Sunday, June 14, 2015

2205 : The dog, the camel and the poet

On that fateful day, they hauled him up. They accused him of writing revolting rhymes, which focussed on lost love, on revolution and a world where god does not have a place.

They told him that either he abdicate all his poems, and swear his allegiance to the new God of All things, or that they would imprison him - chain him and torture him till he finally broke.

The poet in him refused to bend - they kicked him till he was in foetal position, which in some sense was their perverse way of bending him to their will.

Having killed his resistance, they lifted him onto the truck and there he was on his way into one of the infamous camps. At the camp, they gave him a small room, which only got natural light during the day. 

In the first few weeks, they cut off his rations, and urged him to straighten up. He was famished, and yet to continued to write. His pen growing stronger under the gaze of his weakening frame.

Soon, they cut off access to sanitation, hoping that his own stink and pus would fill his aches and he would soon wilt away. The fetid nourished his soul, and soon from within the malodor rose his sublime words.

Next, they decided to send him to the torture camps. For 3 days every week, they hung him upside down. His body reeking of pain and anguish, had a new perspective on the world, and he continued to write albeit with the lens reversed.

Months had passed by now. One day the city patrol officer decided to ask him to compose a paen to the suburban edge, and he did write a piece...but it turned out so insidious, that instead of a reward he was handed a 100 flogs.

An year into this, they finally decided that he was incorrigible. They took away his pen, his paper and his books. A few days passed by, and he looked silent and mellowed down.

One particularly overcast morning, though, they found him dead - he had turned his stomach's insides using a piece of iron he had wrenched from the window. He had steadily bled of his death. 

As the overcast conditions cleared, and the light made way, they saw his body lay in a true foetal position. Like a dog, as Kafka would say. He had died just like a dog. They called in the cleaners and asked them to take his body away. 

As the cleaners cleaned his room up, they mumbled what everyone knew - taking away his pen and paper, thats what had killed him.....what a way to die....that is what broke the camel's back.

As the light further shone in, they could see that wall above him had a scrawling. It was fresh, you could still see the lint from the stone, trying to powder its way out. It looked like he had scrawled it yesterday night using the same iron piece as he had used to kill himself. 

On the walls were clearly written - "You simply took away what forever took to find"....


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