I am not a good person. The habit of gamble has been injected by my father when I was at teen. Being paralysed from attack on the heart, I used to be his representative whenever there is a game. He used to whisper into my ears which card to throw and which to hide. Though at first this used to happen but being a fast learner I catch the alleys and by-lanes of the game and soon he used to be spectator while I was the player. His friends used to say I as par him when it comes to a victory. He had been alive for a couple of years after the attack, and at that time I was the best in the circle. My downfall came few months ago when I lost my first bet to that new guy name Shyamsundar. He was the brother-in-law of my elder brother. Then I started losing. The debt started building up as my streak of being defeated….
The steel of the dagger had turned pink when I pulled out the dagger from his chest. He hadn’t got the chance to scream—his last saying. I had put my hand on his mouth. The eyes seemed to be popping out as the blood splatter on me. The whisper now seems to be hazed. It had drained me out. This..what can be this call…a stack of paper stick together by hand with a fat coconut string or is it a journal like a register at a hotel, recording the person visiting this cell, or is it something beyond my thinking and thoughts.
How long I have to be here? No one has come to take me out of here. These calls of the cricket or is it the whisper… (Cont’d)