Violence was still sitting on his head. He had felt it creep into his body then his head. It was as if a bullet pierced it, it was as if he could feel every inch the presence of violence. Somewhere. Everywhere. Then one day he forgot what violence was. It left him and his head. You see he was so used to its presence and had taken it so much for granted that he simply forgot (it). Till, he went out to the streets to see blood. But it was not violence, he thought, it was blood.
Does all blood necessarily come from violence? No. Never.
The blood soon coagulated and then became dark spots of frenzy. That is violence he exclaimed. Then one day violence entered his soft body, to make him wobbly and slightly mad. Violence shook him, froze him and drove him to lust and despair. He wanted to jump. He wanted to kill. He wanted to die. He wanted to shoot. Shoot. Shot. He wanted to bludgeon his head with a stone.
He wanted to live. So he lived (In fact he is still living). Then there was the curfew. He broke bounds by going to the streets. He wanted to break bounds. He wanted to defy. He wanted to commit crimes. He wanted to die. He wanted to live. He wanted to cry. In the meantime a poem got stuck in his throat. He tried to wriggle out of violence, or rather violence tried to wriggle out of his body. He wanted to fight with fistfuls. He wanted to hit out madly at . . . At? What? Violence.
Soon he was confined to a bed, within the four walls of his room. He became a cockcroach. But soon he recovered, he became a Man.
This is a story of recovery that I am narrating – from cockroach to man. He wanted to cry. He wanted to die. He wanted to shout. He wanted to fight with fistful of tears. He is still on the road to recovery. With, him now sitting on; Violence.
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Ananya S Guha
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