1 Noise

A WOMAN AT THE roadside covers the eyes of her child. Do not look, she says, warning her child not to go near "that". That is a man lying in the pool of his blood. The dark red liquid glistened in the moonlight, looking stunningly beautiful as if even the world was being sarcastic at the man's fate.

The body was strangled at an unnatural angle, looking as if it got hit by a truck. As was the case, a truck driver had hit a passerby on the roadside. The driver was drunk, said the police.

Forgive me, pleads the driver as the police take him away. Comes the Ambulance, with sirens wailing as if the crying of a child.

Step back, says the medical attendant. Clear the space. Funny. What is he even doing there? Is he trying to bring back a dead man? Does he not see how much the body had already bled? Does he not see the broken and mangled condition of the body? Does he not see that the man is no longer breathing? He does.

Then why? Why does he make all the noise? It is clear-what the man needs not a hospital bed but a final rest, the last sleep.

Then why does he make all the noise? Can anybody tell me?

Hope. What he sees is hope. What he sees is not a stranger. He sees a brother he had lost, a person to protect with his own life. But sadly, that does not change anything. Clear as the moonlight was, the man was going to die.

Enveloped in the cold and gentle moonlight, Sagara was going to die. Lonely. On an asphalt road surrounded by strangers watching him take his last breath and making NOISE.

Ready he was to die to give Death a sweet kiss and to bid his life a fond farewell.

Peace was all he felt. His mind was finally a lot lighter. There was no noise in his final moments. For that, he was grateful.

Farewell, or so he thought.