Prologue
It was on a rather cold evening of January the sixteenth when I went to visit Prakash. He was pleased to see me, or at least he said he was. His living room was a play of shadows that moved eerily in the dim light of the candle that flickered in the cold gusts of wind which blew in through the broken windowpane. Everything else was in the dark for the want of electricity. Prakash lived alone in his giant of a house. He had retired a few years back, though I forget precisely how many. We have known each other for a rather long time, and since Prakash has been in the middle of a most successful career of a lawyer, I remember that if I�ve told Prakash to write a diary, and keep a written record of his experiences once, I�ve told him a hundred times. However my (rather loud) voice had about the same effect on his ears as an ant�s would have on a dragons�. Needless to say, I was rather surprised when my eyes and the flickering candlelight fell on a rather untidy-looking diary. Some of my surprise must have shown on my face, for Prakash said, �Ah, do you want to tear your eyes off, staring at that thing like that?� I didn�t say anything, though I stopped staring at the diary all the same. Prakash fondly picked it up, and gingerly flicked through its pages.
�Just the one entry,� he said, looking at me as if fascinated by my unhandsome face, but it wasn�t me he was addressing � I could see it in his eyes as plainly as I saw the candlelight � he seemed to be talking to thin air, thinking of (probably) the times when he must have made that "one entry". He even granted me permission to read it � and I was longing to.
One
26th May.
�The likes of him,� Inspector Sunil was informing me knowledgably yesterday evening on one of the narrower and duller corridors lined up with cells on each side, �deserve it. They think it�s fun, see?� I would have gladly told him that I�ve spent my entire career trying to find out precisely what "they think", but I didn�t have the heart to wipe out the elated expression on his face, practically bobbling up and down in excitement. �Glad we finally caught hold him, no joke, that � You should be extremely pleased with the neat job we�ve done, nabbing him, shouldn�t you?� �Err � o-of course,� I told him, as though I should�ve got away with saying anything else. Sunil, however, gave no signs of noticing, and went on with a detailed (and rather tiring) description of how they�d managed the �no-joke� affair. It dawned on me that he wanted me there because he was apparently unsuccessful in finding an audience who�d sit through the nth re-telling of the police-criminal-chase epic. I was there because of the excellent excuse that it was to consume an unlimited amount of coffee and such.
However, in the narration of such a saga, there has to always be a time when the narrator has to introduce the listener to is prey. When Sunil�s narrative reached this stage, I saw, in the light that made it�s way into the cell between the bars of the only window that was there, a man, apparently lost in thought. Of course, what thoughts invade the brain when a man has only a few hours of life left, I couldn�t imagine. �It�s a holiday�� I thought sleepily, an excuse I give myself when I�m too tired to think about criminals and their dying wishes� however, when Sunil left (apparently enthusiastically wondering if his family would make a good audience), I was left alone with my last cup of coffee. As I wondered if it�d be a good idea to stay back and have a better look at Sunil�s victim, I heard the rain throwing itself at the windows, as if determined to help me make my mind. I had to force myself to forget about holidays.
It was not long before I was face to face with him. If Sunil�s story is to be trusted, the man whom I was intently gazing at had never hesitated to kill, as if it was a habit he couldn�t get rid of. However, partly because of my own instinct, and partly because of the curiosity he seemed to raise in me, I kept on my feet. If I remember correctly, he had opened the conversation. Amusingly, he assumed I was a journalist, and I did nothing to amend that assumption of his.
�Halo,� he had begun, his voice quite dry, but remotely enthusiastic, �I assume � quite correctly, I�m sure � that you are a journalist?� He paused to look up at me. I nodded assent for all the difference that it could have made. �Ah, I knew. What does a journalist want? Of course, he wants a story,� he told me as a teacher would tell his student that an Eskimo would want warm clothes. After a pause he informed me melodramatically that I shall "have it."
�Of course, all my life, I have never hesitated in depriving people of what they would want most,� he said, a touch of pride in his voice. �I could deprive you of a good story too, but I think I won�t. Can you tell me why?� Before I had a chance of telling him why, he lapsed into hysterical laughter, though I didn�t know why. I was considering running away and leaving him to his happy laughter when he recovered, and continued, �Of course you can�t. Because you don�t know. You don�t know that I am in the need of a good story as much as you are. And you are an excuse � in fact, a most excellent excuse� (I assume that was a compliment) �for a good story. My story.�
He went on with "his story", and I hope I can trust my memory enough to assume that this was more or less what he said and hence made the evening.
Two
�Even though I make little effort to remember it, it will not be easy for me to forget the aftermath of my first � appointment, if you like. I returned on the damp, dimly lit and crowded streets in a state of trance, barely aware of myself and not even daring to believe what I had just done. A shivering fit seemed to have gripped me, though I walked, I remember, with an abnormal normality. I hardly wanted to direct any of my energy to thinking, though I had a plenty of energy at my disposal. Subconsciously, however, it all came back to me. It soon even began to dominate my consciousness. So much that I had dropped unconscious. In all probability, that is. Next thing I remember is someone trying to help me to some kind of a drink� yet, after so many years, �tis so simple. As simple as one pull of the trigger. Or even a heavy and fatal blow. And also that I never ran. I never feared anyone, I never ran away. �twas not my life that had ever motivated me to kill, so I was never scared of anyone� that made things a lot simpler indeed�
Pity, if you ask me, pity that people don�t realize what a ray of hope death is. They run away from it, and that�s exactly why we get a good laugh out of the whole process. It�s fun to most people of our � my kind, a kind of insane fun, if that�s the way you prefer it. But it was one death that shut me up well an� good� he didn�t run away; he knew what it is to be sensible� I can hardly forget �
�So you want to kill me, do you?,� he had said, clearly, and simply. I of course, like to give the way I get, so I told him, also simply, that I did. �Well,� he says, �lovely. Go ahead.� That made me happy. Someone who was not of my kind but was still as insane. But he was most sensible of the lot � the lot of victims I have met in my career. One person who didn�t display the normal symptoms of terror, one person who didn�t sweat, who didn�t bribe, who didn�t look desperate about anything at all. Told me he had all he could have had form that life of his, and he could hope for nothing better than a good long rest without a morning, or something like that. It took all the fun out of my work, that one did�
�twas past midnight once. I was strolling about, the cruel breeze had felt cold, inside and outside. Hardly a few minutes had passed that I felt that I no longer heard the silence. It had been broken, but gently, gradually. It was some kind of � music. I didn�t know, and bless fate, I still don�t know what was being played, but I knew it was music. It wasn�t voices for sure, so it had to be music� I tried to walk up in its direction, and it grew, in loudness, in pitch. It filled my head, I remember so very well that it did. Strange it had felt. It rose, from a faint sound that almost merged with silence to intense loudness, like a paper of white is beginning to get filled with mild shades of gray, so light that you hardly see it, and it gets darker, darker till it�s pitch black. �twas something like that. You must realize that I have felt a very few things in my life, and this � this was a new feeling, as if a century-old thirst was quenched, or something like that. Mind, I can�t get poetic �bout such things. But it had suddenly stopped� yes, now, why did it stop? Abrupt, too� I was thinking how strange it was, till I realized that something, everything seemed to be telling me that I was not good enough to deserve that kind of thirst-being-quenched feeling. The feeling was so alien � so different, even nicer than the amusement I got out of extracting last moments out of people�s lives. I didn�t know why I felt so keen to hear that bit of music again, but I did�
On the corner of a street, (these streets have so many corners) on my way back that night, I chanced upon a lady. About my age she would have been. I knew her by sight; she�d often hang around in the background when the �lot of us� would happily discuss our next act of crime. I had never thought anything of her until then. But when my eyes met hers, I knew that in the one glance she had told me more than what anyone else had in my life. She looked at me with some kind of distress in her eyes, as if she pitied me. She knew. She told me so. She told me she knew I didn�t belong. An endless flow of talk poured forth. Most of it was perhaps nonsense, but I listened her out. At the end of it though, she gave me an unexpected reward. I asked her if she had heard the music some half an hour ago. Her lips curled in a sly kind of a smile; she turned on her heels, returned in a moment holding a � well, something. I have no idea. But it was from that something that the blissful music poured out, pure, fresh. Only if it could go on, for ever, never coming to an end�
I told you I never feared anything. I had never wanted to run away. But just the once that night, I wanted to stay rooted to the spot, I wanted to be till someone told me I was no longer to be. I still did not fear anything� I stayed on till I gave myself up; for the first time, I felt tired of it all� no more fun, and no more life� there goes� the beginning of my nice long sleep� minus the morning�
Epilogue
I still didn�t understand what Prakash found particularly interesting about the case. The wind had stopped howling now, perhaps wanting a rest. The candlelight glowered steadily on. I kept the diary aside and looked out of the window. The streetlights cast shadows of the trees on the damp earth, and there was little else to see.
Prakash presently entered, steaming hot coffee with him. That was one good thing about him. He always seemed to know the right things for the right times. I debated whether to ask him about his diary entry. He brought about the subject himself when he said, �Well, he had as much fun out of his own death as of the others� he didn�t mind killing, he didn�t mind dying either. But I wish people had less violent passions about themselves� luckily his list of victims were nearly as bad as him, so that made Sunils� job easier, though he wouldn�t admit that for anything in the world��
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