It was a pious day in the arabic calender. A young muslim bride, she was fasting that day. Those were trying, testing times. The Babri Masjid had been destroyed by Hindu fanatics, egged on by the greatest villians of our times, politicians ! In the aftermath, riots had erupted all over India.
Mumbai, that most cosmopolitan of cities, had shown its ugly side. The deprived and seething slums had seized the oppurtunity, to raid and loot the vulnerable middleclass, enriching themselves with the spoils of the riots. Where people of all classes and states had existed together, albeit in uneasy harmony, there was hatred and murder as hindus and muslims bayed for each others blood. Life as they knew it, calm and peace as they knew it, lay shattered as people imprisoned themselves in their homes, venturing out only when provisions and food forced them to.
She stood on her prayer mat, saying the afternoon prayers, in her room overlooking the usually bustling cacaphonic streets, that now had the eerie calm of a graveyard. The silence without was in deep contrast to the turmoil that lay over peoples' hearts, these days. Her husband was asleep in the bedroom within.
Immersed in her prayers she nevertheless heard it: that strange gurgle. Hackles rising, goosebumps springing on her arms, she rushed to the window, as a bloodcurdling moan from the streets below, permeated every pore of her being. Grabbing her from behind, clamping his hand on her mouth, her husband managed ,just in time, to stifle the anguished, strangled cry that rose from deep within her.
On the street below, lay a young man. Crouched over him, a butcher's knife poised over the throat that he had just slit, was the baker, that friendly youth who sold her bread everyday. As if in slow motion, he rose, her terrified, dilated eyes saw him wipe the knife nonchalantly on his victims trousers. From the shadows behind, emerged a second figure. Systematically, they emptied his pockets, then holding the now dead young man by his legs, they dragged him a little distance away, leaving a trail of blood behind him, onto the middle of the main road. Rooted to the spot she watched, as they flung a bucket full of water over the bloody trail, erasing most of it.
The memory of that day she would carry to her grave.
Hiding behind the curtains, she kept the vigil. The body lay inert. A young man, someone's son, husband, father had been lost. Brutally murdered for no fault of his own, except that he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Months later, when normalcy was restored, she often went to buy bread. The perplexed, vexed baker wondered why, his once regular customer, never once ventured near his shop ever again.
Mumbai, that most cosmopolitan of cities, had shown its ugly side. The deprived and seething slums had seized the oppurtunity, to raid and loot the vulnerable middleclass, enriching themselves with the spoils of the riots. Where people of all classes and states had existed together, albeit in uneasy harmony, there was hatred and murder as hindus and muslims bayed for each others blood. Life as they knew it, calm and peace as they knew it, lay shattered as people imprisoned themselves in their homes, venturing out only when provisions and food forced them to.
She stood on her prayer mat, saying the afternoon prayers, in her room overlooking the usually bustling cacaphonic streets, that now had the eerie calm of a graveyard. The silence without was in deep contrast to the turmoil that lay over peoples' hearts, these days. Her husband was asleep in the bedroom within.
Immersed in her prayers she nevertheless heard it: that strange gurgle. Hackles rising, goosebumps springing on her arms, she rushed to the window, as a bloodcurdling moan from the streets below, permeated every pore of her being. Grabbing her from behind, clamping his hand on her mouth, her husband managed ,just in time, to stifle the anguished, strangled cry that rose from deep within her.
On the street below, lay a young man. Crouched over him, a butcher's knife poised over the throat that he had just slit, was the baker, that friendly youth who sold her bread everyday. As if in slow motion, he rose, her terrified, dilated eyes saw him wipe the knife nonchalantly on his victims trousers. From the shadows behind, emerged a second figure. Systematically, they emptied his pockets, then holding the now dead young man by his legs, they dragged him a little distance away, leaving a trail of blood behind him, onto the middle of the main road. Rooted to the spot she watched, as they flung a bucket full of water over the bloody trail, erasing most of it.
The memory of that day she would carry to her grave.
Hiding behind the curtains, she kept the vigil. The body lay inert. A young man, someone's son, husband, father had been lost. Brutally murdered for no fault of his own, except that he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Months later, when normalcy was restored, she often went to buy bread. The perplexed, vexed baker wondered why, his once regular customer, never once ventured near his shop ever again.
chilling!
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