Residues...Of Freedom

Somewhere in the middle of the Thar was the house of Kartar Singh, donning a shattered, almost defeated look.

- Mousumi Dev Choudhury

It had been a brutal summer that year. The drought had killed the beasts, the war slaughtered the beauty. In a centre of power far away from the land of misery, independence was signed in the fate of the nation by a government. It was unfathomable to the likes of Singh. The separation of the two nations was rumored to bring freedom and joy. But the massacre that followed left Kartar Singh plundered. He was looted of everything- his wealth, his health and his….. Kajri.

In the dreary land where nothing bloomed except for the few tufts of vetiver, Kajri was the only recluse to Kartar’s swift dwindling story. Kajri, his wife, his muse, was the spark to his desire and the ice to his sorrow. It had been exactly four monsoons back when Kajri’s intoxicating sway had paved a way to Kartar’s heart. He had seen Kajri for the first time in the village community well. Dressed in a flimsy red saree, her hands girdled the mud pot like a black cobra trussed around its prey. One unwanted swirl and you are doomed. Kartar Singh was no less a victim himself. She radiated a fire that reeked of power.

“Touch me and I will burn you to ash.”