WHERE DEATH COMES IN MULTIPLE WAYS AND SO DOES MOURNING; THANKS TO THE LEADERS WHO HAVE MASTERED THE ART OF EXTRACTING THE MEANINGS OF PROFIT FROM THE ENTERPRISE OF LOSS!!!!
NIGHTMARE BY SAJAD LONE
It was a nightmarish dream. I went to sleep and dreamt death. A young man was killed and a young man was killed. One was bludgeoned to death by a murderous mob and the other was shot by a cop. The murdered and the murderers- the two men, the mob and the cop were all inhabitants of the Land of the Mutes. The boy killed by the mob pleaded for life, while the mob bled him to death. The boy killed by the cop ran for life trying to elude death, but elude, he couldn’t- the bullet followed and found him in a crowd and pierced his hip.The two bodies lay next to each other in a morgue, lifeless- one splattered with blood and bruises, the other had a gaping gash. Silhouettes- soulful, yet lifeless ascended from the bodies. These were seemingly souls all set for the final adieu. Both the souls were in a state of float, restlessly swirling across. I, a resident of the Land of the Mutes, was a mute spectator in the dream. The souls sighted me and glided towards me. The soul of the young man killed by the mob looked at me. He stretched his arm, and with his fingers pointed towards the vandalized mass of flesh, of what used to be his body. Blood was splattered across the face, clothes were tattered, head was covered by a crusty mix of dust, hair and blood, and the body bore marks of being dragged. Amidst sobs, he related his tale. “I hail from, the Poor Road area of the Land of the Mutes. I was born poor, remained poor and now died, poor. I was the sole breadwinner of the family. I ran a small shop selling cigarettes and soft drinks. I ventured out to open my shop much against my mother’s wishes, on a day when Shah of Hartal had given a call for Hartal. I was doing brisk business and I was happy. I heard commotion in the vicinity and was about to down my shutters and call it a day. Suddenly a small mob descended on me and my small shop. They demanded to know why the shop was open on a day of hartal. A young man in the mob lunged at me, caught hold of my collar and pulled me towards him- and then pushed me with great force. I stumbled back onto the front counter, and fell down my body dangling across the counter. Others joined in hitting me and soon it was a free for all. The next moment I was being dragged, and then emerged a grotesque person who had a bat in his hand. In a fit of rage, he lifted the bat and brought it down with full force on to my right temple. I saw the bat coming down and wanted to duck, but couldn’t as I was tightly packed in the mob. I felt the batting hitting me- my head throbbed, imploding within, sending me into a twirl. Next, I opened my eyes and saw myself surrounded by my family. They were crying. I could seem them but I couldn’t move. I tried talking to them but they couldn’t hear me. It is then that it dawned on me that I had died. I don’t know what to do. My parents were very poor. They have had to struggle to make a living, give us food, send us to school. Look at my mother and my father. Look at the grey in her hair, look at the limp of old age in my father’s gait. They have grown old. All my life they looked after me. Now it was my time to take care of them and I am gone. I don’t know. I must have been a bad son to leave my aged parents in lurch.” The next soul was pacing about the morgue. He came up to me and narrated his woeful tale.” I was walking in the market. I had gone to fetch medicines for my father who is afflicted with cancer. All the shops were shut and I walked down to Rich Road where shops don’t close even on a hartal day. I got the medicines and while coming back, was walking on the main boulevard of the Poor Road. Suddenly stones rained followed by sound of gunfire. People on the streets ran and ran for cover. I too ran for cover. We all jostled, pushed on instinct, all too keen to reach for cover. There was more gunfire probably in close range. Something hot touched me at my back and instantly I slumped and fell, never to rise again. It must have been the bullet I thought, and bullet it was.” The soul of the boy killed by the cop was as restless as the soul of the boy killed by the mob. He was in a daze looking forlornly at his set of relatives and in a soft tone pointed to his father. “ My father is bed ridden and his cancer is in the last stage. He must have mustered all the strength in the world to get up and come here. Oh God” the soul of the boy killed by the cop moaned, “ my father was waiting to die and and be put into the grave by me and now here he is- putting me into the grave.” The soul of the man killed by the cop then looked at his wife and the bulge in her belly and wept and wept at the fate of the child in her womb. He came forward and put his arms around me and held me in the tightest embrace. He slid down the entire length of my body and fell on to his knees, his face up, looking heavenwards. The soul of the man killed by the mob came and sat next to him, unsure whether he should console him or himself. I knew that both wanted a reprieve, one more chance to live. Both were poor, both were young, none of them deserved to die- yet die they had to and died they already had.I along with the two souls sat there overwhelmed by the somberness of the occasion. There was grief, there was wailing, there was helplessness. And the leaders of the land of the Mutes started to come. The first to come was the oldly, softly, genteelly, crinkly, Shah of Hartal, photographer in tow. He confirmed the identity of the young man killed by the cop, and strictly adhered to the etiquette set by his very own version of irredentism and ignored the young man killed by the mob. The genteel Shah of Hartal, his face tired of reciting Fatehs yet seemingly hungry for more Fatehs struck a morose pose, reciting the Fateh. The photographer handy, ready to click, Shah of Hartal placed an order for the mother and the father to be presented for consolation, and be clicked in the process of consolation. Fresh deaths and wailing relatives made it all noisy and confusing. Shah of Hartal was getting late. He walked a few steps and consoled the first available mother. He looked at her and tears rolled down his cheeks and was about to utter some mournful phrases and it turned out he was consoling the wrong mother- mother of the man who was killed by the mob. An aide whispered the identity of the mistaken mother into the left ear of Shah of Hartal. The consolation ended midway, the eyes went dry, and were on a look out for the right mother. The right mother was summoned. Tears resumed their place in the eyes, sad emotions made a comeback and the right mother was finally consoled in the right mournful manner and the hapless photographer finally got to click a mournful mother being consoled by a sad and teary eyed Shah of Hartal. And Shah of Hartal left.Next to come was the queenly, giggly, wriggly, prickly, fickly, roundly, princess Rudali, with the men in mufti and two photographers. She ordered the photographer on the right, towards the body of the young man killed by the cop and ordered the photographer on the left, towards the body of the young man killed by the mob. The chichi princess perched herself on each bed, hosting the dead body, posing sadly, with any available relative. She checked each of the photos clicked, selected the saddest and whizzed away. And as she whizzed, she ordered the selected saddest photo clicked posing with the body of the young man killed by the cop, to be sent to news men of the Land of the Mutes. And the selected saddest photo of her posing with the body of the young man killed by the mob, to be sent to the news men of the Land of the Billion Inhabitants. On her way out she instinctively stopped to talk to the men of the media, on the prowl for inappropriate political grammar. She shifted from the sad state to a stentorian state, and something she was saying came across as if she was braying. And she brayed, heaping scorn on the rulers of Land of the Mutes for the killing of the young man and the killing of the young man. She found no fault with the mob, she found no fault with the cop. She found fault with the rulers of Land of Billion Inhabitants for not reemploying her father as the Ruler of the Land of the Mutes. She boarded her car fitted with a jammer and jammed away.And the last to come was the youngly, frankly, coldly, Prince Pareshan. He came in jauntily, breezing past everybody. His visit was quick, very quick. It ended before it started. He went straight to the body of the young man killed by the mob. He put his hands in the left pocket of his coat and took out a brand new perfume, and gifted it to the parents of the young man killed by the mob, and humbly requested them to spray it on their sad clothes. They were too distraught to spray perfume. He carefully and affectionately took the bottle from them- sprayed them with perfume, and put the bottle back in the left pocket of his coat. And once the parents were fragrant enough, suitable for the aromatic taste of the Prince- Prince, phlegmatically gave them a hug of consolation, which lasted as long- as it took the photographer to merrily click. The perfumed hug, bereft of spontaneity- seemed an activity thrust on the unwilling Prince, and more of an occupational hazard for the poor Prince Pareshan. And next he put his hand in the right pocket of his coat and took out a phone and tweeted on the twitter. The first tweet read- “Shah of Hartal visited the morgue and consoled only the family of the young man killed by the cop. He did not console the family of the young man killed by the mob.” The second tweet read - “Princess Rudali consoled and posed with both. But sent a different photograph to the media houses of the Land of the Mutes and a different photograph to the media houses of the Land of Billion Inhabitants.” The last tweet read, “ Nice, consolable parents. Consoled them, perfumed them and then gave them a perfumed hug.” And the Prince left tweeting and smiling and perfuming. I along with the two souls went into a huddle gazing at the indistinct settings of pain- two bodies, two sets of mothers, two sets of fathers, two sets of siblings, two sets of relatives- all in a state of mourning. The two bodies indistinct in their eerie stillness and the visible and invisible scars they bore. It started as a muddle of two grieving clusters mourning two stilled bodies, finally merging into a grieving crowd- mourning death. While the two set of grievers unknown to each other exhibited togetherness in pain, the leaders created differentness in pain. The souls unknown to each other in life, now soul mates in transcendence, left, even more sadder after viewing the spectacle of trivia of pain. I dreamt on. Days passed to months in the dream and I happened to pay a visit to the mothers. The mother of the young man killed by the mob still faithfully laid the plate at dinner time for the dead son- who would never eat and the mother of the young man killed by the cop still put the bedding for his son to sleep- who had slept forever. As the dream went on- more young men, more mothers, more soul mates, wailing grievers, and the leaders of the Land of the Mutes- who mourned every death in their very own sham styles.
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