Red Blue Gray: Day 6

~~

[Here I am omitting most of this man’s entry. It seems he was a spy from a neighbouring country, and he had shared lots of sensitive information. Most of them should remain confidential for the safety of the country. I rather extracted his time in the Cell No 2811.]

~~

Last night I had this nightmare. The one-eyed cat was sitting on my chest. He had both of his eyes which were green and glowing in the darkness. He was chanting mantra. The one I am not acquainted with. Even the language seems to be some obscure long forgotten one. This cell seems to be cursed. This obscure placed cell seems to be created for hiding a sin; to bury some sort of crime. The cat is now sitting at the gate. He is looking at me, and the sun light brushing his head and the void on his head seems to be a dark tunnel like the one of the ones in Manali. He will disappear as soon as the sun recedes back. He will return when the darkness will start tip toed in the cell. The season is winter; so, the sun will set quickly. And my companion will return to guard me, to scare me with his bated heavy breath.

~~

 What are you looking at? What? Yes. I am a spy. I am writing down the information so that someone can read them and know how big blow we can hurled on this country. Yes. If he had not double crossed me then I would have been back in my motherland and then attack would have happened here in this country. Yes. Now go. The sun is bidding for the day. Go where you go, daily, every day. And let me write down the information. Go, now. Whoosh. Whoosh.

~~

My time has come to an end. I know. I can feel it. The constable who delivers my once-a-day meal told me this. He had this mysterious mocking smile on his mouth under his bushy moustache. I need to write now fast. Maybe I have to write at night in the moonlight. To-night is a full moon. I have to write where I have hidden the files.

v

The whole world is mourning my death. They have been taught I had died in the plane crash. What a beautiful story they had fabricated. I learned it had been said that for the fog and sudden storm my plane had crash landed near a hamlet in Himalaya and had caught fire followed by a burst killing all of us. But, the truth is they have drugged my food and smuggled me to an old ruined monastery in Tibet side Himalaya. There I was kept for last few months. Few months ago when a team of mountaineer came to rest at the monastery for the night, few of them might had recognized me. And the news spread like a wild fire. So, they have to drug me again and smuggled me into my motherland. For few weeks I have been made to travel from one jail to another, from one government’s hideout to another. At last few days back I had been transported here. I had been put into this cell. They have given me some books and a lamp also. After long time i will read a book. Surprisingly the cat is still here. Though, he is now a one eye guy and little much old. I am thinking how he lost his eyes. He is the one who show me the hideout for this notebook. This notebook is made of pages from an old manuscript whose scribbling had gone hazed. It had writings of previous ones who have been here. I need to know what happened to them. I am writing keeping a gap of pages between; the reason though I know. Sometimes some decisions do not have proper justification.

The jail has not changed much, except this floor of getting vacant. During the Independence this floor and the floor down was allotted for us—the revolutionaries and freedom fighters. I can recollect the screams that used to echo out from this floor. The chamber for torturing might be this. I had been here for three months and was never taken up here—at this floor. We—me and Johor were kept at the third floor, the floor down. We used to talk of how we would be shaping the country after freedom. The actions needed to achieve the freedom. Johor used to say I will be the Minister of the state while he will accept whatever ministry I would have offered him. He always used to say that I would be the finest Minister that the state could have. The period here was the period when we get closest to each other; we redefined our friendship. Before that he was the only son of our party President, and me just a young neta who is rising to prominence following the orders passed on to me. I was doing my duty whole heartedly, a mistake and I used to get scold by the leady of the state party; he, Johor, always had his father to cover his mistakes.  The protest on that March day brings us, the young guns, together, and the arrest brings us closer. He denied his father’s proposal of signing a document which states he would not return to Bengal without taking permission of the Lord in Command of the state. He remained with us for three months before we were freed on the intervention of Mahatma Gandhi. He returned to Lucknow. But every week we used to write letters to each other. The messenger used to be some cadets or young man. When I proposed something, I know he will support me and the opposite also happened. But, that support doesn’t come blindly. We used to talk on the proposal, and then we used to decide. Sometimes the proposal used to get scraped. But, those talks, those debates all I have now to love him and respect him as a brother.

Never do I have thought with time he would have changed. I know with time a person changed. And thus Johor changed as a person. I kept this thought of person changed at bay because of the bond we share. Many times, when I was kept at the monastery, I used to think on those days and sometimes I came to the conclusion that actually the seed of the stabbing was sown few years back when I opposed our President’s wish to make Johor the next President. I opposed stating the fact that let other vote and then decide who would be the perfect for being President. Johor was then very much busy. He was travelling to Lahore, Delhi and all around to keep the movement move as well spreading the words of his father that is President. So, we haven’t got a time or opportunity to discuss on this matter. My proposal was accepted and I was selected the President. The Party then got divided. One portion chooses the retired President as their leader while another choose me. Johor never asked me to stop this division. He rather supported this splitting of the party. I resigned from the position after a week of the split. (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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