Violence Without Hurt
Sulha
comes wearing the colour of doves. But he has
never
once asked for flight. He owns a small revolver. He tells his
wife
that there is no reason for it, but only that he has fallen in
love
with the sound it makes. They don't have children yet. But
when
they come, he will have to sell it. So every day in the courtyard,
He
fires it. Five times. The last one, he says grinning at her, has always
been
in the chest. He comes into the shade to drink from the matka
and
wipe his hands on a cherry-red cloth. "One of these days," he says
squinting,
as the light that makes its way into the room. "I swear I will
make
love to you." But he never does. His wife won't ask.
His
mind has wandered to a distant land emptied of trees
for
small settlements. It is the land of his hometown.
Every
day now, he releases the revolver, and then asks the sky for
peace.
He comes inside. From next month, he will no longer use it.
Wistful
for his touch, she asks: "Will you ever make love to me?"
Her
eyes seem hurt. But he keeps staring. "I want to," he wants
to
say, but he is still thinking of the men who patiently used
thirty
axes to remove a forest. He bites his lip hard enough
to
remind his body once again that violence can never come gently.
He
thinks, "I will make love to you so deeply, even acres of land
will
remember the trees it has tried to forget."
Mit Shelke
Mit Shelke is a second-year UG student pursuing his English
Lit. degree. Currently based in Pune, India, his work deals with loneliness and
dejection. He has no publication history, and this will be his first
submission. He is deeply grateful for Alipore Post, whose works have convinced
him that his local, Indian voice also (occasionally) deserves some permanent
part of the Internet.