Red Blue Gray: Day 2

ii

(Blue)

Never realized silence can be such a blissful thing as well as a cursed one. How long I am here I do not know. After changing four to five cells I have been thrown into here. The others say there is a ghost that lives here. Ghost? Just think how a story gets made up. I am not denying the presence of such things as ghost because something strange is here. Few nights back after a round of battering when they threw me here, I had seen it in the hazed glance. A red, dark and like fresh blood, under the bed. I couldn’t get up to the bed because of the knees which was refusing to stand up. I lied there at the moss grown cold stone floor. All night from that night I kept looking at it, tucked under the bed. My hands were also expressing agonizing ache—they have uprooted some of the nails from some of my fingers. Freedom is not far I know. But I might not live long to see the flag waving in the dawn serene breeze pulling down the Union Jack. They think I will vomit out the names of my companions and also their whereabouts. They are so naïve and sissy. They think what they are holding so long all these year will be able to hold on to it for next hundred years. To them this struggle and revolt and revolution are same like that happened in 1857 and the following years, 1905 and the following years….

(Red)

The man next to me always kept on chanting from Gita. When I asked him this morning what for he’s doing that, he said for keeping in practice. He was a priest in some temple and had asked a white lady to come in to the temple leaving her shoes behind. He though provided me with one of the most important thing, a sharp piece of steel that he is thinking to use as knife to kill the night guard who with his bamboo stick brushed and bang on the rods of the lock up gates. The man passed on the steel to me to check and this idea banged on me. Few hours ago after light was put off I extend my arms to his cell and asked for the steel. After much effort and toil I was able to sharp another end of the pencil—the red side. The man was irritated by me; he thought I will kill the guard on behalf of him. Being a revolutionary I can kill a white skin or one of his followers. Not only he but most think so. Being a revolutionary you have to be assassin. You are part of a creed made of some blood hunger leeches in form of human. Many a time me and few of us had tried to express and spread this fighting for freedom, the revolution all are mainly thoughts that need to be take deep into the heart. The fighting we are doing is not only out of rage or in urge to kill but to stop the resistance. This is friction. Many a times we amongst ourselves debate which is best—Gandhi’s way of non-violent or the war like Bose’s. And in the end we are left with this blank. The blank that is made up of gurgled up thoughts—entangled and no specific structure or words; the blank that make you silent while seeking and tormenting you for the proper words. The…

The man next to me had been taken away this morning. The guard had came up and smiled at me. In this row I am now only left. The wind outside that is seeping in through this high window bringing the smell of mud—rain soaked. When they take me in the earth used to smelt of the burnt summer earth. Now it is monsoon I think. In the early morning only the breeze can be smelt and deep into the night. Other times it is inhaling myself through faeces, unbathed body and the all the foul smell that can be smelled. Is this how the hell smells or is it how revolution smells? The odour that now surrounds me is of a rotten rat that one of the cats of the compound had brought in few nights ago and had left it there in the corner. How long I haven’t smelled you, your lips…

iii

(Red)

Isn’t it queer whenever one is throw into jail he get depressed by not getting all the things he had enjoyed or possessed outside this four walls. I am though enjoying this time. No creditor, no credit, no cursing. Only thing that’s worse is this cell, dirty and filthy, dark and depressing. Last night the wrapped cloth touched my hand when I was just dangling my hand and brushing the edge of the bed. The bed bugs were keeping me up. (Cont’d)

By Sangbad

A poet, an author, a reviewer--in one word I'm a literaturist (means one who is trying almost everything that Literature is made of). My books are available at Amazon. I'm a Bengali, born and raised in Kolkata, West Bengal.

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