Sleep

 

In the by-lanes of Delhi, amongst the besotted alleys that plague the locality, stands a rickety wooden structure. It almost passes off as an ancient ruin, save for the fact that instead of the customary djinns that guard all such warp-holes to the nether realm, it is in fact inhabited by a tormented soul, an old termagant, and a squeamish little girl

 

For some unfathomable reason, at random intervals, this mad woman chooses to introduce the little girl's frame to a nine-foot long whip that lashes out with ferocity, and tastes the little girl's blood with every kiss.

 

Whip. Welt. Wail.

Whip. Welt. Wail.

Whip. Welt. Wail.

 

This is the daily routine of the hag and the child. The tormented soul has a little more of the same ennui.

 

He wakes up to the wails of the girl, the hag's venomous hisses, and the crack of the whip.

Whip. Welt. Wail.

He then proceeds to have a quick shower, left over tea, and then, to his place of work.

Come six and he stumbles wearily to his home, and as he climbs the stairs, he can again hear the girl's screams.

 

Whip. Welt. Wail.

 

Over the few scraps of food, the girl's incessant cries, and these walls painted with fear that close around him, he tries to make some sense, and realizes that the cigarette is the only remedy.

 

A Cigarette- The patent soporific that takes a lot of time to work but puts you to sleep. Soft, deep sleep, a never ending slumber, stretching on through eternity.

 

He stretches out on the floor, and stares at the ceiling, trying to drift off into the darkness…

 

The wails start again. He checks his watch, and it's an ungodly hour.

He makes a list of the things he needs:

 

Cotton.

Tape.

Knife.

Cigarettes

Matches

And a can of petrol.

 

 

The door is ajar. The hag sleeps on the floor, exhausted from her labor. In a corner, lies the little girl, comatose.

 

He walks over to the hag.

Her moth is open, and drool oozes from between her teeth, making a small puddle at the side of her face…

 

The hag wakes up in agony, and tries to scream. She can make no sound…sticking out from the floor boards is a blade that passes through her throat, and pries open her teeth. She tries to move, but her hands and feet are bound by tape.

 

Out of the corner of her eyes, she spies the little girl, bound and gagged, and ties to a post.

 

The place reeks of petrol.

 

A movement catches her eye…in a dark corner, somebody lights a cigarette.

 

The match glides in an arc, and falls on the floor. The baptism by fire begins.

 

He stretches out on the floor, amidst the flames, the rot, and the hag and the child, and welcomes the rare visitor.

 

The long, much awaited Sleep.