The Scream Within

             Do you have a scream?
                Caged within your mind?
                Choking each breath?
                Clogging life?
             Don’t you have that scream?

Yesterday, when I walked past the graveyard, I heard her scream.

Didn’t I tell you, few months back, that my house is on an island, half a kilometer in radius, in the middle of the city; and that, to the west, the graveyard is still there but the old mint is gone? The old mint was not there even when she screamed in the graveyard, twenty six years back.

That evening, I had gone for a party at a friend’s place. I had told my folks that I would be dropped safely at home around nine. For some reason, I felt out of place and making up some hasty excuse, escaped from that group at half past seven. With three kilometers to my house, and one steep hill to climb, I estimated that I could walk and reach home by eight. I walked quickly past the low-lying area near my friend’s place, with the strong stench of the drainage canal in the air. The air cleared when I climbed the hill. The streets were empty, as usual; barely lit by old low-wattage street lamps. I don’t think it was safer then but I was young. At the top of the hill, I followed the road climbing to the left, alongside the graveyard wall. Then, I heard her scream.

It was not a loud scream and if I had not been near that part, I would not have heard it. It bore pain, a brief tired protest too but then and now, it mostly said … nothing … neither a cry for help nor rage nor lost hope … nothing.

I felt scared and I wanted to run. I do not know why I looked over the wall. I could see the back of a man, brushing dust from his clothes, tucking in his shirt slowly and carefully into open pants, adjusting his underwear, zipping up, taking a small comb from the back pocket of his pants, combing his hair and mustache, spitting. I must have slipped or made some noise. The man turned and saw me. His expression did not change; in fact, he looked bored. I must have opened my mouth in fright. He raised his finger to his lips and then, walked away quite leisurely. I recognized him from photos in the paper and you might know him, too.

It was only after he left that I saw her lying still near an unmarked grave. I climbed over the wall and went to her. For years, I have wondered why I did that. To be honest, it must have been just curiosity. Her eyes were open, filled with tears, unblinking. Recently, I saw a face like hers – that eighteen year old suicide bomber in Russia, the one with a baby face. At that time, she looked old to me – at least a dozen years older than me. I did not touch her or speak to her. After few minutes, she slowly sat up, her young body shivering. Using a part of her sari, she wiped her body, harshly wiping her thighs, her legs, her upper body, her face. She tore that part of the sari and threw away the rag. She straightened her clothes, trying in vain to fix her torn blouse. I took out the plastic raincoat from my backpack and held it out to her. She took it without a word and covered herself.

“Shall we go to a hospital?” I asked.

She shook her head, not even looking at me.

“Shall I come with you to the police station?”

This time, she looked at me. Again, she shook her head, smiling sadly, “O child …”

I must have stood there not knowing what to do, watching her shivering, tears rolling down her cheeks, brushing the gravestone. I looked around and recognized the area. This was that part of the graveyard – the place for the unmarked, the excommunicated, the ostracized, the criminals, the immoral lot and all the other bad ghosts discarded by my society.

“Why did you come here?” I asked hoping that it did not sound like an accusation.

I thought that she would not reply or that she might tell me to get lost. But, she asked me,

“Will you sit next to me … just for a moment?” She must have seen me move back involuntarily and she added bitterly “This is not contagious …”

I sat on the ground next to her. We sat quietly for a while but I sensed that she wished to speak – being non-threatening, I must have fitted the role like how we confide to strangers on a train, just someone together for a while.

She pointed at the grave,

“Today is his death anniversary.”

Then she paused, breathing deeply,

“The man you saw knew I would come here. For him and his cronies, it was patriotic revenge. He didn’t even want to be the first … just watched, and waited till the others were done and gone … they said that they felt justified doing this to me, like they were lynching him once again, they said …” she broke down, leaning against me lightly.

I sat there stiffly, hardly thinking about her … what if I had been the victim? For years, I have tried to figure out the answer to that. I knew that she was terribly miserable but to tell you the truth, I have no idea about the extent of her pain.

“Who is he?” I asked, tilting my head towards the grave.

“Don’t you know? Don’t you remember?”

I tried to recollect the day’s headlines. I vaguely remembered a small article about today being a black day. On this date three years back, a terrorist was nabbed – after the terrorist entered a school and killed twenty three people at a primary school, three teachers and twenty kids. One of those teachers was a distant aunt and two of those kids lived in my neighbourhood.

I think I stood up and moved away from her.

“I deserve what I got, right?” she laughed and to me, it seemed like she was mocking herself.

I went back, knelt in front of her, “Sorry.” She must have realized that I was not a child or an adult, and that I meant it. “Was he your husband?”

“No … we knew each other … met when we could …”

I kept quiet.

“I should have known that he was a time-bomb waiting to explode … we never talked about ourselves … why waste time, we thought … I could rest my head against his chest and sleep so well. That’s all that I wanted. I used to wake up knowing that he would be there … looking at me, tenderly, lovingly … that’s all we wanted.”

“I try to forget all that he told me … but, I didn’t listen well I suppose, even when he foretold doom:

        
                In the dark days to come –
                With you,
                Your words, your kiss, your touch,
                To know peace, 
                To forget rage, 
                In this world –
                In this damned world,
                With you, 
                I might survive.

When I heard about what he did, I hated myself more than I had to hate him. I knew that I had to forget the only memory I wish to remember.”

“For three years, I stayed away from this city … unknown. I tried hard not to think of him. But today … I knew that he was buried here … I thought I would ask him … why.”

Her words and her life did not mean much to me then. We parted that night knowing that we will never see each other. I did not know that her scream would stay with me forever.

In the years that followed, I kept hearing that scream. I heard it when I was betrayed, when I felt lost, when I felt defeated – by the system, by my society, by kith and kin, when even the judicial system destroyed my life …

When I had to forget the only memory I wish to remember …

With pain, a brief tired protest, saying … nothing …

I hear that scream … is it my scream now?