Third day and no food or water. Mahatma Gandhi had survived surviving for 21 days. I cannot recollect the name of the freedom fighter who had survived over a month. Then there was a political leader during this period; he had starved without water and food for 31 days to stop the violence of Naxalite movements. Then what can be the reason that I will survive. Only one thing the fingers are becoming numb. Sometimes the eyes are turning hazy. This cell is a neglected one.
This cell seems to be abandoned. No guard or man come here. Otherwise they could have seen me and would have rescued me. But, should they have believed me. Like that mysterious man who somewhere in Japan was put into a prison, and he had vanished from where he was hold. He is regarded as time traveller because his dress and all seems to be from the time we haven’t seen. It was not past at that moment but future maybe this time or the time that is going to come. I want to write so many things but I cannot. The light at the back of the pen seems to be getting dimmed.
Future. This may be my future, dying here. There will be a obituary in the dailies. And someday when a person will set his feet here, he will discover my skeleton and this journal. The journal had been written before the people who had been kept here. There’s this freedom fighter talking of his last days and there’s also a spy from our neighbour country. He had written many things—a chunk of this journal. I cannot read them in this faded light of the pen-torch. I will take this journal with me to read at leisure.
There is a glitch in the calculation. Near to a week and I am still struck here. In this dark dampened prison cell. I don’t know the year or the date or anything else. Only thing that visit me is the white tom cat with two varied colours eyes. His one eye may be the left seems sometimes to be a hole when it is dark and I look at it with my pen torch—blue in glow and short sighted.
I cannot live anymore. I will now die. This thirst is killing me. This hunger is killing me. The only thing to eat is this cat or my shoes. I cannot think straight. Thoughts are going everywhere.
A horrid dream I had or was it a vision. Last night when the moon was shining on the bed, over me, I saw few faces stooping on me and looking at me with astonishment and amusement. I woke up and I want to scream but I cannot. My dried thought was more than drier at that moment. I fainted and I dreamt a scene. A tantrik sitting on my—
They say my blood that is boiling will now become freezing cold. The revolution we are participating in will also stop. Arresting me and keeping me they think they will capture few more may be our leader also. But, they do not know I am not so easy to break down. Oh, how I got this journal or should I call it an old manuscript—tattered and full hazed words. Actually it had been lying here at the leg of this cot. It feels like someone had thrown it there in dismay. The space is dark so it was not easy to locate unless someone lie on the cot on his stomach which I does. I also find a red wrap with a string seems to be of shoes. The journal might have wrapped in that red cloth. Red—colour of our party, colour of our motivation. Laal Salaam. Today the guard while rubbing his khaini told me a story of this cell. This cell was not constructed. There was gap in the corner of this floor. So a British officer created this cell by putting up these fat iron rods. He used to carry out his torture of the freedom fighters here and their catharsis of pain and agony used to echo throughout this floor down to the second floor. One or two years before 1947 the officer was killed by some freedom fighters. The cell was then abandoned, and was used for the convicts or prisoners who cross the boundary of decency in the jail. The boundary means listening to what the officer and constables are saying. No complaining, no fighting. Sometimes they also keep some who should be kept in solitary so that he would confess out being insane. Writing in the early dawn light is not an easy task. (Cont’d)