A Mind Invalid by Riots
What Moved the Judges
“A very important story. I think the most effective thing is that the narrator brings us their perspective through the eyes of a child. In this way, it reminded me of Bapsi Sidhwa’s novel Cracking India. The title of this piece itself is really clever and double-edged just like Sidhwa’s is.”
It was one of those turbulent, nerve-racking, and nonplussing days when the wild and eager greenery of our minds was shooting up into malignant and voracious weeds, devouring our peaceful culture, invading our serene environment, unnoticeably proliferating in the darkness that dwelled right below the light. A series of loud booms, accompanied by sharp cracks and rapid popping noises in succession, filled the otherwise calm morning air. So long a flock of pigeons was proudly goose-stepping on the walls along with their repeated, throaty coos. The sudden commotion of what seemed to be bursting crackers startled them off, as they went flying in different directions. It was Diwali a few days ago. So, we didn’t bother much with the sound. After some time, we came to know that there had been some disturbance in our city and its people were being scorched and charred by an anonymous pain.
I was perhaps six or seven years old at the time when this riot broke out between two groups of religious fanatics. Being a small child, I didn’t know the meaning of riot at the time. Though I am an adult now, I am still unable to fathom the reason behind such meaningless riots when a simple acceptance and tolerance toward one another’s faiths isn’t as difficult as it seems. What remains after the acts of hate are injured bodies and wounded minds.
My understanding at that time about the world was solely based on the films that I watched on TV or at the theatre hall where there would be clashes between the good and the evil. Inevitably, the good guys eventually emerged victorious no matter what, and all the wars ended in happy endings. I didn’t realize that the real scenario was far more complicated than that. To me, religion was worshiping Goddess Durga—known for eliminating the evil demon Mahishasura—who would appear once a year during the autumn school break in puja pandals. On asking my father about what they meant by religious fanatics and whether the good people will emerge victorious and be spared, he smiled without answering.
A curfew was imposed on the city, and nobody was allowed to go out of their houses, except during certain times when there were relaxations to do the necessary purchases of the daily-needed items. On one such morning, I noticed my next-door neighbor Kunal—a young adult—on his balcony, searching for something amongst the bushy wilderness of his small garden.
“What’s the matter? What are you looking for?” I asked from my balcony, sensing something odd in his behavior.
“I am looking for the stars, you see. They have gone missing.” He answered with a deep scowl on his gaunt face and eyes like those of a google-eyed scad. He seemed to be haunted by the confusion astray in the city’s atmosphere.
Before I could even try to comprehend what he meant by that, my father shouted from behind me, “Kunal, go inside and wear some clothes.” So long I hadn’t noticed that Kunal wasn’t wearing anything, except his underpants. It was the beginning of winter, and there was a chill in the air.
Kunal balked; probably something brooded inside him that furrowed his brow further. He paused a moment vacillatingly and continued with his search, not giving any attention to what my father said.
My father went inside, and from the balcony, I heard him say something to my mother before heading toward Kunal’s place. From my balcony, I noticed my father put a shawl around Kunal’s body and took him inside. After sometime my father returned. He held an unmindful, watery gaze.
“The situation is grave. We cannot move out of our homes, and Kunal is having this problem. His uncle and aunty are stuck at their relative’s place in another city. Don’t know what to do.” He said to my mother, wrapped in a shawl of anxiety and tenderness.
As we concurred with him, his thoughts pervaded and ceaselessly engaged our minds. When the riot erupted and a commotion was heard on the main street, it prompted him to move toward it. Upon reaching the main road, he witnessed frenzied men—visibly similar, wearing pants and shirts, without any noticeable difference indicating their religious preferences—pelting stones haphazardly and burning vehicles like lunatics. They were engaged in a mindless mayhem. Perhaps they responded to emotions—sometimes in response to totally imagined beliefs and myths—rather than rationality, which seemed both derisive and disturbing to the rest of us.It was certain that nothing would aid understanding at that point of time. Hate was, and to date, the most spontaneous of all sentiments that effectively blames another for one’s misfortune and misery. Frantic from the fireand the malevolent mob, my father quickly retreated from the scene and headed home.
Hours later, he stepped outside to survey the situation following the sectarian tumult. Unbreathing and empty, the streets seemed as if gone into a long slumber. Neither vehicular traffic nor pedestrians were seen, except a bunch of policemen here and there, with grim visages, holding guns and batons. Burnt remains of buses, cars, motorcycles—some of them still smoldering—laced the pavements, probably dumped aside to allow free movement of the traffic. Along with the smell of burnt rubber, terror hung thick in the air. At a distance, inflaming tensions persisted, as he found black billows of smoke rising from a known colony, probably from burning houses or vehicles—one rising and fading, followed by another making its appearance, incessantly. Gone were the stream of velvety air under an azure sky and a swarm of people that occupied every corner of the streets, jubilantly chattering and laughing not only amongst those known to them but also with strangers. Sadly, the values and ebullience on which the city existed were slowly reaching the point of extinction.
“Did he go outside by any chance and witness the riot going on? It must have triggered this.” My mother opined.
I had heard earlier that Kunal had lost his parents in a similar riot that took place in his village when he was little. His uncle and aunt had brought him home and taken care of his education and well-being ever since then. Locked into his agony, he seemed to be forever trapped, as the propagated generations of his anxiety interminably surfaced on his soft, delicate mind.
“What has happened to him, papa?” I asked, while my mind was bombarded with scampering inquisitiveness.
“It’s a condition where the decorative string lights are on, but there is still darkness,” observed my father.
The apprehension of what would happen to Kunal under the circumstances of an aggravated condition reigned over our minds like a parasitic creeper that burgeoned aggressively, conquering the clarity of our thoughts, bowing the towering treetops down to a compact, entangled mass of choking foliage.
That evening, my father went to Kunal’s house with a tiffin box. He had left our front door open. I tiptoed and followed him, without being spotted by my mother who was busy cooking in the kitchen.
On reaching Kunal’s house, I noticed the main door was left ajar. I cautiously went to the living room from where voices were being heard. From behind the half-open door, I heard my father talking to another neighbor who had come to check on Kunal.
Peeping inside, I found Kunal sitting on the sofa with a plate of food right in front of him and our tiffin box beside it.
“Have something, Kunal! Come on!” My father said, placing one of his strong, lofty hands on his shoulder.
“I don’t have hands. How am I supposed to eat?” Kunal raised hastily and almost instantly, sat down, and a crimson tinge stood in his lusterless eyes—reft of life.
“Don’t worry, I will fix your hands.” The middle-aged neighbor said, while he exchanged glances with my father.
My father took a little bit of bread and dipped it in curry and fed Kunal.
“This is what riot does to human beings.” My father said to the other neighbor with a deep sigh.
“I’ll be with him tonight. You don’t worry.” The neighbor stretched himself on the sofa.
Realizing that my mother must be looking for me, I went back home. My father returned after some time.
“He’s sleeping now.” My father said while handing over the empty tiffin box to my mother.
A few days after the incident when the riot was under control and the curfew got lifted, Kunal came over to our house. Smiling sheepishly, he settled down on the sofa. His eyes were bright and clear, not turbid like water found in the bottoms of old bottles when I had last seen him. My father and the other neighbors had continuously looked after him during this period.
After Kunal went back, I started playing with my toy—a boy with a drum that would play on turning a side key attached to it. At times it wouldn’t play, and I would tap it gently with my hands and jolt it back into action.
“Kunal is alright. Isn’t he, papa? What did you all do to make him feel better?” I asked.
“Like your toy that sometimes fails to function properly and needs your attention. His condition was similar to that, and we gave him a nudge of love and affection that brought him back on track. Though he still needs to consult a doctor, I am sure he will be fully cured very soon.”
On that day, I realized that love and compassion could do wonders, and Kunal was a living example of it. A mind that is falling to pieces and momentarily spent can certainly be revived through caring impulses and true inspirations.
Sreelekha Chatterjee is an award-winning short story writer, poet, and editor. Her nonfiction pieces have appeared in SugarSugarSalt Magazine, Usawa Literary Review, Five Minutes, Prosetrics, The Chakkar, Different Truths, and in anthologies such as Wisdom of Our Mothers (Familia Books, USA), among others. Her short stories and poems have been widely published in more than two hundred journals, magazines, and anthologies globally across twenty countries, and translated into several languages. She lives in New Delhi, India.