13 Knots
Asgar got off his bicycle and kept it leaning against the wall beside the rows and rows of other scooters, motorcycles and similar bicycles, albeit in a much better shape than his’. He didn’t feel the need to lock it against a railing- even thieves have some standards. Dressed in an arguably white kurta and a dhoti, Asgar got ready to enter the gates for conducting professional rites the last time. His hair, quite a fertile crop considering his ripe old late fifties, was parted neatly from the middle with special care for today. His beard was trimmed too and considering his general standards, he was looking elite, if I may. Taking his dubba, which he had gotten used to making for himself after almost hundreds of trials and unpalatable errors, he proceeded towards the huge gates between massive stone walls titled ‘Thane Central Jail’.
Today the armed gatekeepers waved at him, unusually but not exactly unexpectedly so. Today was his last day of work and as an unspoken tradition that dominates a workplace, a soon to be belated colleague is always given the maximum possible footage, isn’t he? He’s garlanded for his seniority, so what if his stone-age tediousness was an excruciating pain; appreciative speech for his so-going-to-be-missed charismatic personality, so what if the charisma you’re talking about was more hogged for his out-of-shape (just a polite term) bodily structure; and the grand bonanza cum send off party a celebration “…for the fortune that we had to of having a man, nay, a living legend (nope, nothing is too exaggerated when it’s a last day) like him in our midst”- just another excuse for having a half work-day. Of course Asgar was expecting none of the exaggeration. Murderers, rapists and robbers are hardly the people one would want to share some good times with. And that’s why he sought joy in the little forms of affection, respect and acknowledgements- handshakes, waves and small talks. The outside prison guards shook hands with him, a sentry on a watchtower called out his name and waved and now it was the turn of…
“Asgar, my man!”
Hawaldar Deshpande, is it?
“Punctual till the last day. My, aren’t we going to miss you!”
Hawaldar Deshpande it is.
Asgar smiled and climbed the steps of the long corridor leading to the Inspector’s office. A perennially jovial Deshpande was standing at the start of it and as Asgar walked towards him.
“Wow, aren’t you shining! What’s the occasion?”
Both of them laughed. Whenever peppy humor was in dearth, Deshpande was the man you are looking for. Hawaldar Advait Deshpande, to be precise.
“What time is it?” Asgar asked.
“Whenever the door opens and Asgar walks in, you can safely presume the town-hall gong has successfully completed nine of the ten gongs.” Classic Deshpande.
Asgar smiled. Deshpande’s style was nothing unconventional and so was his humor. There are certain set of people whose words don’t have much tickle but it’s their mannerisms that evoke cheers and hoots. Well, Deshpande had none of the two. All he had was an ever-radiant face and brimful of positivity that he exuded every time, everywhere he went. It was his sheer good-natured aura that people didn’t want to prick. He was what personified a ‘nice person’ to the last ‘n’. Besides, as far as today was concerned, Asgar was ready to be sweet to even Chaterjee, the sour faced head of sanitation department. After all, he wanted to carry as much goodwill as he could from this place, ironically so. But then, all he could see it as to how more number of people who would be coming to his funeral a few months from now. Asgar was a heart patient with a seriously volatile malady Mitral valve prolapse- the reason he had resigned and the reason why it was accepted immediately. But no, the mention of his imminent death is not supposed to be an Oh-my-God moment. Dear old Asgar certainly wouldn’t want that to happen to you just as now. In fact, he himself was hardly affected when the news was divulged to him. As the news spread, people were appropriately sympathetic, many being that in an unmasked formality. But then you can’t expect much.
Being a hangman has its share of downs.
“No no, this is no-one talking as such in the current chain of events described. This Italicized part is just me, or my monologue, whatever you prefer. You see, I have a habit of talking to myself. So why this monologue came up is with the ‘tada’ moment of my profession being divulged. Asgar Malik, the professional hangman since 1994 for Thane Central Jail. Unusual profession, isn’t it? Right you are. Though we do have something in common- we have the similar work timing ten to six. No, that doesn’t mean I hang people all through the day. What it means is you might while it away by scribbling all the while on your desk or typing away on your computer and I do the time by doing menial jobs for my seniors. I am sometimes their coffee tea boy, sometimes their driver, a spare patroller and also a nurse if the mood prevails. Don’t pretend to look shocked at the nurse bit, why would a taxpayer care about the comforts of society wreckers? So what is my life like do you think? Similar, I would say with one professional difference- I can’t get a promotion.
“Yeah, that was a joke. Not a fan of black humor? A’right.
“As far as my personal life goes, it is in shambles- as you might view it. I’ll tell you this and this is not a closeted fact- had it not been for my family, especially my loving wife, I would’ve gone completely insane. But for me, it’s just an executioner’s life. Just as predictable are the perks that come with it. Social ostracization, primarily. We can’t mesh well with the people around us for no fault of our own. Government of India, if you are reading this, there’s something I got for you. While formulating the reservation policy, on what exact basis did you identify the repressed classes? Did you just roam around with writing pads blindly checking our descent? ‘Wow, you have a Honda? That’s nice. A BMW too? Wonderful! Wait a second, did you say you were a Dalit? My dear goodness, you are so repressed.’ Bah, you want to know what’s repressed? Ask me, us- the executioners, the gravediggers, the scrap-metal collectors, hell, ask your own watchman and he’ll tell you what it feels like. Do you have any idea what it is like to be treated like horse-turd? The parents advising their kids against you, or even threatening them with you? ‘Go off to sleep beta or the bua will come.’ ‘Bua’ is the pop cultured word for me in my vicinity. The kids pointing out whenever I pass their houses, naively asking their mothers if I am the one they were talking about the previous night and wondering where is that large bag I use to stuff naughty kids in and take away. Imagine us being sneered at, steered clear of, only for doing our duties. We are social servants and that is what we should be treated like. But then, we don’t have those plush air conditioned offices with some NGO crap written underneath it, we can’t go to some page 3 party and ask for donation because we… we would just be buzzed off by those bulky, brawny gate-animals calling us beggars.”
Today was the last day before his “Services would be terminated,” as the resignation acceptation letter so pompously said. And as the last day, he would be also getting to pull the lever for his 31st victim. It was a curious coincidence, if you wanted to see it- it was 31st of the month and Asgar would be ending life of his 31st victim. Of course, one would no doubt curse the lack of merit of this futile observation but when all you got to do when you get back to your single roomed leaking ceiling-ed home after you finish your meal was to observe the water patterns that the leak has made on the lime coating, minutiae of daily life tend to creep into thought process.
“No, I meant what time is it,” Asgar emphasized. “The hanging.”
“Oh, you mean the pull-the-lever-time?” Deshpande oh-ed. “6 pm. That’s the time when the culprit will be hung by the neck till dead. Tak tak.” Deshpande gestured a gavel tapping. “Anyway, get in here,” Deshpande lead Asgar to Inspector Futanik’s office. “The boss wants to meet you.”
The last day formed a nice retrospective memory, living up to the cliché ‘How the time flew, we never knew.’ Asgar discovered his own popularity, or what he would wishfully term it as, when many of the people he didn’t even know came up to him and hoped him a good after-jail life with quotable quotes from sub inspector Gaikwad “Now that you will be leaving jail, I hope you are a reformed man,” or the parole officer’s “My eye will always be on you.” Jail humor can be tacky; you really have to develop a taste for it. The canteen treated everyone- almost sixteen of them- free chai and special samosas, ‘special’ being just the marketing trick on the lines of ‘New’ Surf Excel or ‘New’ Parle Hide n Seek. Somehow, adjectives always make a consumer happier and it was no exception here when everyone praised Nandu for the same recipe he had been serving since last five years. As Asgar looked around, he realized he was going to miss all of them. But then, he wouldn’t last too long for that, he concluded with partial relief.
It was just Deshpande doing some idle talk with Asgar and a lethargic half-asleep sub inspector Gaikwad in Futanik’s office when he entered. Immediately like a gunshot had been fired, the three rose from their seats.
“5.15,” Futanik announced. “The Arthur Road star would be coming any moment. Buck up, rascals.” He turned to Asgar and spoke kindly. “Start the preparations Asgar. This is going to be the last time you do this. Let’s not make this one memorable.”
All of them swung into action. Asgar proceeded out of the office and went to the much-dreaded barracks on the backside of the jail area. There was a pandemonium in one of the cells on the first floor, he heard and he didn’t even care to look up as he passed the common grounds. It was all just a routine.
Thane Central jail was a huge area of the shape of an irregular octagon with petal shaped outgrowths at uneven places and the centre resembling sun and the jail quarters its beams as a child would draw it. It was enclosed by even electrocuted wires in some places. The mighty high walls were intimidating as were the armed patrols. There was a common ground in the middle with eight buildings used as jail quarters around the ground. The capacity was almost a thousand but as the factual figures went, it was overstuffed with more than three thousand inmates. Okay trivia time for those interested. Thane jail was originally a fort built by the Portuguese in 1730 before the Marathas captured it, and called it ‘Thane killa’. Sweet shit, huh?
Being in a cell is never a pleasant experience, and doubly not so when you have to switch your beds every few hours or if you were doomed for worse luck, sleep among entwined legs and hands. On the back, lay the gallows, a much-isolated part compared to the rest of the premises. It was a strict no entry zone, except for the people concerned, quite peculiarly so- which sane person would want to go to the gallows. But then, which sane person would rape his daughter, which sane person would murder for a lost bet, as were the kinds filled in the cells. And that’s why, necessarily so.
The preliminary preparations never took more than ten minutes. After that, was the wait and the self imposed ‘tradition’.
“Yeah, the tradition. You might beg to differ that I might be this cold-blooded freak who ruthlessly watches people die by his own hands but no, that’s not true. I won’t say what some of the sensitive types amongst you like to read, like how with each person I kill I feel my soul developing deeper cracks- cracks that can’t be healed, that I feel guilty; but then you have to do something to feed yourself- some write, some blabber, I kill people and blah blah and some more yawning blah. No, I don’t feel shit. And you know why? Not because I am sadist or I love acting against Allah’s will, but because I give myself a feeling that I am doing a right thing by killing a nuisance. And I need to develop as much hatred as I can to perform the momentous task of pulling the lever. Because trust me when I say this, experience doesn’t make it easier. I need to be convinced about the convict’s sentenced riddance. And that’s when Advait kicks in.”
“Fill me in, Advait,” Asgar whispered as both of them took their positions, Asgar on the wooden dais near the lever and Advait down, some distance away but in the audible range. The tradition had begun.
“Farhan Ahmed,” Deshpande said. “Aged early thirties, sentenced for proven murders of seven children. Nobody knows his background or his outfit and he’s supposedly a freelance psychopath out to take revenge.”
Asgar involuntarily mustered in abhorrence for the culprit. You justify murder of seven kids on the cause of revenge? What the hell can they possibly do, steal mangoes from his grove? He voiced his thoughts.
“Nope, he wanted to avenge what these people did to him and his family,” Deshpande clarified.
Asgar laughed incredulously.
“Interesting tale, this guy had to tell,” Deshpande began. “Year 1993.” Asgar felt tremors of the past rippling through his body, raising his hackles. “Mumbai riots were on full throttle and this guy was one of the affected few. He lived with his wife and a small child and was getting ready to leave his residence under the cover of darkness to save his own ass when he heard the roaring Hindu fanatics outside his home. He broke open his window on the other side and pushed his wife and kid out of it. As fate might have it, the crazed mob had already prepared for the eventuality and had about ten fuckers ready on the other side with flaming torches in their hands, quietly waiting for their prey. As the mother and son tried to run, they grabbed them. Farhan watched as he saw his wife being stripped and kerosene poured over his screaming son. His cries and wails were responded only by the rising laughter from the hysterical mob, which egged on the culprits with chants. The mob took turns at stabbing the lady, and the kid’s legs were chopped off and then he was set on fire. And all the while Farhan watched; struggling, flailing, screeching abuses, pleading mercy but no avail. The police came just as they were about to torch Farhan. He was already bathed in kerosene. The mob dispersed but not before flaming Farhan’s left hand. Fortunately, he was saved from being alight fully because of the fire extinguishers.”
“Victims turning to crime merchants story huh?” Asgar said softly. “Not unusual.”
“Yeah,” Deshpande was mellow too. “But this Farhan decided that it was the kids who should suffer his loss. Brainwashing seems to be one of the causes, but he’s not telling. Farhan had a mysterious disappearance for almost ten years. What makes me shudder is the possibility of many unreported kids being burnt in this span. It was after this that the first story about a 10 year old kid being burnt alive came in the papers. Remember the name ‘The Torcherer’ coined by the media? That is Farhan. The pattern was similar- all male kids of the same age group- from 8 to 11 and all essentially Hindus were targeted. Of course, he made sure that no notable person’s son was involved so as to avoid kicking off a hunt for him. It was after the death of the fourth child that the police got serious, after the 9th killing that they nabbed him after laying a bait trap and then the 8 other cases came to light, two of them from 1993 itself, which were mistook for rioting impacts.”
“And he was immediately sent here, I suppose?”
“Hell yeah. He has no Godfather. His crime was out of furiously spiteful way of culling-for-culling. And the public was pissed as shit. Landmark judgment- flat two months. He pleaded guilty, went hostile but was soon proven guilty again, accepted it shamelessly with a smile and a quote that went on almost every headline. You know what it was?”
Asgar didn’t know. He had given up reading newspapers. Besides, he had no TV or radio too.
“He said, ‘Now that I am gone, a burnt child would always dread fire’,” Deshpande said, shaking his head. “Can you believe this? The bastard is educated too. And they say education creates civility.”
“This helped,” Asgar was seething with rage now. He had hung plenty of heinous crime doers by now but today, he felt, he was doing the most justified of the executions.
He climbed the steps. The gallows had a wooden platform in the middle. It… okay, Asgar seems to have something to share with us. Over to you, Asgar.
“Trying to steal my thunder, were you? Okay, so let me explain. There are two ways a hanging is done- to pull a lever so that the false floor below the convict drops or with a sandbag to which another end of the rope is connected. What we do here is the former one.”
Thank you, Asgar. That was interesting.
He undid the rope, as he did before every hanging. He tied fresh knots every time. Asgar liked the knots. He…well well, ain’t our man in a loquacious mood.
“Please Mr. Writer, let them take it from the pros. So the knot we use has quite an innovative name for it. It’s called the hangman’s knot. It’s simple and expressively elegant when you look at it. All you need is a long rope in a shape of an S drawn sideways. Now one of the ends, the lower one, you take and coil it over the rest of the part. Again. And again. Go on till you get almost 6-7 loops. Tradition says 13 knots, which usually characterizes our nooses but it makes the knot unstable. So why traditionally so, you would ask. What I can think of is, the longer the knot part is, the more petrifying it seems. I guess the hangman in those days had fun in their own way by scaring the shit out of a person. But I don’t wanna take chances. If knot is not proper, there are can be a severed neck and bleeding from nose and mouth.
“The number of knots varies according to the weight of a person- if a person is heavy you need fewer knots. Usually we do a few mock hangings before we perform the actual ceremony. And again, that does not mean we take turns at hanging ourselves. One thing I’ve learnt from life is be politically correct in sensitive issues. . It’s just a drill to check if the connections are proper.”
Asgar undid the rope and tied the knots meticulously again. That was a pleasant part. The rope, earlier grazed with smashed banana and vanaspati was tied in its proper position. After the drills, all there was to do was the wait.
It was about six now and still no sign of the participants or the chief guest of the ceremony. Not surprising, no it wasn’t. It was quite a few minutes after that that the siren wailed indicating the arrival. The siren ringing in the jail premises is always a shake-up moment for all. It either announced a convict escaping or arrival of a new batch of prisoners or the prison inspectors- a buzz up for keeping spare cash ready to bribe your way through safety to blanket up the shady administration. And of course, important events like these.
A few minutes later, the door of the prison gave way to the attraction of the day. A government lawyer- the witness to the execution and two other police accomplices ushered in the man. The rascal. The cold blooded butcher. The rightful convict ready to be pushed into the frosty hands of the ruthless competitor- the Satan.
And he seemed so oblivious of it.
Asgar had seen many a hard-boiled criminals in his days but this chunk of turd was one of its kind. He had seen men pissing, praying, asking for forgiveness. And he’d seen them asking him to question his scruples, how could he let this happen, how could he kill a fellow human, a brother (humans have a knack of conjuring up blood bonds when in turbulence), when they’ve done him no wrong. Asgar was, of course, unmoved. It’s always the first hanging that’s the most difficult, that is, relatively. Then you got used to this hanky-panky. But this man, nay, this swine was grinning his way through.
“No, honestly I ask,” he was saying as he entered. “How can you let this happen? If you punish someone for killing a person by sentencing him to death, how is that justice? Classic argument of liberalism, this is. You know what is liberalism? That’s a theory of administration…”
“Shut the fuck up and get on with it,” the accomplice on his left had busted his patience switch. He shoved him ahead roughly towards the platform. “You ain’t going nowhere with this blabber of yours.”
“How typical,” Farhan smiled as he regained his balance. “So now what do we do? You ask me for my last wish and I beg for forgiveness? I pray that all the children I killed, may their rotting souls rot in peace at least? That all the undeniable, incurable injury I inflicted on their families and innumerable near and dear ones forgive me, coz I’ve come to regret my misdeeds or something?”
“No, all you do is get the fuck on this dais and watch yourself die,” the accomplice snarled.
“Ha! Like I was gonna do that anyway,” Farhan smirked and started climbing the steps one at a time. “But you, I got some advice for you. Get a fresh new batch of cusses next time. You with all your fucks and sonofabitches, that’s so ancient, y’know. Bored me throughout the journey. Doesn’t ring any hells bells. Wow, did you hear that? Hells bells- I’m good!”
The man was clearly beyond the tolerance now. One flash and his hand now sported his revolver as he light-sped his way towards Farhan and shoved the barrel in his mouth.
“One more word from that filthy mouth of yours,” he growled, “and I swear to God, this bullet will conk your head off, leaving it only a mess of blood and gore.”
“Dixit,” the lawyer called out, alarmed. The other officials swung into action and separated the two. Dixit was taken back to his halting position and chided in an undertone. “Just what were you thinking you were doing,” the lawyer muttered, angrily.
“Yes Dixit, just what the hell you were thinking you were doing,” Farhan imitated the lawyer.
“Shut up,” the lawyer dismissed. “Let’s carry on the proceedings, shall we?”
Asgar silent all the while, maintained a shrouded facial stance even though his insides spewed lava of loathing. The man had not only remained unapologetic, he dared, yes, ‘dared’, to be of such arrogance, such audacious cheek to drive the senior-most officials to lose their nerve. Asgar was oh so ready. He surveyed others as they took their respective positions. The lawyer went on the front, accompanied by Futanik who stood by his side.
“Farhan Ahmed. You are convicted for the proved killings of nine children. Convicted on the grounds of murder, punishment to murder and kidnapping with intend to murder under sections 300, 302 and 364 of Indian Penal Code respectively, you are sentenced to be hung till you are dead. Under the law vested on me by the sovereign state of India, I oversee your execution. Your execution will be carried out in,” he looked at his watch, “a minute. Do you have anything you want to say before your sentence is carried out?”
Asgar flicked his look at Farhan. He had put his head inside the noose. His cheek sported week old stubble and his scalp was oiled with salt and pepper hair sticking out unevenly for the occasion. Dressed in a half shirt with two open buttons from the collar, his hairy chest and arms were visible. His grey jeans was torn at places. Had he not been in newspapers, a free man Farhan would probably be dismissed as a roadside Romeo. An old jobless one though than the usual horny adrenalin charged breeds- his hairline was receding. The eyebrows reduced the distance as they rose up. The forehead turned and with it, the whole head.
Now it faced Asgar. The lips quivered into a confident smile and spoke up, “What do you think I should say huh?”
Asgar pretended staring at a log of wood. But God, the log was so annoying.
“I mean, I have some standards, right? I have this image I have to maintain. People love to hate me, and I should continue to give them more fodder to munch on. I have reached the pan thela conversation I hear, and that must give you an idea about how much I have a society to provoke, news channels to babble, newspapers to print, Mahesh Bhatts to make flicks, so this should be eventful.”
This was lenience. Fucking lenience. Why was the man shooting his mouth off when he should have a sweat versus pee competition here? Why wasn’t the lawyer allowing this? Asgar clutched the lever. He didn’t lose patience so easily. But exceptions can be made.
“Remember Gandhi?” Farhan grinned widely. “I quote him as my last.” Farhan paused. “Hey Ram…”
And strike three. Asgar shut his eyes, ground his teeth and pulled the lever. The false floor under Farhan gave way. The execution went smoothly. No severed necks again. Only, he wasn’t yet given an allowance signal. But this didn’t kick up a row even though the lawyer didn’t get his ‘moment’.
As they say, exceptions can be made. Oh yes sir, they can always be made.
There is always a ten fifteen minute wait during which a doctor arrives, confirms the death of the convict and everyone lives happily ever after, except the ‘happily ever after’ part. Humans have a dark side. And what, when it will be triggered, no-one knows. That’s why gallows continue to exist and function on a regular basis. Yes, I know Asgar I am quoting from the speech you prepared especially for this occasion, to form the last paragraph of your monologue. I admit that these are your pearls of wisdom and I do credit you that. Oh, do I hear a thank you? Why, you are most welcome, dear!
“You are damn lucky the lawyer guy didn’t brush up dirt on your act. You know that, right?” Deshpande was speaking as they exited from disposing off the body to the prison morgue.
“Yes,” Asgar walked, staring at the ground and kicked a stone in the path. “I guess the bastard was annoying him as much.”
“Hmm,” Deshpande said. “Well, everyone’s waiting for you at the gate now. So what are you going to do now that you will be all free? Take hanging classes?” The jovial Deshpande was kicking again.
“Yeah, why not?” Asgar humored him. He went to Inspector Futanik’s office and gathered his stuff in his torn at places cotton handbag. Signing the ledger, he took once last glance at the office. “I never thought I would say this, but I am gonna miss this place.”
“And we, you,” Deshpande clapped his back. They were men. Central jail men. There was no place for explicit mush here.
Asgar walked silently towards the main gate. Futanik was escorting lawyer and the other police accomplices to the gate and after exchanging professional pleasantries, he turned back to Asgar. With him were the parole officer, two other hawaldars and the sub inspector Gaikwad.
“So this is goodbye,” Futanik said as Asgar took turns in shaking hands with everyone. “Be good Asgar. It was nice having you working here.”
“Thank you Sir,” Asgar said and nodded pleasantly to all as he took leave. “Wish I could say the same, huh?”
The people tittered. The last words of a retired man are always hilarious. Necessarily so. Deshpande offered to accompany Asgar to his bicycle.
“I guess this is it, huh?” Deshpande said as he walked Asgar to the parking. “Whatcha thinking? Planning to join your wife at Haj?”
“I wish, Deshpande,” Asgar sighed his only regret in life. “But money’s tight when you are a hangman. Tighter when you are a diseased one, yeah?”
“Point,” Deshpande said. “But you still in touch with her, right?”
“Oh yes, of course,” Asgar nodded vehemently. “No day passes with me not talking to her.”
Deshpande smiled slightly. “You really love her, don’t you?” he asked softly.
“Aw, what’s with you? Stop being such a chick!” Asgar laughed. Deshpande gave in to a grin.
Asgar mounted on his bicycle and waved at Deshpande, and to the prison guards at the gate, and to Gaikwad, who was still standing on the gate.
“What’s with you?” Gaikwad asked as Deshpande slowly plodded his way to the gate, shaking his head, face sad.
“Nothing, I just pity the man,” Deshpande summed up.
“Oh he’ll be all right.” Gaikwad said.
“I doubt it.”
“What do you mean?” Gaikwad looked at him inquiringly. “Do you know something I don’t?”
“Remember how Asgar always said he has his wife in Haj?”
“Yes?”
“Well, his wife’s dead.” Deshpande said flatly.
“What do you mean?” Gaikwad reflexed, taken aback.
“Do you know why he took up this job at all? Before a hangman, Asgar was just a simple plumber at BMC’s water department. His wife was killed in the blasts and this affected him insanely. He quit and almost shut himself off the world. When the money matters started mattering, he joined back BMC. When he was sent here for fixing a burst water pipe, he overheard the need of a hangman and joined in as one. He wanted to take revenge against everyone involved in the 1993 massacre. Today he got his moment.”
“What the hell has gotten into you? How do you know all this?” Gaikwad asked, bewildered and stopped walking.
“He has frozen time for himself, don’t you realize? He has modified reality to suit himself. Why do you think he does not read newspaper in spite of being a metric pass? Why do you think when even a slumdog has a TV or at least a radio, he has none? He has no social life and isn’t much of a talker either. Every time there’s a debate on cricket or any other current event, he’ll quietly take an exit route. He’s practically isolated himself in the world he’s created. And when he says he is in touch with his wife and talks to her daily, he means he talks to her photo frame hung on a wall of his home, which for the record, I have seen by my own eyes.”
Silence reigned between them. Deshpande mentally oozed out pity and Gaikwad exuded misery for an ex colleague. He turned to see the silhouette of Asgar disappearing in the sunset. But there was no sunset and neither was any Asgar.
Curtains had fallen upon both the worlds.
