Part-I
Had it been yesterday, my memory wouldn't have given me a picture that was clearer or more vivid than of which I have in mind now�
In those days, by those days I do not mean ages ago, but a few years, nay even a few decades back, the prisons were small chambers, one used to call them cells, perhaps that was the fashion, or it was just for the want of room in them. Nevertheless, the prison I was taken to, in a manner which was then considered to be kind, simply meaning that I was not bound (as I later found out, it was only because of my age, I was after all, only a boy), was gloomy, but one doesn't expect a prison to be otherwise anyway, but it still did have one peculiarity, viz., the doors. And still stranger were, in my opinion, the hinges. The poor door hung upon its still poorer hinges, and believe me, had an old man hung upon his weak walking stick, the scene would have been less dismal. It's creaking noises, I mean the door's, haunt me even today. But doors apart, there was nothing of particular interest, and, as the intelligent reader may have guessed, my attention being drawn to the doors was not without reason, and the reason was, obviously, that the doors were the only chance, if there was ever one, of escape from this place.
It looked to me that the fact that prisons are small is overlooked by the 'authorities', as we call them. And so it was, because in the very dim light of the lantern I could make out the outline of a small figure, which, after much consideration, I decided was human, and further concluded that he must be alive, because the prisons were so crowded that they couldn't afford to have any room for dead bodies also. Hence I made attempts to talk to him, but they, not to my surprise, failed. Either he was deaf, or hostile, or asleep, or all three. Nonetheless, next afternoon, he proved all my assertions wrong. He had apparently taken me to be a journalist, and hence avoided communication, for he, like many of us then, feared the journalists. No one liked their names in the papers, because we were so very scared of the truth, nay, more precisely, of saying the truth, and to hear it in our very own voices.
But to come back to this boy. He was young, I daresay even a touch younger than me, but I wouldn't rely upon my own observations; I'm no expert at guessing ages. He had a small forehead, a not-so-prominent type of nose, and chapped lips. We had a rather hard winter anyway, though it never snows in these parts. His eyes were jet black, I would have ventured to say beautiful, but for the fact that the gentleness surpassed it's beauty by infinite degrees. Innocence sparkled in them in great abundance, and yet, in some uncanny corner, there was a melancholy sadness.
He informed me that some people tried to strangle his mother because of some religious reasons. I shall not trouble the reader with the details of these riots, which were then so common, because of two reasons, viz., first, that I fear you may not have the patience, and second, I find them too painful to recollect. But this boy, whose name, as I found out later, was Shankar, got involved in the scene and as fate would have it, landed in the cell where I was then seated.
The wind, on my second night of captivity, seemed to be in a great fury. It blew around in a manner which can only be called a gale, if not a storm - so I guessed; the howls of the demon reached our ears through many walls of stone.
I knew that the clouds hide the moon, so the darkness of the night intensifies, but there is, nevertheless, hope that sometime, the moonlight will flood the heavens & the earth, that the clouds will part.
Part-II
The dust rose to my eyes� I was suddenly blinded, and could make no sense of direction. I knew that my sister was somewhere around, and that I must look for her, come what may, & unmindful of the dust, of the bullets that parted the air, I looked around, hoping to find her somewhere� alas, two hands held me in a grip worse than steel, & I made frantic attempt to get out - unsuccessful, and then I woke up. Dreaming about the day I was taken prisoner wasn't unexpected, nor did it surprise me, all the same, I was glad that Shankar was still asleep, that he didn't see me wake up out of this dream, or nightmare, as one may term it.
That our times should be in such a steely grip of death, just because some people are passionate about killing, just as normally as anyone else should be about painting or playing or anything else, is, to say in the least, shocking. The people then, were divided into two important classes: the murderers and the murdered. But gradually, a middle-class was emerging, viz., us, the people in the prisons. There were so many of us that one cannot underestimate our emergence as a class of people. The judges were too busy to look into meager cases such as that of ours, and we were, hence ignored. The fact that we were the safest people in existence was, however, short-lived. The police, apparently tired, or scared, or both of the real criminals, decided that it was indeed best (easiest) to force a confession out of the prisoners. Hence the four classes of people: the murderers, the murdered, the beaten up, the beaters. We, however, I mean Shankar, and myself escaped the hospitality of the keeper of the keys, thanks to the insignificance bestowed upon us. However, the same insignificance also got us lesser and lesser food everyday, till we got it only once in a day, that too in such scanty amounts that it wouldn't suffice for half of me for a quarter day.
Hunger tames even a lion, and a man is but man. At midnight, I saw a poor fellow in the next prison promising he would burn a couple of houses, if he got some rice for doing it. I feared that he wouldn't escape the very fire that he was going to set alight.
Shankar and I would make plans, for there was no other way to kill time, of which we had plenty, and decided that the very day we stepped into the very wide world, we would prepare the society for a rebel, of which it was very much in need. In my heart I nourished these fantasies, in the face of death, against all odds, I hoped I would escape alive, and that I would be able to do justice to the body the merciful God has given me. I fancied myself his messenger, an instrument of his will, but one of the more important ones at that. But in some dark corner, I felt that all my hopes would never come to pass.
After a few more years, a rather impatient judge, kind enough to inform me that my existence, no more than a piece of flesh was a burden on the earth, and then sentenced me to death with a great sense of pleasure, happy, probably thinking that he was reliving the earth of some burden. However, I escaped. How I did even I'm not sure, but the point remains that I escaped. And since that night, no less than fifteen years have passed. And today, I look upon these fifteen years as years of preparation. I have been, first because of my personal needs, then because I thought it was my passion, and now because I think it is the need of the society, deeply involved in politics. And there will be a revolution. Things will change. Not that they haven't changed already. I chanced upon Shankar yesterday. After fifteen years of looking for him, I heard some one calling out his name. This had happened at least a six-and-fifty times before, but I decided to try again & see if it was indeed the same Shankar that I knew, so many years back.
He showed a few signs of remembrance, but none of welcome. He told me, with a surprising, even shockingly cold tone, that he had different ideas, and did not want me to interfere in his plans, or, in his words, 'warn you against treading on my path'. I didn't know why this affected me so deeply. Perhaps because Shankar was one person whom I had loved without any opportunism at all.
As I sat on my favorite rocking chair, musing over the unchangeable, the past, the stranger, the future, and the gloomy present, I saw a small rat scuttling across the floor. I involuntarily reached for a stick & raised it. Then I stopped mid-air, looking rather comic, but wondering why I had to kill the poor thing after all. The mute, dumb creatures have learnt to live in harmony, but man (I'm no exception), the being bestowed with a level of intelligence higher than any other has failed to do the same. And I didn't see why to kill, to die, to murder & be murdered had become such involuntary and common occurrences; not even needing a spot of thought. I didn't see why, like the rat and me the rest of the world couldn't live together. And I didn't see many other things. I fumbled in the darkness. And again, I hoped that the light of knowledge would light our way on one fine day.
*****