Sambhavam Scena Mone

Dasan felt as if his legs would be torn away any second. His face bore the marks of two days of ‘interrogation’ under the Kerala police. A sight to see, the party workers watched as he was dragged into the jail cell. Not a second passed. He was in the same place. 

The Commissioner of Police sat on a barely standing steel chair. His white mundu was stained with the party’s colours. There were two people in the whole state with the power to call off the coup. Both sat in the same cell that day. One sat on a steel chair, the other crawled under a steel baton. Not a second passed. Dasan was in the same place yet again. 

The cell reeked of human waste. It was dimly lit. One could hear the raging crowds noises through the silent corridors. The C.P. looked down at a slumped Dasan. Dasan looked up just enough to steal a glance at the badge. “Vijayan”, it read. Dasan painfully extended his right arm towards the chair. He moaned “Don’t… leave them alone….”. Not a second passed. The party was in the same place as always. 

‘Where’s the flash-drive?’, Vijayan asked with a grin. “Kochi’s gone. So is Kozhikode. You guys are done for. Tell me now and you leave a free man”. He knew all too well that Dasan would not share any information with him. Only Dasan knew what could possibly compromise the empire rising before him. The government records that could pull down the empire Vijayan was a part of. An empire Dasan would not be a slave to. 

Dasan silently looked up at his captor. Vijayan’s shoulders cast a shadow on the prisoner. The pool of blood on the floor reflected two faces of power. One past and one the future. The men smiled at each other. Not a second passed. The state was in the same place as the country. 

Dasan spit on the floor. Vijayan stood up. His leg came crashing down on Dasan’s skull. Dasan let out a little whimper. He swallowed down the two teeth that just broke in his mouth. He felt his arms give out as Vijayan brought down his steel rod on his shoulder. The rod rang as it hit Dasan’s battered bones. Dasan lifted his head one last time to the heavens. His first day as part of the uprising played vividly. It had been thirteen years since he had taken that oath, “Not a second shall pass, nor place change, until the blood of the comrade waters the fruit…. 

“Endha Madhiyaya?*” Vijayan whispered in his ear. Madhiyavula**, Dasan’s mind screamed. The change he stood for was coming. If not today, some other day. If not this year, some other then. Vijayan’s piercing nails would not stop that flood. The oozing wounds of his flesh and the stabbing pain of cold, sharp steel would not stop it. No! Dasan dies today. But revolution does not. The revolution shall continue. The flood shall prevail. These last thoughts were interrupted by the enemy. 

Dasan felt Vijayan’s hand slam his head to the floor. A heavy knee lay on his chest. He looked up at Vijayan. Had a second passed? Had the place changed? 

A weak sigh breathed out. He stared faintly at the barrel. A finger pulled the metal trigger of endings. Blood sprayed from the bullet hole to the wall behind. A drop fell on the few lines which lived until that moment. Now red, they read:

Not a heartbeat throbbed. No sanctuary endured.

No sanctuary endured where time dared not penetrate.

In this ceaseless carnage, no semblance of stability endures...

As all is torn asunder, why should time and place remain unscathed?

Or rather, how can they evade the relentless onslaught?