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2:30 am, boozed I walk over to the bathroom; suddenly the
night is ripped by a muffled shriek of a child. I regain my consciousness and
come in terms with my thoughts. I hear it again, this time marked by pain. I
look out of the lone bathroom window from the apartment. A man guffaws in the
darkness and in the split of the nightly moment someone is stabbed. The dim street
light and drizzling rain introduces me to the murder’s eyes. I look on, with numbness
and vengeance as I see a child brutally stabbed and cut down to pieces.
I rush into the room in sweat; huffing and breathing noisily
I cover myself in sheets. The drop-lets of water from the dysfunctional air-conditioner
bugged me, it was as if that sound would give away what I saw, and I was the
invisible party to the brutal killing of that child. I fall asleep.
Morning marks its arrival; 5:00 am I look on from the lone
bathroom window again. A mid-age man in white track pants sashays down the
street for his morning walk, snubbing now and then over the drop of muddy water
that make their way to his white track pants from the puddles on way. The three
black dogs seemingly unbothered of the transactions ogle at the passerby from under
that Omfed booth. I see a father and son trying to balance a banana hand over a
rusted cycle.
I breathe slowly and close my eyes no one knows, no one
knows about what happened last night. But, when my eyes travel again I located
a young couple, under the banyan tree pleading vehemently to the local deity. They are cursing, the police, who stands
unmoved and annoyed of their lost sleep.
I see an old man in blue lungi limping out of the dilapidated
railway workshop; with one hand he holds one end of his lungi briefly displaying
a flash of his wrinkled skin as he walks on. He has a stick in another hand,
though he doesn’t use that for support but tries to man oeuvre the traffic that
has just begun. He walked towards the couple, bowing down to touch his slippers
now and then. The old man pacifies the girl I can sense it from above. Yes, he
is pacifying the couple over their loss. It’s the human empathy that is so inevitable.
People not party to your pain can always be there with you to share the pain.
In split of a second, the old man looks towards my bathroom
window and our eyes meet from the far end corner. I am taken aback, it’s him, and
he had the murder’s eyes. I lean on the dampy bathroom wall, for support, walk
out make myself a coffee and liberate the imagery of the murder.
No one knows, no one
knows except the old man, the dead boy and me, it was as if we had built a
silent triangulated relationship in a night’s affair.
