Thursday, August 6, 2009

“. . . you won’t forgive me”

It was boiling outside, but what going on inside was a storm with ear breaking thunders. The last grain was boiling on the stove. The weak weeping of children could be heard from the grey corners of that hut, haunted by the ferocious ghost, poverty!
Hunger, hunger was the unsuppressible protest. Embarrassment, poverty or anything more dreadful would have been negligible but hunger, which tightens its clutches with sharp claws, was the devil beating to the knees.
His hopeless eyes ran to the corner where he saw the colourless portraits of his wife and children. Grabbing back the eyes he tried to think about something better but always kept reverting to the same thought. He stood up to go out to try to escape from the nauseating stillness of life. But he knows that it is as useless as wishing for the bygone days. But, what else!
He went out to the burning fields with veins of draught drawn by hot sun. A grass here and plant there. . . A cry from his heart raises in a hurry and got blocked in the throat and as a burning coal started to burn his flesh . . .
Years ago his field also was a well harvested ground. The excess of grain he used to store for the next year and the family kept him happy through days. Life was brimming with meanings . . .
But he did a mistake, a big mistake which turned everything upside down. Once he poisoned his fields. ‘They’ called it pesticide but in result it was fratricide! With all that barming insects died also who helped in many ways to keep the grains and plants protected. This continued for many years as it became impossible to grow something in fields without chemical fertilisers. In every year’s rain the poison got diluted in rain and spread all over the field, got mixed up in streams and then in rivers. With that drained the fertility of the soil for ever. Amount of the harvest reduced year by year for no other ways was working on that waste land. The last harvest was a useless one as there was nothing in the field which required a harvest.
“A harvest”, he sighed.
He turned to face the house which is to be confiscated shortly by the bank for his failure in repaying the money which he borrowed to seek the last adobe in his farming. His head stooped with the unbearable weight of complicated thought.
With swaying steps he entered to that estranged house and suddenly with a new and tragic glow in eyes started to search for something in so long neglected corners. The other inhabitants got up from their emotionless ness and kept starting at is search dusting hopes.
At last, at last he found it. With a breath taking laugher he turned to face his wife and children. With an emotionless faded background of those living creatures, in his hand, dangled a knotted end of a rope. . .
When time ended, there was still a murmur on the lips of death,
“. . . you won’t forgive me”

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