There are two others with me here. We don’t talk to each other, not sure if we can though, never tried it.
There’s the old man who prefers the damp corner of the broken wall, he doesn’t talk much. Just folds his legs and buries his head in them and stays that way. He whimpers now and then looking at me. I think I saw tears when he looked at me once but who cares, I’ve got work to do.
There’s the girl inside the house (if you can call it that) somewhere inside. I know it’s a she because of the screeches whenever the drug addicts go inside. Why she bothers I have no idea, those fuckers ignore her like she isn’t even there, do their thing and go limp in no time, the girl cries though until they leave. The old man gets all riled up when she does that, not sure what the connection is but he keeps asking them to take the money and let them go. Stupid bitch. I don’t like to be disturbed.
As for me, it may have been years or a few weeks, who knows, I just wait because I know what I want and I am angry (especially when that bitch in the house goes crazy). Then I was. Just as I am now with work to do. I just know that I have been angry all the time. What causes the anger? Pain I tell you, the pain when I couldn’t breathe that day with my broken rib, the pain when fingers tore into my eye, the pain when the rock hit my forehead and the one I regret most – the pain of helplessness. I fought, reasoned, cried and begged but evil had something else in its mind that day, I had to go once my utility was exhausted. I guess my soul did not accept that compromise and I did not go, I needed to answer in kind. It was this that makes me sit on the tamarind tree, waiting and angry. The anger is like a tiger’s claw that itches to be sharpened; an itch that overwhelmed me as I tore into that wolf the other day. Only a few stringy bits were left for those pesky crows. The old man was smiling that day and the girl didn’t cry. I had a feeling, they were hoping for me to finish my work. Bloody pests.
I sway with the tamarind tree branch I am perched on. It’s been windy lately. It always is here in these mountains. No birds too, I don’t like them and I think they know except the crows, tough fuckers to chase away. Good, no sound but just of these trees ruffling as the wind brushes past. I like it this way. Helps me with my anger.
That bastard is coming here today, I know. With another young girl like I was I think. It is his favourite spot he said. The sun is going down and the anger burns, I know the itch, the prey is near. I need blood. His blood. I lie in wait, swaying on the tamarind tree I was killed under.
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This week, we give you Vijai Balaji. Vijai is from the Horses batch and his writing focuses on presenting the story of those prejudiced.
About Vijai Balaji
Vijai Balaji is a Bangalorean and has a bachelor’s degree in Business Administration. Having lived in rural Bangalore through the 90’s (and he still does), his stories have a touch of local flavour to them. That and a healthy dose of currently trending foul words on the streets of Bangalore and elsewhere.
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