The Power Of Healing

Where no man is a better man,

for a slave of a different breed is yet a slave.

Where the apple of prudence is left to rot,

with the loudest voice blowing the sails of the boat

Where dreams are manicured into a shell of plastic nationalism,

mixing them all till they are all a blacker shade.

Where the cold winds of new freedom blow on a warm nation,

to breathe the clouds that fog the spectacles of clear eyes.

Where the rich will be content and the poor needs to be,

such be the fate of a circus lion who learns to bark.

Where the judgement comes before the judge,

A show that ends with lightning and no audience for thunder.

Where history becomes a lie and lies become history,

For the gentle mind of a child that can be pottered to think in endless ways.

Where the minstrels have lost their jobs for there is no one to sing for,

The heroes are all dead.

It was five in the evening, the sun was beginning to set. The small plants growing near the edge of the pond waved along with the gentle breeze. 

Satish was sitting on the stairs near the pond. He clutched small pebbles in his left hand, staring at a lump of floating water hyacinth for a long time. He got up, took a pebble from his left hand and threw it somewhat parallel to the pond's surface. The pebble jumped twice and then plopped inside the pond, creating ripples. He then threw the rest of pebbles simultaneously in the pond. He sat back down, observing the water hyacinth.

It had been nearly a year now, he visits the pond every other evening. 

Sometimes to forget her. 

Sometimes to be forgotten, to die.

But even to die you have to be selfish; selfish enough to let your five-year-old daughter, wander on the roads as an orphan.

Two days from now is the last hearing of the court case, and chances are the court will dismiss the allegations on the MLA Nikhil Arora in absence of proper evidence and will grant him the freedom to rape another woman and make her life a living hell.

Anish has been forced to change five jobs since the day his wife Piya carried the jarring reminder of Nikhil Arora and a rusted rod inside her. He now whiles his time away as a security guard at a ornaments shop.

Anish closes her mouth with both her hands whenever she has the urge to cough. She stifles her cough and doesn't allow her body to jerk, else a stream of blood will be forced out of her vagina. Mou, her little daughter cried out of fear when she saw the blood one day.

Even Nikhil Aora felt pity for Piya. Had once called Sahil and said he feels for his wife. The rod was never an option if she hadn't resisted. Afterall she was his maid and she ought to follow his orders. 

Since she didn't, he didn't have an option.

It had been a year now. Piya is still on a liquid diet. The medicine costs five thousand every month. Even the money he received after selling his ancestral land is running out.

Among the eyewitnesses, some are puking money while the others who refused are gone.

A green translucent plastic cover flew across him. He was still observing the water hyacinth. The sun was about to set now. Broken orange clouds had filled the sky like the stretch marks on an adolescent skin. Sahil looked at the orange above. He remembered the day when he bought a small pack of sweets home from the school where he worked as a guard. He remembered how Mou devoured the sweets one after another and Piya laughed at the way she ate.

 It was probably the last time she laughed. 

He stood up plucking a weed and cleaned the dust from the back of his pants. He looked at his phone, it was six 'o clock. He crushed the small swollen guava near him and climbed the stairs to head on home.

He opened the aluminum gate of his semi-plastered brick house. He saw Mou holding an HB pencil with his three fingers and engraving some letters slowly on a four-lined English copy. Mou looked at him with her gapped teeth and smiled. He smiled back and went inside to look Piya 

Blood. Blood was all around her. She couldn't resist the urge to cough. She was sitting on the pool of blood staring blankly at Sahil. A drop of tear slithered down her cheek but her face resembled a stone and her eyes, still as a portrait. Sahil took a deep breath. He was shivering inside. He had an unbearable urge to rush and hug Piya tightly, kissing her all over and taking away every bit of her pain. 

He saw the pool of blood. He saw the silver foils of medicines and syringes. He saw the leftover mashed "Doodh-roti" in a bowl near her. He saw her skeletal bones protruding. He saw her loose blood-stained nighty. He saw her stoned face. He saw her tears.

He pushed his hands in his pocket and took out the almirah key. He opened the almirah and took out the long rifle which he used as a guard at the jewellery shop. He closed the almirah and came near Piya He placed the tip of the rifle right at the centre of her forehead between her eyebrows and adjusted his fingers to the trigger. Aarti's face resembled that of a stone. Sahil was shaking beyond control and he wept oceans. He closed his eyes, held his breath and pulled the trigger.

Piya fell like a rag doll in the pool of blood. The birds outside resting on the electric pole fluttered away from the noise. The room sounded nothing but silence. The rifle fell off his hand to the floor with a thud. The bullet had pierced her forehead and made a mark like that of the bindi she kept.

Mou came running to the room. She cried looking at the blood and her mom's face. Sahil pulled her towards him and hugged her tightly with all his might.

"Don't cry beta," he spoke softly,

 "Mumma is finally happy now."

* Things Time Can't Heal *

It’s strange what time can do; how it changes cold December Tuesday mornings from Cartoon Network to psychodynamic therapy, from colourful cereal boxes to bland black coffee, from jumping ingenuously in fuzzy slippers to staring at the ceiling with tired, bloodshot eyes.

How it can take you from playing with mud and climbing trees to sweating in night shifts and hospital visits. 

How it takes your life from a smooth plane take-off to a calamitous crash-landing, shaking your entire existence with the usual vicissitudes of an air crash investigation. 

How it transports you from faith in fortuitous encounters to a galaxy lying at a radius of ten painful years; years you spent learning about love, loss, pain, patience, sacrifice, heartbreak. ⁣

⁣

I know you’ve been taught that time heals everything. But in the deep-rooted, ironclad patches of my heart, I can hear the piercing echo of time, trying hard to unremittingly say: ⁣

⁣

‘Healing’ is a subtle social construct honey, and I will never be able to fill that void.