The Riot

You sneak out with the stealth of a cat when your mother goes for a bath. She had warned you not to venture out.

“The riots have subsided, but all is not well. You may be a law student,  but that doesn’t mean the rioters won’t harm you. Stay home,” your father has specifically instructed. You nodded in acquiescence, but had decided to execute your plan as chalked out.

How could you betray your friend? She was away on a deputation, and you had promised to take her mother to the hospital for her fourth Chemotherapy session. Her father, who worked for the police department, had overtime duty during this riot.

You drive through deserted streets. You can vaguely hear the wails of people who had lost their near kith or kin in the riot. Police vans buzz past you. Everything looks fearful, and you feel you have made a mistake by venturing out at a particular time. But friendship is something you revere throughout your life.

You heave a sigh of relief as you near the porch of your friend’s house, but soon your face turns pale, spotting a huge man kicking at her door. The gun he holds catches your eyes.

You come out of your car in a fury. Something in you says that you should confront him, but the delicate female in you only makes you cringe at his ghastly sight. You run to the side of the house and peek through the window. You helplessly look on as the man approaches your friend’s mother.

“You do not deserve to live; your husband has killed many of our men in the encounter,” the man jeers, and you notice he has placed his hand on the trigger.

“Please leave me,” You hear your friend’s mother beg for mercy. “If vengeance is what you are seeking, please understand that the real culprit is not who fired the shot but who paid for the bullet. My husband was only doing his duty.”

“I don’t understand such philosophy,” he says before you hear the bang of the gun and shrieks of a dying woman.

He walks out. You are stunned to see your friend’s father waiting for him in a corner.

“I couldn’t bear to see her suffer from a terminal ailment. I found no other way but to hire your service to reveal her of her misery. Let this be between us.”

“You can trust me. You saved my family from the wrath of ruthless youths last week. I may be a contract killer, but I love my family and was obliged to do as you instructed.” The man prays for the departed soul.

You mutter, ‘It is not who fired the shot but who paid for the bullets that matter.’ You are left bemused whether to take this up as your first case or weigh the pros and cons of your friend’s father’s decision.

Sudha Viswanath