64 Squares of a Candle Light

He trained his ears on the wall clock in the corridor beyond the iron bars, listening to life slipping away with every jerk of the minute hand.

It was past his medicine time but did not feel like hurrying. Chemicals worked overtime inside his body and the mad action smothered his energies. He felt the church bells in his distant village were ringing for him.

Churchyard was slowly getting crowded. Annual Bible Retreat was on. Parish Priest had asked the villagers to bring candles for the evening session and everyone carried one. Young girls wore their better dresses and giggled for no reason while the women talked incessantly. Boys took up positions, along the compound wall and on the terrace of the adjoining club from where they could watch the girls.

Courtyard of the small house was clean; a few small plants here and there, none in bloom. The Healer sat on the verandah resting his lean frame on the parapet sideways, waiting for the Trader to turn up for their daily chess match. The board was set as he did not want to waste time. His wife, a portly woman in her forties, brought him a cup of tea, parading her midriff to the chagrin of the Healer. He disapproved of this habit of his wife as he knew it was a popular topic amongst the villagers. It always disturbed him that his patients were more focused on the auburn fleshy mass than on his country medicines.

After the address, the parish priest suddenly became very solemn. In a low but baritone voice, he urged the believers to light their candles and hold them in their folded hands. People hurried to light up the candles; those who did not bring matches lit theirs from others standing next to them.

Slowly, the amber light of the candles flowed over the churchyard.

The Trader greeted the Healer warmly as he walked briskly into the courtyard. He asked for a cup of tea before settling on one of the wooden stools, placed on either side of the chess board. Both the men were ready for the game in no time.

Petite candle lights fought with and complimented each other to transform the churchyard into a bed of radiance. From the height of the club terrace, the open ground below seemed as if someone has spread a burning cloth over the yard. The young man was oblivious to the talks of his friends on the terrace. He glued his eyes on the tiny globules of sweat on the girl's nose, shining and mirroring the world in a miniature canvass. He knew that the girl was aware of his presence on the terrace but she did not betray any signs of it. She just followed the litany solemnly.

Battle was intense on 64 squares. The Healer was scrambling for defence against the marauding knights of the Trader. The assaulter was being merciless and poked fun at his victim.

"You should stop your habit of taking country drugs before going to sleep. They have started to douse your mind."

The Healer did not like the comment but chose to ignore it. His wife, sitting on the parapet, felt sorry for him. The Trader looked at her flowing soft flesh and smiled.

The empty corridor was rather long but so silent that he could always hear his heartbeats. He felt that solitary confinement could never be solitary; no one can take one's heart beats away as long as one lives.

As he entered the courtyard leading to the Trader’s house, the young man's heart started pumping heavily. The verandah was empty. He stopped for a moment before making a sound to attract the attention of someone inside.

The girl came out and her face turned pale seeing him. He could still see the tiny drops of sweat on her nose.

The Trader was wearing a bath towel as he appeared on the verandah smiling and the muscular physique frightened the young man slightly.

“Father asked me to tell you he wouldn’t be available this evening”
“Where is he going?”
“He has a patient to attend to”

As he closed the wooden compound gate behind him, the young man looked back. The Trader had already gone in; the girl was still standing there, sweat drops twinkling on her nose.

Black gowns swayed and flowed and littered the room. Everyone was in a hurry for no apparent reason.

The young man was thinking of the sweat drops and the diverse images they reflected.
He knew that the soft hairs on her cheeks were too delicate to hold the drops should they chose to fall. He wanted to cup his hands so as to save the falling drops.

Sound of the gavel woke him up.

Sound of the creaking wooden door woke the young man up. It was dark and he could hear only the noise of the crickets. Then the door creaked again. He got out of the cot.

Down the corridor, he could see the soft flesh near the kitchen door; the ripples glistened in the dim moonlight. The door closed again. He waited for the footsteps to fade into the noise of the crickets. Then he moved to the kitchen and fetched the sickle.

Jumping over the fence, he reached the village path.

The first strike yielded a slight moan from the Trader. Unable to bear the repeated blows, he let go a loud yawn.

He could see a vague smile on the Jailor's face as the register was handed over to him. He wrote his initials; his signature was too long for the small column. Gathering a small bundle of clothes and his medicine box, he walked out of the room.

Somewhere in the distance, a candle light was playing naughty and painting a thousand emotions on a young girl's face putting soft shadows to use.

As the iron gates closed loudly behind him, he slowly walked towards the darkness of the candle light.