What is the question? │✔

» 4

"How?"

He asked himself. Since the person he wanted to ask that to was locked up in the central jail. How could Ismail agree on the accusations placed against him?

Another one who fell into the trap.

Moreover, he was a suspect from the beginning itself. 'Cause he was a very reserved person who chose to stay to himself. A person who did not chatter all the time, unlike the other residents.

Was that it? Was that really it?

Somewhere at the back of his mind, he could hear a soft whisper saying 'No'. That was not the only reason for that man to be a suspect. If it were, then he himself would've been a suspect as Masterji was known for his restrained nature.

"Ismail Ansari."

"Masterji he looks like a criminal on run."

"Masterji he might be a terrorist, you never know!"

"Masterji his dressing itself indicates that he is a bad man!"

"Masterji his name itself sounds so dangerous!"

He screamed. Loud. Shattering. It lasted for two seconds barely, before he muffled his screech by biting his shirt sleeve. Arms twisted around himself, he covered up his ears, not wanting to hear anymore. Teeth chattering, he breathed in and out.

He was sick of all this.

He was sick of the mere thought of putting himself in Ismail's shoes. Who wanted to live a life like that?

How can a person look criminal? How can clothes make someone look evil? How the heck can a name sound dangerous?

Answers which none had. Not even the hissing mosquitoes.

Even his Veer whom he had believed was quite well-raised by him, was quick to jump to conclusions. He was disappointed. At who? Even he did not know.

Running his hands through his tousled hair, that face and those ordinary browns never seemed to leave his mind. The images replayed repeatedly, how the people were whispering and mumbling when the new tenant had arrived. The skull cap itself had got them unsettled at the first glance.

Devi was also one of them.

Not that any of them would ever accept that it was those certain tiny details which irked them, on a man who was a stranger to them. One would even go on to preach on how unfavorable his stars were. Every possible excuse could be produced out of thin air, but never would they ever agree on the actual truth.

Eyes settled on the rising smoke, and for once it was not from his cigarette. The chimneys of the factories guffawed from afar as they puffed out all the bad breath. For the workers, it was morning already, while the sleeping city rested with peace at three in the morning. It was still a night for him, he decided.

Had it been a normal day, he would've caught a rushing Ismail Ansari on his way to the factories. The onlooker not aware of that continued his watch.

The old lady sprinkling water on the vegetables, keeping the rotten ones on the top stack and the good ones inside her bag, made him bring out a chuckle. Do what you can before the customers arrive. He could remember the bazaar squabbles where Devi used to be the biggest villain of the vegetable-sellers lives.

And if they had such bad morns with her, then forget about the fish-sellers.

Eyes shut. Abruptly.

It was difficult. Ismail, Devi, Paakhi. So many. But the question still stands, who shall be put to blame?

None of them were guilty.

But none of them were saints, either.

She did not know who was to be put to blame. But her bloodshot eyes did enough of the talking. She was guilty.

The city was guilty. 'Cause all she could do was sigh and let the rain wash down the tales. And wait till she forgets those stories, only for them to repeat again.