Night was screaming in the rain. Moon had already escaped and dark clouds took its place. It was hard to figure out which part of the sky was lightning the most. Thunder could make anyone deaf if one listens to it carefully. In the middle of raindrops hitting the ground, another voice is heard. The voice was constant, neither increasing its pitch nor relaxing. A firm hand was digging out the wet sand, striking the ground with the hoe. Each strike dug out less sand than the previous one but with no less effort. The ground was getting hard by rain but couldn’t break the person. Nothing tempts him, neither to hit hard nor to take rest. It seems he was enjoying the work with no need to finish it. Sweat running all over his body plunged with the rain. He was very cautious not to make an aggravated sound to be heard by anyone standing outside the graveyard.

Long Kurta-wearing man with a Muslim traditional cap, an old analogue watch, a ring on the little finger and an army shoe was digging out a grave. It was hard to describe the face of the man on the darkest night happened ever. He prolonged his work until the hoe hits something hard. The man grabbles inside and when he found, the skeleton he needed, grasped it tightly and yanked it out with no tenderness. It was a part of the leg. He searched more and one after the other grabbed out each part of a complete human skeleton including the skull.

He flips his eyes through the stone engraved at the head of the dead.

“IN THE LOVING MEMORY OF YAKOOB RIZWI s/o JAVED RIZWI”

The man stared at the name without blinking. He was so rigid that his wet eyes while staring started flushing tears out but even then, there was no sign of blinking at all. After a minute or two, he collected all the bones, put them in a bag, and started walking towards the darkest end of the graveyard which the only light pole in the middle of the graveyard couldn’t reach. The steps were very slow, and not a single stain of mud sticks to his pyjama although the bottom of his shoes was sinking in the mud while sauntering.

When he was walking, his shadow began chasing more graves behind but with low vigour and then almost faded. A couple of minutes later the same shadow appeared smaller and thicker but unlike the one when the man was walking away.

The shadow was different. Amidst the heavy rain, the only thing not still, was the shadow of a man traipsing a dead body to the grave. The sound of footsteps in the mud was more than lugging of a dead person. A few more steps he took and then stood quiet, releasing the cold legs of the dead person.

First, he glanced at the lying body and waited for lightning to have a final look over it. When the light strikes the face of that dead person, a frightening figure appeared. A cold body with no eyes, tongue flawing out of the mouth, two portions of the head and small holes all over the chest deepened almost two inches into the body. A part of the bone was looking clear from one hole bigger than the rest. The next thing he glanced at was the skeleton he dug and then the clouds that only appeared in the eyes when lightning took place.

In the light of striking clouds, a man’s face is unveiled in nature as an intense, cruel, unidentified, and negative character. The only thing one could describe on his face was an old deep wound from the ear to the chin.

The man scribbled the dead person furthermore, stepped inside the grave, and laid the person slowly in it. The whole process was working like a snail’s race.

Finally, he stepped out of the grave and gave the last sight to the man he just laid. A kind of peace appeared on his face. It was hard, nearly impossible to kill such a nice person.

A small boy, 9 years old, an old woman, 60 years old and a dog were all waiting for the man, lying in the grave comfortably.

The man wearing Kurta had killed him and was engraved so that no one would know about the nice person, not even his family who was starving because the man who brings meals was going to become someone’s food in a very short time.

He started to recite a few words heard from a Maulana once. He should feel guilty for what he did or ashamed and not if at least sad, but the man was different with all the exceptions inbuilt into him. While reading a verse, he lowered down, picking up polythene. The polythene was a little heavy but not for him who had enough burden of curse on his soul. He opened its knot and slowly poured the liquid on the dead man from head to toe. It was the dead man’s blood; all that he took out after killing him.

The only reason, which bought not a single drop of blood in the graveyard, was not to allow someone to suspect, what happened that night. After the world’s worst tradition made himself, the man starts filling the grave from the sand dug out, making no ringing at all.

The grave filled and the man losing the hoe spread his hands wide open. Raindrops with the thick circumference quietly were washing every piece of dirt from his hands but the curse of killing an innocent person enclosed in his heart to make it more rigid. Although not a single drop of blood freezes on his hands, the brain could not wash any bit of thing. He again looked at the sky; maybe the rain was in his favour, washed all the sweat too.

He might feel nervous that night or ashamed or guilty but the most devastating thing happened when lightning stroked at his face and the only thing that could be seen with much more vanity than the past times was his smile.

The man killed that night was the most virtuous man he had ever killed in his life and that was the reason for him to be at spike of pride. He kept looking at the sky before another lightning stroke. A sentence, a question, a known answer, and a pride, were heard on that terrorizing night for the first time. Those were the only words, heard from the killer that night, looking all over the sky raining heavily, with a smirk and satisfaction on his face,

“WHO WON TONIGHT?”

  ********

Crawling on the beach, the man was glancing with blurred eyes towards the glittering sky, full of stars. It seemed that every star was on exhibition. A wave of water just slapped him at the beginning of the shore. He was not looking frightened although the way he was pretending, it seemed as if he was in a big dilemma. It was hard to crawl when the sand on the beach pulls in it with the eminent cold at night. Usually, no one dares to walk on that beach at night but the man was a real jerk.

The only sight that went into his eyes was the stars covering the sky and ending somewhere below the sea. The man in a tight shirt and grey jeans, abruptly challenging the water waves was crawling towards the hope.

How could he, when nature found it exciting to drown him in the water of hopelessness and an unknowing world?

It was 2:30 am when the fifth wave since the man was awake, slapped not only his face but also his hands. It came with such screaming and furious that his hands loosened their place of contact and head, falling through the wave hits the sand swooping down. The sand was not an enemy at that time, did not hurt a lot but the water indulged in boxing with him since he had awakened. The wave was so hard that it almost broke his bone. Time appeared when he needed to scream more than the sound of splashing water in the sea.

It was interesting that during such time in the southeast part of the town, where no one usually visits, a girl heard his voice. She was walking through the passage at the end of the beach. The closing time of her office was not too late at 2:30 am rather she faces such time usually 3-4 days a week. All the time, excuses she made, did not blame her intelligence but the strictness of her office. But the actual thing, she always tried to hide, was her low IQ, great nature to help, low diplomatic view and inbuilt humanity to work for others.

The only unusual thing, that happened that night was her decision, which abruptly changes to walking instead of taking a bus and that too from the beachside. It was a sheer coincidence that two people felt low at the same time or maybe someone was writing their story for a perfect ending.

When she turned towards the road from the passage, she a scream, she heard. It was her nature and not just curiosity, which led her quickly towards the sound. Before she could reach the place, the man stopped screaming and almost fainted. She quickly approached him closer. Her shoes were making a small distance longer because of the difficult path and coldness. She was not wearing any jacket to restrain the cold air blowing direct at her neck and breast from the sea. Holding the arms tightly at the bottom of the breast succoured her. Somehow, before the man got unconscious, she reached near him; bent her knees and while holding his shoulder turned him towards her side.

A sudden movement shook the man for an instant. He opened his blurry eyes to see but his drunken brain did not allow him to do so. The only thing he sensed was someone trying to help him. The girl looked at his face, covered with sand from the half side. Another half gave a glimpse of a red crying eye. She holds his left hand to put on her shoulder. The man cried out aloud and instantly, she realized that the hand was almost broken. Slowly, she laid it down and gropingly grasped his waist to lift him. It was not much hard, as it seems to her. The man was not as hefty as she had thought. It was a cooperative success but only for the man. The moment she picked him up, a wave of water splashed and wet her clothes down from the waist completely. She went busy looking at her clothes when another quick wave thrashed fiercely and along with the man she fell on the sand. She was inattentive to the wave as all her focus was on the drunken man. Unlike the man, it was the first time she was drenched so badly.

She did not want another wave to hit them again so picked up the man again and started hotfoot.

A kind of unnecessary story was building in the man’s mind. Sometimes, he found himself somewhere and just the next moment, at a different place. He couldn’t figure out where he was heading, giving just random answers from his mind to the girl.

The girl wanted to take him wherever he lives but whenever she asked him, his address or name, he just mumbled an abstract poem,

She had figured out that the man needed help and was drunk enough not to particularize his location. It was a real dilemma for her to think of the next best possible step. Low IQ that night wildered her. She wanted to become Sherlock Holmes in an instant. A lot of thoughts, she gave herself before reaching at an end of the sand and the beginning of the road but comes up with no idea she could reckon. At last, the only thing huddled in her mind was to take him to her own house. It was a courageous decision to take someone to her house where two more life would hardly allow her to do so. One was her grandfather and the other one, younger brother. She was aware of all the negative provoking thoughts but humanity weighed on all of them. She decided to take him to her house finally, which was 15 minutes far from the beach but would for sure take an hour when taking a drunken man with her.

While walking on the road, carrying a drunken man, she looked up at the glittering sky, then at the moon. She smiled, looking into the sky with silent, tranquil, peaceful, and innocent eyes, and said,

“YOU WON AGAIN, TONIGHT”

********

A diary in hand, pen in the pocket, pickle stain on the sleeve of the left hand, curly hair, flat face, deep eyes, ragged shoes, poverty, starvation, aspirations, imagination and passion were all seen together when a look made on Muzammil sitting just below the pole, the only one lightning all the houses in a small circle of the village. He was gleaming at barefoot running children. A kind of sympathy erected in him looking at their pretending happy faces although the only man there on whom pity should offer was he. He was drowning in the joy of a few kids who knew nothing about the world, engaged in playing.

The only thing that brought such an innocent, graduate student with an intelligent brain to a poor village was the hope to write a masterpiece. The village was mystified even after six months of his staying that if he was a journalist, a writer, or a filmmaker.

It was really hard for him to explain to them what he wants from the village and what brought him to that place so instead of answering, whenever any question appeared in front of him, he just gave a smile.

The village was fond of folklore’s greatness, even the people there were more simple than what the writer supposed. One family let him reside with them in their own house. For the first three months, he paid them the rent but when the family learnt that he was an orphan, didn’t have anyone in the name of relatives or friends, was sweet, innocent and also helpful during cultivation, they stopped taking any rent from him. Muzammil decided to stay for some more time but destiny had some different planning for him.

A plague didn’t dawdle in the slightest and overcame all the happy and fine days in the village. It was an utter dilemma to know the reasonable reason for the such plague. A few said that it comes because of the sins of the village people and another one gave it a scientific explanation.

Whatever it was, the problem was not the reason but the effects. Whatever they bowed got rotted, hungriness started to show its necessity and one by one, people either began to flee the village or move towards the nearest town for a meal. Those who rendered themselves to their mythical unending tradition began trapping slowly, slowly in the lap of death.

Muzammil got stunned, listening to those people who did not want to migrate. An attachment to the land, a materialistic thing welcomed death fluently. The family with whom he was living was strict on their decision, not to leave their birthplace. Their love, caring, and emancipation brought the writer, not to leave the place too. Days went on and the food that their last money could buy ended. Muzammil had a little more money but did not want to spend them completely. He was waiting for the time when the need for money appeared the most. The writer had never seen such famine ever in his life. The worst part started with the death of a small child, 7 years old. More people began to flee from the village, quickly. There remained four families only, who swear to stay there under any circumstances.

It was a brave but worst time, united with people but separated from life, a moment of pride but eyes of tears, calm heart, but madbrain engraving across all the remaining livelihoods. Muzammil did not want to die like them. He did not belong there nor had he achieved, what brings him there. The only screaming, whenever he tried to leave the place was the reason brought him there. For two nights, he tried to figure out what to do; after all, it was a hard decision.

Finally, when a man of his age died in the house right next, where he took shelter, the screaming stopped and he decided to leave the place as soon as possible.

A kind of innocent heart bothers a lot by such illegitimacy but nothing stood more precious than life. He had known that the family decided to stay there and would die in a few days.

He could help them by offering money but that money could only buy them, 5 days a meal and after that, they would again become what they were. The only abstractive point was that if he should tell them about the decision of leaving the village or not. It took him another night. He did not want to hurt anyone by leaving without telling but did not even want to look at the poor faces while leaving.

It was 10:00 pm when the writer packed all his stuff in the bag pack. The only bag could either holds his clothes or the stuff village people gave him on different occasions. The decision he took was not a nice one but he was a nice man, so instead of carrying all his clothes, he took only a few ones and the rest were the stuff of village ceremonies. He was aware of packing when no one was around him. When everything got finished, he went to the forest to meet someone special before leaving.

Reaching forest hotfoot; saw a girl, dressed in saffron, sitting on a shredded tree trunk. She was punctual, much more than Muzammil. He already told her to meet him at 10:00 pm. Muzammil approached her. The sound of footsteps let her turn around. She stood when he reached in front of her. It never happened with the girl that someone asked her on a date and that too, was the last one. Although she was not beautiful, what usually people believes in her village like the others, it could not be a reason for her to get denied by the writer the very first time when she proposed to him. The girl was weak in every possible work, which in her village a girl should know with perfection. The only thing that determined her so deeply was hope.

She was the only girl who never gives up. It was mistaken, which she did a lot but denying work has never been her statement. She started loving Muzammil the day he asked her to let him visit the forest. Rejections already tore her down and builds her fear to ask anyone for a proposal. The village had many girls with bright and fair skin than her including many more qualities but her heart never bothered at all.

Muzammil remembered when he saw that girl running from the peak of a small mountain and he stopped her. They had so much within them to share that the conversation began sliding up with every sentence. That first evening of their meet couldn’t find it easy to distract both of them. Finally, when a herd of sheep, which she took for pasturing, began making a night fear sound, she have to leave the place. The girl who has never been in gossip with others, remain sad all the time, busy with her work, finally found herself comfortable with the unknown person for the first time. She thought that finally, a man had come into her life that she had desired and fantasized about, the time of adolescence.

She didn’t wait so long, had no experience in relationships and so proposed to him just after a few meetings. Muzammil had some reasons from the past that he denied her in a most usual way but with kindness. He did not want to hurt her, nor was the reason, for her less attractive beauty.

It was an unending hope which let her always believe that the writer would once when got stimulated will choose her because she was the only one with whom he spent most of his time.

The last day of the writer in the village could not end without telling her about his leaving. She was hurt and felt sad after listening, which could be seen with ease from the tears. She tried a lot not to show him but as people said,

“It sees what’s in heart”

Muzammil never felt love for her like in couples but he had Goosebumps all the time when she touches or smiles, looking at him. After all, she was the most amazing of all. Adorable, calm, quiet, and peaceful were some of the qualities, which only one would know when spending time with her.

The writer when looked her head down, couldn’t help him to stop further and while lifting her chin, looking into her wet down eyes, holding her face, and without even thinking a bit touched her amusingly soft lips with his lips.

Tears in search and need of that final touch flowed down from the eyes just in between the kissing. The writer was so intimate that it was hard for him to leave her and the girl too engaged in it but sobbing. Both of them, the first time kissing were wild and well. The anger, regret, and sadness, burst out in a minute. Maybe Muzammil’s ‘no false promise’ to live with her dug out all the impure things from her heart. Maybe after he will leave, she would be new to her kind. Maybe she won’t be the one she used to be. Whatsoever happened next couldn’t stop the best moment for the writer and the girl, when he was leaving and she was smiling with tears in her eyes. A sad moment for separation but a happy one for a new life, both were feeling. While kissing her hair clip came into his hand when he grabbed them in excitement. Sticky hairs felt cold air releasing slavery of old thoughts for the first time. Muzammil didn’t give it back to her. She too didn’t ask for it believing that maybe one day her memory would pull him back to her.

Muzammil left the place with a determined silence. He was confused about his decision. While walking many times he stopped, turned back, think, and then again move on. Nothing relaxed him and his heartbeat, after all, he was leaving a life, which can protect a life given. Amidst of night, the man looked up with confused, sad, unintentional, insignificance and asked,

WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT?