Punishment
Mushtaque B Barq
Drooped neck coiled behind the
iron bars, Danish was down like an inert stack. His limbs like his bald head
were portraying nothing__Nothing momentous.
A monotonous look of his bald head held between those frail arms
appeared cemented and controlled. His
neck was naked like a freshly ravished hilltop after a bombardment to yield
minerals and his forlorn bald head was a remnant after a demolition. The mystery between the two naked hill tops
was on cards as one was recounting the death of hope and the other was
communicating the burdened shoulders dumped under the lumber afar resistance. Between his knees, his bald head was strained
like a sinner forcibly pushed into purgatory through a narrow and unending
tunnel. His head was still, his shoulders fixed and browbeaten to a complete
submission.
A few iron bars of his cell from
a distance were dividing Danish into parts. His drooped head in one of the
frames, his shoulders, his knees and the feet split him into other frames. The
thick angle iron administrated into those friendless iron bars was further slicing
him into two halves like his conscious and unconscious being. His upper half
was motionless and the lower one almost departed. Between these bars, Danish
was scattered into bits beyond recognition.
The solitary window case over his
drooped head was too high to be peeped through to catch a glimpse of the world
outside the compressed confines. The walls were bashed, tortured, ravished and
mutilated. Danish amidst this devastating record was a palpable illustration of
obliteration.
A corner of his cell was jammed
with a few rusted tins, almost eaten up by the rust, a few bottomless and a few
brimless like his own body that had lost much of energy and enthusiasm, serving
the purpose of responding to natural calls. Too shabby, too filthy like his disregarded
body. The reek of human excreta had almost choked the surrounding. It was
excessively pungent to force anyone to vomit continuously. Danish was like a
heap of filth next to rustic tins like decomposed excreta, the worst companion
of his cell. He was a prisoner in his own prison without judgment and
judiciary, without crime and conclusion and more importantly without a will.
To a few Danish was an
incarnation of the ethereal entity. Hidden deep into his own conscious, trying
to find: Who, Why and Where of his existence. His body was still like a dead
log ready to surprise even the sharpest blades, his motionless conscious was
apparently out of joints yet to someone Danish was a living god in the dead
cell. His consistency in maintaining the droop of his neck unfolded many
mysteries. His posture was like a picture of my history book displaying a man
under a massive tree peeping into his ‘being’ to extract something vital. The
only difference between Danish and the man in the picture was the atmosphere.
Danish was far ahead in surrendering his will than the man in the picture of my
history book. The massive tree with mighty shade and freshness around would
even lure devils to obey, but the stink in the cell would even compel the
saints in mediation to suspend their search. Danish was more determined, more
upright and more focused. His posture was holier than saints in meadows.
At noon, a guard passed by his cell banged the
iron bars with his steel cane. It was lunchtime. Danish responded by uncoiling
his head. His eyes had put down the lids and face almost captivated behind the shabby
beard, hard to recognize. His arms wished to stretch a bit but the iron rings
slipped into his wrists denied the access. His knees were tied with an iron
chain to let him never to think of moving his limbs. He was a bird held in a
cage that broke his wings and destroyed his beak.
A plate was pushed into the cell;
Danish somehow managed to drag it close. Dry bread and a bowl of soup with a
handful of rice were all he had to rely on.
He raised his head and opened his eyes took a few morsels and wished to
drink but for certain reasons could not quench his thirst. To quench his thirst
means to add more stink to the already filthy corner. The unpleasant odor which
even animals would like to avoid; Danish was a part of it perhaps recognizing
the reality of his corporal limitations. He has risen above mediocrity as his
posture was relevant enough for a seeker to know the cause of sin, its
consequences and above all its significance.
Just after he had taken his
lunch, he leaned against the wall to analyze the sketch on the opposite wall of
his cell. A woman with a baby in her arms carved by some prisoner was the only
apparent sketch amidst of numerous faded impressions. He continued to gaze at
the sketch. He was absorbed into those arms; his eyelids were occasionally
drooped and finally, those sunken eyes were closed.
The arms of the mother in the sketch suddenly
appeared bigger and wide which grasped Danish who was reduced to a tiny babe. A
speck before a heap. Those majestic arms start stroking his head and rubbing
his shoulders. His limbs relaxed after a long time as a touch of love applied
balm to his wounds. He was weeping without a cry; he was silent but narrating
something to her. She grasped him tight as he coiled his body which seemed
under the spell of love. The movement was brisk, his legs and arms suffered regained
vitality. His breathing was too slow to declare him dead, but the corner of his
shirt near his belly was occasionally beating against his lean frame, giving a
clue that he was still alive, active but under a spell of magic as his limbs
was controlled like his mind. He appeared like a snake guarding a treasure in
some remote temple, waiting for a right priest to uncoil his body to unfold the
mystery of the treasure.
A jerk re-assembled his entire
body, his limbs moved, his head stood firm against the wall, his chest moved
briskly but his eyes continued to obey the darkness, he was still gazing at the
mysteries in that darkest tunnel for the search of light to find his way out,
but he was struggling to come out.
Once again his limbs dropped, but
this time he was thrown to the floor of his cell, his head banged against the
shabby floor, his back was so feeble that one could easily calculate the bones
of his backbone. He prostrated and never stood again.
Before the dusk, Danish was not
attended by anyone, but then, a routine check across his cell made some guards
peep through those iron bars behind which the sinner was to be punished without
cleaning his sin.
They cried at Danish, he did not
respond. The jailor was informed, he opened the door of the cell, inspected Danish,
called the doctor who declared him dead.
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