Mahavir sat on the chair with his head sunken deep into his hands and elbows drooped on his knees. His head was heavy and so were his eyes. His head rose from his hands, he exhaled and pushing the chair back - stood up - and stretched. The walls of the room were white - as white as ivory: without stain of any kind on it. Pure white and sterile.
He looked at the window and stared in horror at the strange figure that lied before him. His face was rugged and he looked like a man in his late fifties. Two days ago, he looked like a normal 35-year-old. But the struggles he endured on the past two days had worn out his face.
He had heard that many ordinary men had killed themselves unable to maintain their sanity in this very room. But Mahavir was anything but ordinary. He was a remarkable man. A cunning, shrewd and methodical man, he was known. But he was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t remarkable enough even for the room.
Suddenly, there was a distinct hissing from the direction of the ceiling and Mahavir abruptly turned up. He clenched his fists, his eyes narrowed and he studied the ceiling carefully.
As a Dalit girl is denied a room to rent, an int’l report highl...
“Who’s that?” he demanded, his voice as if he were more confident than he actually was.
There was no one in the room. He was sure about it. The windows and doors were bolted and no one could’ve sneaked in through them. He had examined every inch of the room.
It’s all in my head, he thought. And then he slapped his wrists. “My senses are fooling me.”
Why wouldn’t they? Lack of food and sleep made people hear all sorts of voices and see visions. He suddenly heard some noise, almost as if there was a crowd in front of him disapproving his performance.
The hiss got louder and it started feeling closer. He felt a close hiss inside his brain and he began to wonder if he was going crazy.
“Maybe I missed something.”
There was a white square table behind him surrounded by 20 white chairs. He had checked them methodically earlier, finding nothing wrong with them. He had also checked every inch of the walls and had examined the ceiling. Not one iota of evidence.
But yet he could feel a cool wind leaking into the room from somewhere. The temperature was gradually getting cooler. He again wondered if it was all his imagination.
He gripped his wrist and his pulse was barely perceptible. His body was in a state of semi-consciousness. His limbs felt weary. His body felt as if it had just arisen from the deepest of slumber.
Creak. He felt the room sifting. And his heart jumped. The ground beneath him was getting wider and the whole room was vibrating as if it were hit by an earthquake. His legs were shaking uncontrollably and his pulse was racing. The table creaked, broke down, and fell into pieces onto the ground.
The ground suddenly tore open and Mahavir plunged down-half asleep. Ha.
