Table of Contents
---------------------
Prologue
----------
What started as a mere interest has perhaps consumed an entire month of my creative time. This novella stands dedicated to the triumph of human spirit that continues to inspire generations in selflessly serving humanity without prejudice and preconceived notions. It is a fictional account of graham Staines and his subsequent violent death in orissa.
I wish to thank all my peers who still continue to inspire me and dedicate this short story to the reader who has been and will be my primary motivating reasons to have written it.
Thanks a ton.
The Fire of Prometheus
----------------------------
On a nondescript[1] road that had its fair share of twist and turns, like the convoluted plots of a Sydney Sheldon classic, an Innova(1), which treasured[2] a lone traveler, trudged[3] on, shaking like a autumn leaf , as it resolutely traversed[4] up the incline, much to the discomfiture[5] of the chauffeur[6] ,kicking up a thick trail of dust in its wake which slowly spiraled up like a ladder into the crimson[7] sky.
A high boundary wall rose to the left, overshadowing it, appeared in view. As the distance rapidly melted away, this Hadrian [8] of a wall barbed and electrified and occasionally jeweled with the carcass [9] of a feather-ling [10], bespoke of evil, as if, it guarded the mansions of the evil dictator [11]. Suddenly, almost screeching to halt, the Innova, gently negotiated a demon speed breaker, which had appeared out of nowhere. In that brief time, it had slowed enough, to catch a fleeting image of a magnificent villa, secluded and shut out, to the prying eyes of the public. As strange was the sight, one wondered, why would someone chose to live so far removed from human habitation let alone from a city?. Lost in the musings, finally noticed the chauffeur, straightening his spotless white cap, gilded with insignia of the company that had him in its rolls, nervously glancing into the rear view mirror, trying to catch my eye, as if convinced, of being hopelessly lost in the labyrinthine lanes of the country roads.
Three hours into the expedition, the uneven rustic pathways had literally nibbled away all the enthusiasm, reserved for the trip. My friend had literally begged to show up at his marriage, and damn! I had promised. On my request, Madan had slowly eased his feet on the accelerator and had parked right beneath the shade of the only tree(2) in sight, a good half a km from the nearest village and had slowly hobbled down to it. The red tiled roofs, polka [12] dotted the village's landscape, were ablaze with the last of sun's gory rays.
It had been a long day and with the fast approaching night, wondered if ever we are going to make it in time. Alighting, and making myself comfortable on a dead tree trunk that lay rotting under the shade of the tree, perhaps forgotten to be carried off for firewood, instinctively reached into my breast pocket for that long overdue soothing nicotine fix. Drawing on greedily, extracting all the warmth that can be had, as if warming up to enjoy the cold breeze, leisurely reconnoitered [13] the landscape with narrow silted eyes. The golden, ready to be harvested, rice fields, stretched till eternity. It was an all encompassing sight with many large, irregularly shaped rectangular ponds, brimming with harvested rainwater, reflected the deep azure of the sky.
The stillness of the moment is pregnant with seeds of unseen laughter of children, playing in the village,and you feel as if the hoary voice of time is whispering gently in the ears, the memories of your childhood. With not a soul in sight, save for a lone ox, freed from his yoke, hesitantly walking down the now familiar track and some strange looking scarecrows, one loses the sense of time. A convocation of eagles, re-tracing many concentric ellipsoidal circles in the sky, have slowly drifted away and your eyes now unknowingly follows two distant silhouetted fighter kites, salsaing[14] to the willful tunes conjectured up by the wind, quietly mish mashing the prismatic colors, donned by the sun-setting cloud-lets , as if emulating the bold masterstrokes of an early Monet[15](3).
“Wondrous cool, thou woodland quiet,
Thee a thousand times I greet,
For away from rush & riot,
Ah, thy soothing sounds are sweet,
Dreaming on thy mossy carpet,
Here is rest and peace,
Tis as if, beneath thy shadows,
All my cares & troubles cease”.
The soul stirring song-let by Henry drinker [16], quietly blazed away inside the car. In such serene settings of nature, one gets drawn into the hypnotizing aura of the hour, as if unconsciously surrendering to the surrealistic charms of a reverie, wondering of how different it would have been, had if one been born into and raised up in such ethereal surroundings, where almost nothing changes, the flag poles, the red tilted roofs, the meandering roads, the talk et al...?.
It was quite a while before I woke up from the reverie, noticing the presence of a madan, standing behind, trying to trace the object of my transfixed gaze.
“Isn't it time to get the wheels rolling?' I asked rising from the log, brushing off a couple of dead leaves that had somehow settled in into the warmth of my lap.
Yes Sir!' came in the deferential curt reply.
'Which of the two tracks are we goanna take?' I asked inquiringly.
'Sir, the village folks suggested that we choose the one to the left for the road to the right, shorter of the two, is treacherous and has been washed out during the recent monsoons.' With a slow deliberate effort, marked the diversion of the road with his crooked trigger finger and peered into the eyes perhaps trying to fathom my thoughts.
'Fine, let’s not stop on our way,' I firmly said. 'Do you have anything else to do before we start?.'
'No Sir' replied Madan.
The engines roared to life as we started off in full earnest to reach in time before the festivities got underway.
I had my gaze turned away not to have noticed two heads which had popped up amongst the bushes with my attention preoccupied the prospect of spending another evening in the company of my beloved before I left. In seconds, blushes of bare chested boys (4) were joyfully chasing the car after we had swiveled to the left of the bifurcation. The valley had mysteriously come to life as the news had spread with some clutching the branches of the tall slender trees to restrain their fall. It was as if the entire village had turned up to welcome the return of their long lost prodigal son. Rolling down the glass, I waved back to scores of bright frantically wavering hands as we drove out of sight.
'If I haven't ever visited these parts, did they then mistook me to be somebody else?. The huge turnout of the villagers made me surmise that perhaps He is well known in these parts'. Madan cleared his throat as if trying to signal, that perhaps unknowingly I have been soliloquizing aloud my thoughts cncerning him. With a feigned exasperation, trying to cloak a pique of shame, addressed him with a hint of rough intonation [17] at the edge.
'How come one didn't knew of you being so well known in these parts?.' I asked haltingly.
He remained quiet and I didn't press for an answer and then suddenly he spoke as if hearing my question for the very first time.
'Sir, itza long story.'
'I'm all ears' and stretched my legs, struggling to stifle a yawn.
'Many years ago, I had given up the job of a chauffeur for hire after a close brush with death and had taken to farming. My village then used to be, the last electrified village in the district. It only had street lights which lighted up half of the village and the rest smoldered in darkness. It was rumored, all the funds for the project had already been used up and remaining work would be starting after fresh approvals. It never did. The hamlet had sprung up a century back, rather rehabilitated after the massive famine of 1906. It luxuriously stretched all over the foothills of a hillock with gentle slopes. There used to be this white gentleman from some far away land who used to visit these dark villages quite often that lay ensconced deep inside the recesses of the forest and hadn't attached much importance to the fact that he was also a good qualified doctor. On a unusually hot summer afternoon, this gentleman knocks at my door and requests to be driven urgently to some obscure village. In hindsight, I'm grateful for this chanced opportunity for it had singularly changed the entire course of my life. They say, when you find the passion of your life, you discover a new self. Perhaps I had been in waiting for such a moment in my life and finally, the door had swung wide open. The ensuing five years were the best days of my existence. We scourged many villages that hadn't till then existed on the face of the earth. Whenever we used to visit these God forsaken lands, it was a pleasure savoring the sight of children's radiant faces as they ate out my hand like the pigeons that flocked to my yard. To them, I was a foster father that they never had, born out of wedlock under some strange custom prevalent in those parts. I loved to spoil them with chocolates and jaggery and it swelled my heart with love and pride to have touched the lives of these children of lesser gods which perhaps had been long time coming. From that fateful day, I had felt an all pervading peacefulness that somehow I had managed to have found a place in God's larger scheme of things. On one January night, everything good in my life was clawed away by the talons of destiny.I had then briefly absconded, to save my life. '
We continued in silence on our premeditated road, our monologue disrupted with the arrival of ominous clouds that seethed with anger. Droplets, as large as one fist, pounded the windscreen with a shattering force. Coaxing up the vehicle, Madan cautiously navigated through the meandering pathway, now reduced no wider than a goat’s trail (5). Cloaking the inner turmoil, which he had felt while recounting the events of his past life with a thick veneer of composure, resumed the narration to the only audience who lay luxuriously sprawled on the backseat. Murderous bloodshot eyes stared back when our eyes had briefly met.
'It was a star studded night with many a livid lightning streaking across the sky. An early fog, aglow with the pearly whiteness of moonbeams, enveloped the distant trees as we sat contentedly enjoying our dinner beside a raging bonfire. A few of the nearby brick kiln workers had also joined us for the night,' A hint of sadness suffused his voice as he slowly recounted the rest of the story. ' Of all things I still vividly remember the bright angelic faces of the children, intently staring at the bonfire with the youngest of the two preoccupied with a book trying to trace the URSA Major constellation with his little fore finger held high above his head, and the doctor, as usual, busy trying to tune in his favorite radio station. It was supposed to have been our last night of the fortnight that we had already spent in the village before leaving for Bhubaneswar. The biting cold had us cocooned into the warmth of our tents when all of a sudden a searing pain ripped through my head, hit with the butt of a country made rifle. My entire body was frigid with agony and lay like a paraplegic trembling with intense pain but my eyes saw it all......... as I slowly lost consciousness.' He became silent and his body shook with convulsions of sobs and I averted my gaze away from him. The forceful articulation of the events had me hallucinating [18] a bridge, to have suddenly materialized within the space time matrix that connected with the events as if being committed right before one's very own eyes. The narrative had me in a trance beguiling my sense of reality, for the stories, facts & the proofs that were splashed immediately aftermath the incident had cleverly glossed over the real hard-hitting facts. It wouldn't be farfetched if a section of the state's polity might have had a hand in giving shape to the incident
'Sir, I'm a diabetic, may I with your permission?' pleaded Madan.
My thoughts were in disarray and didn't notice that for quite sometime we had stopped moving.
‘Please be quick?' I replied absentmindedly.
'Ok Sir' and killed the engines before he left.
With a cigarette wedged in-between my fingers, stepped out and inhaled a lungful of fresh air, redolent with odors. The flooded banks of the narrow silvery strip of the road, reflected the moon (6) hitched on the telegraph wires of an bygone era still held aloft on tall weather beaten wooden poles. Such incredible stillness, yet alive with quiet sounds of the night .The countryside was a vast expanse with a few abandoned houses scattered on either side of the road. In such eerie still stillness, sound carries for miles. You hear everything, all the conversations, laughter, arguments, as if you were standing right outside their windows. I look around, noting the distance between me and the nearest occupied house. Is it even real? Or just haunting echoes of the past?
After several hours, after we had started , reached our intended destination. My friend beamed a broad smile on seeing us, pleased that we had finally made it. The ambiance of the place exuded happiness. A colossal Ficus tree canopied [19] the elegantly decorated marquee, festooned (7) with thousands of glittering tiny luminances[20] which casted below tiny penumbric shadows on the lively throng of merrymakers. A familiar mellowed voice accosted me as I stood raising a toast to the newlyweds under the huge tree, 'Sir, did you notice the plaque?'(8) I turned to look at a flickering wick of an oil lamp, shooting off stars as it lit up a deeply engraved bronze plaque embedded into the concrete that encircled the entire trunk of this huge tree. 'The bride was among the first to have been cured of the disease which was once endemic in these parts. I was here the day it was inaugurated. In those days, we often ferried people, disfigured with the disease, in our vehicle and today, I saw many of them being present here, leading normal lives,' and raised his glass signaling me to follow suit. With a deep mystifying voice Madan continued, 'Sir, nothing good in this world ever dies, it lives on, surviving even in the shreds of one’s tattered souls…...' then raised the glass to his parched lips before abruptly walking away. Watching his slowly retreating frame, recalled having once seen him years ago; accosted by a bevy of policemen, couple of weeks after the incident. A flicker of deep sadness still smoldered within his eloquent eyes. Some people's lives seem to flow in a narrative and perhaps his has had many stops and starts. That's what trauma does. It interrupts the plot. One can't process it because it doesn't fit with what came before or afterward. In most of our lives, most of the time, one has a sense of what is to follow for there is a steady narrative, a feeling of 'Lights, camera, action', when the big events are imminent but trauma isn't like that, it just happens, and then life goes on. No one prepares you for it.
Sometime during the festivities had aimlessly wandered off to the edge of a nearby pool. The tranquil waters reflected the dimming stars of the night as I stood gawking at the rapidly mellowing horizon. It is the first of the sun's rays which are the harbinger of change and, like the fire of Prometheus’s; it pierces and uplifts the darkness in our souls and of our lives. Years earlier, as a child, had witnessed the subtle transitioning of night into daylight and had wondered, where had all the angels gone? With the passage of time, a child’s inquisitiveness had metamorphosed into that of a cynic's who no longer scourged the skies for divine messengers.
At the crack of dawn, a cavalcade[21] of cars started off form the village for the long journey back home. Deprived of sleep I had hoped to take a short nap but a recurring thought had kept me awake. After Madan had left , I had stayed back, apperceived[22] , that since ages, these mythic angels have stepped down from the realm of fairy-tales and have lived amongst us as one's brethren,friend and as strangers. Perhaps our senses are more attuned to the rational faculties of the mind rather than to our hearts and sometimes have maligned[23] and negated their existence. History is replete with such instances where the individual, always had to fight against the tribe and sometimes losing out in the end. But even in their death, these fallen angels have sought redemption[24] and humanity will have to pay the price, but the depth of its atonement[25], however, would still be a matter of debate for generations to come.
Epilogue
-----------
From the start it had a mind of its own and I just went with the flow. One could have never planned it. The subject had somehow mysteriously stayed with me all these years and in all this time, never felt compelled to pen it. Somehow, in an incomprehensible manner, it has come to life and have endeavored my level best to keep the narrative as simple as humanely possible for the enlightened reader.
Unlike many lost voices it perhaps deserves to be heard again and I'm hopeful of your liking it.
Earnestly crave for your honest feedback for which I shall forever be indebted to you.
If ,however,my work,in any way,has offended you, I humbly ask for your forgiveness.
Thank You Very Much.
Amen.
Glossary of Superscripts [ ]
--------------------------------
[1] nondescript: of no recognized, definite, or particular type or kind.
[2] treasured :any thing or person greatly valued or highly prized
[3] trudged :Move with difficulty
[4] traversed : Traveled
[5] discomfiture : uncomfortably
[6] chauffeur :Driver
[7] crimson :deep purplish-red.
[8] Hadrian Wall :a wall of defense for the Roman province of Britain, constructed by Hadrian between Solway Firth and
the mouth of the Tyne.
[9] carcass :Dead Body
[10] feather-ling : Bird
[11] evil dictator :Hitler
[12] polka :Pattern of full red circles
[13] reconnoitered : to inspect, observe, or survey.
[14] salsaing : salsa dance
[15] Monet : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Claude_Monet
[16] A Brahms classic set to English lyrics by Henry Drinker.
[17] intonation : the pattern or melody of pitch changes in connected speech, especially the pitch pattern of a
sentence,which distinguishes kinds of sentences or speakers of different language cultures.
[18] Hallucinating : a sensory experience of something that does not exist outside the mind, caused by various
physical and mental disorders, or by reaction to certain toxic substances, and usually manifested as visual or
auditory images.
[19] Canopied :an ornamental, rooflike projection or covering.
[20] Luminances : lichu lights
[21] cavalcade : procession
[22] apperceived : The process of understanding by which newly observed qualities of an object are related to past
experience.
[23] maligned : To make evil, harmful, and often untrue statements about; speak evil of something or somebody.
[24] redemption : the act of To restore the honor, worth, or reputation of someone or somebody.
[25] atonement : compensation for a wrong
References
--------------
.
---------------------
- Prologue
- The Fire of Prometheus
- Epilogue
- Glossary of Superscripts [ ]
- References
Prologue
----------
What started as a mere interest has perhaps consumed an entire month of my creative time. This novella stands dedicated to the triumph of human spirit that continues to inspire generations in selflessly serving humanity without prejudice and preconceived notions. It is a fictional account of graham Staines and his subsequent violent death in orissa.
I wish to thank all my peers who still continue to inspire me and dedicate this short story to the reader who has been and will be my primary motivating reasons to have written it.
Thanks a ton.
The Fire of Prometheus
----------------------------
On a nondescript[1] road that had its fair share of twist and turns, like the convoluted plots of a Sydney Sheldon classic, an Innova(1), which treasured[2] a lone traveler, trudged[3] on, shaking like a autumn leaf , as it resolutely traversed[4] up the incline, much to the discomfiture[5] of the chauffeur[6] ,kicking up a thick trail of dust in its wake which slowly spiraled up like a ladder into the crimson[7] sky.
A high boundary wall rose to the left, overshadowing it, appeared in view. As the distance rapidly melted away, this Hadrian [8] of a wall barbed and electrified and occasionally jeweled with the carcass [9] of a feather-ling [10], bespoke of evil, as if, it guarded the mansions of the evil dictator [11]. Suddenly, almost screeching to halt, the Innova, gently negotiated a demon speed breaker, which had appeared out of nowhere. In that brief time, it had slowed enough, to catch a fleeting image of a magnificent villa, secluded and shut out, to the prying eyes of the public. As strange was the sight, one wondered, why would someone chose to live so far removed from human habitation let alone from a city?. Lost in the musings, finally noticed the chauffeur, straightening his spotless white cap, gilded with insignia of the company that had him in its rolls, nervously glancing into the rear view mirror, trying to catch my eye, as if convinced, of being hopelessly lost in the labyrinthine lanes of the country roads.
Three hours into the expedition, the uneven rustic pathways had literally nibbled away all the enthusiasm, reserved for the trip. My friend had literally begged to show up at his marriage, and damn! I had promised. On my request, Madan had slowly eased his feet on the accelerator and had parked right beneath the shade of the only tree(2) in sight, a good half a km from the nearest village and had slowly hobbled down to it. The red tiled roofs, polka [12] dotted the village's landscape, were ablaze with the last of sun's gory rays.
It had been a long day and with the fast approaching night, wondered if ever we are going to make it in time. Alighting, and making myself comfortable on a dead tree trunk that lay rotting under the shade of the tree, perhaps forgotten to be carried off for firewood, instinctively reached into my breast pocket for that long overdue soothing nicotine fix. Drawing on greedily, extracting all the warmth that can be had, as if warming up to enjoy the cold breeze, leisurely reconnoitered [13] the landscape with narrow silted eyes. The golden, ready to be harvested, rice fields, stretched till eternity. It was an all encompassing sight with many large, irregularly shaped rectangular ponds, brimming with harvested rainwater, reflected the deep azure of the sky.
The stillness of the moment is pregnant with seeds of unseen laughter of children, playing in the village,and you feel as if the hoary voice of time is whispering gently in the ears, the memories of your childhood. With not a soul in sight, save for a lone ox, freed from his yoke, hesitantly walking down the now familiar track and some strange looking scarecrows, one loses the sense of time. A convocation of eagles, re-tracing many concentric ellipsoidal circles in the sky, have slowly drifted away and your eyes now unknowingly follows two distant silhouetted fighter kites, salsaing[14] to the willful tunes conjectured up by the wind, quietly mish mashing the prismatic colors, donned by the sun-setting cloud-lets , as if emulating the bold masterstrokes of an early Monet[15](3).
“Wondrous cool, thou woodland quiet,
Thee a thousand times I greet,
For away from rush & riot,
Ah, thy soothing sounds are sweet,
Dreaming on thy mossy carpet,
Here is rest and peace,
Tis as if, beneath thy shadows,
All my cares & troubles cease”.
The soul stirring song-let by Henry drinker [16], quietly blazed away inside the car. In such serene settings of nature, one gets drawn into the hypnotizing aura of the hour, as if unconsciously surrendering to the surrealistic charms of a reverie, wondering of how different it would have been, had if one been born into and raised up in such ethereal surroundings, where almost nothing changes, the flag poles, the red tilted roofs, the meandering roads, the talk et al...?.
It was quite a while before I woke up from the reverie, noticing the presence of a madan, standing behind, trying to trace the object of my transfixed gaze.
“Isn't it time to get the wheels rolling?' I asked rising from the log, brushing off a couple of dead leaves that had somehow settled in into the warmth of my lap.
Yes Sir!' came in the deferential curt reply.
'Which of the two tracks are we goanna take?' I asked inquiringly.
'Sir, the village folks suggested that we choose the one to the left for the road to the right, shorter of the two, is treacherous and has been washed out during the recent monsoons.' With a slow deliberate effort, marked the diversion of the road with his crooked trigger finger and peered into the eyes perhaps trying to fathom my thoughts.
'Fine, let’s not stop on our way,' I firmly said. 'Do you have anything else to do before we start?.'
'No Sir' replied Madan.
The engines roared to life as we started off in full earnest to reach in time before the festivities got underway.
I had my gaze turned away not to have noticed two heads which had popped up amongst the bushes with my attention preoccupied the prospect of spending another evening in the company of my beloved before I left. In seconds, blushes of bare chested boys (4) were joyfully chasing the car after we had swiveled to the left of the bifurcation. The valley had mysteriously come to life as the news had spread with some clutching the branches of the tall slender trees to restrain their fall. It was as if the entire village had turned up to welcome the return of their long lost prodigal son. Rolling down the glass, I waved back to scores of bright frantically wavering hands as we drove out of sight.
'If I haven't ever visited these parts, did they then mistook me to be somebody else?. The huge turnout of the villagers made me surmise that perhaps He is well known in these parts'. Madan cleared his throat as if trying to signal, that perhaps unknowingly I have been soliloquizing aloud my thoughts cncerning him. With a feigned exasperation, trying to cloak a pique of shame, addressed him with a hint of rough intonation [17] at the edge.
'How come one didn't knew of you being so well known in these parts?.' I asked haltingly.
He remained quiet and I didn't press for an answer and then suddenly he spoke as if hearing my question for the very first time.
'Sir, itza long story.'
'I'm all ears' and stretched my legs, struggling to stifle a yawn.
'Many years ago, I had given up the job of a chauffeur for hire after a close brush with death and had taken to farming. My village then used to be, the last electrified village in the district. It only had street lights which lighted up half of the village and the rest smoldered in darkness. It was rumored, all the funds for the project had already been used up and remaining work would be starting after fresh approvals. It never did. The hamlet had sprung up a century back, rather rehabilitated after the massive famine of 1906. It luxuriously stretched all over the foothills of a hillock with gentle slopes. There used to be this white gentleman from some far away land who used to visit these dark villages quite often that lay ensconced deep inside the recesses of the forest and hadn't attached much importance to the fact that he was also a good qualified doctor. On a unusually hot summer afternoon, this gentleman knocks at my door and requests to be driven urgently to some obscure village. In hindsight, I'm grateful for this chanced opportunity for it had singularly changed the entire course of my life. They say, when you find the passion of your life, you discover a new self. Perhaps I had been in waiting for such a moment in my life and finally, the door had swung wide open. The ensuing five years were the best days of my existence. We scourged many villages that hadn't till then existed on the face of the earth. Whenever we used to visit these God forsaken lands, it was a pleasure savoring the sight of children's radiant faces as they ate out my hand like the pigeons that flocked to my yard. To them, I was a foster father that they never had, born out of wedlock under some strange custom prevalent in those parts. I loved to spoil them with chocolates and jaggery and it swelled my heart with love and pride to have touched the lives of these children of lesser gods which perhaps had been long time coming. From that fateful day, I had felt an all pervading peacefulness that somehow I had managed to have found a place in God's larger scheme of things. On one January night, everything good in my life was clawed away by the talons of destiny.I had then briefly absconded, to save my life. '
We continued in silence on our premeditated road, our monologue disrupted with the arrival of ominous clouds that seethed with anger. Droplets, as large as one fist, pounded the windscreen with a shattering force. Coaxing up the vehicle, Madan cautiously navigated through the meandering pathway, now reduced no wider than a goat’s trail (5). Cloaking the inner turmoil, which he had felt while recounting the events of his past life with a thick veneer of composure, resumed the narration to the only audience who lay luxuriously sprawled on the backseat. Murderous bloodshot eyes stared back when our eyes had briefly met.
'It was a star studded night with many a livid lightning streaking across the sky. An early fog, aglow with the pearly whiteness of moonbeams, enveloped the distant trees as we sat contentedly enjoying our dinner beside a raging bonfire. A few of the nearby brick kiln workers had also joined us for the night,' A hint of sadness suffused his voice as he slowly recounted the rest of the story. ' Of all things I still vividly remember the bright angelic faces of the children, intently staring at the bonfire with the youngest of the two preoccupied with a book trying to trace the URSA Major constellation with his little fore finger held high above his head, and the doctor, as usual, busy trying to tune in his favorite radio station. It was supposed to have been our last night of the fortnight that we had already spent in the village before leaving for Bhubaneswar. The biting cold had us cocooned into the warmth of our tents when all of a sudden a searing pain ripped through my head, hit with the butt of a country made rifle. My entire body was frigid with agony and lay like a paraplegic trembling with intense pain but my eyes saw it all......... as I slowly lost consciousness.' He became silent and his body shook with convulsions of sobs and I averted my gaze away from him. The forceful articulation of the events had me hallucinating [18] a bridge, to have suddenly materialized within the space time matrix that connected with the events as if being committed right before one's very own eyes. The narrative had me in a trance beguiling my sense of reality, for the stories, facts & the proofs that were splashed immediately aftermath the incident had cleverly glossed over the real hard-hitting facts. It wouldn't be farfetched if a section of the state's polity might have had a hand in giving shape to the incident
'Sir, I'm a diabetic, may I with your permission?' pleaded Madan.
My thoughts were in disarray and didn't notice that for quite sometime we had stopped moving.
‘Please be quick?' I replied absentmindedly.
'Ok Sir' and killed the engines before he left.
With a cigarette wedged in-between my fingers, stepped out and inhaled a lungful of fresh air, redolent with odors. The flooded banks of the narrow silvery strip of the road, reflected the moon (6) hitched on the telegraph wires of an bygone era still held aloft on tall weather beaten wooden poles. Such incredible stillness, yet alive with quiet sounds of the night .The countryside was a vast expanse with a few abandoned houses scattered on either side of the road. In such eerie still stillness, sound carries for miles. You hear everything, all the conversations, laughter, arguments, as if you were standing right outside their windows. I look around, noting the distance between me and the nearest occupied house. Is it even real? Or just haunting echoes of the past?
After several hours, after we had started , reached our intended destination. My friend beamed a broad smile on seeing us, pleased that we had finally made it. The ambiance of the place exuded happiness. A colossal Ficus tree canopied [19] the elegantly decorated marquee, festooned (7) with thousands of glittering tiny luminances[20] which casted below tiny penumbric shadows on the lively throng of merrymakers. A familiar mellowed voice accosted me as I stood raising a toast to the newlyweds under the huge tree, 'Sir, did you notice the plaque?'(8) I turned to look at a flickering wick of an oil lamp, shooting off stars as it lit up a deeply engraved bronze plaque embedded into the concrete that encircled the entire trunk of this huge tree. 'The bride was among the first to have been cured of the disease which was once endemic in these parts. I was here the day it was inaugurated. In those days, we often ferried people, disfigured with the disease, in our vehicle and today, I saw many of them being present here, leading normal lives,' and raised his glass signaling me to follow suit. With a deep mystifying voice Madan continued, 'Sir, nothing good in this world ever dies, it lives on, surviving even in the shreds of one’s tattered souls…...' then raised the glass to his parched lips before abruptly walking away. Watching his slowly retreating frame, recalled having once seen him years ago; accosted by a bevy of policemen, couple of weeks after the incident. A flicker of deep sadness still smoldered within his eloquent eyes. Some people's lives seem to flow in a narrative and perhaps his has had many stops and starts. That's what trauma does. It interrupts the plot. One can't process it because it doesn't fit with what came before or afterward. In most of our lives, most of the time, one has a sense of what is to follow for there is a steady narrative, a feeling of 'Lights, camera, action', when the big events are imminent but trauma isn't like that, it just happens, and then life goes on. No one prepares you for it.
Sometime during the festivities had aimlessly wandered off to the edge of a nearby pool. The tranquil waters reflected the dimming stars of the night as I stood gawking at the rapidly mellowing horizon. It is the first of the sun's rays which are the harbinger of change and, like the fire of Prometheus’s; it pierces and uplifts the darkness in our souls and of our lives. Years earlier, as a child, had witnessed the subtle transitioning of night into daylight and had wondered, where had all the angels gone? With the passage of time, a child’s inquisitiveness had metamorphosed into that of a cynic's who no longer scourged the skies for divine messengers.
At the crack of dawn, a cavalcade[21] of cars started off form the village for the long journey back home. Deprived of sleep I had hoped to take a short nap but a recurring thought had kept me awake. After Madan had left , I had stayed back, apperceived[22] , that since ages, these mythic angels have stepped down from the realm of fairy-tales and have lived amongst us as one's brethren,friend and as strangers. Perhaps our senses are more attuned to the rational faculties of the mind rather than to our hearts and sometimes have maligned[23] and negated their existence. History is replete with such instances where the individual, always had to fight against the tribe and sometimes losing out in the end. But even in their death, these fallen angels have sought redemption[24] and humanity will have to pay the price, but the depth of its atonement[25], however, would still be a matter of debate for generations to come.
Epilogue
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From the start it had a mind of its own and I just went with the flow. One could have never planned it. The subject had somehow mysteriously stayed with me all these years and in all this time, never felt compelled to pen it. Somehow, in an incomprehensible manner, it has come to life and have endeavored my level best to keep the narrative as simple as humanely possible for the enlightened reader.
Unlike many lost voices it perhaps deserves to be heard again and I'm hopeful of your liking it.
Earnestly crave for your honest feedback for which I shall forever be indebted to you.
If ,however,my work,in any way,has offended you, I humbly ask for your forgiveness.
Thank You Very Much.
Amen.
Glossary of Superscripts [ ]
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[1] nondescript: of no recognized, definite, or particular type or kind.
[2] treasured :any thing or person greatly valued or highly prized
[3] trudged :Move with difficulty
[4] traversed : Traveled
[5] discomfiture : uncomfortably
[6] chauffeur :Driver
[7] crimson :deep purplish-red.
[8] Hadrian Wall :a wall of defense for the Roman province of Britain, constructed by Hadrian between Solway Firth and
the mouth of the Tyne.
[9] carcass :Dead Body
[10] feather-ling : Bird
[11] evil dictator :Hitler
[12] polka :Pattern of full red circles
[13] reconnoitered : to inspect, observe, or survey.
[14] salsaing : salsa dance
[15] Monet : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Claude_Monet
[16] A Brahms classic set to English lyrics by Henry Drinker.
[17] intonation : the pattern or melody of pitch changes in connected speech, especially the pitch pattern of a
sentence,which distinguishes kinds of sentences or speakers of different language cultures.
[18] Hallucinating : a sensory experience of something that does not exist outside the mind, caused by various
physical and mental disorders, or by reaction to certain toxic substances, and usually manifested as visual or
auditory images.
[19] Canopied :an ornamental, rooflike projection or covering.
[20] Luminances : lichu lights
[21] cavalcade : procession
[22] apperceived : The process of understanding by which newly observed qualities of an object are related to past
experience.
[23] maligned : To make evil, harmful, and often untrue statements about; speak evil of something or somebody.
[24] redemption : the act of To restore the honor, worth, or reputation of someone or somebody.
[25] atonement : compensation for a wrong
References
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- http://www.flickr.com/photos/mtsacprof/5976753529/
- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ehdZWfBT12M
- http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Graham_Staines
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