Kamala Sarup.
The fresh breeze coming out of my house gives me no reassurance. Life is bewildering and has its toxic properties. I can't believe my friend was shot in the first place. I feel strange and lonely in the middle of a mob of people walking home in the evening after a day's work.
The scene outside my window is one of flowers, a large meadow and a wide square path that can be seen in the distance. Those photos are also synonymous with my life. But even now, they look sore to the eye. It's close to five in the evening. If it were winter, it would already be night, but for the time being, spring is not yet over, and the sun has not yet come down.
‘Your friend from below," my friend called me and said. My heart was stunned by the incomplete sentence of my friend before the telephone rang. I asked our friend what problems he had. "He was killed by political felons." The problem is why he was killed.
"I think I can raise my kids, right?" my friend said to my mom, as usual last year. When one is born, one comes empty-handed and one goes with the same people empty-handed. Consequently, death in the name of wealth is not good. "How beautiful it was tonight." Under the shining moon, their kids were playing on the court.
The sounds of birds animated the village and the air was filled with music at the marriage of two of its villagers. Lucky for me, since I married Tara. It might be the result of a past life's deed to get a good wife who supports me in happiness and in trouble," my friend Raju had said, looking out of the corner of his eyes at his new wife. "Since I married you to live and die together, it is not possible not to give support in case of need," Tara answered.
I mean, what's Raju’s fault? He has three children, a wife and a sick old father care for; what's wrong that poor Raju did? He did not have enough money to make a living and he could not get his children to a good school. Why did he die?
I mean, it's already dark. He darkened my heart too, and he seems never to see the light again. On the contrary, the endless number of nights, years and mornings is nothing more than hope. We shall all one day leave this earth; we cannot remain here forever, even if we wish, I say to myself. "My friend left early and we will leave one day as well," my friend comforted me and relieved me. For the moment, happiness has vanished for me.
The photograph of my friend and his wife Tara hangs on the north wall of my bedroom. I cry incessantly while holding the photo on my chest. To attain peace and happiness is extremely difficult.
