A Tribal Journal – 1

1 – Present


“Spring is here and with it, its irony,”

Prerona began her journal entry that night. Pellets of blood oozed through her hands and sad strings of letters under it. She looked at her wounds. Little red openings on a tanned skin screamed for attention. She was used to ignoring. She had cut herself. Again.

“A new day and with it, an old story.”

She had been to the police station today. Twice in three days. Day before yesterday, she was supposed to cover up her face. Today, she was advised.

“A living grave stalked her”

Stares from stout men. Stares from stouter women. Three in denims pitted against dozens in khaki. Khaki signalled the three denims. They sat. Two unbroken chairs before an unbroken desk. Prerona and Ayesha sat as Angad stood. The officer looked beyond dog-eared files from his Armrest. The air was clear enough to intimidate. He had to fake interest, in spite.

“Amidst a doctrine by the doctor (?)”

A medical report was on top of the pile. A result of which today was a repercussion. Repercussions of a rare privilege called rape.

“How is a grave dug?”

Three days ago. Dusk and Downpour. A girl. Little in stature. Eyes in slits. Tanned in skin. Music in the ears. The front seat of the bus. A bus she takes all and often. Seldom alone. Her roommate was sick today. She had to be alone. Prerona sat amidst the balance of stares, ogles and apathy of the living bus. The bus sped, stopped and sped again. Her assets swayed in agreement. Scores of eyes sparingly fixated on the sway. Six eyes in particular seemed not to spare.

“As like before: same and smug.”

The bus stopped one last time for Prerona. She descended. They descended. She took a confident left turn. They took a hesitant left turn.  Water plundered down and splashed around her legs reminding her that it’s raining. An umbrella protected her from the pouring touch of the gods. Same can be said of the trail and cannot.

“Ignorance is not always bliss,”

Desolate Darkness. Heavens heaved over four heads. She could have ignored. She should have ignored. Yet her ignorance might not have bored any fruit that day. An alley. No shops. A few lighted houses well-guarded. On the alley; away from it. She paced her steps. They paced their steps. A few yards close this commotion. A busy street awaited on the other end. Strange people, salvation from even stranger pursuers. Water splashed about her legs in frenzy. A triangle was formed, she – the centre. Sweat trickled under the umbrella. Sweat trickled down the three rain-drenched bodies. Water stopped splashing.

“Ugly once were a kiss.”

Grotesque shadows entangled themselves on a watery ground. Grotesque figures wrestled then on the watery ground. As kids waiting for their turns, they waited and then they played. One rode. The other two held. She screamed. She struggled. Her struggle lost in his strength. Her screams lost in His screeches. The he’s on her and the He above all, together spelled her doom.

“Yes, I had lost,”

Struggles transfigured into surrendering. Screams transfigured into silences. Even her tears were lost in that of the heavens and then even they stopped. Sobs remained. She passed out.  They were satisfied. Put on their pants. Pats on their backs – kings conquering a mystic kingdom. They walked strange but confident. Naked. Nicked. Nought. Prerona lay stupefied. Her eyes sore and swollen. Staring at the splashes of water.

“Their winning is not a must.”

Identify the suspects. Prerona’s purpose before the police. Fire in the slits that were once sore. Hope hoping about in her heart. The Khaki briefed the three Denims. They stood. They walked. They stopped. Two constables saluted. The Khaki saluted. The Khaki entered. The Denims entered. The constables entered. Three men already breathed in the room. Prerona was short of breath. One smirked. She flinched. The faces were familiar. She wished they had not become. She had burned them in her head. Alive. A hundred times. She had abused them in her head. Explicit. A hundred times. Today, it was to be for the first time out of her head but wasn’t. She stood stupefied. Her slits swollen and sore. Again.

 “Fires gut even the shark,
A candle fears of flickering in the dark.” She scribbled.

(To be continued…)


Dear Reader, Thank you tons for reading. This is a humble attempt of this lousy and lazy dot at a fiction series which will be updated on a regular basis, hopefully. Criticisms are welcome, the harsher the better. Stay tuned for more. Thank You. Again.
A. D. Konwar.
©A. D. Konwar |nailapost.wordpress.com | 2017

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4 thoughts on “A Tribal Journal – 1

  1. I like the immediacy of the writing, Arunabh. The short, stabbing sentences are especially effective. The opening paragraph grabs the attention: we must know more about Prerona and what has happened to her. I am hooked!

    Liked by 1 person

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