This story happens ….story ? Well let’s call it a story that is appropriate. Let’s leave reality to the media. So I was saying this happens somewhere in our land. In one of the cities where millions swarm to eke out a living. Here in the corner of the street right next to the sweet shop sat our Hero. Short, scrawny, grime lining the folds of skin he was around thirty. His face looked older, furrows along the nostrils extending deep into the cheek. Sparse sandy lank hair tangled along his neck, he combed his finger through it scratching the scalp flaking dry skin. In all he gave an impression of a person severely malnourished and in immediate need of some food. If you had met him in the street you will look the other way, in case he is unavoidable you will look through him. Both instances he attracted neither attention nor contempt, it was as if he had turned into an inanimate object, not even a momentary flinch of disgust. For some time he had been sitting here, that was unlike of him, mellow eyes exploring the stacked sweets. He stretched himself to loosen his muscles, relapsing again in his steady gape. Nobody knew where he came from, one morning they saw him loitering in the street that was three years back since then they see him regularly occasionally vanishing for few days reappearing even worse. They had so got used to him that it was as if he was born that way. In khaki shirt with shoulder buttons, green trousers, which have turned dark: that is overall; a nondescript. Initial (though brief) curiosity of the shopkeeper had given way to disdain to complete disregard. They acknowledged him as a familiar object. To add to the earlier puzzlement he rarely spoke his accent thick in dialects of hill. Most had stopped feeding him, a roti or two, except one man who for some reason found something in this haggard figure, a symbol churning his conscious. So our Hero’s daily itinerary started from this man’s shop where he was offered a filling. He ate without even looking up, his month chewing, showing no expression of delight or satisfaction leaving the samaritan vaguely apologetic. To remove his own discomfort the shopkeeper asked him “Are you comfortable”? Or sometimes “Do tell me if you need anything”, leaving the shopkeeper a sense of well being, who then hummed a popular tune and wiped the shop, lighting the incense. In the mean time our Hero dragged himself out as vacantly as he came. Today though he sat in this corner a sense of purpose had crept into his being, his eyes flickered at the sight of pastel red glisten of the sweets arranged in the shop. A corpulent figure occasionally swayed a dirty linen over it scaring troupe of flies, his face droop into sleep. Our Hero also yawned as if in cue, as instantly he was back to his normal self. It was unusual for our Hero to have intent even though it flickered in him for a moment. He moved his eyes away into the crowd and zipping vehicles, sneezing he let it drool. The sun was moving away from the streets to the top of buildings, the cloudless cobalt sky had swarms of eagles telescoping the garbage mounds along the shops. His eyes again locked the stacked sweets.
People may not know about him but it is necessary for us to know some details. Evidently he didn’t drop in like that. However nothing much is known about where he came from probably like millions who swarm the cities in destitution, perhaps to escape the atrocities which characterize the deceptive serenity of most villages. But then this much is known that when he landed, he did try for employment at few places. Since he didn’t have much of education (indicating probably that there was no proper school or plainly the family didn’t have money to send him to school. Anything is possible) what he generally got to hear was “there is nothing for you here” and when he persisted “You village swine bump off” its not that people were always impolite. One elderly manager whom he had approached for a job drew a long breath loosened his tie knot and wheezed out “only if i could help you’ looking out of the window, a mongrel licked sputum by the drainage, children gaped each other defecating, his posh interiors couldn’t hide these scenes of the street. He grimaced enervated, aware of his frailty. Then for no particular reason his eyes sneered at our Hero who was diminishing by the moment, then a smile flickered along the corner of his lips. Relaxing his taut face he said, “May be you should go back to where you came from”. He turned his face away. Our Hero did want to say few lines on poverty in general and some plain truth on migration which he had prepared as a counter to any question but ended up shaking his leg and mumbling a downcast meek “yes sir”. He did grin on the way back, replacing and analyzing the event, he was so lost that he didn’t hear screeching vehicles. It was only when a fine spray of saliva swept his face, bodies brushed and shoved that he was jostled out of his thought. He wriggled out leaving trail of abuse and wagging fists. He chuckled to himself again recollecting the events of the day. He added few more words to make it funny for himself finally satisfied in conjuring an image of the manager metamorphosing into a pig in full sleeves, munching his own tie and in a hollow voice he added “go away….away”. Satisfied he laughed and even whistled a tune that he heard in the passing shop. He laughed as suddenly his face contorted as if to scream, in frenzy he took up a pebble and hit the cow munching serenely, startling her creating a commotion. Very soon people had surrounded him “why did you hit the cow?” asked someone. “Teach him a lesson” said few in chorus. It took some time for our Hero to realize that he was the cause of this agitation and soon he was being hit. He didn’t show any sign of protest and the crowd soon lost incitement soon everything was still. Not satisfied few burly men moved closer to him, one of them punching him on the stomach. It was precisely at this moment that he let out a shrill which sounded like “Don’t kill me” shred of words squealed in primeval anguish, it shook the crowd and they stilled as if frozen in time. Was it because they thought he was dying since he gasped, that they stopped? one wouldn’t know. They all stood there locking in shocked curiosity as he crouched in absolute submission. Slowly they withdrew only whirl of litter could be heard in the mid noon sun. They all turned away to the chores most certainly having forgotten the cow and off-course our Hero. Nobody really knows what happened to him after his episode. Few months later he was found loitering in the street as he is seen now no longer he had shifty downcast eyes, in place was unflagging vacuous eyes spewing spasms of barrenness, cringing anyone who came in its sight. It was as if by some super natural force people were pushed away from his path.
Today he felt uneasy, his eyes blinked more than usual as he sat here, his feet shuffled on its own. He had this sudden urge to taste the stacked sweets. The reddish hue of the sky had paled to gray hiding much of the city. Street lights were being lit which flickered for few seconds before flaring. Darkness spread in patches along with street attracting scroungers to spread for the night. For some reason people spoke in hushed apprehension, a crowd was gathering at far end. They were shouting slogan, a stone landed from nowhere, as immediately windows were broken. They shouted, “This is our land. Kick them out” “Our God is great”. They were torching few marked shops. “Be proud…. Be proud. Be proud to be Indian”. In frenzy the mob scattered in all directions. People were running helter-skelter. Our Hero was remarkably peaceful and looked around in a mix of amusement and weariness. The obese man at the sweet shop was finding it difficult to collect his things and close the shop; he fumbled in nervousness and exertion. Our Hero yawned got up and stretched himself and sauntered to nowhere in particular then retraced his steps. The mob was surging towards him. The man at the sweet shop gave up the attempt to lower the shutter - since his hands shook very badly; he hid himself in the shop. Our Hero’s eyes dallied again on the sweets. He moves towards its. Just as then the mob had surrounded the shop “Yes this one. It’s theirs” a young man pointed a sharp rusty sword like weapon, which glistened in blood, towards the shop. “He is in. He is in. Bloody swine” someone yelled. “Catch him. Cut him in pieces. Take revenge on these terrorists”. In the melee our Hero was pushed forward. The shopkeeper stood up shivering, his knees knocking, eyes brimming in tears, his hands folded. “There the swine” some one laughed, others joined. Our Hero was annoyed at the shopkeeper since he had blocked his view of the sweets. People jostled he moved forward. He was now face to face with the shopkeeper. “Here take this. Kill the worm” someone placed a scimitar on his palm. Our Hero gripped it without even looking at the weapon. He was finding the shopkeeper’s face increasingly distasteful who was sweating, eyes bursting out tears which streamed along his cheeks. His folded hand covering most of his face, pleading and protecting. “Bastard acting. Look the way he cries” someone laughed it was picked up by the mob. For a moment our Hero was nonplussed but a grumble in the stomach, rush of warm saliva hardened his grip on the knife. In a lightening he swept his hand across the shopkeeper’s belly, the scimitar glimpsing the street light. The mob heaved a silence, blood spurted out, the shopkeeper tumbled down clutching himself writhing unnaturally. Our Hero looked at him puzzled, his fingers twitched, weakly he dropped the weapon. The breeze from the whirling fan flapped the shirt collar of the shopkeeper, slowly he was drenching in blood. His half-opened eyes observed the gleeful mob in disinterest. “Well done” shouted a man among the marauders. They raised their fists in air “Taught them a lesson. If they want to stay here they should be like us” shouted the man looking back at the mob, who seemed to lead them. The mob surged ahead, our Hero was pushed he found himself facing the sweet he grabbed handful and ran knocking the crowd. As he ran he gobbled the sweets, dropping some. He stopped and looked back at the dropped sweet. A smile played on his gaunt face. He lost the urge to run.
People may not know about him but it is necessary for us to know some details. Evidently he didn’t drop in like that. However nothing much is known about where he came from probably like millions who swarm the cities in destitution, perhaps to escape the atrocities which characterize the deceptive serenity of most villages. But then this much is known that when he landed, he did try for employment at few places. Since he didn’t have much of education (indicating probably that there was no proper school or plainly the family didn’t have money to send him to school. Anything is possible) what he generally got to hear was “there is nothing for you here” and when he persisted “You village swine bump off” its not that people were always impolite. One elderly manager whom he had approached for a job drew a long breath loosened his tie knot and wheezed out “only if i could help you’ looking out of the window, a mongrel licked sputum by the drainage, children gaped each other defecating, his posh interiors couldn’t hide these scenes of the street. He grimaced enervated, aware of his frailty. Then for no particular reason his eyes sneered at our Hero who was diminishing by the moment, then a smile flickered along the corner of his lips. Relaxing his taut face he said, “May be you should go back to where you came from”. He turned his face away. Our Hero did want to say few lines on poverty in general and some plain truth on migration which he had prepared as a counter to any question but ended up shaking his leg and mumbling a downcast meek “yes sir”. He did grin on the way back, replacing and analyzing the event, he was so lost that he didn’t hear screeching vehicles. It was only when a fine spray of saliva swept his face, bodies brushed and shoved that he was jostled out of his thought. He wriggled out leaving trail of abuse and wagging fists. He chuckled to himself again recollecting the events of the day. He added few more words to make it funny for himself finally satisfied in conjuring an image of the manager metamorphosing into a pig in full sleeves, munching his own tie and in a hollow voice he added “go away….away”. Satisfied he laughed and even whistled a tune that he heard in the passing shop. He laughed as suddenly his face contorted as if to scream, in frenzy he took up a pebble and hit the cow munching serenely, startling her creating a commotion. Very soon people had surrounded him “why did you hit the cow?” asked someone. “Teach him a lesson” said few in chorus. It took some time for our Hero to realize that he was the cause of this agitation and soon he was being hit. He didn’t show any sign of protest and the crowd soon lost incitement soon everything was still. Not satisfied few burly men moved closer to him, one of them punching him on the stomach. It was precisely at this moment that he let out a shrill which sounded like “Don’t kill me” shred of words squealed in primeval anguish, it shook the crowd and they stilled as if frozen in time. Was it because they thought he was dying since he gasped, that they stopped? one wouldn’t know. They all stood there locking in shocked curiosity as he crouched in absolute submission. Slowly they withdrew only whirl of litter could be heard in the mid noon sun. They all turned away to the chores most certainly having forgotten the cow and off-course our Hero. Nobody really knows what happened to him after his episode. Few months later he was found loitering in the street as he is seen now no longer he had shifty downcast eyes, in place was unflagging vacuous eyes spewing spasms of barrenness, cringing anyone who came in its sight. It was as if by some super natural force people were pushed away from his path.
Today he felt uneasy, his eyes blinked more than usual as he sat here, his feet shuffled on its own. He had this sudden urge to taste the stacked sweets. The reddish hue of the sky had paled to gray hiding much of the city. Street lights were being lit which flickered for few seconds before flaring. Darkness spread in patches along with street attracting scroungers to spread for the night. For some reason people spoke in hushed apprehension, a crowd was gathering at far end. They were shouting slogan, a stone landed from nowhere, as immediately windows were broken. They shouted, “This is our land. Kick them out” “Our God is great”. They were torching few marked shops. “Be proud…. Be proud. Be proud to be Indian”. In frenzy the mob scattered in all directions. People were running helter-skelter. Our Hero was remarkably peaceful and looked around in a mix of amusement and weariness. The obese man at the sweet shop was finding it difficult to collect his things and close the shop; he fumbled in nervousness and exertion. Our Hero yawned got up and stretched himself and sauntered to nowhere in particular then retraced his steps. The mob was surging towards him. The man at the sweet shop gave up the attempt to lower the shutter - since his hands shook very badly; he hid himself in the shop. Our Hero’s eyes dallied again on the sweets. He moves towards its. Just as then the mob had surrounded the shop “Yes this one. It’s theirs” a young man pointed a sharp rusty sword like weapon, which glistened in blood, towards the shop. “He is in. He is in. Bloody swine” someone yelled. “Catch him. Cut him in pieces. Take revenge on these terrorists”. In the melee our Hero was pushed forward. The shopkeeper stood up shivering, his knees knocking, eyes brimming in tears, his hands folded. “There the swine” some one laughed, others joined. Our Hero was annoyed at the shopkeeper since he had blocked his view of the sweets. People jostled he moved forward. He was now face to face with the shopkeeper. “Here take this. Kill the worm” someone placed a scimitar on his palm. Our Hero gripped it without even looking at the weapon. He was finding the shopkeeper’s face increasingly distasteful who was sweating, eyes bursting out tears which streamed along his cheeks. His folded hand covering most of his face, pleading and protecting. “Bastard acting. Look the way he cries” someone laughed it was picked up by the mob. For a moment our Hero was nonplussed but a grumble in the stomach, rush of warm saliva hardened his grip on the knife. In a lightening he swept his hand across the shopkeeper’s belly, the scimitar glimpsing the street light. The mob heaved a silence, blood spurted out, the shopkeeper tumbled down clutching himself writhing unnaturally. Our Hero looked at him puzzled, his fingers twitched, weakly he dropped the weapon. The breeze from the whirling fan flapped the shirt collar of the shopkeeper, slowly he was drenching in blood. His half-opened eyes observed the gleeful mob in disinterest. “Well done” shouted a man among the marauders. They raised their fists in air “Taught them a lesson. If they want to stay here they should be like us” shouted the man looking back at the mob, who seemed to lead them. The mob surged ahead, our Hero was pushed he found himself facing the sweet he grabbed handful and ran knocking the crowd. As he ran he gobbled the sweets, dropping some. He stopped and looked back at the dropped sweet. A smile played on his gaunt face. He lost the urge to run.
