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Fiction: The convoy passes

Lights went off. Thick and beguiled smoke interspersed with scream past the rooms and flitted the South Bombay humid air thickening by the night. Wheedling of a lone train away from the unusually crowded railway station where flies and termites hovered at the rooftop surrounding huge fans covered by the speckled dust.

The Arabian sea surrounding the city swarmed to a gentleness unseen in years birds and pigeons swarming merrily in the icy cold waters making a splash of joy. Maximum city verges from the fast speed to take the slow and timid steps as a lone masked face traffic cop whistled aimlessly and chasing away with the thick baton truant kids, holding slippers in hand scampered in different directions. The poor man had nothing to do on the deserted road and the whistle perched atop the crisp white shirt like a pet, uncared by the master.

A stare at the sight of four men, dressed in black and walking adjacent to each other in slow gaze leaped the constable off his torpor. An eerie wind howled past the sea and stray dogs barked at the sight of the men walking in silence and unfazed by the animals. The cop waited patiently for the men ambling slowly and ready to give them a threatening diatribe in exchange for fat, crumpled notes.  Such times pay, he valiantly trimmed his mustache.

Black coated rectangular box approached slowly adorned by a trinket on the top carried by four men and whooshed past the greedy man. He was stumped and at a loss of voice.  Scratching the hair, he cursed his luck as the Christian convoy carrying a dead man and holy water sprinkled on his face. He never saw it coming and fearful of the death procession. Taking steps back, he caressed the whistle on his pocket and wondered about being saved, as the image of banknotes eluded. None paid him a hefty bribe. The money skipped his pocket for days and months.

Wind chimed past the Arabian night as he fixed from afar the seawater, turtles floating and tinkling coins in the Khaki pocket. He longed to make a killing at the deceptive approach of men and the short-lived joy, suddenly becoming breathless and a cold sensation wafting through his knees, reaching the limb. He felt weak and nauseous. The dead convoy that passed through him gave a strange sensation and atoning sins of looting innocent people. The cop abandoned his post and strode aimlessly on the deserted road.





Work-in-progress, seeker and bundle of contradictions. Stubborn and Refusal to grow up and constantly in search of myself, I blurt it out on my space. Drop in and share some love. Indian by choice.

4 thoughts on “Fiction: The convoy passes

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