Visiting my chamber was a dear person to me. He used the gun to threaten me time and again, in the passage of moments that we were together. He started by whipping me with his force and might, whilst I kept resisting only to fail in all the attempts. I realized that it was a trap that my body was wrestled in, and surely, it was the man’s territory in which I had been lurking with lost breath, impatience and recklessness. What a torture it was to see him taking out the revolver from his side pocket to only do what I pleaded against. The smile deepened in glory on the “dear one’s” face as the victim in me was framing the realistic image of the time that was becoming.
He shot it at me. One shot. And I lost my balance, not able to stand the notion of nothingness. I passed through the feeling of incompetence when the fighter in me accepted the setback, gasping for breath while waiting for the destination to arrive. I wonder how right that poet was who said, that every single day we are moving closer to the final destination, to death. The man wasn’t done in his pride, for he picked me up from my tee and then shoulder, he made me stand and I realized that death hadn’t taken me in yet! The body couldn’t bear the torment and had no desire to ask for help from the world. All it wanted was to die peacefully in the next moments but the man held the revolver firmly. I shouted this time, “No please, don’t strike another one at me. Let me die; I will anyway!” He made me spit blood and cherished the red colour pigment filling the floor; it excited him to see me cry. Brutality or was he filling for his drug in seeing my blood? I know not.
Meanwhile, another bullet was shot at, and I lay dead and he stood at the top of his game. I wondered what my dear one’s profession was all my life and finally lived to see it, only to die as its result. And then, while my soul was looking for a place to hide, breathe, feel, express, howl, cry, hug, kiss and sleep in; the man touched me again, and I could feel him asking for my name. “Wake up, wake up”, he said. And I found myself fallen on the bed with my hands holding my chest together in a childish embrace. It was that morning, and the same man asked my well-being. I didn’t know whether I had to be happy or sad, but it was tranquil. My soul had a body to rest in, and my eyes had vivid imaginations, thanks to the painful dream. The slumber and the wakeful hours carried across a journey of life and death for me.
Gagandeep Singh Vaid