Copyright@shravancharitymission

Enjoy my short story published in The Assam Tribune on January 5, 2025. Happy reading.

THE PRICK OF CONSCIENCE

    It reminds me of a time when I used to go to a park every day, early in the morning. The place was absolutely still and quiet and reminded me of those neat and peaceful words — pin-drop silence.
    It was a long walk from where I stayed. It was also the midway for me, where I used to take a break. The park was located on the banks of a river and was about 25 to 30 feet higher than the normal flow of the river water, and in between the two, there was a deep gradient. To secure the area from anyone falling into the river, a rugged railing had been raised only recently. The other end of the park touched the busy road, coming all the way from the airport and passing into the main city. Beyond the river, there was a tall, dark hillock that gave a great sense of scenic fulfilment.
    All around, it was lush green, especially during the monsoons, when the gushing water level, at times, used to rise and ripple past the edges of the gradient to enter the park. I normally sat there each day for about ten to 15 minutes, for some meditation and introspection that refreshed me to take on the tough day ahead. I had relocated to the city some six months ago as an inspector in the police department. In the park, I also met many health freaks coming for morning walks, and some just to lollygag.
    Close to the main gate of the park, there was a small tea stall. I guess it grossed all its revenue early in the morning while serving the morning walkers. Once in a while, it also served hot bhajiyas that tasted deadly with the hot tea.
    I had become a little pally with the tea stall owner, who was young and appeared somewhat educated. There was always a newspaper lying in the stall where tea buffs often rushed through the latest headlines, only to exchange informal barbs.
     As a regular visitor, I had started recognising quite a few faces there. Gradually, I even got to know the names of a few. One out of them happened to be an old person who was normally quiet. One day, the stall owner, who knew that I was a police inspector, introduced me to him. His name was Robert.
    In a matter of days, I started interacting with Robert and referred to him as ‘Uncle’. He must have been around 70. He spoke very little. But whenever he did, he was to the point. He was normally in his own world, and nothing amused him.
    The days passed on as usual. One day, Robert walked up to me and asked, “Are you in the police?”
    I said, “Yes.”
    “Then can you do me a favour?”
    I asked, “What favour?”
    He looked at me for a while and said, “Many years ago, when I was young, while playing in this park, I fought with my best friend. Unfortunately, the fight took an ugly turn. As a result, I pushed him down the slope over there. Sadly, he fell into the river. It was the peak of the monsoon when the river was in spate and he was swept away, never to return.”
    “Oh God! But did you tell the police that you had pushed him down the slope?”
    “No!”
    “But why?”
    “Because I was scared I’ll be arrested. So, the police registered a case of an accident stating that he didn’t know how to swim, so he drowned.”
    “So then, why are you telling me your story now, after so many years?”
    “After 50 years, to be precise, to clear my conscience. You’re in the police, if you want, you can still arrest me for the crime.”
    “Have you told this to anyone else?”
    “No.”
    “But why?”
    “Because he was my next-door neighbour.”
    “So how does that matter?”
    “It matters because, years later, I married his sister.”
    “But does she know that you were the one who pushed her brother?”
    “A few years ago, I did tell her. She couldn’t bear the shock and passed away within weeks.”
    “And what about your children?”
    “I have two sons. Both are in Australia. They don’t know about my crime. But maybe you can tell them after I’m arrested or I’m gone.” After that, he picked up his walking stick and started walking. Perhaps, he was heading home.
    After the unwelcome conversation, a couple of days passed, but I did not see Robert. One day, when I reached the tea stall. I was informed by the stall owner that Robert had committed suicide. I was shocked to hear the news. Perhaps, he was preparing for it, mentally, when he told me about his act of crime. I morosely attended his funeral, where I even got to meet his two sons, Richard and Simon, but I did not mention anything.
    After that, I continued with my morning walk, as usual. One day, when I arrived at the tea stall, the owner gave me a sealed envelope that Robert had left for me. I opened it. There was another sealed cover within, bearing the name and address of Richard in Australia, with a request to send it to him through a reliable courier, which I did.
    Robert, after losing his wife, couldn’t have taken a chance with his sons– he didn’t want them to commit suicide. But he wanted to confess his crime to his children, which he did after he was gone.
    Most certainly, your pricking conscience is the most relentless jury in you.

---

Written and posted by Kamlesh Tripathi

Author, Poet, & Columnist

*

https://kamleshsujata.wordpress.com

*

Like it and Share it

*

Shravan Charity Mission is an NGO that works for poor children suffering from life-threatening diseases, especially cancer. Our posts are meant for our readers, including children and adults, and have a huge variety of content. We also accept donations for our mission. Should you wish to donate to the cause of cancer? The bank details are given below:

NAME OF ACCOUNT: SHRAVAN CHARITY MISSION

Account no: 680510110004635 (BANK OF INDIA)

IFSC code: BKID0006805

***