The Mute

Part 1]

An analog radio was being attended by a small boy of 10. It screeched decibels of unspectacular, unwanted sound. The boy looked frail, forlorn in his unblemished attire. He occupied a miniscule territory of a vast, arid ground that had a sparse blur of moving children in the horizon. The playground was a decent carpet of dry grass and the sun turned things into a shade of intense orange. The boy had a faint smile on while he treated the device.

A group of four kids entered into the frame and kicked and broke his radio. They took the boy by his collar and punched him on his stomach. He fell down hard and a round of kicks on the surface area of his body, followed suit. Blood oozed from his mouth as he watched the gang walking back into the blur screaming happily for successfully ensuring their violent victory.

He stared blank.

The boy was now an adult. He was reading lines from a piece of paper, as he stood 22 yards behind the girl he fancied. He planned out his throw and made sure the jokes would get the proper punch they deserve. He hoped the girl would appreciate his efforts because he knew for certain that he loved her.

A group of four boys entered into the frame and tore his words of love. They took the boy by his collar and punched him on his stomach. He fell down hard and a round of kicks on the surface area of his body, followed suit. Blood oozed from his mouth as he watched the gang walking back into the blur screaming happily for successfully ensuring their violent victory.

The girl laughed harder.

He stared blank.

The boy was now a working individual. He looked at the picture of his prospective bride. She looked threateningly through the gloss. His parents hooked him up to this piece of uncertainty. He stared the wall anticipating his forthcoming life.

A group of four men entered into the frame and placed a huge stack of files on his table. They went on to brag about his commitment levels and told him to work more. They also told him about his extended shift to increase the performance of the firm. They went away jolly in a tempo of relief at this ensuing victory of delegation.

He stared blank.

The man had a beard now. He looked down on the sink and then to his hands. He held the knife closely now. The knife dripped blood. He washed the knife with a pleasant calm.

He laughed and started singing a Kishore Kumar classic.

Part 2]

He gazed at his loaf of bread with utmost sincerity. He applied a fine layer of mixed fruit jam over the butter that was spread out before. Savoring this activity, he went on to make five such loaves each intricately prepared. He relished the warmth of the morning light in his drawing room and basked in the happiness of a temporary fulfillment. A bizarre sounding alarm clock rang nuts into the proceedings. He let out a sigh as he closed his eyes.

A white hill…A purple chariot…A radiant white horse driving it…As he commanded it…Peace…

“You useless buffoon! Go to work. Stop wasting time!”

His wife stormed into the drawing room, the air waves carrying abuses around her. He gazed at her as a cow gazes the land after it is done eating. A flurry of vulgar Hindi abuses continued. His first impression of her was spot on, he thought. All these years she treated him like dirt and he could do nothing about it. He wondered if he should have spoken against her when his parents were match making. He could have spoken then and not have been so mute. Then his life flashed in front of him and he shrugged it off, repenting.

He went inside took his briefcase and a haversack. His missus gave him a list periodically and he purchased whatsoever it told him to. He came out of his bedroom and his wife slapped him hard across his face.

“You moron! That 2 kg wheat you brought last night. We never eat that. Why the hell did you not bring the one we have been consuming for a hundred years now?”

He wanted to answer but went shrugging off. Her wife could have been an amusing mosquito. He didn’t care. As he was leaving he saw his antique knife in a stand on the table. He smiled at it, almost acknowledging it. And then, he went back to his furrowed brow.

He walked down the stairs. He could have opted for the elevator, but he never used one. He walked below to his apartment’s compound and found a horde of the residents taking on the security man. He looked closely, they were all women. He went near the crowd to look into the argument.

The harried security guy found new found confidence when he saw him. He momentarily went out of line and approached him with utmost contempt.

“Mind your own business, loser”. He spitted out.

He remained grim and walked past the crowd without replying back and looked satisfied when he heard a familiar word among the yells. He walked his way to his motorcycle and gave it a kick start. It fizzled out annoyingly.

At the garage, nothing much happened. Only the guys teased him about his lack of knowledge of things pertaining to his bike and a mandatory ‘loser’ followed him in his stride back to work.

The office was as – usual. People came. He worked. And everything was like it was every day. Only he was slapped by a woman. She alleged that he tried to make advances towards him. A slight murmur persisted and by the end of the lunch period, all was sorted. The woman laughed back her way. Everyone else looked pleased as they went back.

He stared blank.

Working hours ended for the day. He alighted two hours later.

On his way, he shopped according to the list. He could not find the salt brand his wife mentioned. He didn’t know what to do. So he didn’t bring any. He stopped at three more places before he walked back to his house.

The security guard walked to his post as he entered the building. The security man looked at him in disdain as he entered. The guard could have got more time if he came a little late, he thought.

As he entered, seeing his wife, he thought the same. The wife welcomed him with a cold smile with her attire, disheveled. The antique knife shone to his face, weirdly being reflected at suitable angles to get his attention. He walked past it. He went to have a shower and succumbed to his thoughts.

A green sky…Three flying purple reindeers drawing a sledge…He was dressed in red…Comfort…

He was rudely interrupted by his wife banging the door. The missing salt was the culprit this time.

The abuse continued during his dinner too. He went along eating. All the time he did that, he stared at the antique knife. The knife seemed to dissolve all the noises in the background.

After dinner, the lights went off. The wife took her sleeping pills and slept off instantly. He heaved a long sigh and sat waiting for the world to sleep.

It could have been a good two hours worth of sitting on one’s bed. He got up. Then, he went to the drawing room and took out the knife from the table, smiling. The knife smiled back. He collected something else from his haversack. For some reason, he felt an incoming rush of adrenaline.

He went inside his bedroom and saw his wife sleeping soundly. He got rid of his clothing. His eyebrows formed a tedious arc; lips contorted in rage. He, then, went where he had to.

Laid his things down and lifted his knife in extreme fury. He yelled in rage and stabbed continuously; furiously. Blood poured out instantly forming froth. The head was severed instantly from the body. The guts spilled out with uncanny ease. A warm flow of blood caressed his hands. He wiped the blood over his face and broke out into a satisfying grin.

He cursed in merriment.

Part 3]

The fish carcass lay splattered all across the kitchen floor.

After he finished stabbing the fish for the twenty-seventh time, he finally felt accomplished for the day. He cleaned up the place and the knife and then collected the fished up remains in a plastic bag, singing a Kishore Kumar classic during this time. A hot shower followed and clothing too.

He walked down to his compound and dropped the bag in front of the entrance relishing the waste. Tomorrow’s quarrelling noises echoed back into his ears and he looked pleased. Just to amuse himself, he sprinkled some gore into the guard’s shoes and let out a smirk.

He walked back, letting out words that echoed. Slowly he went inside his bedroom. Kissing his wife on the forehead, he laid down beside her. He closed his eyes.

“Every night, I get my voice back.” He spoke out loud.

And slept curling his knees like a fetus inside a womb; peace attained.