THE SALE
Aimon opened his eyes wearily and looked at the dark red liquid rising steadily in the plastic pouch. Are those dark specks floating in it? Could be! Specks of all those drugs ---antibodies pumped into him. No! No! They were just black spots dancing in front of his eyes. His eyes hurt in the brilliant sunlight streaming in through the bare windows. But the spots continued their cheery jumps even behind closed lids telling him that his body was ready to give up. Starvation had not been prescribed for his delicate physical state after the attack. Wait! Please wait! I am doing all I can to keep you alive. He pleaded with his adamant body.
He felt the sharp pinch as the needle was eased out. His eyes were thin slits yet he couldn’t help noticing the man on the far side of the room. Supine, his slight body was in a faded green shirt and cut-off black pants. Even through the sharply etched bones of his face, Aimon could discern that he was a mere teenager. Strangely his scanty hair was completely white in sharp contrast to his chocolate skin. A frizzy-haired, coal-black man stood near him unscrewing the needle of a syringe that he had just emptied into the man. Samson took the needle from him and attached it to the tube hanging from the stand beside Aimon. He then looked towards Aimon. Another one?
Aimon was just able to manage a tiny nod. Samson instantly pushed the needle into his other arm. It felt like a sharp knife being dug in and an involuntary shriek rose in Aimon’s throat. But his cracked lips were glued together. The needle! At least sterilize it! He wanted to say the words but they choked in his dry throat. He could hardly even swallow his spittle. What can you expect from bandits! His eyes fixed fearfully on the needle sucking out his blood, turning the tubing bright red and a rosy line appeared in the next transparent pouch. Aimon closed his eyes.
He was back on the hillside. Sitting on a boulder; looking across the valley. The sky was lightening in the East but above him it was still inky blue. The valley below him was shrouded in gloom, the thick forest at its bottom showing up in a darker patch. A kind of steam was rising from it, invisible to the eyes but perceptible to the nose.
What shall I do? I have to go back. But how? Aimon held his head in his hands. Crooking a knuckle he knocked between his eyes. Think! Think! You have to get out! Besides the rumbling and grumbling of his stomach wouldn’t let any thoughts through. O God! He was so hungry! His last meal was the gooey cereal porridge at the treatment centre yesterday morning before his discharge. His mind swept back to the times when meals came when expected in a life he had lived eons ago.
Here I was... thinking how to reach out
to you...wondering what would connect us...
And then my eyes fell on these words by Rumi...
Why struggle to open a door between us
when the whole wall is an illusion?
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