THE HAUNTING DREAM
Whenever it was morning, I opened my door, and I headed towards the Shiva's Temple, I saw him sitting on his threshold, and staring at the far flung sun, surging from behind the dusky hills. Although he was a Hindu, as the owner of the factory told me that his name was Vipul, but I had never seen him betaking himself to the temple. The temple was not far from our residence, a right turn, and then just in the next street itself. Being a devotee of Shiva, it was such a grievous case for me, to find him detached from the grace of Gods. I always looked for a chance to inculcate the religious devoutness in him, and to fathom the reasons of being deviated from the celestial path of religion, but never got a chance. Anyhow something which alleviated my fret, was that I have never observed him, indulged in gambling and drinking, which was in vogue amongst the factory workers.
The factory where I work, produces bags, and the owner is known as Kanji. Earlier he was a worker too, at Munna Khan Baig Wala's factory, but later he accumulated some money and commenced his own business. We were not more than five people, including Kanji, until the day, when he came with a boy, approximately twenty years old, wearing a black pant, and a t-shirt, with the picture of a giant hairy wrestler with his iron fists. Vipul was feeble-bodied, but later he gained some weight, but something which didn't change within the course of the time, were his dreamy yet, obscure and vacant eyes. He was reticent, and so his eyes were, complete taciturn. You talk to him and he will just nod his head, either in yes or no, but sometimes he will condescend to spell one or two words for you. I tried several times, but never stood a chance to talk to him. Our conversation always started with me, asking to pass a tool, and ended with an “okay” from him. It never surpassed the threshold of these two dialogues, one with words, and other with just nodding. But then, time came when I got an opportunity to scrutinize him thoroughly.
When Gujaratis kick started purging workers from Bihar and UP, among the foremost victims was our factory owner, Kanji. He was coming late night, and someone slit his throat, and left him rotting on the road. We are so frightened, that we didn't even go to the police station to receive his body. Everyone hailing from Bihar and UP was in hurry to leave Gujarat, as soon as possible. Stations were brimming out of people, and the trains, were extremely full. We were lucky to get into the first train, leaving for Delhi. Having a two feet space in a corner of coach, was enough to take our bodies safe and sound to our homes. Because outside, people were being sliced like pizza, let alone beating and looting.
Somehow we managed to shrink our bodies, and thudded on the floor, for the journey was long and tiresome, and we couldn't stand the whole way to Delhi. While I was chanting the mantras, Vipul was sitting,l beside me, thrusting his head between his knees. I patted on his shoulder. And asked when he raised his chin.
“Where are planning to go from Delhi?”
He remained looking at me in bewilderment, for a while, and then he uttered, “I will…, I don't know.”
“What do you mean you don't know? Won't you go home?
He didn't answer, and again put his head between his legs. I just despise this kind of people, who don't even have manners to talk. But I don't know, why did I pat on his shoulder, once again, and said, “ You are from Bihar, right?”
“No! I'm not from Bihar.”
“Then?”
“From Uttar Pradesh.”
“So you will go to UP. It's okay then, we can accompany each other even after Delhi.”
“I have already told you that I don't want to go to my home.” This time he couldn't control the two tiny drops of water, to imprison within the crate of his eyes. He looked at me, and the vacant eyes had turned into innocent. His lips shivered, and then his eyes, sloshed a cascade of tears. It was an moment of perplexity for me, but no one noticed us, as many a people were yelling, and crying in the coach. I hugged him spontaneously, and kept patting his back until he stopped sobbing.
“Have you lost your family? Or some catastrophe befell on them?”
“No! There is nothing like that, but I don't want to go there. But something happened there, which still haunts me, in my dreams.”
“And what's that? Can you elaborate it for me, if you like?”
“I don't even want to remember that but, my mind can't stop recalling that moment. I feel like that incident has been inscribed on the board of my memories, and I can't scratch that out. Whenever I remember that, the chill runs down in my spines.” He stopped, sighed and kept on weeping convulsively. I insisted on him to tell me what happened there, in his village, and he couldn't withstand the persistence, and soon he brimmed over with what that ultimately shocked to the quick.
“Just before I came to the factory, I was there in our village, doing nothing but, assisting my father in farming, as he inherited considerable farmland from his father.” He told me about his family, and friends, and then added, “There were some Muslims in ours villages, living on the extreme margins. They were hardly three houses. They were modest and guileless, as far as I knew them. Usually I spotted only some old men, children and women around their houses, which indicated exactly that young men had left for other cities for work. Of course they had good ties of relationship with other houses in our village, but as my father was a radical member of a fanatic organization, so I was not even allowed to be located around their houses.
Thing were going as usual, but then a news, or say a rumour aroused chaos in the village. We happened to know that a man from those Muslim families works in a slaughterhouse in Meerut, where cow was being butchered, according to the reports disclosed by policemen, after they seized the slaughterhouse. The man of my village managed to run away, and came back to his home. The news was enough for my father and his pals to be inflamed. Slowly the wrath provoked them to retaliate for that cow, which was slain in a far flung city. My father summoned all the young men of our village, to perform some extraordinary task to embellish the glory of the religion. The last words of his speech, which he delivered before them, still resonate in my mind. He told that our religion was grappling with predicament, and in order to weed out this plight, we had to teach those people a lesson, they never forget, and that would turn out to be a barricade to stop others, trotting on this walk. He also assured them of full political support, and avowed that not a single person will be arrested. The plan was kept confidential.
Moonlight was dispersed all over, when we, the group of young people advanced, towards the house of those Muslims, along with my father, leading us. Everyone had at least one weapon in his hand. I was holding a machete. We charged on their houses, and they were sleeping. Everybody scattered, in groups of two or three, and soon the cry and yell fill the atmosphere. I with my friends, intruded into a room. We found a boy, hardly twelve years old. He was terrified, and was standing frozen in a corner. We moved forward to him. One of my friends kicked him, and he tumbled aside. When we got out of that room after ten minutes, our shirts were soaked in red colour, and the boy was lying on the ground, waiting for his last breath, after we liberated his hands and legs from his slavery.
That night was enough to pride for all of us, as everyone thought that he had played his part to save the ostentation of our religion. But ever since the sun appeared next morning, I felt like the parts of the body, we chopped apart last night, are associating again to boy’s body. He got on his feet, rushed towards me, while the blood was dripping down from his body. He hugged me, and I felt like my dress is again soaked in his blood, same as the night when we preyed on him and his family.”
I couldn't even believe what he just said. His face was turning into pale, his eyes were looking like being sealed by slumber. Then he further said in a faint voice, “This kind of dreams kept on haunting me, no matter I'm awake, or sleeping. Day and night, I felt the boy coming to me, and hugging me tightly. One night, I left the village, and came to Gujarat, and one of my friends working here, introduced me to Kanji.” The voice became slower and slower, and when I looked at him, I found him sleeping. I got my answer, but still I wanted to ask whether the dream stopped when he left his village, or is still continue. But I found it improper to awaken him, as he seemed like experiencing the first ever nap of his life.
