“Barabbas or Jesus, whom do you want to be freed???’ thundered Pilate.. The camera panned across Pilate’s fuzzed face to valiant Barabbas and then zoomed in with his rough nose on the hard exterior prominently making it an eyesore. Barabbas looked disconcerted with all the attention he was getting, he was a killer, or so he liked to think of himself as… He had killed innocent children for money… women for their beauty and men just for the spite… He was an angry man, and it was anger that was marked all over his face. Now the camera split.. There were two faces laid alongside… the angry, scowling Barabbas and the bloodied yet calm Jesus… Jesus was looking down, sometimes up…. Sometimes looking at the crowd, some other times the priests… Pilate wouldn’t have found a better contrast even if had searched the corners of the empire…. A heart of a man and a stone of a heart… The Son of God and the other, a worshipper of man.
The camera was sweeping across the room with terse rapid moves. The crowds were chanting “Barabbas”, “Freedom for Barabbas and death to Jesus”, “Death for the Jew” and god only knows what else interspersed with choicest of slander and uncouth serenade blasting the man who was claiming to be the king… The camera, fleeting towards Jesus’ face, captured unwittingly the free man’s face… and there was surprise, guilt ridden surprise, despise for the crowd and tears for the condemned.
The camera was sweeping across the room with terse rapid moves. The crowds were chanting “Barabbas”, “Freedom for Barabbas and death to Jesus”, “Death for the Jew” and god only knows what else interspersed with choicest of slander and uncouth serenade blasting the man who was claiming to be the king… The camera, fleeting towards Jesus’ face, captured unwittingly the free man’s face… and there was surprise, guilt ridden surprise, despise for the crowd and tears for the condemned.
Shome got up from the bed and switched off the TV, Jesus’ condemned face slowly zipped away from the TV and the crowd’s chanting was being replaced with a disconcerting silence. Shome looked up at the watch, which showed the hour hand between 2 and 3 and the minute hand just after 8.. He computed for the time and got two answers… He didn’t know whether it was night or day… What was outside… the glimmering sun or the simmering moon… For him all were the same, condemned to the golden cage, all he could do was absolutely everything but move around in the sun… But then he should be thankful… thankful to god for providing his father with riches… thankful to his father for being powerful … thankful to the police to find a perfect sitting duck to dupe the public, thankful for that person who will hang from the noose, so deftly prepared from him..
Shome looked lost in the cluttered room, he looked around his room like Selkirk in Cowper’s poem, the lord of whatever he surveyed, the lord of the fowl and the brute… here, sadly he was the lord of only the inanimate. He looked at the vase filled with long-withered flowers and the vase had itself leaked staining the colorless tablecloth with a bright yellow sun, setting from one angle and dazzling from another. He was all alone in the room, save for his reflection in the mirror and that too looked so unlike what was in his memory. People do look good to themselves but when reality stares in the face only a few can stare back; Shome was not among those select few. His eyes wandered from the mirrors but wherever he looked he could see himself looking at his being, judging him, condemning him.
Shome was burning in the fire, Shome was freezing to death, Shome was boiling in hell, Shome had his legs broken into two, Shome was headless with blood oozing from the neck drenching the dancing Shome. Shome was everywhere, everywhere he was in pain, but then thanks to his father’s money he was alive. At moments like this he blamed his father, Death seemed so very enticing, Death would have been an end but life had made his suffering so very endless. Life made him die everyday a little.
There was peace in Hell now and Shome was thankful for the calm that had spread all over. He took a book and opened it at random, Sumi laughed from those pages and he shut the book close. He slowly opened it to the page where he had seen her last, there were just illegible writings, which he thought, if concentrated upon, will give him eternal peace as the priest had promised. He tried reading those verses trying to understand what the cowherd king had to say. Soul is eternal and body is just a vessel, death is just a transition of one body to another, a transfer of soul. He closed the book, so right he thought. When he had opened up Sumi’s body he had felt a whiff of air from her lungs, that must have been her soul and when the same whiff Shome breathed in, it felt so right, Sumi was in his body at last, Sumi was his, if not in life then at least in death.
He picked up an old slam book with Sumi written all over. There were lots of idiotic odes and sweet nothings, some illegible ranting and some other stolen quotes. He never knew what happened that night; he never knew why that happened, what happened. His girl was dead, that was a fact. His girl was raped, that was a fact. His killing Sumi on the streets was a fact too. He loved her and they were “Shomfused” or so they joked, but he had killed and there was no denying that.
The mirrors were getting animated yet again; Shome had covered his head in despair. The mirrors were alive now with Shome accusing himself of murder. Isn’t it kind of funny when the accused and the accuser are the same person, when the perpetrator of a crime and the victim is one and the same? Coming to think of it, every crime is absolutely that, a murderer before he murders anyone else actually kills himself; the first victim to fall on the ground with an unmusical “thud” is he himself. Shome was now standing valiant before the judge and the jury, unusually looking similar. Shome was in the center; Shome was all around, Shome hanging from the ceiling, Shome sobbing on the ground.
The accusations stopped suddenly, the dim light illuminating the room had suddenly brightened up, A corner of his room was on fire and all his tears could not drown that flame that was beginning to take the whole structure down. He could do nothing to drench that fire, which he suspected had its origin from some corner of his heart. The fire kept on burning, taking shapes of Sumi, sometimes laughing, sometimes jeering and some other time pleading for her life. Shome kept on looking at the fire, half expecting the fire to take the shape of the divine Sumi and cling to him. Sumi was waving from that fire wearing that white blouse and black skirt with the large dots. He tried waving back but then Sumi was gone in a puff. The fire was taking shapes yet again… Sumi as a child with her umbilical chord buried deep in the ground, Shome picked up a shovel and dug in a frenzy, the chord was strangling him now and he dug more furiously, he dug further. The chord was tied to a skeleton and he tried untying but by then the baby Sumi was giving birth and then a new kid and a new set of umbilical chord. A baby born and baby dead and all that was new was a new set of chords going deep in the ground. Shome kept on digging, a lot of skeletons around, some deep in the earth some in some closet, some deep in the sea, a lot of babies dying a lot of babies being born and the constant strangulation that was suffocating him.
Shome opened his eyes; the fire had long receded. The pages of an open book were fluttering with random pages being opened and then shut as if it was just the wind which could open up memories, sometimes sweet most other times bitter, pickle them under the disturbed mind and then shut them in that part which you no longer want to linger around. Shome expected Sumi to be in most of those pages, but out of those pages there lurked the smoke of a blunt nosed, curly haired, oval shaped ugly man who did nothing save look at him in despair. The ugly man looked at him in pity and occupied the empty chair, that not a long time back was covered with books. Shome looked at him, he was the last man he expected to come out of that book. He had seen him only once that too fleetingly. The man had covered the naked Sumi with a piece of newspaper that was lying around. The newspaper hadn’t been enough, the blood was dripping all over, and he had taken some more newspapers, a torn handkerchief and tried covering the essentials.
Some days later the old man was all over the newspapers. “Old watchman, father of three, brutally rapes and murders a seventeen year old college girl”, the newspaper screamed. “Boyfriend, son of the tobacco wizard, forced to witness the bloody act”, screamed another. Shome looked the old man in the eye; the old man had a smirk and his twinkling eyes had questions. “He is the man”, a voice was whispering in the court, some other voices were echoing in the room, which were gagging the muted screams of a girl, the muzzled whispers of an innocent convict, the wailing wife, some howling children, and then only silence followed.
Shome got up, closed the book, switched off the fan and switched on the TV; Barabbas was still on the screen, looking sadly as Jesus was being dragged around. He looked as they nailed him in the wrists and crowned him with thorns. He looked as Jesus was slowly dying on the crucifix and the world was watching him in tears. Barabbas looked up at Jesus and saw the son cry for his father. He saw the angels descend and carry the soul to reign in heaven. Barabbas was still alive, thanks to the public and he lay kneeling before the lord. As Jesus was taken to the tomb, he looked behind, straight at where Shome was standing. He looked square in his eyes and Shome felt he seemed to smile.
Shome looked lost in the cluttered room, he looked around his room like Selkirk in Cowper’s poem, the lord of whatever he surveyed, the lord of the fowl and the brute… here, sadly he was the lord of only the inanimate. He looked at the vase filled with long-withered flowers and the vase had itself leaked staining the colorless tablecloth with a bright yellow sun, setting from one angle and dazzling from another. He was all alone in the room, save for his reflection in the mirror and that too looked so unlike what was in his memory. People do look good to themselves but when reality stares in the face only a few can stare back; Shome was not among those select few. His eyes wandered from the mirrors but wherever he looked he could see himself looking at his being, judging him, condemning him.
Shome was burning in the fire, Shome was freezing to death, Shome was boiling in hell, Shome had his legs broken into two, Shome was headless with blood oozing from the neck drenching the dancing Shome. Shome was everywhere, everywhere he was in pain, but then thanks to his father’s money he was alive. At moments like this he blamed his father, Death seemed so very enticing, Death would have been an end but life had made his suffering so very endless. Life made him die everyday a little.
There was peace in Hell now and Shome was thankful for the calm that had spread all over. He took a book and opened it at random, Sumi laughed from those pages and he shut the book close. He slowly opened it to the page where he had seen her last, there were just illegible writings, which he thought, if concentrated upon, will give him eternal peace as the priest had promised. He tried reading those verses trying to understand what the cowherd king had to say. Soul is eternal and body is just a vessel, death is just a transition of one body to another, a transfer of soul. He closed the book, so right he thought. When he had opened up Sumi’s body he had felt a whiff of air from her lungs, that must have been her soul and when the same whiff Shome breathed in, it felt so right, Sumi was in his body at last, Sumi was his, if not in life then at least in death.
He picked up an old slam book with Sumi written all over. There were lots of idiotic odes and sweet nothings, some illegible ranting and some other stolen quotes. He never knew what happened that night; he never knew why that happened, what happened. His girl was dead, that was a fact. His girl was raped, that was a fact. His killing Sumi on the streets was a fact too. He loved her and they were “Shomfused” or so they joked, but he had killed and there was no denying that.
The mirrors were getting animated yet again; Shome had covered his head in despair. The mirrors were alive now with Shome accusing himself of murder. Isn’t it kind of funny when the accused and the accuser are the same person, when the perpetrator of a crime and the victim is one and the same? Coming to think of it, every crime is absolutely that, a murderer before he murders anyone else actually kills himself; the first victim to fall on the ground with an unmusical “thud” is he himself. Shome was now standing valiant before the judge and the jury, unusually looking similar. Shome was in the center; Shome was all around, Shome hanging from the ceiling, Shome sobbing on the ground.
The accusations stopped suddenly, the dim light illuminating the room had suddenly brightened up, A corner of his room was on fire and all his tears could not drown that flame that was beginning to take the whole structure down. He could do nothing to drench that fire, which he suspected had its origin from some corner of his heart. The fire kept on burning, taking shapes of Sumi, sometimes laughing, sometimes jeering and some other time pleading for her life. Shome kept on looking at the fire, half expecting the fire to take the shape of the divine Sumi and cling to him. Sumi was waving from that fire wearing that white blouse and black skirt with the large dots. He tried waving back but then Sumi was gone in a puff. The fire was taking shapes yet again… Sumi as a child with her umbilical chord buried deep in the ground, Shome picked up a shovel and dug in a frenzy, the chord was strangling him now and he dug more furiously, he dug further. The chord was tied to a skeleton and he tried untying but by then the baby Sumi was giving birth and then a new kid and a new set of umbilical chord. A baby born and baby dead and all that was new was a new set of chords going deep in the ground. Shome kept on digging, a lot of skeletons around, some deep in the earth some in some closet, some deep in the sea, a lot of babies dying a lot of babies being born and the constant strangulation that was suffocating him.
Shome opened his eyes; the fire had long receded. The pages of an open book were fluttering with random pages being opened and then shut as if it was just the wind which could open up memories, sometimes sweet most other times bitter, pickle them under the disturbed mind and then shut them in that part which you no longer want to linger around. Shome expected Sumi to be in most of those pages, but out of those pages there lurked the smoke of a blunt nosed, curly haired, oval shaped ugly man who did nothing save look at him in despair. The ugly man looked at him in pity and occupied the empty chair, that not a long time back was covered with books. Shome looked at him, he was the last man he expected to come out of that book. He had seen him only once that too fleetingly. The man had covered the naked Sumi with a piece of newspaper that was lying around. The newspaper hadn’t been enough, the blood was dripping all over, and he had taken some more newspapers, a torn handkerchief and tried covering the essentials.
Some days later the old man was all over the newspapers. “Old watchman, father of three, brutally rapes and murders a seventeen year old college girl”, the newspaper screamed. “Boyfriend, son of the tobacco wizard, forced to witness the bloody act”, screamed another. Shome looked the old man in the eye; the old man had a smirk and his twinkling eyes had questions. “He is the man”, a voice was whispering in the court, some other voices were echoing in the room, which were gagging the muted screams of a girl, the muzzled whispers of an innocent convict, the wailing wife, some howling children, and then only silence followed.
Shome got up, closed the book, switched off the fan and switched on the TV; Barabbas was still on the screen, looking sadly as Jesus was being dragged around. He looked as they nailed him in the wrists and crowned him with thorns. He looked as Jesus was slowly dying on the crucifix and the world was watching him in tears. Barabbas looked up at Jesus and saw the son cry for his father. He saw the angels descend and carry the soul to reign in heaven. Barabbas was still alive, thanks to the public and he lay kneeling before the lord. As Jesus was taken to the tomb, he looked behind, straight at where Shome was standing. He looked square in his eyes and Shome felt he seemed to smile.
