Story 2: The Wounded Stranger
Word count: 1000 words exactly l Prompt: Desperate Times
Bimala trudged to the pile of firewood outside the house. She took her time choosing a few sturdy pieces for the kitchen fire. It was time to get dinner going. As she turned away, a rough hand came out of nowhere and clamped down on her mouth and a voice whispered in her ear, “Don’t scream. All I want is a little help and then I’ll be gone.”
Too stunned to do anything, Bimala struggled to retain her footing as a man sagged against her. Was this the outlaw who was rumoured to be in these parts since the last few weeks? There had been reports of encounters between the police and a group of Naxalites who were all too common in this forest area. Bimala’s husband was an ageing constable and although not in the thick of action, he got to know all the inside information.
“I just need a place to stay the night,” the voice begged.
Bimala watched as the man slumped to the ground and lay there in a stupor. She debated the wisdom of taking him, a stranger, into the house where she and her husband lived alone. Many years ago, there had been a son, but he’d been something of a rebel and before long, was gone from home. All efforts to trace him had failed and during the past 10 years, the couple had reconciled themselves to their loss.
Bending, she peered at the man in the gathering twilight. As she tried to get a grip on his arm, she felt a thick, sticky liquid oozing out. He was bleeding and from the warmth of the blood, it was a fresh cut. No, she couldn’t bring herself to abandon anyone, even a fugitive, to die outside her home.
Inch by painstaking inch, Bimala dragged the man inside. In the bright light of the kerosene lamp, his wounds were even worse than she had imagined. Pushing aside the rough woolen blanket that covered his chest, she got to work cleaning and patching him up as best her trembling hands would allow. Her hand lingered for a moment over a ghastly scar that ran across his right arm. She looked a little more closely at his face to tell if he was awake, but the man appeared dead to the world.
Covering him up with a fresh blanket, Bimala took her lamp to the kitchen, leaving the sleeping man in the shadows. She got busy preparing the evening meal. A few minutes later, Bhanu Pratap Singh, her husband, the village constable, marched into the house, demanding dinner be served.
“Why are you so pale, Bimala?” he demanded. “Don’t tell me you’re catching the fever that’s spreading across the village.”
“No, it’s nothing. I’m just a little tired, that’s all. I’m not getting any younger by the day.”
As they sat in silence after the meal, Bimala stared into space, murmuring, “If only our son had been here, we would have got a daughter-in-law by now. She’d have helped me around the house.”
Bhanu flicked his glance at her, noting once again the pallor of her skin. “Go to sleep, Bimala. There’s no use crying over what’s happened in the past.”
After she moved to the mattress at the end of the room and lay down with a sigh, Bhanu sat alone. His mind was on other matters, and uppermost was the day’s news of the dreaded Naxalite encounter.
After a while, he walked to the corner of the room for his customary glass of water before going to bed. Even in the semi-darkness, he realized there was a lump that hadn’t been there when he left home that morning. Bhanu walked closer and was hit by the sight of a sleeping man. Despite his shock, Bhanu took in everything – the torn clothes, dirty woolen blanket by the side, and deep wounds that were now covered by cloth strips torn out of Bimala’s old saree. The skin on the back of his neck prickled.
Bhanu looked in Bimala’s direction. Her chest rose and dipped with the smoothness of deep sleep. Careful not to wake her, he slipped out of the house and hurried away, a man on a mission. Half an hour later, Bhanu was back inside the house, followed by two men, whom he pointed in the direction of the fugitive.
“Sahab, there’s no one here,” one of them called.
Bhanu looked at Bimala, who continued to sleep, her breath flowing evenly, in and out.
After a cursory search of the house, Bhanu sent the men away, ruing having made a fool of himself.
When he stepped inside, Bimala was sitting up, tears running down a face that seemed to have aged 10 years in the last few hours.
Bhanu bellowed, “Do you even realize how dangerous it was giving shelter to him?”
Her words catching in her throat, Bimala cried, “He was Amar, our son! I saw the scar on his right arm. Can you even understand why I couldn’t let him bleed to death? Do you think I’d let him be nabbed by you and your policemen?”
“Oh, you fool of a woman! Why didn’t you confide in me? And what do you think I’m made of? Stone? I saw the scar, too. You know whom I brought home with me just now? Hah! It was the doctor and his assistant, not the police.”
With a cry of horror, Bimala bolted outside. Just a few minutes ago, she’d dragged her son out, and hidden him behind the stack of wood. Bhanu followed with the kerosene lamp, shielding it from prying eyes.
The stranger lay in a pool of fresh blood that had gushed out from his wounds. Wounds that had opened up when Bimala had pulled him across the courtyard to the pile of firewood to keep him safe.
The next day, the village was agog with the news that dreaded Naxalite Sheru had been found dead outside Constable Bhanu Pratap Singh’s house.
Bimala trudged to the pile of firewood outside the house. She took her time choosing a few sturdy pieces for the kitchen fire. It was time to get dinner going. As she turned away, a rough hand came out of nowhere and clamped down on her mouth and a voice whispered in her ear, “Don’t scream. All I want is a little help and then I’ll be gone.”
Too stunned to do anything, Bimala struggled to retain her footing as a man sagged against her. Was this the outlaw who was rumoured to be in these parts since the last few weeks? There had been reports of encounters between the police and a group of Naxalites who were all too common in this forest area. Bimala’s husband was an ageing constable and although not in the thick of action, he got to know all the inside information.
“I just need a place to stay the night,” the voice begged.
Bimala watched as the man slumped to the ground and lay there in a stupor. She debated the wisdom of taking him, a stranger, into the house where she and her husband lived alone. Many years ago, there had been a son, but he’d been something of a rebel and before long, was gone from home. All efforts to trace him had failed and during the past 10 years, the couple had reconciled themselves to their loss.
Bending, she peered at the man in the gathering twilight. As she tried to get a grip on his arm, she felt a thick, sticky liquid oozing out. He was bleeding and from the warmth of the blood, it was a fresh cut. No, she couldn’t bring herself to abandon anyone, even a fugitive, to die outside her home.
Inch by painstaking inch, Bimala dragged the man inside. In the bright light of the kerosene lamp, his wounds were even worse than she had imagined. Pushing aside the rough woolen blanket that covered his chest, she got to work cleaning and patching him up as best her trembling hands would allow. Her hand lingered for a moment over a ghastly scar that ran across his right arm. She looked a little more closely at his face to tell if he was awake, but the man appeared dead to the world.
Covering him up with a fresh blanket, Bimala took her lamp to the kitchen, leaving the sleeping man in the shadows. She got busy preparing the evening meal. A few minutes later, Bhanu Pratap Singh, her husband, the village constable, marched into the house, demanding dinner be served.
“Why are you so pale, Bimala?” he demanded. “Don’t tell me you’re catching the fever that’s spreading across the village.”
“No, it’s nothing. I’m just a little tired, that’s all. I’m not getting any younger by the day.”
As they sat in silence after the meal, Bimala stared into space, murmuring, “If only our son had been here, we would have got a daughter-in-law by now. She’d have helped me around the house.”
Bhanu flicked his glance at her, noting once again the pallor of her skin. “Go to sleep, Bimala. There’s no use crying over what’s happened in the past.”
After she moved to the mattress at the end of the room and lay down with a sigh, Bhanu sat alone. His mind was on other matters, and uppermost was the day’s news of the dreaded Naxalite encounter.
After a while, he walked to the corner of the room for his customary glass of water before going to bed. Even in the semi-darkness, he realized there was a lump that hadn’t been there when he left home that morning. Bhanu walked closer and was hit by the sight of a sleeping man. Despite his shock, Bhanu took in everything – the torn clothes, dirty woolen blanket by the side, and deep wounds that were now covered by cloth strips torn out of Bimala’s old saree. The skin on the back of his neck prickled.
Bhanu looked in Bimala’s direction. Her chest rose and dipped with the smoothness of deep sleep. Careful not to wake her, he slipped out of the house and hurried away, a man on a mission. Half an hour later, Bhanu was back inside the house, followed by two men, whom he pointed in the direction of the fugitive.
“Sahab, there’s no one here,” one of them called.
Bhanu looked at Bimala, who continued to sleep, her breath flowing evenly, in and out.
After a cursory search of the house, Bhanu sent the men away, ruing having made a fool of himself.
When he stepped inside, Bimala was sitting up, tears running down a face that seemed to have aged 10 years in the last few hours.
Bhanu bellowed, “Do you even realize how dangerous it was giving shelter to him?”
Her words catching in her throat, Bimala cried, “He was Amar, our son! I saw the scar on his right arm. Can you even understand why I couldn’t let him bleed to death? Do you think I’d let him be nabbed by you and your policemen?”
“Oh, you fool of a woman! Why didn’t you confide in me? And what do you think I’m made of? Stone? I saw the scar, too. You know whom I brought home with me just now? Hah! It was the doctor and his assistant, not the police.”
With a cry of horror, Bimala bolted outside. Just a few minutes ago, she’d dragged her son out, and hidden him behind the stack of wood. Bhanu followed with the kerosene lamp, shielding it from prying eyes.
The stranger lay in a pool of fresh blood that had gushed out from his wounds. Wounds that had opened up when Bimala had pulled him across the courtyard to the pile of firewood to keep him safe.
The next day, the village was agog with the news that dreaded Naxalite Sheru had been found dead outside Constable Bhanu Pratap Singh’s house.
Chilling! Wounds the heart straightaway.
ReplyDeleteThank you for the feedback, Vatsala! Glad I could evoke that reaction :-)
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