Humble salute ! by Minu Jasdanwala

 Humble salute ! 

I encountered two school uniformed and boys

on their squeaking bicycles,

perhaps with unoiled chains.

One was small on a rather smaller bicycle.

The other, I hardly noticed.

He passed through me like a current of young age.

The small one saluted to an Army jawan 

weilding a functioning gun,

unlike the weapon of a local police.

The man in camouflage was deployed

 at the end of the street for the election duty.

The child’s salute was returned with a rugged smile.

How come I did not do? 

Perhaps the absence of childlike delight 

prevented a humble salute !  

The fall of a phone by Minu Jasdanwala

There was a man and a lady.

The lady knew Science and the man knew the words.

Long age distance lay between them like man 

on the earth and the cuckoo bird 

on the Asopalava tree top. 

One day the man called me with broken voice 

from his broken phone. 

‘Sir’, said he. ‘My lady fell my phone.’

‘Young man’, said I. 

‘Worry not. When glory, men and nations have 

brutally fallen by the tender charms,

when you have fallen in and for her,

why pity the fall of the phone ?’

Its dents are lesser than yours.

He hung up on me

and it was never known if he

then smiled or wept.

The sad song of a Teacher by Minu Jasdanwala

 The sad song of a Teacher.

Not long before in your non-existence,

O Corona !

I went to teach the beauty of words

through most of the day

but now I don’t.

Not long ago,

I cycled around,

I ate cheap food 

what I wished

or sat under that old neem tree

where Mansukhlal mended the boots.

But now I don’t.

Not much a time has passed

when I stood at the local Chaiwalah

with a friend or a student 

over a certain thing.

But now I don’t.

My road side barber, Sandip:

a very domestic man 

kept my hair in shape.

Where are you my friend?

Dear Manmoji, 

My bike tires are flat

without you.

Are you blown 

in the winds of change?

Where are those faces 

which are now under 

the screen of my phone?

Where are those voices:

the real ones,

I heard in real times? 

Where are those smiles 

or is it lame to believe

that they once were?

Now my desperate feet

wish to slide in the leather boots again

to walk on the dusty classroom floor.

My hands want to wave and welcome

with their unique language:

that language : unknown to the lips and tongue.

My searching eyes with circles dark

desire to meet

the beauty and gutter of the town. 

My ears once again want to hear 

the sad and the splendid tales 

of those dear to me.

My nose longs to smell

the chalk, the ink

and the aspirations of the youth. 

My heart is like a rubber tire by Minu Jasdanwala

 My heart is like a rubber tire.

                -Minu Jasdanwala 

My heart is like a rubber tire

on the unfriendly road of life.

It earns holes and bruises,

scratches and dents along the way.

I fix one hole 

with the sticker of consolation,

another is ready to grow bigger.

The process of breaking down 

and fixing up is infinite.

But, I have come to be 

a technician philosopher. 

I cannot prevent the damage 

but I can manage it. 

Can you ? By Minu Jasdanwala

                                                     

Can you call down a water drop from the sky?

Can you dab a leaf with your breath only thirteen feet away ?

Or open the eye and fill the room with the light one foot around?

Or even alter sightly the mind of a man who has the same flesh and blood?

Would your still pride for yourself ?

Rainy world by -Minu Jasdanwala

 Rainy world.

-Minu Jasdanwala 

My patch of land does not have

tall oaks or yew trees around me.

It has a little swing for two

and a blank wall like slate across it. 

I have tall Mast trees

on which I conduct 

gentle nail scratching like squirrels :

a failed attempt to enter the tree bark.  

There is no battle of music 

between rain beats on the roof

and a cow bell jingling in the breeze.

Beautifully they compliment. 

My swing is controlled 

up and down I go.

Up and down again. 

I have mastered this meditation. 

The rain and tea excite my godown of memories,

the pen inks them

and the obedient blank paper

welcomes everything.

I have swing,

I have music.

I have memories,

I have words.

I have imagination, 

I have rain.

I am not generous 

to give away any. 

Lines composed in a confused state.

Lines composed in a confused state.

By - Minu Jasdanwala

The heavy load is in my head

undesirous to leave.

My eyes wish to remain closed,

fearing to open, to find more numerous 

ghastly apparitions of the night.

Many exciting things happen.

They wish to remain in my head.

They snatch the making of word pictures 

but I will - I am a poet.

I can anyhow document anything

but here I fail to communicate-

My fight with night.

This is my testing time,

my little head spins 360*

like an uncontrolled satellite in space. 

I question it and then 

leave it on the experts for care.

Nights are mostly dangerously beautiful

for the weaklings like me. 

Last night I got up

with a handkerchief tightly coiled 

around my splitting head.

The scene was like the 1960s Hippy movement

or similar to Axl Rose.

I once desired inevitably to bang my hand on the wall

but now I am a coward for such exercise. 

Pain persuades to execute without much thought.

I went to sleep again.

I saw known-unknown occurrences conjure up:

The sword slicing the thoughts

leaving its edgy sharpness,

the blood splashing up

blotting the side walls and so on…

The day’s conflicts leave me alone 

with darkness and its allies. 

(The poem was composed in 2017)

Inquiry by Minu Jasdanwala

Inquiry 

I went to my cheeks and asked,

‘Do tears roll down or slide?’

They replied, ‘it doesn't matter.

They leave from your eyes.’

I went to my eyes and repeated.

They said, ’it doesn't matter.

They leave from your heart.’

I went to my heart and repeated.

It said, ‘There is turn for every one.

Today it is your tears, then the skin and then you.’

I left my inquiry. 

Wisdom by Minu Jasdanwala

The wisdom is -
The borrowed blood must go in through the vein
and the apple juice through the throat.

Switching paths for easy end
is no advice to lend.

Let action be propitious
and time proof
not savage and fantastical,
like a Banana Republic. 

Prem Mandir and other episodes

Prem Mandir and other episodes

                                                                Preface

There are few places which are very close to my heart since childhood. One such is Prem Mandir which was located on Kasturba road, Rajkot. I could manage to fill few pages from my memories about Prem Mandir but the material was not sufficient that a full length book could be produced. Other narrations from my adult life are also added and few others from childhood surrounding Prem Mandir;  all of  which bear markable importance in my life. A full length book on that subject (Prem Mandir) may have been surely advisable but I found myself incapable to do it as a writer. So to console myself, I used Prem Mandir as the title of my book with other episodes.


Lastly when the book was on the verge of completion, other aspiring poets expressed their desire to join me in contributing their poems in Prem Mandir and the book like Prem Mandir (Love Temple) became all inviting to them. Along with their poems, I thought to add my poetry and short stories (many inspired from my dreams) too as the space in the book permitted me to do so. The book would be a little springboard to them for their literary pursuits and for me to continue writing. 

Gandhi is gone

Gandhi is gone


The human wind blew it all.
The wax is melted,
The flame is gone.

The candle fell,
And the difference remained,
Before God, it was Godse.

Minu Jasdanwala

The Fruit by Minu Jasdanwala

The Fruit 

  

I can see the tree

in front of me. 

There are many wise ripe fruit

branches drooping down. 

I can very easily pluck 

but I don’t wish to-

No I don’t have to-

No I am not allowed to.

Remember young Adam who did it only once?

He lost but I won’t

and what more can I?

Why not I plan something else?

Why can’t 

I plant

a tree of the same fruit ?

And then when it is young old like me,

it will bear fruits that I fear to pluck now!

To those after me,

I want them 

to pluck

or target it with a stone

or climb to it

or shake it 

till they get it

what I couldn’t -

The Fruit. 

                                                                 Minu Jasdanwala       

(26/11/18)

Mansukhlal, my shoemaker by Minu Jasdanwala

Mansukhlal, my shoemaker. 

 

Minu Jasdanwala 

                (6/8/17)

There is a beautiful leafy Neem tree on the airport road which is adjacent to the street where I live in Rajkot. The road is busy for the whole day. It remains mostly clean because it leads to the main entry gate to the Rajkot Airpot. The reason is when the high profile politicians land on the airport and enter the main city passing through that road. To please them, the local corporation cleans it very often. There is that tree stands observing the local city traffic, political impostors and other airport travellers, day in and day out. Under the Neem tree, the spot is occupied by the shoemaker named Mansukhlal. Mansukhlal is a senior citizen with one and a half leg and with little deafness. He has made a little mound under that tree. It looks like a step with a flat broad top, like an old guru at meditation sitting a couple of feet above the ground level. In the morning when I pass across his enterprise, I see him watering his land. Resultantly with that practice, that spot looks an agreeable place for his business. The place looks neat and no dust rises from it. To protect from the sun, there are dense branches over Mansukhlal. In addition, he comes early and retires early at his decided office hours. He possesses an anvil, coils of many threads, few long needles, cheap polish wax and liquid colours, hammers, few pairs of unwanted footwear, 2/3 broken tumblers used by someone in their toilets (perhaps), patches of leather and other necessary apparatus necessary to conduct operation on broken chappals and shoes of people like me. 

Today I had some time before lunch, so I decided to visit the old man. I do not change my things often. I have a pair of leather boots which are now almost 9 years old. My father gifted them a few days ago before I took teaching as my profession. My right boot sole was off but I did not wish to get rid off my boots. I approached Mansukhlal to mend them. He was occupied with the pair but as soon as he found profit from my pair, he pushed aside his stitching and got his hands on my feet pride. 

‘How much would you charge?’, I asked.

‘Not much’, he replied and added examining my broken glory, ‘It will cost not much. Give me Rs 20.’

I gladly asserted and parked my bicycle beside his spot. On my left at a distance, there was a traffic waiting for the train to get past across the railway crossing. Mansukhlala began mending. Near him was a heap of fine sand ready to be mixed with cement. There was a construction site of a tall skyscraper. I placed my cotton bag in which I transported my boots for Mansukhlal’s fingers on the heap of sand and sat on it. I am always careful about my jeans. I prevent my fabric from being stained and dirty.

‘Are you in army?’, asked Mansukhlal for the first time in so many years. 

We never had chance to communicate since I have known him. 

‘No, I do not work in force’, I replied.

‘What do you do for living,?’

‘Well nothing much. I teach in college and also give few private tuitions.’

‘That is good,’ he said, passing his sharp needle and thread through my right boot sole and taking them out from the leather above. 

Lately, I have begun to take interest in such earthy people. I told him that since he resides very near his business point so he must be walking all the way everyday. I know the fact because when I visit mechanic Salim to repair my vehicle, I had chanced to see Mansukhlal walking like a duck and smiling at me with a walking stick in his hand. Later I found that they are neighbours. 

‘No I do not walk. I come by auto rickshaw and return by auto too.’

‘So your kid does not drive you here.’

‘He can, but I let him sleep when I come. He works under mechanic Salim, your friend.’

‘Yes, yes.’ I said.

My boot was now taking fine shape. I felt for the old man. To give him more confidence in his shoe mending profession, I also asked him to polish my old pair. That added smile on his already sweet face.

‘How much does the rickshaw ride charge?’, I asked inquisitively.

‘Rs 10 per ride. Rs 20 for 2 ways,’ he returned feeling good that he uses a three wheeler for transporting.

‘And how much do you earn daily?’, I continued my inquiry.

‘Easily around Rs 100 to Rs 140,’ he joyfully said. 

I could read the happiness on his face on earning whatever little amount he gathers daily. His eyes revealed many things. My boots were almost polished. His wrinkled hand had still great grip on the brush he was gliding to restore the shine on the leather. Because I was on the bicycle, he thought that it must be very difficult for me to procure a new pair of shoes. 

‘Here your boots are ready. Take proper care. They may survive for at least 2 more years.’

I smiled at the instance and left Mansukhlal to resume his footwear surgery feeling happy to have given a little employment and holding back the desire to buy new pair of shoes for myself.  

The Pit by Minu Jasdanwala

The Pit. 

Minu Jasdanwala.

It was raining heavy. Nothing could be heard except the rain falling hard on the road. The raindrops left no single inch of anything dry and untouched. There was also great noise of thundering. The noises were loud and then, the next moment, they seemed remote and distant. In one of the crossroads of my city, a multitude had circled a scene which was very unusual. There were 2 men, extracting water from a dent which might have been created by the strong currents of the rain water sweeping the roads of the city. They had 2 steel bowls, one with each of them. Every time they scooped the water, more amount of water flooded in the pit. Their struggle seemed endless and eternal, something like The Myth of Sisyphus. Besides these 2 men, stood a Jeep with a red flickering light on its roof. It kept on blinking on and off very devotedly and very much indifferent to the mighty rain. The man sitting inside it surveyed the extraction and seemed unhappy by the result. From the same car, another man appeared unlocking his umbrella. He came out and started walking towards the crowd. He had searching eyes but a well built body. He carried a natural air of arrogance at every step. It seemed that he was on his duty in his military uniform. I might have looked quite small and physically very insignificant in front of him. He came to me and tapped my left shoulder twice and pointed towards the Jeep. I did not know if I was handpicked or picked randomly. He did not offer to come under his umbrella. I was led near the Jeep where 2 men were  conducting the extraction. I was utterly drenched. I was shivering and also afraid of my fate.

‘Get your shirt collar down, the Boss does not like that way. Join the men.’, ordered the man under the umbrella. 

I did what I was told. I was handed the utensil by one man who was ordered to clear the pit. I started fetching the water out. The words, ‘Get your shirt collar down, the Boss does not like that way. Join the men.’ rang in my head. I felt very uncomfortable with that echo of those words more than the heavy downpour. 

I sprang up and voiced, ‘I suppose your Boss would also does not like my rolled up track pants too.’

None may have invited more danger than I. 

‘Who are you?’, interrogated the Boss sharply with a heavy voice from the window of the Jeep which stood unmoved beside the scene.

I gathered more courage to speak. I did not know from where did I get the inspiration to speak plainly. 

‘I mould lives, I teach,’ I bravely retorted. 

The Boss from the window showed significant interest in me. I turned my face towards him. There was a face-off between intellect and authority. 

‘Why?’

‘Because this is what I am supposed to be doing.’ 

‘And do you know Mr Teacher, what am I suppose to be doing?’

My feet were deeply planted on the washed out and excruciated road. The water kept flooding in the pit whereas the man continued his futile exercise with the utensil.

'Well, I suppose you must stop doing everything what you have been doing,’ returned I with a great mocking tone which was dormant.  With these words, I began to sense my fate. I knew what consequence my openly spoken words could have. But someone had to do it. The Boss was very exasperated hearing my knifelike words. He was perhaps less competent verbally. He was largely known as man of hasty actions. He took out the pistol which hung on his waist belt and pointed at me. It was raining. Hardly anyone could have spotted the sweat drops on my brow. Only I know how it felt. The Boss pulled the moments awaited trigger. The fired bullet made its way through the heavy falling rain and settled on my chest and then came another and then one more. The immense pain involuntarily pushed me a few paces behind, exactly where the water was being extracted. That place has been my new home now. The pit. 

'Snowy and the 2 souls' is finally out for sale

'Snowy and the 2 souls'

Minu Jasdanwala



Dear Dog lovers.



I had been writing this reflective book for quite a time now. I am thankful that it is in print finally. More importantly, it is a great feeling for a little writer like me who has a few dedicated people around who were waiting for long for this book. I feel that the book would make the effect in which it is intended. Have a pleasant journey of mixed feelings as you sail through this simple book written by a simple man.

Transition by Minu Jasdanwala

Transition

Minu Jasdanwala




This is a transition,
something between wakeful and wakeless.

I can hear the tap water drops dance
on the plastic bucket floor.
Drop...drop... drop...
incessantly.

The family is talking
but I cannot understand,
despite their language
is my very own.

I can also feel the dull fan above
and the soft hot bed below.
Also, the buzzing aspiring mosquito.

I perceive things; though vaguely
on this side of transition.
I am also certain to see
the images-in- waiting
on the other side of it.

My eye lashes are slowly slowly settling
on dark sunken eye pools of mine-
as some descriptive poet would say.

I see everything with fine detail
simply with shut down eyes.
Miracle, isn't it!

There is a world below my
played out eyes.
I get afraid of heights, water,
swings, shame, rebuke and remarks.

I see a frail and a skinny boy,
he is me from the past,
unhurried and indifferent.
I see I am late for the test,
aslo unprepared.

Then as I grow old,
I am a depressed hopeless young man.

Crowded dreams are beautifully dangerous.
My own sense feels the touch on my head
and scratch on the pillow.
I step the line,
everything blows out.

Those Moments when by Minu Jasdanwala

Those Moments

That moment when you are afraid
of a sleeping dog you pass by,
but, but -
it tries to pounce at your thin calf,
it does, but
regrets the efforts of only achieving
the poet's calf.

That moment when you have
run and run,
tired and drained
for 20.3 kms,
but you find those last 700 meters
longer than what you have run.

That moment when your ever
obedient motorcycle
gives abnormal jerks,
seeking for long breaths
like a dying man,
struck between life and death,
hoping to reach the gas station.
You pray in the sun
like you have never prayed before.
The sweat drop stands handsome
on your nose,
purposely standing a moment,
reminding what sins you had
in your past and then
slides away gently.

That thrilling moment in a dream
when Poetry comes to you
like a guest awaited for long
but lastly cancels the visit.

That moment when you are
sad in your room on a fine
Sunday evening,
and the one you longed for
never turns up,
but
also robs the sister arts
of hoping and writing.


Typed by:
Krutika Popat

Frozen time by Minu Jasdanwala

Frozen time

With cold,
I want this frozen
time to melt.
Dear Clock, move on...

The night is pernicious
for lone creatures like me.
I am sinking in darkness and in time,
I am heavy on me; burdened, rock hard.
I am losing grip and hold.

Time is slowing down.
And down and deep I go ...
The space is still.
Nothing moves nothing.
Now I am lifted, not uplifted,
And in a few moments,
I will be released.

Then I will float, slowly
Like a feather consuming time,
and comes the sun,
May be, may be with it some change.

Minu Jasdanwala

That mysterious night by Minu Jasdanwala

                                                     That mysterious Night 
                                                                                       

                                                                                                                 Minu Jasdanwala 

I felt a great burden on my chest. My heart is already weak by birth, as the doctors had diagnosed back in 1986 . But it shows symptoms that it gets weaker at such instances. The magnificent sky with glimmering stars dotted all over was charging towards me. It was coated of black and white patterns. I felt I would be buried under it or would be lost or absorbed in its hugeness. But like a little creature afraid from the bigger one fighting the emerging inimitable crisis, I too hid behind the wall of a country house. Still the sky was advancing further or I thought so, there was no noise. The place was quiet as much as it could be. Nothing moved but the aerial geography. I had my left ear affixed to the wall. I got my ears off. I heard the footsteps falling hard and in quick repetition from a distance. I knew they were footsteps of more than one human and not of a running cattle. They were lighter than a fore-footed creature. There was also some exchange of words less understood at first, but in few moments our distance shortened. The footfalls became vibrant and pronounced, the talk comprehensible. The stillness of the night was breaking slowly. I turned around and saw two pairs of feet in the shadow seen through blurriness. Their faces were still in the dark. Their pace began to be slow purposely. They spoke my language. I deciphered that they were in search of someone. There was a wall that separated us. If I stayed low or sat down or squat I could restrain them seeing me. The wall was very small but a separating construction was for sure between them and me. I took a step back. My back touched that wall. It was ingrained with little stones on brownish texture. I pressed myself hard,and started lowering towards the earth. In the rush, I scratched my back against the stony wall. In the fear I did not realize I was pushing against the wall so hard. I maintained to keep me away from their side. They were now at the wall. One seemed monetarily superior to the other. His face was clean and shaved, shining beautifully in the moonbeam . He had put on a black coat under a white shirt. He was panting. It seemed, he was not well versed with the art of running. He knelt and again brought himself up. He repeated it several times. He then put his hands on his chest and looked at the sky. Meanwhile I had forgotten sky and its danger. The other fellow seemed stronger and had a bottle and a suitcase in his hand. He offered water to the one in black suit. It seemed he was used to running. He was not fighting for breath. Running has not invited any exertion attributes on his face. His outfits were simple, a sweaty t-shirt. He was carrying an attache in his other hand. The man in suit hastily drank the water and returned the bottle to his sidekick. His eyes were searching, though there was nothing to see in the moonbeam. It was mostly trees and then a dusty road across me which led in the dense forest. I did not know what was behind me until a blonk of a horn and then the another. The horn broke the silence and I was afraid to see who it was . I moved few steps to my left and a couple more. I got my hand out of the edge of the wall to see a big long car of which the door opened hurriedly and a teenage ran past me lightning fast and headed through the clearing towards the dense forest. To catch him, a man in a sweaty t-shirt flung his bottle and a bag over the wall behind the boy. Behind him, the man in black suit. He could not jump the wall so elegantly like his man. He stumbled and fell. The teen's strides were short. He manged to enter the dark forest. The chase was on. I heard a loud sneeze and then something falling hard on dry leaves. And then a loud cry. Few birds were disturbed by the scene and the chaos. They shrieked and some flew away. I ran to see what became of the chase. The sweaty man had collared the teen when he emerged in the clearing. I was right across them standing aghast. My eyes went straight into the eyes of that man. It was the moon shadow that hit its target. In the clearing it was brighter. I felt dry mouth and sweaty palms and great stroke of numbness penetrated all over me. I saw the bleeding scalp of the teen. He could not speak. There was a champion's smile on the man's face. Suddenly someone held my neck tight. The pain almost stifled my breath. I turned around and what I saw was the man in black suit. 


I was blindfolded. I perceived nothing. My hands were tied behind me. Someone recklessly opened the blind fold but my hands remained behind. I opened my eyes slowly. I was seated on a bench and on my left that boy in the similar fashion as mine, blindfolded. Beneath it, he was bandaged and from a couple of places blood tickled down, his cheeks were frozen. The room was dark except a low lit yellow lamp that suspended from the top. It hung between us and the man in Khaki sitting across. He had a thick moustache, heavy red eyes, stubble and a scar on his left cheek. He wore a cap with some logo. I could not identify what it was for two reasons; it was not that bright enough to see things in details and I was not able to focus as I had completely ran out of my energy. The officer started interrogating me. I humbly replied that I have absolutely no idea why I was there and that I was just the spectator as anyone could have been had anyone seen the chase. Although I was at no fault, I felt something strange going on within me. I have never been at such testing moments. Someone punched me hard on the head from behind. I could not take the punch. My head slammed on the table with a great noise. I exuded a loud cry of pain. When I lifted my head, I saw dust particles rising from the wooden table and getting lost in the darkness above when they got past the dim lamp. 'I really have no idea', I repeated myself lower in voice this time. The officer's eyes transfixed with mine. They pierced through me, I felt. There was visible darkness everywhere, so I had no option but to look at him. I was afraid. He ordered his subordinate to unlock the blindfold of the teen. He looked at the officer and then at me. He too was surprised to see who I was ! He seemed brave and wore some great pride in his capture. He looked rebellious. The way he kept his chin high and crossed explained it. Before the interrogation began, I was showed to sit in a dark corner of the same room. The teen was very reticent . One would easily discern anger welling inside him when made to talk. He scoffed with great indifference which added annoyance in the man in Khaki. The teen's eyes were sharp and unyielding, whereas I was shrunk in a corner seeing him. The man in dominance thought that the teen knew no language so he stood up and took off his leather belt with a hope of cognitive factor. He held it with steel buckle, shining under the lamp and now nested in his palm. He took steps and went behind the teen. Till his shoulders the teen's eyes followed him and then retained the fixation on the empty chair now. The teen knew his fate, I knew his fate too, also I knew mine. Two guards came to remove the sweaty shirt of the boy as if this was regular with them. The teen succumbed to it. There was no holding, there was no surrender. There was only indifference which increased from time to time. I was very afraid of everything. The man in Khaki with all his might took a long swing and hit the belt on the naked back of a teen. I felt the hissing through the air when the heavy leather belt travelled. My eyes were closed, I kept on counting the belt falls on the back. I could see it coming on me. I was unsure if it was real or a dream of mine. I was afraid to open my eyes. The noise was enough to build necessary fear in me. The slashing stopped. If I was not wrong in my calculation, the teen suffered thirteen hits, all more dangerous from the previous one. The man in power came to me and kicked on my buttocks. I felt his boot's toe. The kick was enough to get my eyes open and to unlock my arms which were spun around my feet. My head was concealed inside my knees and hands. The man, our accuser came and took me out of the remand room. He led me out of the door. I did not oppose. I had no capacity to do it. The teen could not see me. He was not interested. He was agonised but he was mute. I heard the sound of an electric thing being started. The similar sound I had heard before when the tree choppers came to my home to chop off the dead tree. "Chop of his right wrist, show no mercy officer", shouted the man in black suit. "I won't", replied the officer. His voice finding hard to reach us through the noise of something which he was holding. I was led to somewhere, where, I don't know and also I did not intend to ask. Fear can suppress the urge of asking questions. There came a window where we passed. On my left there was the most dangerous scene I had ever seen in my life. It  was a brutal 'wrist chop down'. We stood aghast! There was absolute calm on the teen's face. The blades ran through his wrist half way, I suppose. "Wait" cried the man beside me and urged the heartless officer to cease the torture operation. "Let the boy have that hand to do something when he grows up", he added. He then turned at me and looked into my eyes. His eyes, I could not bear. He kept both his hands on my shoulders and turned me the other way round. I felt a heavy kick on my buttocks again. It was wilder this time. It made me to gain a few meters until I was struck violently on the pillar and after that-all was dark. 

Typed by: 

Krutika Popat