Red Blue Gray: Day 9

vi

This little book is such a beautiful thing. It had been hidden under the bed at the gap of the frame. They have freshly coated the wall so the smell of the paint is still there. They have clean the chamber and decorate it with a fan and a light. Though it’s October but still a fan is needed. This bed was also changed. The jailer said that few years back an old man was kept here on the instruction of higher authority. He was found dead on the old bed. He was dead for a day or two when they discover him or it is appropriate to say they found out he was dead and died in his sleep. So where from this little book came I am thinking over as I want to distract my mind from outer world. I think I should ask the jailer regarding this.

Nothing is to be done here much. I am not into those glass-on-the-nose and reading-books politician. I am one who plot and seek out ways to make the way to the top. It’s been a week here. I didn’t ask of this book to the jailer. Because it seems the book was instructing me so. There is a cat also who came into the cell and shove it ass into corner where the light is hazed. It is another secret I kept away from the here world. They are taking care of me in the possible finest way. To-night they have said they would bring in a girl with some fine whiskey. The holiday seems to be will be spend in the best manner I had planned.

To-day I learned they have killed some policemen. They are all corrupted, and to this ongoing movement they are bourgeoisie, foes of the class.  I am thinking of the man who has been playing me outside. In other words he is acting as me. It was the idea of my assistant Kundan. He had seen this man while at some fair. The man can live without food and water for days. He called himself The Hunger Artist. He resembles me like a twin should be. When I met him I had asked in a passing joke how he came to this profession. He smiled and said once he had read a story of some Russian, or is it German, Gogol and there he came to know of this profession. He had passed the college with flying colours but there were no job for him so he had chosen this profession. Now he is on the stage enacting me who has gone for hunger strike until and unless two of the leaders of the Naxalite movement had been arrested. In other words I want them dead, and the two are random. I know many are ready to murder me. But, I will not give them that chance. So under heavy police protection I am there on the stage asking the youth to stop and for that I am going for hunger strike for one month. The man, I have forgotten his name, playing my role to the perfection, and me just sitting here—sleeping, drinking and enjoying whores at almost every night.

There is someone in this cell I think. Last night I heard some whispers. It sounded like some chanting. The whore had gone few minutes ago then and I was in dozed state. So this can be true that someone were there in the cell. Everyone who comes here and taking care of mine are being paid handsomely. But sometimes trait of treachery beat the greed of money. I had asked the jailer on this and he said the guards outside guarding the cell and me is the most trustworthy he had in his force. On asking him, the guard who was there at the night, he said he hadn’t heard anyone and hadn’t seen anyone to come up here. I think remaining inactive that is not walking much, not talking much taking a toll on me making collaboration with the whiskey and wine.

Last night I almost killed the girl who had come into my chamber. She from the first was denying serving me refusing on the ground that there’s a man in the corner. I couldn’t see him but she can. Then she said she can smell of some rotten corpse or something. I couldn’t smell anything. I call the guard; he also agreed with me. I then brought her to bed and tried to forcefully fuck her but she pushed me away and this enraged me so much that I break the bottle of whiskey on her head. She didn’t die but she was injured. The guard call some of his trustworthy companion and took her away. All the night I felt this uneasiness. It just seems someone is looking at me. Someone had been poking me to get under my skin, to get a touch of my veins. I also had this nightmare of a sadhu sitting on my chest and slapping me hard while chanting. The cat seems to be his pet sitting on his lap and enjoying that. I am laughing right now thinking of the dream.

Someone had shot the artist on the stage. But he had missed it. So I am still alive on the stage. I had instructed Kundan if he dies anyhow, they should take his body away immediately and take me out from here. It will be like sending a message that assassinating me is not an easy task.

I think I have been played off, I have been deceived. Kundan now is running for the election for me. I had elected him instead of me at the end of the strike from the stage. But, it was not me; it was an impostor. Kundan always wanted to be there on the top—I heard from some of the members of my party but I never gave an ear to them. Kundan was a son to me; he was orphaned and a roadside little hooligan when I picked him up, two and a half decade ago while on an election tour. He had saved me from an assault of throwing stone by dragging me done. That boy now elected and running for a ministry with the blessing of mine but not me.

All the amnesty has been called off. No whore, no whiskey. Even they have taken off the fan, and had left the light because Kundan had asked so. I know why he does so; I am scared of darkness. He had at least given me a chance to thank him. The guards were taken away. So it’s me and the cat. He is one eyed one and young with a white as milk skin. I am not reading or writing person so this journal writing not a thing for me. But it call me and asked me to write—write anything or just be seated.

There are few more scribbles before me on the pages, and it seems they were written by the prisoners before me. Though, I cannot read them because I am not interested. They are there and now it’s me. Everyone had been writing in this stack of paper. The treachery of Kundan making me remind of our first President and the Minister story. They were good friends; they were like brothers. Just before the declaration of independence Ghosh, President, was killed in an air crash and thus this man Rai become Minister. Later it was heard Ghosh was alive and was kept alive and captive. Once a group of adventurer going up a mountain in Tibet reported they had saw Ghosh in a monastery. When a team of delegate reached there they found no trace of the alleged Ghosh. It was still like a ghost story inside our party that Ghosh had been alive for a long time later. How would be if he had breathed last here in this cell? What a thought I have. He was killed in that monastery as soon as those people recognized him.

Last night it seems someone sucking the blood from my hand. I got up and found nothing. At the dead of the night the light was off. It will not light anymore because the filament had gone tear. Last evening it had blinked for few times and that time I doubt of this. Now my living in darkness started. There is no one to take care.

I am writing now using the light of the sun peeping through the window at the top of the cell. I have decided to end my life. Last night the sadhu came back in my dream and asked me for my life. I have decided to give it away. Last night I also saw some people stooping and looking on me. I couldn’t recognize them. One of them smiled and said I am living with them. And now I am going to stay with them. I am not scared of anything anymore. I am already feeling light and free. Here I come the unending life. (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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