Wrath and Tears...

I did not like him, that old, wretched doctor sitting there with his smug face trying to tell me how grotesque my entire existence was, I just wanted to run away from that place. I wanted to run away from the hospital and from all these morons in their white coats. But for Dr. Mukherjee, I would have probably fled long back. But I knew that if I ran away not one of the morons would even be slightly bothered but old Dr. Mukherjee would probably not be able to take the shock. He liked me more than anyone else and genuinely believed that one day I will actually get better and walk out of here a sane man. So I stayed on and thus the unbearable torture of being forced to listen to the obnoxious rantings of the miserable fool in his white coat sitting across the table continued. "When will Dr. Mukherjee be coming?", I ask rather impatiently. The smugness on his freckled face deepens as he shakes his head to indicate his ignorance of his boss's schedule. I have been staying ...

The tiny watch on the side of Bibek’s bed showed the hour-hand sluggishly bent past 3. Bibek threw up his hands in frustration. He was not being able to sleep. Not just tonight, he had been sleep-deprived for the last three nights. Ever since the day of that murder; no, not murder, the accident....since then he had been hearing sounds in his head at night. Terrifying, morbid sounds. Sounds which could awaken even the dead from their graves, horrifying wails like the ones he had heard that day, when he was there. The man’s shrill cry for help and the loud, deafening howls of his attackers; and those sounds played back and forth in his mind throughout the night. Three nights at a stretch! He knew he was losing his mental balance. But what could he have done? What could anybody do about something like that? Bibek sat up on his bed. Why was he hearing these voices? He did not kill the man. It was them, the guardians of religion, the protectors of faith. They who commanded over...