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12

Prose

THE CRY

Aastha Sneha Pathak

Mumma!
I hear the cry as soon as you open your eyes. I smile, dropping whatever I was doing. I see you rub your eyes, asking if you have to go to school, and the look of sheer sadness that follows. I hold your face, your tiny face in the cup of my hands. The most fragrant smell in the world fills up my nostrils and my being, as I hold you and bury my face in your neck. Gingerly, I pick the sleepy you in my arms, feeling how long your legs are getting. My heart sinks and rises at the same time. There would come a day when I would pick you up for the last time, without realising so, when you would outgrow my arms. Outgrow the arms which have held you since the day you had first looked at me with your round little eyes, an angry wail at being woken up from your foetal slumber.

Maa!
She screams out loud, eyes wide in fear. She drops her bag, and runs as fast as her beating heart and shaking legs would take her. You grin and follow her into the dark alleys of the college campus. She knows she could not outrun the four of you, so she begs for mercy, a look of sheer helplessness follows. You hold her by her arms, and cup her face in your hands. The most pungent smell of alcohol fills up her nostrils and her being, as you bury your face in her neck. Roughly, you pick her up, feeling the contours of her body. Your heart rises and rises, as hers sinks into depths of agony. As she is pinned down, you tear off her clothes. There comes a time when she gathers strength to pick up a stone and hit you. Hits the face which had been her classmate since the day she had joined college, the face she had trusted. You look at her with your drunken eyes, an angry cry leaves your throat, and you stone her till she falls into her last slumber.

Mumma!
I hear you cry as you are dragged out of your cell in the prison. I drop my head in shame. I see you looking at me, hands folded, begging to be saved, the look of sheer despair. I do not want to hold you one last time, or look at your rugged face. The dampness of the jail fills my nostrils, as I sign the paperwork. The executioner picks up your flailing body and ties your hands. He feels how tall are you, to adjust the length of the noose. My heart has stopped sinking or rising. Without realising so, I had raised a beast. A beast who had outgrown the limits of humanity. Your mother’s eyes have turned into stone, a stone like the one you had used to silence the cries of your classmate. I hear your last wail, waiting to end my own agony and slip into my own last slumber.

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