By Mushtaque B Barq
Life at times unfolds the mysteries hitherto mystified. We have a superman in the disguise of a boy around us. There was something inexplicable in his hood. His predictions never let him down.
I asked, “How do you predict.”
“Prediction, what is that?” he reacted.
He raised his head like a swan in search of food, in the swing of things his hood to me appeared a halo and his eyes gradually turned into blazing coals. I had before me a thumping horror chronicle.
“Can you see those moving faces up in the sky.” he asked.
“Nothing save the sun is located during the daytime”, I responded.
“I can see all those human faces up there, some are too bright and some are dull and many behind their own shadow are invisible.” he continued.
“Those visible ones are already dead, the brighter ones are role models of the earth and those invisible have to die. The powerful winds that unveil these faces are the next to follow their associates. I can see their faces. See how these gusts expose their faces. Can you see them? How can you, you have not put on the hood?”
I was stunned how this boy is revealing things. Well! To be honest within the heart of my hearts I declared him a fool. His neck was still like his eyes and I was terrified, but his occasional screams compelled me to be on his side lest he should harm himself. He would coil his limbs and his hood would move up and down like a crown placed on the flexible head of a serpent, sideways yet at times fall down to touch his breast bone. Those movements were brisk like sudden surges of storm. His hands had unimaginable strength like his stout legs.
“What are you trying to locate”, I asked.
He raised his hand and plugged my mouth, which to him was perhaps a chatter box. He almost crushed my lips and I had to apply all my efforts to release his grip. I was a forlorn prey under his powerful fist. I pulled his hood and he tumbled. He looked just a crooked bundle of mass lacking strength. I had scored over him. Before I could paste the impression of my palms on his bony cheeks to settle him right, his mother came rushing and placed on his head the mysterious crown to let him rule his subjects. This Hoodless boy started to fumble; I felt a quiver running down his limbs. His head moved in all directions. His voice for the first time stunned me. Honestly speaking, it was not human voice, but ‘metallic’ vibrations, hard to decipher. What iced me up was his mouth, that had almost extended up to his ears and occasionally a gush of blood would take me into the woods where suspense rules.
His subjects were spirits, living and transformed. In my solitude, I would try my imaginations roam in the city of ether to bring down any ordinary or permanent relief. All I used to occupy the floor of my skull was just another spell of pain. Breaking my silence, her violence has always worked.
“What piece of news you have now?” she asked.
“Do you encourage him to utter such nonsense?” I asked.
“The other day his prediction came true, let him tell what all he has seen up there”, she informed.
Mother and son seemed in neck deep conspiracy against me. I to some extent used to encourage their conspiracies for the reason that I too used to get pleasure from their confidential discourse. But this time I labeled myself what I had never thought to be.
He rested his agonized head in the lap of his mother. She brushed her head. Those tender strokes soothed his angry nerves and he restored his deformed posture. Deformation to me had a different connotation till I realised that denotations deserve a severe mention.
Mother and son had all the love around them. They would take comfort from each other’s company. Once he felt charged with some unknown power, he stood like a phoenix from the ash of care. Scanned the area, raised his head, stretched his arms fixed his gaze at the sky.
For the first time I confirmed my being a foreigner in my own country. She stood by him. What all he was uttering, she was jotting it down like a dictation by a spiritualist.
What all I could hear were her words, but I was clueless how she was decoding that metallic voice. Maybe a mother knows her child even when he was still a lump of mass in her womb. There must have been a sort of communication between mother and fetus that fathers don’t feel. I convinced myself by unfolding this mystery.
When the duo returned, he was pale like a dim moon and she had all the petals arranged on her chin line. On one hand, I was pulled down by the grief-stricken face of my boy, but on the other hand the pink of her cheeks were inviting me to enjoy the luxury of the grace she was equipped with. Before I could aid the romance, the page on her hand attracted my attention. I pulled the document of death from her. She was not willing to share the information, but then she had till date never ever shown such disapproval. Her disapproval nurtured my ego and I for the first time came out of the shell of a gentleman and raised my voice. There were ten names beautifully written by her on it. All known to me. I concluded that her disapproval had all the love for me. I only sighed for the reason known to me only. She patted me, tried to comfort me, but those names started to haunt me, follow my imaginations and thus multiplied my unrest.
To my astonishment I could see ten dead bodies that week, reaching to their destinations.
Mushtaq B.Barq is a Columnist, Poet and Fiction Writer. He is the author of “Feeble prisoner, “ Wings of Love” and many translation works are credited to the author like “ Verses Of Wahab Khar” and “ Songs Of Sochkral”