified, whereas the

virtue is mostly dumb, by choice, to keep itself wrapped in

humbleness” granny herself had once stated. No action of hers

had ever heard or seemed louder, it was true, but then she was

neither the dumb kind of woman. She did not do much, but would

often intervene, as if finding fault. She did not speak much, but

would often grumble, as if criticizing. Apparently, like most of

the people on earth, as she had told, she too did not deserve to

move, up or down, and had thus remained in the middle,

somewhere, in some new life.

But to my consternation, I had seen granny, after her death, being

buried in a deep pit under many layers of the earth. “ She is not

sinful,” I had cried, wanting the gathered crowed to realize that

perhaps they were making a mistake. They had looked back at

me, as if in surprise, in anger, in disbelief, for sinfully urging

them to undo what they were supposed to do virtuously. “No, she

is not sinful” an elderly man, interrupting weak cries of the

protest of a child, had however agreed. “No one is sinful in this

world. Yet we live with sins, life long, sins of God, if not our

own” he had remarked. I did not understand a bit, but other

assembled could have, as they continued with their business of

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burying granny in the deep pit, from where the path could have

led only to the worlds down under and not upward in the sky, I

was sure.

“Who knows?” mother was as oblivious as I had been. What the

elderly man had said did not make sense. Granny was not sinful,

he had agreed, yet she was buried under the earth, apparently to

move down to one of the lower worlds. Sins of God, if these

really were, as the man had said, were not of old woman’s

making, whereas, He remained housed in the upper most world,

making granny accountable for His deeds. I recalled the last story

that granny had said, in which the king, to save his kin from the

demonic wrath, had offered his subjects to the monster as his

meal. “The king is a representative of God on earth.” So the

people of his kingdom had agreed to the proposal, in obedience to

the decree of the king and through him to the will of God. If the

elderly man was to be believed, likewise, the God had presently

willed granny to own up for His sins. “Or perhaps, virtue or evil

lies in the powerfulness of a person, or of God for that matter,

more than deeds.”

“Perhaps, despair is the biggest sin we live up with always”

mother had continued, after a short while, as if suddenly

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remembering the forgotten, “which is no less demonic than old

woman’s stories that, like her evil characters, has the will and

strength to destroy, but the seldom winning magic of small

wishful-ness keeps a person fighting the monster, keeping itself

alive in hopelessness of a hope, till the time it loses its patience

and the person finally meets his end.” “Is the despair God made?”

again referring the elderly man, I had asked. Mother did not

know. But she did not agree with the man either, saying that

people sometimes imagine things, which are not always true.

Perhaps, she was being faithfully loyal, like her goats, absolving

the Lord of insinuating criticism.

Mother then, apparently lost in her reveries, was, absent-

mindedly but affectionately, tending a small goat. I had felt

jealous of the animal and angry with the woman at the same time,

and had wanted to pick up the thin flexible stick lying in a corner

to beat the goat away from the caring hands. Granny was no more

around to admonish, to voice her concern for the hurting of the

animal. But before I would dare, the animal had read my mind, it

seemed, as it started bleating instantly, as if complaining of the

impending danger. Mother too could have known my intentions

and she too could have understood true meaning of cries that now

ranted the air, as she suddenly, as if taken by a fear, enfolded the

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goat dearly in her embrace, protecting it against human onslaught

if there were to be any. “She is only a child” she had said, to

reprove me for my impure thoughts, perhaps, or to comfort the

animal of her misgivings, to reassure her of safety.

I too was only a child I had wanted to cry in despair, craving for

the tending touch. I too needed an affectionate embrace I had

wanted to complain. But espousing the feeling of jealousy by

emulating the animal was below the dignity of a human that I am

and hence was beyond my egoistic self. It would have looked

derogatory in substance, inferior in status, giving the goat

satisfaction of being the preferred one. “Mama, the animal is

dirty” trying to remember the last time mother had held me thus,

and perhaps subconsciously endeavoring to humiliate the goat, I

had said. Both, mother and the animal did not hear me, it seemed,

or they simply wished to ignore my observation. Mother though

responded after a long while, but the response when it finally

came, was not much encouraging either. “Not more dirty than the

man is” she had said, making me feel humiliated instead. But I

was a girl, not a man, I had reasoned, and mother too could have

realized absurdity of her comments, which she had falsely made

without considering human nature to bath regularly as against the

animal’s to play in dirt, as she drew me to her as well with her

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free left hand and held me as close as she was holding the goat

with the other, as if the two of us were one of a kind.

Nothing much had changed over the years, but as the time

progressed my relations with the herd of goats had undergone

few changes during the period. Earlier when mother would take

me along for the animal’s grazing spree to the vast uninhibited

green tracks between the village and the long fence, about a

kilometer in the south, we, me and the animals, used to play

together for long hours. I would run after one or the other, and

the goat playfully escaping till I would finally reach it. I would

often imitate bleating of the goats and, perhaps, they too had tried

to imitate their playmate in their bleating, it had seemed so,

though I was never very sure. By the time we would return back

after the fall of evening, harmonious playfulness of few hours

would have made us feel still closer to each other, me a little

more like a goat and the goats a little more like me, with each

passing day. But out door sojourns had then come to an abrupt

end. “There are reports of non believers from across the fence

planning to attack the village” mother had told having heard from

the security men who were guarding the long track along the

barbed wire divider, and the only narrow gateway, an iron bridge,

connecting north to the south. The attack would mean people

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being killed and the animals being stolen, it was feared. While a

few others, as an alternative, had started taking their animals to

the slopes in the northern-western hilly terrain, mother, fearing of

loss if the attackers would, somehow, reach the other side of the

village, had confined the animals to the small enclosure inside the

house, and instead would bring the grass from afar, daily, for

their grazing. “Is the non-believer a demon?” I had asked granny,

comparing the two for similarities as both were stated to attack

villages to kill people. “Perhaps” she had replied, seemingly

uncertain, but I knew for sure that they were demons, who lived

somewhere deep down in the river beyond the fence, or under the

earth where it ends, somewhere across the river, and were held at

bay by the magical prowess of all those gun trotting security

personnel whom I had often seen from a distance, when I

accompanied mother and the animals to the vast open green

fields.

Once playing out with them was no more possible because of the

fear of attack of the non-believers, affinity with the goats had

steadily lessened. I would now prefer talking to granny or playing

out with my two friends, the cousins, to the company of animals.

But mother’s routine had remained unchanged, she looking after

the needs and comforts of animals more than that of her daughter.

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Her apparent preference of the goats with whom she remained

engaged during most of her time soon started generating a feeling

of uncomfortable animosity, which would occasionally prompt

me to swear enmity towards the four-limbed animals, who I

thought were primarily responsible for the un-motherly behavior.

“After-all, they remain the animals that they always are and will

not understand a human feeling” one of my friends had said when

I complained of the discretion. Alienation thus was complete and

I had known for the first time that we were different, they the

animals that they always are who knew nothing of human

relationships, as the friend had said, and I a human that I am, who

was disturbed of the emotional trespass, and of the feelings of

neglect.

“The poor creatures look up at you expectantly” mother had once

said, seemingly unhappy at the attitude of resultant indifference.

Pleased at the psychological victory, and uncaring for the veiled

advice of the elder, I had, that evening, moved about amongst the

goats quite longer than usual, not to make up for the old times

sake, but looking for traces of hurt similar to which I had

experienced since, and to rejoice in the retaliatory

revengefulness. If they were hurt it did not show and the air of

expectancy, if it was really so, was hardly the kind of repentance

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I could have expected. Rather, their gleeful had bleating heard

more like a celebration, as if the animals were boasting of their

privileged status, and the apparent mocking had seemed all the

more derogatory when seeing mother returning from outside,

they, in a group, had instantly diverted their attention from me to

her. Frustrated of the attitude of cold indifference, I had then

looked up at mother, and at the animals, expectantly, as if in

despair.

“Despair is the self acquired will of the weak who knows not how

to confront the aggressions of life” said brother, when I

confronted him to what mother had stated the other day, wishing

to know if he could fight the sinful monstrousness that the

despair was said to be, as well. His visits back to the village, of

late, because of the ill-mannered relationship, had become more

erratic and conspicuously shorter. But visit he would, still

occasionally though, unlike granny’s son, who was said to have

never headed back once he had left years ago. Mother, however,

was a changed woman, as she would no more confront him to her

objections, or to her displeasure, absolving him in the process, of

explanations that he had never been happy with, that he had never

been comfortable at. Stoic silence, thus, helped maintenance of

peace and he did not leave hungry again, ever, but the uneasy

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calm that then prevailed had always been as false as the

falsehood of apparent motherly unconcern, as the storm would

soon strike the coastlines of her eyelids once the son had stepped

out to move away again. “Mama, he did not leave hungry”

recalling that fateful evening when mother had thrown away the

cooked food, I had once tried to reason with her, with her tears.

“But it is the hunger of his misconceived mind that I fear of

more” without being descriptive, she had then responded, dry

looking droplets turning into a steady torrent.

“But despair is the biggest sin we live in” remembering mother

ad-verbatim, I had objected, sounding intelligent, surprised at the

same time, as to why someone, how weak he could have been,

would will to nurture a will that heard so negative in substance,

sinful or not. I had wished to ask him next of the hunger of his

misconceived mind, as mother had put it, but the jugglery of his

response that would usually make difficult hearing phrases all the

more difficult to understand prompted me to keep the fresh

inquisition on hold, at least until later. He had taken a deep sigh,

a sigh of frustrating contempt, it seemed, or perhaps a sigh of

helplessness. “Despair becomes sinful only when we lose interest

to be happy, when wishful-ness to fight the monster of despair

turns to satirical complaining, assigning motives for all what we

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do to others, when the false sense of helplessness overbearingly

inactivates the magic of a hope to win” he had preached, perhaps

being critical of the notion of despair as such, or of mother, who

he somehow knew to be the propagandist of the notion of despair.

Soon brother left with a few of his friends who had joined him,

minutes before, en-route to their next destination, for their new

adventure, he had said, leaving behind a plethora of unanswered

queries and un-cleared doubts. They, the mother and him were at

variance, it was apparent, but which one of the two was true.

“Truth is a lusterless will of God to which we add colors

according to our preference” granny had once revealed.

Abnormal reactions, thus, be it mother’s undue concern, or the

arrogance of brother’s misconceived ideas, whatever these were,

and even granny’s satirical grumbling when she was alive, were

colorful human additions to the celestial disposal. But colors are

often falsely reflected through the eyes of the beholder because of

prevailing haziness, or sometimes brightness of an object casts its

shadow on the less bright in the near proximity, I had heard. Who

then is responsible for the distorted version of truth, the God or

the man? Granny had never told. We live with God’s sin, the

elderly man on granny’s death had stated. God’s representative,

that the king is, had not acted godly in the story. The belief that

man is as sinful as he is virtuous was, thus, not only all pervasive,

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it seemed to have authorization from not less than the authority of

God himself, rather it seemed to connote to the divine character,

and to the celestial behavior, as well.

“Perhaps, the animal is more godly than all others, the God, the

king, and the man” one of my friends, hearing me grumble, had

suggested. But I was not convinced. She seemed to have simply

considered my objections to each of the three and unjustifiably

opined in favor of the fourth. Logically, the animal is a lowly

creature, I had known for sure, and my experience with goats had

not been any better. “Animals are good only to be sacrificed”

referring to the big day, I had countered, scornfully, and had

added, “that too to ward off sins of their masters, the humans.”

Not much had transpired between mother and brother for long,

but the eerie silence had then seemed more acrimonious than the

usual unpleasantness that would otherwise prevail on every

previous occasion when brother would visit back. Considering

mother’s affectionate tending of goats, I had wished to ask him as

to why did she behave so differently with him, when the knock

on the door had announced the arrival of his friends and he was

gone in no time. My inquisition into the mystery of their hostile

relationship had remained unattended. “Something is better left

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unsaid” mother had earlier avoided me. I wondered if brother

would have spoken on the matter had he not left immediately.

But speak he did, unasked though, staying for a minute longer

before leaving, voice keeping low lest mother would overhear.

“Take care of the old lady, she needs you,” he had said.

His parting words had rung in my ears for hours, loudly sounding

that, after-all, all was not yet lost in their relationship. Mother-

son divide, how far apart it could have seemed, had a meeting

point somewhere, in his well meaning concern and in the oceanic

depth of her eyes that would often overflow, thinking of him, I

was sure. Concern of one for the other is not necessarily

displayed in the harmonious looking disposal of relationship, I

had then known. In acrimony they cared for each other as much.

Did she love him, I had impulsively asked, after brother was

gone, interrupting the flow of her thoughts whatever these were,

if not of her tears that rather gathered momentum during the

entire course of her long stare that seemed to ask back the

purpose of questioning the sacredness of so intense a sadness.

“Why do you ask?” she had asked after a long while, looking

straight into my eyes, as if reading the unwritten, comprehending

the unknown. Tempted to compare the ill-mannered reactionary

behavior with which I had often seen her dealing with the son to

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that of her caring attention to the animals, I had, however, kept

silent. Brother’s parting words did make a difference. He had

been aware if not me that the enmity, if at all it was so, was

benign in intent. “Love, or the desire for it, is fundamental to all

relationships, be it a relationship of disharmony” not getting a

reply mother had finally muttered, affirming, but including in her

short statement her love for the animals as well, it seemed, and

perhaps her love for me too. If hope sustains even in

hopelessness, love survives even in loveless-ness, she could have

meant.

Brother’s philanthropic advice to take care of the woman

notwithstanding, mother’s need for me had remained oblique, as

usual, restricted to keeping watch over the small herd of goats,

during nights and for a short while during day when she would be

out attending to some other work or bringing grass from

mountain slopes. But even the need to guard the animals had

been squarely meaningless, as on all such occasions I would

invariably be locked inside the house, along with goats. “People

steal children too, these days” mother would often say, locking

me up. But did she really fear of her daughter being stolen, or it

was lack of confidence in the daughter to guard her valuables, as

there was never a report of stealing of a child. And she had never

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refrained me from playing out, otherwise, when she was at home.

Mother never trusted in my astuteness in buying small quantity of

groceries from the village shop, as the shopkeeper was known for

weighing less, and she would not allow me to measure goat milk,

because she feared that I might use the bigger can or might count

two for three. Small leakages drain the river, she had believed,

and hers was only a small pot, a very small pot.

Despite it being one big inter related cluster that the people of the

village were said to be through a number of cross relationships,

need of one for the other was necessarily restricted to the basics,

for mere subsistence. Feeling of despair, thus, was compulsively

all pervasive, all apparently being too weak to fight the

aggressions of life, as brother had put it, and the few, like brother,

who did not subscribe to this sinful life disposal, lived fighting as

much the demonic aggressions as their own people, who like

mother, always worried if they would ever win, or if the fight was

ever worthy of the meaning that they were fighting for.

“Desire to win is the first step towards defeat” mother had finally

said, responding to my continuous nagging, after she had stopped

crying. Why were she not happy with brother fighting the

demons, the non-believers, I had asked, inviting her attention to

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magicians of granny’s stories, who being the saviors were

respected and honored by their people. Mother, however, was not

impressed. “He, who practices magic for the arrogance of a

belief, lives in falsehood that rather condemns him to be a

destroyer himself, not less demonic than the monster on prowl”

she had remarked, adding further that it is only the truthfulness of

a cause that commands ultimate honor.

“Who decides if the cause is truthful?” I was perplexed,

wondering at her apparent distrust in brother’s intelligence to

differentiate between the good and the bad, between truthfulness

or falsehood of his actions, suggesting, at the same time, that

perhaps, it must be the God himself, who, as granny had told,

weighs virtues and sins of the man, post-death, or they were the

learned, through different codes, codes of morality, codes of

legality, and the codes of faith. Thinking it over, mother had,

however, disagreed. “The God and the learned work in tandem,

remaining insensitive to smaller truths concerning the weak, in

preference to larger truth as they call it, which otherwise is

relevant only in an atmosphere of selfless equity. Truthfulness of

a cause thus needs to be decided by the recipient, the affected

positively or negatively, and not by mere intentions of the

perpetrators who, more often than not, act out of arrogant beliefs

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of righteousness, codes, which are interpreted differently to suit

these intentions, remaining blind, as these always are, to the

needs of the truth, and, of course, of the weak.”

I had doubted if, in absence of the brave volunteering to act the

saviors, the hapless and the weak would ever unite to fight for a

cause if the demon were to attack the village. Perhaps, each one

would worry more for one’s goat, for one’s sheep, for his shop,

for her hen, for a couple of eggs, or for half a bucket of milk.

Like granny’s stories, there was no king in the village to look up

to for support, or to act as a unifying pivotal point. But had there

been a king, perhaps he too, being hapless against the might of

the monster, would have worried more for the safety and honor of

his kin, the princess. Sacredness of a cause to fight for, thus,

seemed to differ with different people, including the king,

primarily for mere subsistence, and perhaps even with God, for

His existence, who created demon for the people to ultimately

fall back upon Him to atone for their defeat. If the king had

sacrificed his subjects to ward of the monster, people of the

village, despite being the hapless wretched that they considered

themselves to be, did not act less kingly. They were kings in their

own right and in their own domain, exercising absolute divine

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authority over the less fortunate, the animals, sacrificing the

mute, in turn, to atone for their sins and to atone for their defeats.

Sacrifice day, each year, had been a big event, a day of

extravagant celebrations, despite prevailing miseries and despite

the life of paucities. People, not willing to derelict in their pious

duty, would wait for the day, for months, saving a little from their

suppressed needs, over the period. “Lord wills His man to

sacrifice an animal, at least once a year, to prove his devotion”

mother had told. “Why the animal?” unknowingly, I had asked.

She had gone red in face, with anger of course, for the disbelief,

how innocent it could have been. “How otherwise can one attend

to the divine call?” vehement in her stance, she had scolded,

apparently concluding that there was no other right way. Perhaps,

I was being childishly naïve not to understand that the man could

not sacrifice self, time and again, every year, to please the Lord.

“Does not the animal have a right to devotion?” I did wish to ask,

but fearing of further back-leash had not. “Perhaps, animal’s

devotion lies in the will of man, its master, as man’s devotion lies

in the will of his master, the Lord” I had surmised. But unlike the

man the animal never attempted to find a scapegoat to prove its

devotion.

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“Sacrifice is a sacred ritual that guards the man against his vices”

midway narration of one of her stories granny had once told. But

she had then qualified the sacrifice to include in the ritual

sacrifice of the vice itself, or of a long-lived personal comfort of

the man, or of some dear one, including one’s own-self, willing

to be sacrificed for the pleasure of the Lord. Understandably, the

animal had been found to be the most convenient and willing

partner, as it never learnt to pronounce its unwillingness, vocally

at least, even if it were so.

Mother would look after physical and psychological needs of her

goats, rearing the animals as if they were her children, only to sell

them off on the sacrifice day. “They fetch good price as

bargaining on the auspicious day is considered inauspicious”

making good economic sense she would say. If granny, who once

had felt hurt at the caning of a goat, ever objected, I did not hear.

Mother, the believer that she was, however, never made offering

to the Lord on her own account. “Rearing goats for the purpose

of sacrifice is good enough an atonement” I had once heard her

reasoning thus. And she reared them well, year after year, caring

for their health, maintaining that to atone for man’s sins and his

vices, the sacrificial goat must be free of any disease or of any

vice of its own.

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But I knew that she was not speaking the truth, despite self

proclaimed virtuousness of rearing goats for the sacrifice day, as

she had always been hesitant to sell off last of the animals,

waiting until the very last to make up her mind. If her lucidly

expectant eyes were an indication, every year on the sacrifice

day, she would eagerly await for her son’s return, perhaps, to

commemorate festivities, with him making an offering to the

Almighty. But, as usual, he would always play truant, remaining

allusive to her expectations, hopefully keeping engaged in his on

going war with the monster.

Recurring sacrificial offerings that people made to please the

God, over the years, on the pious day, coupled with brother’s

sustained and unending fight against the authority of the non-

believers, had kept the village saved, until the present, from the

demonic wrath. But God’s grace seemed to have finally got

undermined at the hands of a demon surviving from granny’s last

story. Brother and his friends too could have failed to stand up to

the might of evil. Momentarily I had feared for his well being,

fearing that he could have died fighting the monster. I wished that

granny had taught him the magical tricks. But on second thought

I did realize that perhaps it was less for the lack of magical

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prowess on the part of persons fighting and the sudden attack was

more a result of divine displeasure, because of mother’s failure to

invoke godly grace by extending false excuses, year after year, to

save on the sacrificial goat.

Whatever the reason, the demon had struck and it had struck big,

destroying all that fell his way. He had come and was instantly

gone unseen, but uneasy pulsing of earth’s heart beat, perhaps

frightened of the severity of the sudden attack, could still be

occasionally felt.

Of late, I had learned from brother, who confessed, during one of

his periodic visits, a few days back, that we did have a father,

who was being held captive, for years, somewhere across the

long fence. So mother, after-all, was not wrong in her assessment

in describing the man. So grand-ma’s reluctance in the matter had

been purposeful. The son, husband to her daughter-in-law and

father to her granddaughter, was a monster, just like the monster

of her stories. Or perhaps he was one from one of her stories who

could have strayed into some unknown land and was captured

and encaged by the more powerful, the magicians from across the

long fence.

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But the demon of her stories was factually invincible, I believed,

had never died, as far as I could recollect. Captured in one he

would suddenly reappear in the very next, as relentless as he ever

had been. Captivity of seven locks would not hold the monster

for long, I had long learned. Perhaps it could have been father

who was back to invade the village, I thus presumed. Evil sees no

relationship, granny had once said, narrating a story of a snake

turned monster, who wanted to devour all the hundred of its

newly born off-spring. Ostensibly to play good, he had come out

with an excuse, a demonic plan, circling a big circle around the

small, minute old reptiles, advising them to crawl out by the time

he would count three. Failing, he had eaten them up all,

swallowing one after the other, justifying monstrosity to their

weakness.

Father’s invasion of the village, if it was him and not the demon

surviving from granny’s last narration, could have been

purposeful. He must have wished to test strength of his people, as

failure to move out of the circle of imminent threat, in time, was

a weakness he would not have liked to be associated with. Being

conscious, from the old woman’s stories, of the demonic danger,

had I not squeezed myself into a corner along the outer wall, I

would have been buried deep under a heap of debris, as the roof

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of the house had come crashing down, with a loud thud. But

others were not so lucky. An agonizing feeble cry of despair,

coming from inside of the house, awakened me from the

prevailing nothingness that had instantly gripped my senses,

minutes before. It had to be mother, I was sure. There was no one

else inside. Bruised that I were from the flying brick splinters

wished to rush to her rescue, extricate her from under the piles of

dirt under which she would be buried, I presumed, nurse her of

her hurt, but the small passage leading to the inner room, where

mother had been resting, was blocked by boulder-like

accumulations. I heard the goats bleating, two goats, one after the

other, if I heard them right. Unable to reach mother because of

the impediments that were beyond my physical capacity, I had

wished to ignore the animals and their bleating. But the repeat

plea of mercy, this time only one, which heard quite weak,

unnerved me to instantly overrule the feeling of animosity that I

still carried from the bygone days. Displacing broken bricks that I

could, when I finally made up to the three steps, all the animals

were dead, the tattered jute curtain that had separated me from

them, covering the lifeless bodies, like a single, one large coffin

cloth. Lifting the curtain from a corner, I saw them for a while.

They seemed peacefully contended in their long sleep, without a

trace of arrogance of being the preferred, or sans the fear of being

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the sacrificial animals. Even the despair, of minutes before, of

being the grief stricken, agonizing cries of which I had heard at a

distance, was not visible any more. Death had, perhaps, liberated

them from the vice of being animals.

But, contrarily, to be lifeless or the living, the man or the animal,

is not a vice in itself, I had heard granny say, as all, the lifeless

and the living, the man and the animal, appear, whenever and

wherever they do appear, for a purpose. She had then not dwelled

further, perhaps purposely, on the theory of purpose, or on the

theory of vice, but I had understood these to be the distortions,

one of the creator to propose such that would invariably lead to a

situation of opposition, and the other of the creation, to oppose

purposely to demonize the purpose willfully, in the process. As

she had long stopped crying, mother would be dead likewise, I

assumed, liberated of the vice of being what she then were, a

deserted wife, an unhappy mother, or a poor woman.

Marks of demonic notoriety were all around, blatantly displayed.

Leaving mother and the goats, I had moved out, away from them,

to seek help perhaps. But there was on other one I could

immediately reach to for the purpose. The demon and the

darkness had acted in tandem, in selecting the time of their

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attack, to render it virtually helpless were it to opt to be

somewhat sympathetic, to insulate it against the magic of

goodness, if there were to be any. Moving from house to house,

and stumbling upon bodies, the dead and the dieing, the man and

the animal, I at last came across the old man I knew from

granny’s funeral. He too had survived unhurt, perhaps aware of

the sinful disposal, in advance. Would he lend me help in

extricating mother and the animals from under the heap of

demolished structures, I had requested. He had looked blank, a

little astonished, as if mine were the most unusual request.

Fearing that perhaps he did not hear me right, I had asked again,

repeating the request, giving details of the scene back home, as I

had seen it, unintentionally withholding the information that the

demon who had struck the village could have, in fact, been my

father. I had not met my sire ever before, but did not wish, sub-

consciously though, to demonetize his worth, whatever it was.

The old man had suddenly got angry, reprimanding me for

speaking loud, considering him to be a deaf, disturbing peaceful

serenity of all those, who having lived with the sin for so long,

now lied sleeping, mindless and soulless, finally immune of the

curse. He did not say, unlike the other time, as to whose sins the

dead had been living with before. Perhaps, there was no need to.

As they say, all is well that ends well.

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The man had gone insane it seemed, for the loss that he could

have suffered. I pitied him, wondering if he would seek help to

retrieve his dear ones for burying them in pits dug deep for the

purpose, like the one I had seen granny being laid into. Perhaps,

he had read my mind, my inquisition, as I heard him shout, “Oh

Lord! You are merciful, saving the old man the trouble of

carrying them to the grave.” I knew then that he had no intention

to retrieve the dead, whosoever they were buried under the rubble

of demolished structures. Perhaps, there was no need to. As I

heard him, God had already disposed of his will, true to the

rituals that he would have considered worthy of the departed

soul.

Suddenly weary of the commotion, I thought of my two friends,

the cousins. Only previous evening, we had been playing out

when I was called back by mother for some urgent errand.

Disgruntled, I had left, extracting a promise from the other two

that next day we would continue the game from where we were

then leaving. While the elder friend, being considerate to my

winning position, had readily agreed, the younger, true to her

nature to oppose, had differed, mocking, “Only if we play the

game ever again.” Perhaps, she could have meant that games are

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won or lost in one go and not in pieces, as the rules of the game

might undergo a change, in the interim. I felt sad, less for the

probable loss of the company of my two friends, whom I now

presumed dead, but more for the lost opportunity of winning a

game, first after a number of consecutive defeats over many days.

She was indeed cunningly intelligent, the younger friend I mean,

who had prophesied the previous evening that we might not play

again to complete the abandoned game, always finding a way out

of difficult situations, squaring defeat into a draw, perhaps, a

boon for the costly offerings that her father made, each year, on

the sacrifice day that she had often boasted of.

Being no more interested in seeking help to extricate mother from

under the mountain like heap of rubble, I wandered aimlessly for

sometime, looking for a light in some house to ward of the fright

of darkness. There was none. Suddenly, I remembered granny

narrating that the demon, un-captured, would stay put in the

village, seeking his food, till the last of the humans and of the

animals survived. Perhaps, he was still there, somewhere, hiding,

bidding for time, to claim his meal next. Demons have strong

smelling power, granny had told, they would smell flesh from

afar. I would be the next, I was sure. It was only a matter of time,

perhaps, a few hours or maximum a day, till he would again feel

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hungry. That I was his daughter he would not know, or like the

snake, would find an excuse. There seemed no escape, there was

no magician to conquer the demon, there was no princess to

marry the monster, and the big brother who could fight him off,

was away as always. I recalled brother having told me a few days

back that father was being held captive, for years, on the other

side of the long fence, the land of non-believers, the kafirs.

Perhaps, people there were not monstrous, as I had presumed,

earlier, rather they were magicians with powers capable of

overpowering the demon, capturing him, keeping him encaged.

The demon on prowl presently, if it really was him, would not

dare to go back to the other side, so soon after his release. But

kafirs on the other side, even if not demons were enemies who

would steal our goats, mother had once told having heard from

the guards. Lost in incoherence of abstract thoughts, when and

why a particular instinct had an upper hand, I did not know, but

soon saw my feet, perhaps, free of the control of mind, leading

me across open green fields in the extreme south of the village,

where I once used to play for long hours with the animals,

towards the long fence, to be away from the fear of attack of the

demon, whosoever he was, to cross over to safety of the other

side.

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(part 3)

AND THEY MEET

I was uncomfortably reluctant when I was first drawn on the

imaginative panel of man’s mind, less for the inevitable pains of

engraving but more for the motive behind, which I knew was as

impure as the impurity of sacredness of a cause that otherwise is

self serving. From the mind I had come to get extended onto

human heart and ultimately onto the earth crust, dividing it into

two different spheres of controls, I being asked to be the watch

dog against one for the other. Mass exodus that than followed

from one end to the other had been unnerving, I was mercilessly

trampled upon, was bathed in red, and as a reprimand for being

witness to the sins, was accused of monstrosity. I recall having

asked the travelers, who looking similar in their physical

contours, had then reeked of different bloods and of different

hues, if it were not they who had cunningly laid me there first to

travel across and then to grudgingly watch me guarding the

arrogance of their incendiary travels. Perhaps they did not hear,

and if they did they wished to ignore, it seemed, or they were in

too much of a hurry to respond to the uncanny. But occasional

fugitive glances that I sometimes got back as response had told

unsaid that I was being unholy asking such, as from what they

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had heard from the keepers of faith, I was perceived to be a

natural and logical part of God’s disposition, of different Gods to

be realistic, necessitated by celestial acrimony, and as such meant

to be there, always, before and after.

It was long-long back, billions of moments before, during which

time I was violated repeatedly, with impunity, was fought for

occasionally, and was cursed at the same time for being the cause

of distress of those who had once traveled across, or of their

descendents who now, years later, faced hostile winds from

across the other side. But I had withstood travesties of time, if not

of my own volition, stirred by the aroma of the powerful and the

un-holistic rhetoric of the holy, remaining a mute and lifeless

spectator to the unkind disposal of the living. I had heard people

talk of kafirs, the non-believers, on the one side, and I had heard

people talk of ultras, the terrorists on the other side, as if I was

the dividing factor between two different infirmities of mind, as

if I, being the line of control, was in control and thus responsible

for different sets of the ideology of man.

But it were they who controlled me instead, keeping me

immobilized, perpetually, my unwillingness notwithstanding,

each side daring the other, always. I had suffered at their hands,

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emotionally and physically, living with the aggression and the

falsehood, staying put and hoping for better days to come, when

they would again deal with one another as a man to man, and not

as a kafir to the terrorist, or a terrorist to the kafir, when they

would deal with me as a keeper of harmony and not that of

enmity, if at all I would still be needed to be there.

Tremors of the earthquake were far more intense physically than

the psychological tremors of man’s hatred that I had been

experiencing for so long. These shook me from the inside of my

core. Coming at the dead of no moon night, I could not find

immediate answer to the unexpected upheaval. It could not be the

man, I was sure, as the man, with all the aggression and

falsehood at his command, was too weak to tremble earth. It must

be the God of people from one side, I had thought, God of the

terrorists to terrorize kafirs, or the God of kafirs to take revenge

on the terrorists. I saw around on both the sides, to confirm, but

what I saw was unbelievably frightening, almost sickening. As

far as I could see, it was devastation, on either side, as if some

force inimical to both, the kafirs and the terrorists, had struck big,

to annihilate the adversaries, as if Gods of both the sides, the God

of the kafirs and the God of the terrorists had come face to face,

in a war that lasted few moments, leaving its foot prints for

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generations to learn from. People lied dead and houses

demolished. Nearby, the security personnel, posted along my

length on either side to guard me, and my sanctity, were in no

better position, now buried under the debris of towers they were

earlier stationed upon, or of bunkers they were earlier hiding in.

Far off, the big river had got breached, water gushing out,

inundating more and more areas with each passing moment,

drowning the man and the material, the dead and the living.

It was then that I saw them, the child and the old man, the child

barely of seven it seemed in the north, and the man who looked

much beyond age in the south, one quite younger to find her way

right, and the other too old to tread upon an unknown new path.

But they had already set in, leaving their shadows behind,

defying the darkness of the no moon night and withstanding the

blackness of earth tremors, both heading towards me, perhaps, in

a hurry to reach their unknown posts, wherever these were, to

safety. I was intrigued. Having lived with regular violations by

thousands and thousands of persons from both the sides, over and

over again, sometimes stealthily and sometimes abetted by the

personnel manning my security, the feeling of dreadful anxiety

was quite new. But then I had always known their motives and

their intentions before, which never carried conviction of the faith

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or of nationalism that they swore by, in its true spirit, to frighten

a non-entity of the likes of me. Contrarily, intentions of the child

and of the old were beyond scrutiny. They would not mean

hurting me, or my sacredness, I was sure. I saw them with

interest, wishing them well. The child looked frightened, seeing

around time and again, for some support perhaps, or it could have

been the fear of someone following her. She looked back

occasionally, may be thinking of returning back, but deciding

against. The man carried the aroma of madness, of insanity,

smiling in fright, if it was really so, as if fearing the destructive

nature of those moments, but enjoying the destruction. They

stumbled many a times and they hesitated on few occasions, but

continued on their un-destined journeys, till the time they met

each other, in the no man’s land, on the narrow man made iron

bridge that connected north to the south, perhaps, the only

gateway that allowed wind to pass from the land of kafirs to the

land of terrorists, and from the land of terrorists to the land of

kafirs.

Unable to withstand the force of tremors, the bridge had earlier

collapsed, and I had heard the cool night air complain of

discomfort in its blowing, accusing me of being a hindrance, of

pricking it to bleed when it passed through the barbed iron mash.

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I was offended of the accusation, but had kept quite, knowing

well that any attempt to justify my existence would not only be

self defeating, it would invite contempt as well, as the whorls of

the wind, these always being one time travelers, would never be

able to discern the difference between the two, the kafir and the

terrorist.

The bridge which had been under day and night surveillance, for

decades, was now unmanned, the guards manning its security

having perished with its fall, earlier. I saw the child and the old

mad looking man standing at opposite ends, each eyeing the other

with suspicion, hopeful but fearing. Whereas, crossing the broken

bridge, moving along its sharp and uneven edges, in itself was a

difficult proposition, pitch darkness of the black night gave it an

abominable look, which got dreadfully multiplied by the presence

of an alien looking mysterious figure on the opposite side. Yet

they seemed hell bound to ignore the danger. Yet they seemed to

be willing to buy the provocation, whatever it might lead them to.

Returning back now was beyond their senses, more so, because

each of them seemed to believe that the fear of attack of the

demon or of the terrorist was limited to the dividing line, up to

the areas separated by the long fence, erected for the purpose,

beyond which they would walk free of the danger.

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Keeping eyes fixed on the opposite side, and apprehensive of an

act of misdemeanor on the part of the other, they inched forward,

descending down the broken iron bridge, which was now hanging

loose from both the ends in a deep pit in the middle. The pit was

not there when I had seen the bridge last, an evening before. It

seemed that the earth, in its bid to play neutral in the ongoing war

between the mighty two, the kafirs and the terrorists, and as a

measure of utmost precaution, had engineered tremors from its

own core far below this very point, and the pit which would

belong to neither side was a result of the release of its pent up

fury. If it was some neutral God to cause the earth to tremble, He

must have been weary of the long drawn competition, fearful of

the enmity, and as such hiding at a safer equidistant place, much

below the surface. It was ages, it seemed, before they, the child

and the insane, reached the bottom of the hollowness, holding

their breath, passing by one another, crossing the central point of

earth’s division, and moving away from the influence of

monstrousness following each.

Suddenly they turned around, simultaneously, a new fear

gripping them both, fear for the safety of the other one. Each one

had run away from an imminent threat, whereas the other was

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now heading towards it, unknowingly. Each one felt sorry for the

other, for the fate that awaited him or her. It was the child who

spoke first, little stuttering, perhaps because of the earlier

apprehension that still lingered.

“Don’t go ahead, it is dangerous” she advised, reluctantly,

immediately repenting thereafter, for talking to the stranger who

could be the demon she was running from, for all she knew. The

evil monster could impersonate in any form, granny had once

told. But no, the man could not be the evil creature, on second

thought she doubted. The old man looked older, much older,

whereas she had supposed the demon to be younger, much

younger, and the old man looked weak, almost fragile, whereas

she had supposed the demon to be of a strong built with

monstrous proportions.

The old man was taken by surprise. It seemed that the child had

read his mind, had stolen words from his lips, and just repeated

what he had wished to say, perhaps to mock him for his

cowardice, or to frighten a mad man as he had seen children of

his village often do. Despite compelling urge to admonish the

child for her dare, he kept quite. Getting angry with children was

of no use, he knew from experience. They would get more

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mischievous, irritatingly mischievous. Moreover, the child,

whosoever she were, was heading for trouble, out of her

playfulness may be. “But it is you who are playing with danger

instead, crossing over to the other side” he warned back, asking

her the purpose of wandering alone in the dead of a dark night,

leaving the safety and security of parental care, who would

certainly be worried not finding her with them, in the morning.

She wished to ignore his apparent elderly concern, well meaning

it heard though. She wished to ignore his warning, which seemed

to be a deliberate exaggeration to prompt her to return back. She

suddenly thought of her father. Parting with the information of

her father being a demon on prowl that she had escaped from was

most disturbing. The very thought made her feel inferior, made

up of the lesser material, of the lesser God, who, as the old man

on granny’s death had said, sins more for the man to live up with.

The old man presently no more frightened her, rather he looked

as fearful as she were. Of what he was fearful of she did not

know. But she did not want him to suffer fate as she had seen

others in her village suffering. Intentionally withholding identity

of the monster, as she knew it to be, revealed the story of

demonic invasion of the village in the dead of black night, of the

trembling of earth on her side of the fence, of destruction of the

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village, and of the death of villagers, including her mother and

the goats, opining that the demon might still be there for her to

take risk of returning back, and for him to dare cross the bridge to

land on the other side.

Baffled, the man saw at the child foolishly. She had not only read

his mind, she seemed to be aware of the happenings of the night

with precise details. It was unlikely, as far as he seemed to

understand, that the terrorist would harm his own people, would

attack the very side he was said to have come from. Had his son

not been brought up under different faith across the fence, his

village would not have suffered destruction, he had believed. But

the child had looked to be sincere, candidly fearful, truthfully

well meaning. If she were telling the truth, she too, like him, had

survived fatal attack and was running for safety. Perhaps, he was

wrong, he momentarily thought. Perhaps, terrorism is not a

matter of frustration of mind of the faithful, as he had erroneously

believed. Then it must be the evilness of mind of the faithless, as

his servant had preached.

But it was demon across the fence, if he had heard the child right.

Demons, as he understood, were big, horned creatures, the anti-

Gods, who had once lived on earth, thousands of years ago, but

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not any more. The child thus must be a fool talking of demons, or

the people on the other side of the fence still lived in olden days,

the days of demons. Or, alternatively, the terrorists were the

demons of yesteryears, evolving themselves over the period. Not

finding plausible answer to the abstractness of his mind, he

narrated complete sequence of events of the night that he had

been a witness to, on his side of the border, unintentionally

omitting to mention that the terrorist who had attacked the village

was his own son. Perhaps, true to the human nature, he had

subconsciously wished, insanity notwithstanding, to hold others,

not his own kin, responsible for the misfortune.

Long debate to prove the other wrong remained endlessly

inconclusive. However, they both now were alive to the danger of

proceeding ahead on their chosen path, or of returning back to

from where they had come from. Perhaps, the hollowness of the

dividing line on the central point of two different controls, it

being neutral and belonging to neither side, and as such beyond

the reach of the demon or of the terrorist, was the only safe place.

I watched them, thus, peacefully sleeping, for a long time, in the

discomforts of my core, till they were found by the newly arrived

security reinforcements from both the sides, and were taken away

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back towards their respective villages, perhaps, to question them

for their audacity of violating sanctity of the long fence, the line

of control.

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