The night wasn’t silent; the streets weren’t dark. The lights weren’t put off, the owls weren’t hooting. The moon hid behind dark grey clouds as if unable to witness what was happening below. Dogs howled; women and children cried. The earth shook, unable to bear the weight of the stampede above. The wind whooshed past at a frightening speed carrying with it the dust, the flames, and everything else that dared to cross its way. Pandemonium prevailed.
It all started with the sound of footsteps. A group of people, all hooded and armed, galloped across the street. Then came an ear-piercing scream and the sound of wreckage. A house was blasted open and set on fire. Within minutes, chants were heard and someone sobbed loudly. More people, all armed, arrived.
And in the midst of this chaos, beside a heavily paan-stained wall by the street, he lay down. He could hardly move, and yet he tried.
"Help me" he screamed.
But there was too much going on, too much noise. And each man had his own life to take care of.
'Help me" he cried again, his voice now going down a few decibels. He could feel the darkness engulfing him, his life slowly ebbing away.
They moved through the panicked crowd with unusual finesse, cutting across people like a scissors through paper. They were all armed, as if forewarned of the likelihood of something of this sort happening and they were all similarly dressed. One of them spotted him, lying beside the river of blood that now flowed by the street and alerted the rest. They waltzed across the crowd, against the flow of people, and made it to him.
"Baba" said one of them, the moment they reached his side, kneeling by him.
He opened his eyes. There were 6 of them; all wearing grim yet determined faces. He couldn’t smile, but there was the slightest shake of the head.
"Baba, what is your name?"
The question brought him back to his senses. Everything came into focus just then. He stared into those deep-brown eyes that reflected the dancing flames all around, and realised that it was now a matter of life and death. He thought he spotted a streak of greying hair below the hood on the lower parts of the jaw and the cheek and with that much of a pause said,
"Abdul. Abdul Khan"
They immediately rose, eyes showing not any hint of pity for the man through whose stomach was pierced a bloodstained sword. As swift as ever, they turned and merged with the crowd not once looking back at the blood splattered shirt or the almost-still body.
"Bastards", he bellowed after them," the name is Hari Gopal".
But they had gone-- gone too far away and he was left all alone.
It all started with the sound of footsteps. A group of people, all hooded and armed, galloped across the street. Then came an ear-piercing scream and the sound of wreckage. A house was blasted open and set on fire. Within minutes, chants were heard and someone sobbed loudly. More people, all armed, arrived.
And in the midst of this chaos, beside a heavily paan-stained wall by the street, he lay down. He could hardly move, and yet he tried.
"Help me" he screamed.
But there was too much going on, too much noise. And each man had his own life to take care of.
'Help me" he cried again, his voice now going down a few decibels. He could feel the darkness engulfing him, his life slowly ebbing away.
They moved through the panicked crowd with unusual finesse, cutting across people like a scissors through paper. They were all armed, as if forewarned of the likelihood of something of this sort happening and they were all similarly dressed. One of them spotted him, lying beside the river of blood that now flowed by the street and alerted the rest. They waltzed across the crowd, against the flow of people, and made it to him.
"Baba" said one of them, the moment they reached his side, kneeling by him.
He opened his eyes. There were 6 of them; all wearing grim yet determined faces. He couldn’t smile, but there was the slightest shake of the head.
"Baba, what is your name?"
The question brought him back to his senses. Everything came into focus just then. He stared into those deep-brown eyes that reflected the dancing flames all around, and realised that it was now a matter of life and death. He thought he spotted a streak of greying hair below the hood on the lower parts of the jaw and the cheek and with that much of a pause said,
"Abdul. Abdul Khan"
They immediately rose, eyes showing not any hint of pity for the man through whose stomach was pierced a bloodstained sword. As swift as ever, they turned and merged with the crowd not once looking back at the blood splattered shirt or the almost-still body.
"Bastards", he bellowed after them," the name is Hari Gopal".
But they had gone-- gone too far away and he was left all alone.
1 comment:
nanna ediniye...
Post a Comment