HANDS OF DEATH

        The Prisoner Number 666, was to be hanged to his death at daybreak tomorrow. When the world would be waking up, Sameer would be put to sleep forever. In a way, Sameer felt relieved; it would be an end to the endless torture of his body and mind, which his captors and solitary confinement had wrecked upon him.

 He welcomed the prospect of a swift death, as it would be a shortcut out of vicious circle of violence, an escape from his terrorist existence.

 Clad in his ill-fitting prison flannels with his serial number sewn on his chest, Sameer sat staring at his bloodied hands and mulled over his past gory life.

 He was barely twenty years old when the militia arrested him. He knew he was a prize catch and his captors had gloated over him bound and trussed up before the popping flashguns of the starved media vultures.

  How swift the transformation had been, from the quiet studious student to a dreaded killer. He had been a harmless boy in small nondescript hill station town; but his straight world had rapidly convulsed and distorted after that glib religious preacher had poured the poison in his head. Radicalized by endless videos and sermons his mind twisted. Then like many others of his age, he had exchanged his soft blue school satchel for a gleaming black gun.

  There was no looking back after that. Murders, arson, loot, rape and bombings had followed in the wake. The exhilaration of playing God, the mad surge of adrenaline, the gripping tension of waiting before an ambush had all driven him to excel in this blood sport. The sheer pleasure of the hunt mattered more to him now, the original cause was reduced to only a convenient excuse for doing so. He felt invincible, indomitable and inevitable like the scythe in the hand of the Grim Reaper.

  He remembered clearly that his schoolteachers had been impressed by his grades and his father hoped that one day he would be an engineer. He thought wryly, that indeed he had become an engineer and deconstructive one at that. Because of his intrinsic intelligence he had soon graduated from a raw rookie killer to a cool dexterous explosive expert; an invaluable component to any terror-mongering outfit.

 Like any hardcore professional he had blotted out of his mind the pain and agony, his bombs caused to their innocent victims. In fact, he felt a sense of pride at his gory hands that could build deadly IEDs or improvised explosive devices. His particular skill set was in high demand across all terror organizations. Indeed, he felt like he was decking up a bride to her wedding when he strapped on a suicide belt fitted with explosives onto a brainwashed volunteer. With time, he graduated to filling up school bags with time bombs and felt no pang in his conscience.

    In the beginning, when Sameer was kept with other lesser inmates, his captors’ torment did not seem to matter. It paled in the silent admiration of his fellow prisoners who were in awe at his indomitable spirit. But since he had been segregated in solitary confinement the Voice in his head had been vexing him. He had many voices in his head. All of them except this small Voice lauded his killing prowess. This small Voice he had managed to smother until now; but now in his lonely cell this voice cornered him. Sometimes this little Voice detached itself from his body and paced the cell floor wringing its hands in despair. Slowly Sameer began to see and feel the pain and hurt he had caused others.

 Now he only wanted out. He wanted this life of mindless violence to end, so that he could make a fresh start again. Be better. Maybe in his next life he could really fulfil his father’s dreams.

 So when the obnoxious judge in the kangaroo court had read out the verdict “…to be hanged by the neck till death”, Sameer had felt awash in the surge of liquid relief soaking his body and mind.

 Now he felt he could escape from that fretful Voice gnawing inside him. On the death row, he was waiting eagerly to die.

 A hail of footsteps stomped outside his cell; he glanced at the square hole in the wall. The black patch of the sky had blanched pink.

It was Time. Dawn was breaking out. The cell door swung open and the bleary-eyed warden stood there.

The warden said, “Sameer, you are to be freed. Your friends have hijacked a plane. They want you back."