O Nature; Could You Kill

Fiction


life

                           

                    Rain falls, it drizzles, and diabolical winds thrash everything which comes their way. It seems so ruthless, so disturbing that I ponder to think why such destruction? The ferocity of the rain drops increases, the drizzle soon gallops to form a shower. The custodian of nature, the plants, are brought down - turns out to be a massacre. My mind is compelled to imagine a sight which includes Gandhians pitted against the Nazi army. The lightning and thundering adds special effects to the whole scene and makes my heartbeat to race from Lup——–Dup to Lup—–Dup, Lup-Dup. Slowly, I look back into my books and start studying.

Suddenly the winds are no more and the drizzle subsides. The rays come down from the heaven, pierce the blanket and hit the flesh as invisible bullets. They are magical - they conserve as well as demolish. A hawker comes through the road. I stand in a shade and notice his rattled face, which looks for something. Something very deep, something which can give him life, something which is draining out of his body but he cannot save. His battered palms, his tattered clothes and turbans are soaking wet. There is no soul, no one who wants to help him. The magical rays are draining him out and he is on the verge of collapsing. He slips. 

“Rahul, study”, my mother shouts and I look back into my book.

Pitter patter starts again, I stand in a corner of my room and look at it. Suddenly, I see him again, he is walking with a full load on his back, his neck and his head. His melodious voice is shown the back door by the harsh rain drops. He is stuffed up full, he can barely walk. The umbrella which he carries is in rags, his muscles no longer have the strength to challenge the wind, and he is himself in tatters. Soon a violent gust of wind blasts his umbrella out of his control. It flies like a boomerang with no intention of coming back. His toil hardened body wants rest, his hard-earned money goes to waste. He stands there, he cannot sit, and there is rain all around. He stands, “Rahul, you have a call”, my mother utters and I race to receive it.

indian vendor

A few days later, with scorching heat overhead, I hear a voice “Utensils, 25 bucks a piece, cheap and better”. The voice reminds me of the man, but this voice is not as sweet as his was. I jump out of the bed to see the man. It turns out I was right - this was a different person. Curiosity turns me into a wild, hungry lion looking for flesh. I run to the gate and the man looks at me with awe and stands .He thinks today he might get lucky, he might sell things. I ask him, “Do you know an old hawker who used to travel through this road and sell utensils as you do?” He said, “Yes”. I replied, “Why isn’t he coming for a few days?” .His face changed colors, exasperated to the maxim he said, “That bloody old man, was my father, he died of pneumonia. He could not sell things for days. It’s good he’s dead, one mouth less to feed”. He changes his direction and walks away.

“Utensils, 25 bucks a piece, cheap and better”, is all that rings..


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