The smell of the idle air in their musty, little place was comforting. The bed, soothing. No one was home and he had the 10X10 room of their one bedroom apartment to himself. He dug is head further into the sheets that had darkened from lack of a scrub.
Ignored by the world as being mute, Rashid preferred his world in the bed. Here he could speak, he could express his feelings. It was a fatherless world with no judgments being passed. He simply lived, breathed, observed and lived again. He built wonderous places and wore extravagent clothes. He travelled within this creation and spoke to anybody in any possible language.
His father was getting old and more demanding day by day. Rashid had grown deaf to the constant bickering about his inabilities and his weaknesses.
His father had been harassing him to look for a job, lately. “We can no longer sustain in the meager sum I make. I am getting old and can no longer go on slamming metal in the workshop with my arthritic hands. Get on your feet you ‘good-for-nothing’ piece of junk”, he would groan.
In this sublime world, Rashid spoke. He spoke poetry. He spoke lyrics. He spoke passages by Rumi, Kabir and even Shakespeare. He dug is face deeper into the mess of pillows and sheets and entered the creation once more.
Rashid was four, when he stopped talking. The doctors concluded it to be some sort of a traumatic result. They didn’t find anything physically wrong with the boy.
His dream world was getting more vivid day by day. The people and places seemed more and more real.
At four Rashid had decided not to speak ever again. He was twenty-two now, barely educated and a dumb piece of junk, according to his father. It was evening and the father returned, breaking the peace of a lazy afternoon. His temper shot the roof, when he saw Rashid laying on the bed, yet another day. He threw the hammer in his hand towards the bed. Rashid woke up with a start holding the edge of the bed.
Still shaking and trying to decipher the real world from the dream world, he picked up the hammer. His eyes now gathered the crimson of rage. He got off, steadied himself and moved closer to his father. Now scared, the father moved toward the open door and into the passage way. Rashid, continuing his mad charge, pushed him out of the apartment and on the steps. He closed up on him, with the first blow knocking the father down, followed by a second one that went straight for the head.
The neighbours, who now gathered like flies, were appalled to hear the words from Rashid’s mouth, “I am free, finally, I am free”.
(This story was inspired by a news item in Sakal, Pune)
Ignored by the world as being mute, Rashid preferred his world in the bed. Here he could speak, he could express his feelings. It was a fatherless world with no judgments being passed. He simply lived, breathed, observed and lived again. He built wonderous places and wore extravagent clothes. He travelled within this creation and spoke to anybody in any possible language.
His father was getting old and more demanding day by day. Rashid had grown deaf to the constant bickering about his inabilities and his weaknesses.
His father had been harassing him to look for a job, lately. “We can no longer sustain in the meager sum I make. I am getting old and can no longer go on slamming metal in the workshop with my arthritic hands. Get on your feet you ‘good-for-nothing’ piece of junk”, he would groan.
In this sublime world, Rashid spoke. He spoke poetry. He spoke lyrics. He spoke passages by Rumi, Kabir and even Shakespeare. He dug is face deeper into the mess of pillows and sheets and entered the creation once more.
Rashid was four, when he stopped talking. The doctors concluded it to be some sort of a traumatic result. They didn’t find anything physically wrong with the boy.
His dream world was getting more vivid day by day. The people and places seemed more and more real.
At four Rashid had decided not to speak ever again. He was twenty-two now, barely educated and a dumb piece of junk, according to his father. It was evening and the father returned, breaking the peace of a lazy afternoon. His temper shot the roof, when he saw Rashid laying on the bed, yet another day. He threw the hammer in his hand towards the bed. Rashid woke up with a start holding the edge of the bed.
Still shaking and trying to decipher the real world from the dream world, he picked up the hammer. His eyes now gathered the crimson of rage. He got off, steadied himself and moved closer to his father. Now scared, the father moved toward the open door and into the passage way. Rashid, continuing his mad charge, pushed him out of the apartment and on the steps. He closed up on him, with the first blow knocking the father down, followed by a second one that went straight for the head.
The neighbours, who now gathered like flies, were appalled to hear the words from Rashid’s mouth, “I am free, finally, I am free”.
(This story was inspired by a news item in Sakal, Pune)
