Whenever I touched my body, I experienced the warmth of life—throbbing of
veins indicated its existence, fingers pressed against the skin felt an inexplicable
movement, perhaps of the cytoplasm, cells, tissues, organs. I wondered whether
the living cells sensed emotions or carried out duties mechanically. A dead man
lacked the affection of life, whose touch was ice-cold, scary, inviting a dread that
humans weren’t immortal. In death a human became a mannequin who didn’t
need to cover up the naked body nor struggle with the stings of emotions. Was a
body without feelings equivalent to a dead entity?
I’d actually become like one possessed, standing in the community park,
with the sky above me and hundreds of living souls around me waiting to get a
glimpse of their favorite politician. Were they all living mannequins like
me—excited voices roaring out of dead souls? I had been present there with a
purpose that wasn’t my own, fed with an unremitting sense of a responsibility, an
assignment to destroy the environment, the peace, the faith that the people
gathered there had for their leader, for one another.
I could feel the ticking of the time bomb that was attached to my belly. A
cold shudder ran through me when I imagined that my body—a twenty-year-old
woman’s body—would be lifeless on a single push of a button, the one that
dictated my death, my inevitable end. I’d be thrown away like the naked
mannequins in the glittering showrooms when they looked shabby, lacked the
luster even after draped in expensive clothes that was needed to attract
customers. But after the blast I wouldn’t be a mannequin in a single piece—my
hands, legs, or any other body part could be missing. I knew I was beautiful,
resembled Greek goddesses known for their beauty, at least that’s what I was told
over and over again, and didn’t wish to appear mutilated, ugly after death. But
what else could be done. I had chosen this for myself.
I’d proved to be more acquiescent than was expected by my husband who
convinced me that it was necessary to protest against the wrong-doings of those
alien to our views, ideologies; who played with our feelings and never agreed to
give us our promised land. We were reminded innumerable times about being
deprived of the privileges enjoyed by the fortunate class. Perhaps our demands
were infinite, always focused on the prejudices, ignorance, iniquities of life—faced
by every living being—rather than the abundance of happiness that was already
present and waiting to be recognized. We’d reached a deadlock over our repeated
expectations; our uncontrolled desires; reckless aspirations, devoid of
consideration, sensitivity, and empathy for others, as the never-ending game of
survival demanded aggression, opportunistic approach, disregarding the needs of
fellow human beings. My husband said that I was the blessed one who had been
chosen for the supreme sacrifice that would lead me to heaven. On remembering
my husband, I looked around to search for him. He was somewhere in the crowd,
maintaining a safe distance from me, so that he could run away and didn’t get
hurt when the bomb blew off. A man who’d vowed to take care of me, to stand by
me, and save me in moments of crisis had schemed my death. After all, women
were not respected, they were treated as mannequins that could be raped,
mauled, tormented, sacrificed at any instant to fulfill the horrendous desires of
dark souls.
I recalled how I dodged the security check at the entrance of this park. The
security personnel thought that I was an expecting mother, and allowed me to
pass without checking the murder weapon that I was pregnant with. Most
probably women were still trusted, respected, barring a few who maltreated
them.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sudden announcements that came
from the stage at the center of the park. A few yards away from me was the
famous politician who was campaigning for the elections, whom people loved or
pretended to love for their own selfish means. I couldn’t tell for sure whether they
were all living beings beaming with enthusiasm or machines like me that were
charged with a particular sentiment. Was it possible for thousands of people to
share the same passion? Was it possible to look up to someone like this political
leader with uncontested faith? I took a closer look at the grey-haired politician
clad in white kurta–pyjama. An inextinguishable radiance was all over his round
face, a glitter of intelligence in his eyes, a strange sharpness mingled with child-
like innocence in his unanimated features. My eyes at length dropped to his
hands—where his power seemed to be concentrated—that moved with an unusual
vigor as he waved at scores of people assembled there.
The whistling and cheering of the spectators went louder and louder but
the sound couldn’t surpass the noise of my wild heart—burdened with an
insincere purpose—beating faster and faster with every passing minute, as though
someone was hammering my chest with fists, nullifying the treacherous ticking of
the time bomb. Was it the prick of conscience?
Within a few minutes, something drastically changed within me as I rose
from my lifeless state and decided that I couldn’t be a murderer influenced by my
husband’s choice. I cleaved a way for myself through the crowd, determined to
reach a policeman who was standing near the stage, oblivious to his surrounding,
his attention solely fixed on the leader. Battling against the surge of people
providing resistance to move ahead, I reached him. Sensing my presence beside
him, he glanced at me with his eyebrows knit in a frown. Suppressing the
multitude of emotions that were struggling within me, I pulled him closer to me
and almost put my mouth into his ear with an intention to disclose that I was
carrying a bomb and wished to surrender myself, my views, my emotions, my
confused sense of living. A vague yet faithful need to start afresh, to believe in
humanity, to rejoice on seeing a great leader, and above all, to respect people
distinctively transformed my self, as I sensed a relief from the dutiful
determination of performing a sinful act; an independence from the shackles of
lethal prejudices forcefully infused in me.
“Please arrest me.” I said nervously without any introduction, rising above
the rumble of the excited voices around us.
“What?” His face was livid with anger as he made a curt gesture of
annoyance by momentarily averting his face from me and then turning back at
me with arched eyebrows. Perhaps he couldn’t hear me clearly, I thought.
Without further ado, I pulled the kurta above my belly so that he could get
to see the red-colored bomb, with multiple wires attached to my body like a belt
around my waist. He closed his eyes misconstruing my action to be indecent,
walked a few steps ahead in that state, so that his back faced me, and said,
nodding his head vigorously, “I’m not that type of man…”
I pulled the kurta back over my belly. I didn’t know how to motivate him
to turn his face towards me and make him realize the gravity of the situation.
“Listen…” I shouted with an unnatural desperation which forced him to
look at me.
“No, just leave, you mad woman…” He commanded vehemently, his body
shaking with an uncontrollable tremor.
Without giving up, I moved towards him and said softly, “Please try to
understand…”
My words triggered an unexpected response in him, as he waved his right
hand in a bid to shoo me away from there. In the process, his hand accidently
touched my belly, and his fingers landed on the fatal button, followed by
explosion of the bomb. Next, it was my worthless shadow mingling with my body,
in midst of violent screams and incomprehensible turmoil; my senses failing me;
and then everything plunged into impenetrable darkness.
A fraction of seconds afterwards the park was like a battlefield where life
lost to death and disfigured bodies of thousands of mannequins crowded the
floor. Among them was the mannequin of a beautiful woman.
“That’s how it’d happen… The whole ground would be devastated just like
these dolls.” A cheerful voice was heard from nowhere.
Was I still alive? Or, was it possible to hear human voices even after death?
A dark, starless sky had veiled the environment, radiating an evil aura. The day
had lost its physiognomy while night took its place forever. Amidst the remains of
the lost souls enshrouded in the dense, grey mist of failed values, ideals, clouded
in self-centeredness, a group of five men stood roaring with laughter, clapping
their hands, and shouting in ecstasy. They were the ones who violated the rules of
living, facilitated in devastating humanity. They lived within us, their unending,
irrational expectations congealed into implacable hatred and frustration, thus
obscuring the necessary dictates of the living.
Originally published by Indian Short Fiction 2015
Sreelekha Chatterjee’s short stories have been published in various magazines and journals like Indian Periodical, Femina, Indian Short Fiction, eFiction India, The Criterion, The Literary Voyage, Writer’s Ezine, and Estuary, and have been included in numerous print and online anthologies such as Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul series (Westland Ltd, India), Wisdom of Our Mothers (Familia Books, USA), and several others.
You can connect with her on Facebook at facebook.com/sreelekha.chatterjee.1/, on Twitter @sreelekha001, and Instagram @sreelekha2023.