What is the question? │✔

- 8 -

"Up. Down. Up. Down."

Repeating the mantra inside his head, he rammed the toothbrush against his already white teeth. Spitting it out and washing his mouth, he stood in front of the basin, glaring at the mirror. Not happy with the image, he scratched his face up and down.

The red marks further damaging the reflection, he splashed his face with water, trying to erase away the marks. The marks were adamant. And so his actions resulted in nothing but drenching himself from head to toe. Satisfied. He was satisfied as he walked back to his cell.

Sitting in his usual corner, he stared at the spider webbing its web. The spider was surely suicidal, hanging down like that. But so was the one who would fall into his well-devised trap, countered his sanity.

"I accept it. I have committed the crime. I killed Devi Mandal."

No. No, he won't think about any of those today. Today is a new day. A new day to live, to sing, to dance, and to be glad about. But all he did was push himself further into that corner, not moving an inch. It was daytime. But in that cellar, night and day were the same.

The judge in the court had raised an eyebrow on hearing the confession. Never had a criminal so easily accepted his crimes. Never. And even officer Bagchi was surprised. He did not even have to talk him into agreeing with those accusations against him. And that confirmed his doubts against Ismail.

Sentenced to life long imprisonment.

Life long.

Life.

Life was so long, wasn't it?

It was his government-provided defense lawyer who was talented enough to make sure that he got life-long imprisonment rather than the death penalty. And he would rot here, in the jail. At least he got food, chided his mind.

But sitting idle, doing nothing, it was playing tricks on his mind. Forcing him to visit his life, right from the start. For so many days he had resisted that temptation. So many days. But now he couldn't do that anymore. He felt himself slipping back into memory lane.

Jumping through the muddy roads, his tiny hands clasped tightly in his Ammi Jaan's huge ones, how she used to drop him at the madrassa every day.

He stared at his calloused hands adorned with scars and cuts, wondering how to make them soft and tiny again, the way they used to be.

How his Aapi Jaan used to feed him, spoiling him to the core.

He opened his mouth, hoping to feel that hand again. That hand could even make any food taste different. Nonetheless, his mouth was hit by nothing but the cold air.

He drew his hands along the length of his face, feeling up his unshaven beard and untamed hair. It won't be too long before those workers would come and give him a haircut.

But that was not what rattled his mind. It was the memory of his Bhai Jaan combing and parting his hair that made his heart bleed.

Why did he do it? Why?

And his own question had no answers.

"Ismail, we have decided to marry off your sister."

He knew that their financial condition was bad, especially after Abba Jaan and Bhai Jaan's death. He knew that he had to take up the responsibility of his house. And so he had set out to the city. A place for anyone would be welcomed with open arms and free jobs, or so he was told. He was willing to do anything and had no tall ambitions, with just a high school degree, what else could he expect?

He still remembered the moment when his feet touched the new soil. The air had smelt different—city air—the essence fresh in his senses.

He had done every job, from that of a street sweeper to a barber. He had changed. A lot. And the only thing that remained constant was his faith in faith. And even now while clawing out his own face, that is one thing which had not changed.

His hands felt the cold cellar walls. It reminded him of cold granite. Quite similar to the one in the butcher's shop where he had worked for a few years. And one fine day when his meat cleaver had just touched the goat's neck, dissecting it into two parts, a man had stood in front of him.

An elite topi-wallah. His nose twisting and turning, unable to bear the stench of the bazaar.

"You hate this job right?"

Ismail Ansari, true to his character, did nothing but grunt. Etiquette and he were not meant to be together.

"Well. I might have something for you to do. And a decent pay as well. Take it or leave it."

And never had he once looked back. Never. He did not care as long as he had enough money to send home.

Yet now he did. Just a matter of a few hours, but enough for him to find out where he had started from. His head stuck between his knees, he breathed in and out. Forcing himself to cry. But tears refused to reach his eyes.

Even they detested him.

The watchman standing guard glared at him. Criminals escaping was the last thing he needed. And the hate striking through his eyes was too much for the prisoner to disregard.

Even that pot-belly detested him.

The spider hanging from the web rested on his head. The man was calmed at the feel of the living, he was trapped after all. Alarmingly, not inside the cold walls but rather his own head.