One fleeting story

“All the stories I can remember are sad stories until they meet their happy ends. But mine is a happy one with a tragic end.”

The shoot had officially begun with that phenomenal dialogue of mine and as the play progressed, I slowly lost myself to Tahir, a man who now seemed more than a character to me. The director shouts to start as a sit over my smooth chair and prepare myself for the last act of the play. The cameras roll and then it starts.

While I check my wristwatch, Constable Imran discloses to me the death of another criminal. Only that he names it an execution for death is a word too courteous for an offender of law. With the motion of my hand, I instruct him to leave and when he obeys me promptly, I lay back silently on my recliner only to find myself mourning the death of a beloved soul. Melancholy surrounds me as tears gradually roll down my cheeks, perhaps to remind me that I have killed my brother.

I cannot forget the day I arrested him. Under the gaze of my shocked mother, I had cuffed the trembling hands of Mohsin, who indeed was a spy and had communicated the secrets of my country to my enemies. However, I knew, with his rebellious ways he was destined to be a betrayer. As I moved to take him along, I heard my mother sob,                                                                                                 

“No! Tahir, leave him for my sake, he is your brother afterall”.                                         

 I turned around to give her the smile, I have always given to the mothers of criminals. A smile full of sympathy with a tint of distaste. But it wounded her sentiments as she replied to it with a void expression. That moment never passed, for one surely knows when one dies internally if not visibly.

As I rest on my recliner today, I experience a sad dream perhaps a nightmare. I dream about me and Mohsin on the beach, making statues. It is peculiar that we make the dazzling red statues from the blood flowing through our wrists. And so with my blood and Mohsin’s, I make a statue of a person I call my brother. He beams radiantly before he vanishes into the mist of the gloomy sky. With a tensed expression, I look around for him before a wave of heavy wind smashes my statue to the ground. The shrieks I hear afterwards hit me with intensity. Just then a deafening cry comes down apparently from the smashed statue of Mohsin and I wake up sobbing.

As I pant heavily and try to reestablish myself, there is a sudden knock on the door and Imran enters,                                                                                                                                       

“Sir, I just came to know about the criminal’s background. You should have told me that he was your”, Imran hesitates as he glares at me with woeful eyes. 

 The day I had arrested Mohsin, no police force was engaged. Hence I had never anticipated this impression of alarm from him and before I knew I was sobbing again.

It was then that a minacious thought passed my mind, with impatient moves I stood from the chair and ran through the door, shoving Imran away. I rushed through several stairs before reaching the balcony. Behind me I could hear Imran screaming at the top of his voice. While my mother’s voice echoed in my ears, I climbed to the edge of the veranda. To accomplish my commitment, I had killed my emotions. But the death of Mohsin as a criminal was a burden that heaved me with a bundle of unwavering memories.

As I steady myself for my next big leap and advance my impending death, I recall being a lonely child with no friends, but when I had no friends I had him. Now that he is gone, I fear I would have no one to remember me. In between my thoughts, I slip and tumble down the balcony, only to assure myself that the dream was a vision. For here I was again, making with Mohsin’s blood and my own, a bond which would never break, a bond more powerful and a bond made in heaven, but before that in death.

Blood is furiously shooting out of my head and my legs are numb as I lay there wondering if I have already reached my doom. Constable Imran is gazing at me with teary eyes through the balcony. Many other officers have surrounded him. They are mourning me while my mind keeps functioning. I can’t stop my brain from wandering and revisiting all the events that have brought me here, on the roadside as a practically dead man.

Lying motionless over the roadside, as I gradually close my eyes, I hear the sounds of various claps and praises. It is the director and his crew, who always applaud my distinctive acting. I wipe away the red paint that we had used to imitate blood and settle myself peacefully over the cold chair while the director prepares for pack up, ordering the camera men here and there. It is not soon before he notices me and when he eventually sees me, he rushes to me in a hurry.

“This movie is surely going to be a hit. The ending holds the tendency to make a tough man cry. You acted it well, David!”

I reply to him with a slow nod and he seems not too impressed over my response.

“What do you think, should we start with the death scene and then move to the other scenes through a flash back. Huh?

“That will do the job. Please do it as you wish. I am a little tired”

With a cheery grin he soon leaves me alone to wander into the darkness of my mind. Of all the numerous project I have worked on throughout my life, this one affected me. I read the script several times and acted upon it flawlessly. It has concluded in a way; we all had wished for. Only that later I would often think of Tahir and his death, never evidently acknowledging that his story, at times felt real.