12 July 2008

The Birth of a Martyr (Mystery VIII)

It was a dark room. The moonlight was coming in from one of the windows. It was suffocating. The weeping of the child echoed in the room. Each teardrop that fell from his eyes onto the ground carried the happiness away from him. It did not relieve him from the pain that he had gone through or the one that awaited him.

The Boy got up. He felt weak in the knees. He didn’t have any energy yet he had to move on. He moved out of the room and went downstairs. The staircase was deathly. With each step, his condition worsened. In his mind he could witness many things. The entire reel of events rolled time and again. He couldn’t help but continue.

He approached the door of a room. Before he knocked or opened, blood started flowing out from it. It made him sick. He didn’t understand what to do. The door flung open. The monster, with eyes that talked of terror, with a voice that deafened the Gods, with a mind that talked of evil and a heart that knew no love, stood before him. He held the child by his neck and pushed him against the wall.

The Boy woke up. It was 3:00 AM. He lay back on the bed, hoping that all this would soon be over.

Drona and Mohit were having breakfast together. They did not know what awaited them that day. They knew not what their plan was.

“Son, are you okay?” asked Mohit’s Mom.

“No Maa. Not at all. I am scared, but I must be brave. I have to face him. I must.”

Arika was standing at the door. She was about to ring the bell, just when a gentleman came from behind.

“Hi,” said the guy.

“Hello,” said Arika and rang the bell.

“You here to see Mohit?” questioned the man.

“Yes. I am his friend. You?” replied Arika.

“Yes him only. I am his dad,” replied the ass.

The door opened. It was Mohit’s Mom.

“I guess, I can’t let one of you enter and let the other one rot outside. I am not as cruel as the son of bitch in front of me,” said the brave woman.

All of them entered.

Mohit saw his father. It gave him chills that the sperm of this guy made his existence possible. He was happy that traits are not genetic, but sad for obvious reasons. He looked into the eyes of the criminal. Hatred was all that was transmitted.

“Why have you come?” asked Mohit.

“To see you, son. Nice girlfriend. Too soon don’t you think Honey?”

The audacity of a foolish man can never be questioned. It is in this foolishness of his that he creates the grossest mistakes. He doesn’t deserve a place in your heart; but only in your head, for it is there where you balance the weight of guilt and punishment.

“What do you want? Take it and go away forever!” yelled Mohit.

“One more time? What say? We’ll film it,”

“Get the hell out of here. Go away or God forbid I will kill you,” answered back the lady.

“Really? With the army of these teenagers? Let’s have a War. Yeeee!” mocked Dad.

Pain and anger go hand in hand. The more pain you face the angrier you are. It’s like fire and heat. You know the glass is full only when water spills out. It was happening now.

Mohit, like the cannon of anger, shot himself at his father. He threw him back. His back hit the wall. Mohit did not rest.

“You know what. Lets do it. Lets give these guys some pleasure too.”

Mohit took off his t-shirt and shorts.

“This is what you want. Tell me! This scar on my knee, when you hit me with that hammer. Look at it! This mark on face, when you put that steaming iron on my face. You want to do it again- Go Ahead! These marks on my back when you hit me again and again. Are you happy now? Is the animal in you satisfied? Tell me…. Tell me…” Mohit had started crying now. No one moved. They had just witnessed something; I don’t know what to call it.

Mohit’s Dad stood there staring at his mistakes. He was breathing heavily. He gulped and closed his eyes. No one spoke, for the naked truth (quite literally) had had too much of an effect.

Mohit’s dad left the house without a word. The incident changed him or not, or he had nothing to say so he left or he was just helpless and bound, too early to say. Mohit’s mom was proud of her son. He had been not a man; he’d been something higher, not a God, but something which is rare in the likes of men.

Drona was spellbound. The act of courage and the transformation of agony into action had left a deep impact on his mind. He might have been the greatest jock, but to be the greatest “Lion for a day” mattered much more.

Arika was stunned. She was amazed at Mohit’s doing. She couldn’t believe what she had seen or heard in the past few minutes. It was so surreal and so hero-like that she couldn’t acknowledge the greatness of the event.

Mohit dressed himself up. He didn’t understand what had happened or what had given him the strength to take the action he had taken. He couldn’t believe it, like the others couldn’t. Maybe you can’t too, but I think all of us have our own bursts of courage and emotions, and we ourselves never understand why we did it. Maybe there is a logic in it; maybe there is a pattern; but as long as we are unaware, allow me to call it The Strength of The Self.

No one still had the words to talk. Mohit finally spoke, “Maa, can I have a glass of water, I am a little tired.”

Everyone laughed

It was indeed the birth of a Martyr.


Ahana said...

intense yaar....enough to go over my head....brrr lol

Vasudha said...

hey the stripping thing wuz kindda odd..