Mute Eyes and a Swig of Scotch

Life for Bhairon Chand had changed manifold, and yet there are some things that never really seem to let go. He had run away from home, come to the city and become a successful businessman. He thought he had escaped the past, but it took just one look at the eyes of the little girl, look into the innocence that had been choked out of them, and he was back in the foul clutches of the past.

"Get home fast, Laxman. I don't feel so good," Bhairon Singh told his driver. With a curt nod, the driver sped away. As they got back home, the images of the past kept flashing behind Bhairon Singh's eyes. He knew he had to get back home, and fast. He took the hip flask out of his pocket, and took a long deep swig. The whiskey was supposed to help, but somehow, tonight it seemed it wasn't working.

Once he got back home, he managed to totter back into his study. The eyes seemed to follow him inside. The door was shut, and yet those two mute eyes kept staring. One swish of the flask told him that it was empty. He knew there was a bottle of Black Label somewhere in the house.

The bottle was in his drawer. One shot of Scotch - neat. It burnt as it went down, but he believed it would help him. He quickly poured himself another. This one burnt as it went down too, but he liked it somehow. The door behind him slammed shut, and he spun around to see what happened.

If only he had been brave enough, all those years ago. If only he had had the courage to stand and fight the most crucial battle. If only he had been able to shout back at those two mute eyes that were begging for help.

He could feel the whisky getting to his head. The door was still slamming. He walked towards it, one tiny step at a time. He reached the door, which led to his past, and put his tiny hand on the handle. Gently, he pulled it towards him. The eyes met him again.

He loved his cousin. She was like a twin to him, who knew him inside out. He knew her too. She was the one person in the whole world who mattered the most to him. When those eyes met him that day though, something was different about it. He could see the silent pleading in her eyes.

He could make out that she was lying on the bed, but there was movement in the room. He could see hands, doing something to his cousin. He could see that she was scared. He could see that she was in pain. He could see that she wanted to scream, but that scream had died somewhere in her throat.

He recognized the hands. It belonged to his elder brother. He could see a little of the room behind the door. What looked like blood was spattered on his brother’s clothes, and on his hands. She was straining to get away. He couldn’t help it, and he stumbled. The sound startled his brother, and he jumped on his cousin to stop her from screaming, and pressed his hand on her mouth. He couldn’t stop looking at her; he wanted to enter the room and throw his brother off her – but his feet refused to move. He stood there, unable to move, while his brother slowly strangled his cousin. He could see her bare legs kicking the air, and then slowly they came to a stop. She moved no more, and his brother seemed satisfied somehow. The spasm of fear had passed. He got off from the lifeless figure of his cousin.

He could see his brother coming towards the door.  He ran away without seeing where he was going. He couldn’t see anything due to the steady stream of tears that was pouring through his eyes. He was tired, and he was scared. He lay down on the floor, still crying. The empty bottle of whisky rolled away. He cried himself to sleep that night, his face stuck in the small puddle of his tears.

It was Laxman who found him lying there, in his study. He went to rouse his master, and he didn’t notice the empty bottle of whisky that got kicked by his boot.

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