Red Blue Gray: Day 10

I tried to kill myself. Not once, but thrice. Every time I tried I fail. I had arranged this long rope by bribing the guard. I put on the rope through the hook of the fan and standing on stool I wore the noose and hanged myself what my feet was touching the ground after pushing away the stool. I then tried to cut my wrist with the razor blade I had but it was blunt and rusted. Thus no cut but a slight scratch. Then I tried to hit my head to the wall until enough loss of blood happened. I hit the wall and I fall on the ground. The guard hearing the noise of my fall ran up to me and finding me on the ground being unconscious he first bring my sense back with sprinkles of water and then call the jailer who came up with a doctor. The doctors, a mid-aged one, look around the cell and said it had changed a lot. My face now cover with beard I think is unrecognizable but still the guard with his another companion positioned me in a manner to hid my face in the darkness. They handcuffed my hand and gagged me to prevent me from speaking. The doctor checked my pulse and dictate I am running on high pressure with abnormal count of heartbeats. They took out an injection and inject me which make fall asleep. It might be over twelve hours I have slept. When I woke up, I found myself in a hazed condition for long. I think the men had visited me while I was sleeping laughing at me, while in the dream the fakir had returned sitting on my chest and looking at me.

I am thinking the reason of the floor being vacant. There are nearly twenty cells set around the side of an opening rectangular. This cell is one of them located at the corner. No one except the allotted guards on the shift basis and the jailer visited me. The doctor was the new one who came to visit…how long ago…two…three days.

….

….

What is death actually? Is it a new life, or living a new life by leaving the old life. Reincarnation seems to be living this new life. Death had came to me times ago when I unknowingly let that man to play me. Kundan I heard had won the election with the help of me. That man is playing the perfect me. I am not married so no one to doubt on how I act or behaved, and if it so happened Kundan will tell or make the man told the person that that strike had changed me a lot. I know they are doing that. These days I do not think of death but of the reincarnation. The shadows came and sit beside me sometimes in the noon or night. That sadhu comes in my dream and sitting on my chest chant his ancient chasm. Sometimes the guard forget to serve me meal—two hardened dried rotis, a clasp of melted or over boiled rice and some curry or lentil that look like piss. These days I remain sit on my bed and look around. There’s a cockroach that run on the wall—damp and cold. The cat, one eyed man, keep looking at me. He’s somehow seems to be growing young not older. He has this habit on licking his paws and then collecting them at the joint before dropping his head on the confluence. The gap of the eye on head remains open as he sleeps or drowses with his one eye.

If I have been a reader would they have provided me with books? Looking at the wall all the day round, putting my hand in the trespassing sunlight, and observing the cat. I should name him. Gopal or Guddu, after my two maids, what shall I name him. Guddu be it.

The tantrik or the sadhu or the fakir just looked like the one I had seen long ago in my young age as politician in a village. It was the village where I got Kundan crying for food in a heap of garbage beside his dead mother. I met this ascetic by the river of that village at the cremation ghat. The pyre of the lady had diminished and the sun was setting. The season was winter I think. This man came up to me and asked to not to take the boy with me. At that moment I hadn’t decided to bring Kundan to the city. I was surprised to hear that warning. I never paid him the attention and decided to bring up the boy next morning after couldn’t sleeping in the night and thinking of the scene—a boy of five or six crying besides her dead mother. No one was there to cremate her or take the kid up and tender him. The reason was they belong to low caste of cobbler. If I hadn’t neglected the warning of the tantrik then I wouldn’t be here.

The urge of death is increasing inside me. I haven’t eaten a bit for last five days and drank a bit for last six days. How long will it take to reach the gate? I am feeling weak at the wrist. I cannot write anymore. But, I want to write. I want to write of this 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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