That year it was raining a lot from the start of the onset of the monsoon. I can still hear the howling and whistling of the storms and hail that each wall of the prison was making. Sometimes deep into the night the prison used to come to life. The shouting, the wailing, the pleading of the past used to dance around us. The politician was at unease. He stopped coming out of the cell. He used to remain in the darkest corner of the cell. He always and often used to curse someone throwing him out of the cell. But there were nothing. At that time few nights I saw this shadowy figure of a cat. I can vouch on the name of the God that it was that cat which had died years ago. No one can see him, only I can. Now I can say the politician had also seen that. That night it was raining torrentially. The politician was silent that night. Qasim tried to hold me back to the office. He was scared. I pushed him away; his head hit the wall and he slide down the wall. The drops of the rain were flying in the wind, spreading and drenching all around. I slipped on the step to the third floor. Someone dragged me down to the platform of the staircase. I remain there senseless for a while. When I reached the cell, the rain had stopped but there was a storm that was shaking the walls like they were made of hay or cloth. Holding the wall and crawling on the wall I reach the cell. He was lying there throwing his hands spread. A shadow moved out brushing its cold veil over me. I fainted sitting on my knees. I regain my consciousness when a man spread water on my face.
Yes, doctor I had seen that shadow, and that was not of the cat but something like of a spirit. It was the spirit of the politician that got freed. Oh, you want to know the man who brings back my sense. You do not believe me; rather you do not want to. You are here to hear me.
A group of policemen was passing that day with a boy who had joined the Naxalite movement. They had at first halted at the village. Then braving the rain they had arrive the prison at the evening and find Qasim unconscious at the office. They were two constables and the boy. One constable and the boy remain at the downstairs while the one mentioned and discovered me on my knees and the body of the politician. Why he cannot recognize the leader? Because his face was scratched and melted beyond the identification of the man. I do not how it’s happened.
I do not know when I did that. I remember scratching his face like a cat or wild animal do but there were no traces of that crime on my nails or hands. It just seems to be someone washed my hands after that. But it might be a dream, right? Doctor assured me. You suspect I am hallucinating. It was just my thought. I am feeling tired. I want to sleep.
I do not what I saw that day. It was the second or third or fourth day of them there. The rain didn’t let us move our foot outside the prison. We moved the dead body of that politician to the next cell, and put the boy there. On that day the blow of the rain had diminished a little. One of the constables decided to travel to the village to gather some sort of transportation like a carriage driven by cow or horse. It was dead of the night; I warned them. But they didn’t listen to me. Taking the only horse of the premise he rides out. But he had never reached his destination. The earth started shaking. Making us fall to the ground. When I regain my sense—I was struck by the shaking wall—I saw everyone was dead. The wall of the cell had broken down and the boy had died. I do not what I saw. There was this old Brahmin who was sitting on the boy’s chest; he changed to a tantrik in a blink, and then he was a cat—one eyed it was…
[A stick on note was attached here written by the doctor saying—
The patient had died while saying this in an instant of a massive heart attack.]