Today I killed a man. I slit his throat as he snored, oblivious to his impending doom. I’m certain I wasn’t seen or heard. Except by Allah -- may He forgive my compulsion.
Remember when I stole golden Alphonso mangoes from the neighbour’s orchard? Or when I pilfered a thousand rupees from father’s wallet and got the servant flogged for it? Or when I watched Zubeida through the window as she
undressed? You knew. You laughed. And my trespasses were forgiven.
Some secrets however, are a man’s own.
Like the hideaway bed uncle Hamid installed in my room when you and father were pilgrims in Mecca. It was a crude, crusty old thing fashioned from a dilapidated wardrobe that recyclers rejected outright. Uncle Hamid carved a hole in the wall and fixed it up so I wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor. He’d bring me toy cars and magazines and spend hours playing with me on that bed. Hours.
Did the creaking ever wake you mother? Or the moan-filled nights, stifled screams drowned by the early morning calls to prayer?
Maybe you were too busy nourishing the family with biryani and rice pudding, feeding veiled traditions, ensuring the home functioned like a well-oiled machine. You never ruffled feathers. And you’d rather die than see the family honour sullied.
Today I killed uncle Hamid. But it’s one of those rabid secrets that disappear into the murky underbelly of the night. Sometimes, it’s better that way. May Allah forgive my trespass.