Fiction
Kundan was returning home
after his monthly entertainment of a night show in the city. It was past midnight and the heavy downpour
had put out the street lamps on the village road. But Kundan knew the road like the back of his
palm and so neither the pitch darkness nor the battering rain slowed him
down.
He was about to leave the
road and enter the mud path through his farm when he felt the touch of cold
steel on his temple. “Keep your trap
shut, else you won’t open it ever again,” said a voice which was horribly rough
but perfect in pronunciation. In the
flash of a lightening Kundan saw that the burly figure that was holding a
pistol against his temple. The figure
was wearing a western suit, complete with the blazer and a tie. His suit was drenched in the rain in spite of
the enormous parasol he was holding with one hand.
“I’m your boss from now
on,” Kundan heard the steely voice. “You’ll
obey my orders and be at my beck and call.”
Kundan, not knowing what
to do, walked on to his home. His
self-appointed boss said that the bedroom would belong to him hereafter. Kundan could sleep elsewhere, he said, in the
living room, for example. “Make me a
good cup of coffee before going to bed,” ordered boss.
“I don’t need any coffee,”
grumbled Kundan. “I’m tired and want to
sleep.”
Boss fired two shots from
his pistol. They fell in perfectly obedient
sequence, one on the left and the other on the right of Kundan’s trembling
feet. The shots were followed by a
volley of abuses.
Boss began his reign in
perfect style. He always wore a perfect
suit, always carried his pistol in his hand and used it occasionally to scare
Kundan, and was always generous with his abuses.
When Kundan went to work
on the farm, Boss was there relaxing under one tree or another. When Kundan cooked the meals in the kitchen,
Boss was there supervising it and giving orders when he deemed it fit.
Days and weeks ran into
months. Kundan got used to Boss and his
ways. Once, just once, Kundan did toy
with the idea of complaining to the police.
He got down from the bus near the police station. Boss followed him as usual. When Boss saw the police station ahead, he
fired two shots from his pistol, one each aimed at Kundan’s right and
left. Kundan bent down and picked up a
stone which he flung with all his energy at Boss. The stone hit Boss’s forehead which started
bleeding profusely. Kundan got
scared. If he went to the police station
now, he would be arrested for inflicting injury on Boss. So he turned back and went home.
Boss followed him with his
usual abuses.
Kundan got used to the
abuses. Got used to Boss’s orders. Got used to Boss’s unfailing presence with
him.
Months passed. Boss became an inalienable part of Kundan’s
life.
Then one day Boss was
unusually silent. He just sat on a chair
in the living room and refused to utter abuses.
There was no pistol in his hand.
Kundan felt a sense of emptiness welling up within him. Life seemed absurd without Boss’s abuses and
the pistol. Life seemed futile,
hollow...
“Please, abuse me,” Kundan
longed to plead with Boss. “Please, fire
some shots from your pistol. Enrich my
life with your greatness.”
A very interesting story. Set me thinking about how people actually start enjoying victim hood. The 'Stockholm syndrome' exactly resonates with this.
ReplyDeleteYes, dear friend, life often brings bosses and victims together to teach other lessons they need to learn but never learn... Why do wives want husbands to beat them up rather than sit and brood...? Why do students want teachers to slap them rather than be indifferent? ...
DeleteWow.That's a good one. The things we get used to,we accept as natural., even if harmful.
ReplyDeleteAnd we even start worshiping it. :)
DeleteGood one...and I must say...one of the most unexpected and weirdest ending... :)
ReplyDeleteHaven't you noticed such twists and turns in life? We just get used to them and hence don't become particularly aware of them!
DeleteThis is a parable in our modern times. Years ago I had seen a German movie, “Wild Rider”. The rider was on horse, following and ordering the young man. One day the young man escaped the wild rider’s estate. As soon as he comes on the street, a car stopped by his side: another version of Wild Rider!
ReplyDeleteThanks for the nuance added, Remi. The story has a lot of meaning for me personally. I'm glad you could relate so much to it.
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