I was standing by the bridge watching the approaching corpse procession. I was supposed to carry my father’s dead body on my shoulder but I didn’t. I was supposed to lead the corpse procession but I didn’t. I escaped. I feared that the load would sink me alive in the ground, I wouldn’t be able to stand firm, wouldn’t be able to walk again. It was too heavy a load.I was watching the approaching the dead procession. In the lightless cloudy , sad afternoon it seemed unreal. It seemed like a mirage. Was that really my father’s dead body they were carrying? My father died in the morning but I didn’tfeel any pain, I was not sad, no tears welled in my eyes.Strange.My father’s death was an ordinary event in the long march of events occurred that day. It was as ordinary as my taking pee, or taking tea or standing by the bridge.There was nothing to be sad really.My father’s death procession was approaching, and I was getting back to moment of my home coming, of cooling down, of getting adjusted, of creating my madness.In this heavy situation I did an unusual thing again. Another sign of my madness. I forgot watching my father’s procession; instead, I started walking along the village path. I kept walking and the young boys and girls kept pebbling at me.How long I was standing in this way, walking in the lane and passage of memory, I couldn’t say. I came toawareness only when the dog which was sitting all this time by me, started licking my feet like a dear friend.My father had been taken to the grave yard, and probably had been buried by this time. I looked around but none was visible. Suddenly I felt so lonely, I felt a pull.I kept walking aimlessly. People who knew me looked at me so sadly, so pathetically that, it seemed, they were my genuine friends, well wishers. And all that was because of my complete madness. They felt really sorry for me. No, I was wrong; they felt sorry for my father.I kept walking through the bazaar, along the ice cream mill, along the brick built houses, muddy houses.And suddenly I discovered, I was standing in front of the grave yard.People were coming out, some of them who knew melooking at me with the same sympathetic expression and sadness. Even, I saw hatred in their eyes.I heard their talks. My father was lucky getting a nice burial place, getting so many attendants and their blessings.I heard their talks. Ah, what a tragedy, his son, well educated, had gone completely mad. What a tragedy, he didn’t even, have the touch of his son on his grave. What an unlucky fellow !It was better not to have a son at all rather than the mad .The dog was still standing by me.The friend who made me homeless for two months , without any notice or explanation, leaving me a dumb fool when I reached his mess and found the room locked , and he was missing, appeared from nowhere.He pulled me by the hand.‘Let’s go. You’ll see your father’s grave.’ Genuine friendly touch was in his voice but the dog barked suddenly and ran as fast he could towards home.Strange.‘You’ll stay with me tonight.’My silence was eternal.I didn’t see or touch my father’s grave. And I didn’t need any treacherous friend. And so I kept walking. Just missed the dog and wondered why he ran…I felt lonely but I didn’t need any treacherous friend. Loneliness was my true friend.I was walking through memory passage again, walking through history, I was madly looking for evidence, just one insignificant bloody evidence… any son, any bloody son,after killing his father, held his face in his hands and kissed.Sonly love towards a blood stained dead father.The wind was blowing strong, piercing through thin summer T-shirt in winter, fog was soaking my face and all, dirty moist dust was painting my two lonely legs but they refused to stop.Two shivering legs kept walking.No, there was not single evidence. I created history again. I was the only son who killed his father and didn’t love his dead face. For a single second.I couldn’t smear a black spot on his sacred face. I couldn’t do that.PB Shaw entered into my left brain while I was crossing the river, wading through knee deep water; Socrates checked in my right brain while I was on the bank again.No compromise with your thoughts’.‘No compromise with truth.’‘Keep walking’.So I kept walking but this time my mind walked backward, backward to my father’s namaz-e- zanaza, one of he deadliest weapons to insert fear, the reminder of supreme power and punishment. Control drama. The great Arabian showed the supreme power in the sky because it wouldn’t be easy to prove. So people would fear and obey.The control drama.I couldn’t compromise with truth. So I couldn’t stand to say my father’s zanaza prayer. To the philosopher, to Socrates, it was meaningless.Meaningless.My right hand at this moment touched my heart. To mean my loneliness.‘Lonely are the creators. You are the creator.’My soul whispered.How long and which paths I walked all night I couldn’t say for sure. My legs were aching, and when it was almost dawn, I found myself walking in the village farm land. The farm land that I encircled once and wanted to buy was stretching before me like my stretching dreams.I wanted to buy all the farmland because I was a twenty one million dollar man. My dream was made like that.I walked towards home shrouded by death mourn.Surely I was not expected in this auspicious hour of the day when Azan was calling, and ferishtas were leaving and visiting the earth.None was worried about me. They were not supposed to after what I had done on the previous day.I encountered my little uncle,( my mother’s younger brother), on the yard. He was smoking cigarette; his eyes were red and swollen, and he was standing by the coconut tree. Most probably didn’t sleep all night and was smoking and standing and waiting for what I couldn’t figure out at first. Was that me? Probably. Because once when I was a kid he used to love me a lot. And he was my favorite.He cast blood shot eyes at me but only for a split second. And then kept smoking silently as before. Without any movement of his body.I feared some onslaught but nothing happened.I went silently to my room. I needed some sleep, I needed some rest but the bloody eyes wouldn’t take rest. The image of my father kept visiting my eyes-loving, caring and understanding. Oh bloody image , get out of my vision. Nolove, no care, no smile please.I felt a gentle touch on my legs. Someone was taking off my skates. I felt some drops of warm tears too. Who was that?I sprang up to a sitting position.My silent mother rushed to me and in a second I was in her arms. I felt thousand kisses on my shaven head. And her frenzy.‘Where shall we go, if you behave like this?’
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