By: Harikant Jethwani
Translated by  Param Abhichandani

 He had been thrown into a dark cell that smelt of dampness and emitted foul odour. He lay there on his stomach, his legs sprawling. When he came out of the stupor, he touched his right cheek which felt like frost. His eyes were closed, but his left hand groped in the darkness to find out where he was. The moment he gained consciousness, he found he was lying on his stomach on the rough, cold floor. He now opened his eyes and looked around. Darkness pervaded the cell and he could not see anything, nor could he make out anything. His eyes ached and his head throbbed with pain. As a reaction to these sensations, he closed his eyes again.

 Everything had happened so suddenly, beyond all expectations and with such a speed that he still couldn't tie up the ends of the broken threads. He found so many links missing. He opened his eyes again. The blurred outlines of the presences in a corner started taking shape. He gathered all his strength and tried to raise himself.

 He lifted his head making a lever of his elbows and gripped his face to stop it from sinking downwards. He, then, looked at the corner again. As stark darkness changed into lurid light, things started taking shape. The blurred view disappeared and he could now see clearly. There were not just two or three persons, as he had envisaged, but six in all, huddled together as if glued to each other. Their eyes conveyed terror and panic. The oldest among them, with snow-white hair, had a bandage around his head. Over the white bandage was a big, round spot of terracota hue -- dried blood.

 The old man approached him with staggering steps. On coming nearer, he crouched and sat down before him. He, then, placed his left hand on his right shoulder and, with warmth in his soft voice, said, "Don't be timorous; have courage."

 Before he could say anything, the old man lifted his hand from his shoulder rather abruptly, got up and stepped briskly back into the corner.
 The poor visibility in the cell was further diminished by a silhouette appearing at the iron gate. Slowly, the silhouette took shape and he saw an armed sentry
at the gate standing like a solid, iron wall.

 Now he tried to remember the chain of events that had taken place. The ring-like links went into the making of a chain of events.

 Five kilograms of imported red wheat, three kilograms of millet, half a kilogram of rice and the same quantity of sugar.... He had bought his rations from the Fair Price Shop and put the things in separate bags. As soon as he left the shop, the shrill sound of the sirens rent the air. During the last few days, he had not been able to reconcile himself to these sounds. Every time he heard that sound it brought him a new dread, a new fear. He thought that the curfew had again been clamped on the city. The queue outside the shop broke up and people ran about in panic. A tumult followed.

 He also tried to run. Halfway down the road, he remembered he had left his ration card at the shop. He abruptly stopped panting and at the same time thinking what to do -- whether to go back to the shop to pick up the ration card, or to rush home as the situation demanded. Going back to the shop was fraught with danger. The army had clear instructions to shoot at sight if anyone tried to break the curfew orders. Presently, he dropped the idea to pick up the card from the shop and started running towards his house.

 The sound of crying broke the thread of his thoughts and brought him back to the cell. One of the six persons, sitting in the corner of the cell, was crying bitterly. Perhaps it was fear or panic that had exhausted his patience. He thought that the same feeling of fear and panic would inundate the cell and all the prisoners would be immersed in it, fathoms deep.

 The same deep, sombre voice echoed -- 'Have patience.' The expanse of darkness in the cell thickened and increased in density. The khaki-wall shaped itself again at the iron gate and the darkness inside was concealed in its womb that deep, sombre voice...

 He tried to link up the events again.... While running on the road with those bags of rations in his hands and then turning into the lane where he resided, he had crashed against that khaki-wall. He had staggered and then stood still far a moment. Four hunting eyes had preyed upon him. A shiver had run through his spine. The rough voice had reached his ears, "Catch that scoundrel."
 His entire being shuddered.

 "The bastard is trying to run away with the loot."

 Two strong hands gripped him firmly. His body loosened and turned into a jelly. Nevertheless, his hands remained firm, gripping the bags.

 He tried to explain, but all in vain. The persons in  Khaki would not listen to his explanations and entreaties. He was engulfed by fear, but then the instinct for survival transformed the fear into courage. He snapped himself free from their grip and ran towards his house with fantastic speed. The filthy abuses emanated from the filthy mouths, and then they ran after him. The batton hit on his back hard, but his speed further increased. A lean, half-famished dog, sitting by the side of the stinking drain, got up, snarled at him and then ran across the lane. He was panting heavily and hissing sounds ensued from his expanded nostrils. He felt yet another peculiar sound vibrating in his lungs. Presently he slowed down his speed, and then stopped abruptly. He picked up a ball-sized stone from the road, turned around gnashing his teeth and hurled it at his pursuers with all the force his body could muster. The stone struck against a face and dropped on the road with a thud. A body doubled up and its white face turned crimson. A stream of blood sprouted from his face and flowed down. He was terrified. He swirled and ran again to a place of safety. Suddenly a cudgel hit his head with terrific force; he staggered and then dropped down unconscious....

 He again felt that soft, consoling touch on his shoulder. The same affectionate, inspiring voice vibrated in his ears -- "Have patience."

 There was a sound of the key turning in the lock of the iron gate, and it opened with the mean creaking sound. The commanding sound of the heavy boots echoed in the cell.

 "So it's him, that scoundrel."

 It made his hair stand on ends. He raised his terror-stricken eyes -- black boots, heavy legs covered with khaki stockings, well creased knickers. He didn't dare look further up. A cold wave ran through his spine and he closed his eyes. A heavy foot hit hard on his back. He shrieked and doubled up with pain.

 "So he is the one.. son of a bitch...."

 They caught him by the hair, lifted him up and then threw him down with terrible force. And then, the dirty abuses followed.

 Two persons caught hold of his arms, levelled them sideways  on the floor and pressed his palms under their heavy boots. Two others pressed his ankles likewise.

 "So he wants wheat... h... o... o... n..."

 Bestial guffaws filled the cell and echoed from the bare, dark walls. It seemed as they had run amuck.

 "He wants sugar. Does he?"

 Again guffaws.

 "He wants millet..."

 Guffaws.

 "Bring that jar here, will you? Put that stuff into the mouth of this bastard."
 Something soft, of yellowish colour and stinking, was stuffed into his mouth. It was nothing but human excreta. He struggled, he flounced, but the stuff was forced into his mouth. Both the arms and legs were pressed to the ground with heavy boots.

 After the echoes of guffaws subsided, the sound of steps receded and the iron gate closed with the same creaking sound and silence returned to the cell.

 He got up. The stink in his mouth churned his stomach and he vomitted. He felt the same soft, consoling touch on his shoulder and heard the same voice -- "Patience."

 He jerked the hand away and like a defeated soldier, went to the gate with staggering steps. He raised his hands in a straight line and caught hold of the cold iron bars. He felt he had been standing there silent, for eternity.

 His face was placid and serene like that of Christ, but his bloodshot eyes, burning with rage were fixed on the rifle of the sentry standing in the corridor.

It looked as if a modern Christ was in search of a gun.