The Policeman

Inspector Prakash Chandra Rao woke up to the incessant ringing of the alarm clock. With a temporary hatred for the clock, he got up from the bed and turned it off. It was 5.30. He pulled open the draperies and the curtains. The weak but pleasant light of the morning sun seeped into the bedroom through the glass panes. In that light, he made his bed and went to the bathroom for his daily chores.

  Prakash splashed cold tap-water on his face. He cupped his hand and took sips of the tap-water and gurgled loudly enough to send the murder of crows, sitting on the nearest of the trees, flying away. Then he put on his track-suit and went out for a walk.

As soon as Prakash left his house, a cool breeze hit his face and refreshed him. His lethargy and sleepiness soon went away. Prakash liked that walk. The light from the new sun and the fresh air opened up his mind fully.

No disturbance from the modern machines, freedom from all the hate and envy and a seed for the philosophical mind was what that walk offered him. His eyes fell on a high Kadamba tree. He saw the nest of a pigeon there. They were chirping. Gradually Prakash’s mind slipped off to the dominion of thoughts. On that silent road, under that drowsy sky, the mysterious processes of life were going on. The trees were breathing, the bees were pollinating, and they were carrying out a divine duty. Yet they made no noise, unlike the humans. Prakash remembered there was a mango tree behind the right sidewalk. It was uprooted a year ago in order to make space for a sign-board. How idiotic these humans are! He sighed sadly; he too was one of them.

That particular tree had produced mangoes of the best quality. Apparently, people remembered it because it gifted them those lovely fruits. And even when it was not there, people remembered it. People doing good works also become immortal by the same way. Earlier this morning, when Prakash was brushing his teeth, he asked himself a question: ‘What is the real purpose of a man’s life?’ And now he knew the answer. His purpose was to help the other people throughout his journey of life, just like the mango tree. He was just a traveller who travelled from a point to another point. After he finished his journey, no one passing the road will ever remember him. But if he leaves something on the road, something that helps other people to cross it, only then will he be remembered forever. He realised that there was no reason to get concerned so much about oneself, for the life is temporary and unpredictable. That mango tree was dead. All the energy is had soaked up during its life were returned to mother earth. But it had made a difference. That is why we all are here: for making differences. 

Prakash’s eyes looked up towards the sky. It was so blue and so infinite. From the day Prakash was born, this sky had been with him. Yet he had seldom looked towards it. Looking towards it, he felt how infinity surrounded the world, and this infinity is lying in the cupped hands of the creator. People are stupid not to notice it. Instead, people always feel suffocated in this dull man-made dominion. They are squeezed up by their own illusion of busyness.  It was both funny and frustrating for him; people getting squeezed up in the vast infinity of the universe. He remembered how the sky had cried in his mother’s funeral. It’s odd but it seemed that the sky had synchronized its mood with Prakash’s.

He took a right turn. There was a pond nearby. He went there and sat on its bank to take some rest. The pond was large and people often picnicked there. Two lads were picking up garbage and putting them into a plastic bag. They came there every day. Prakash sometimes wanted to tell them to stop cleaning the banks, for he knew that the banks will be never completely clean. Someone would definitely litter it even if it gets clean. There’s no use of cleaning it. But he knew deep inside that this cleaning was necessary. No matter how many people try to litter the whole bank of the pond, they can never litter it completely for there will be these two boys, cleaning it every day. His own job was like that. He had been fighting against crime in his country for the last twenty years. Nevertheless, the crime rates were almost same. But he still fought, for he knew that it didn’t matter if he wins or not, at least he had been keeping the criminals from winning. Good may never win, but it will never let Bad win.

- Kritaarth

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