The outstretched hand of Pooja

The outstretched hand of Pooja

The old bus line leaving his penultimate passenger in  a dusty road in the suburb of Punjab . It is near midnight and having the last two passengers sitting on opposite sides of the old bus .  Swinging gently the hair of the girl of wavy hair wearing long red sari holding a golden purse . Sitting two seats behind the driver , dozing now and again and the rest of the time watching the rain beating on the closed window panes of the bus. The man on the bench opposite of her in  the bus wearing a black overcoat , carrying a cane black with silver tip and appeared to have early thirties . For much of the journey the man watched the girl without her noticing . His eyes watching a pocket watch , which removed of your pocket at times. the road was becoming ever darker  and the bus veered  itself from mud puddles , toward its end point.
The man watches the clock one last time , walking toward the young girl seated on his right and asking for your license , sits beside her .
She smiles and gives him the place .
So begins a strange dialogue .
– Good night , Pooja Kapoor . Says the man in black coat .
The young girl is scared , looking for the man who smiles at her without recognizing him .
– Sorry , we know you from somewhere?
– I would say that we are near … a few times. In the day you were born, too twice when you were a child and only once in his teens . But I do not believe you remember me .
– No, really ! you are known to my family?
– Oh ! Yeah Well next . I met his grandparents of his mother’s . I had a meeting with them . I also met her great-grandparents . And I was with those who came before them … the list is very long .
– You do not seem to be as old as well ! How old do you have?
– You would not believe if I told . But leaving aside the formalities . Which brings me here , after so many years is to give you a sad news . It is my sad task . Tonight , Pooja Kapoor , is the night you will die .
The young girl looks frightened for the man who talks to her looking for some expression of irony or sarcasm in his voice , but what you observe is a tone of deep conviction .
– How so ! This bus will be attacked by some group ? Why are you saying such things ?
– Part of my mission . It’s what I do , when I am sent something like this to happen.
– It can not be ! Nobody in my family dreamed anything! Who are you , how can you say something like that? You ‘re a wizard , one Butha ( ancient hindu ghost ) ?
– No. None of those things . And your time is coming . The final hour of all beings coming at some point . Say goodbye to this world , Pooja .
The young girl trembling and frightened puts his hands on his face . However , suddenly stop shaking . Gently lower your arms looking firmly to the emissary .
– Not my arrival time in the final point.
– Never been wrong before , dear girl . Actually I’m not a messenger . I’m a executioner . My presence is not a warning . I am death .
– I know who you are. But I repeat, do not is my final hour. At this moment the voice of the young becomes firmer. His voice sounds more powerful. The spirit of death fixed her eyes and realizes that the girl is not bluffing. She believes in what says. But all this is only a human condition. Before her death, hope itself staggers. It was ever thus.
Death extends his hand to his cane that this moment is no longer a cane. Its shape is getting more and more terrifying. Then he extends his arms toward the young. But before you touch her, the “death” hesitates.
The young girl rose from the bench and smiled at the strange being. Strangely smiles. And leaving her golden purse beside , extends his right hand, saying defiantly:
– Touch me but know that is not my time yet. You did not was sent to me. In fact, I was sent to you.
The girl looked on him: – No. In truth I was sent to you.
The power to destroy men notes the little hand extended toward him. Look at the human form in front of him and scours the regions of time and space dimensions.
And all you see is only a girl, of human origin, extending his small hand.
Nothing but weakness before unknown powers.
– You’re just a girl. I see your present, as was the day you were born. Or the day your parents were born. When your ancestors migrated thousands of years even in ancient kingdoms of the Valley of the Indus. When I touch you will meet your ancestors.
– No. When you to touch me, you cease to exist.
– You do not understand. I am part of the universe. While the universe exist, I exist. Nothing can stop my course and not my purpose. If I touch is that you cease to exist. And I go my way. My gloomy way. My sad way. It was ever thus. And it will.
A young man faces the death boldly and warns:
– If you touch me, you’ll end up.

Death looks around him, the same bus, the old road and incessant rain that falls on the strip of land between the cities of Amritsar and Jalandhar. And he looks at the girl’s hand extended toward him.
He lift up his eyes to the top and over your head in direction of  the constellation of Orion. Casts his eyes over the abyss and sees the regions of death. So once again takes his watch and sees the time marked on it.
Raises his gun, but before his eyes fixed beyond the human frailty of young Bengali girl with one hand raised toward alarmingly.
The bracelets on her arms swaying with each movement of the old bus.
And the Death looked inside your heart.

Is about a half past midnight and the bus arrives at your stop and Priya Anjali, your sisters are waiting with her mother and her father the arrival of the older sister on the outskirts of Amritsar, fitted with large umbrellas, without hiding his tremendous anxiety.

Pooja seems to be sleeping on the second seat behind the driver. The screaming starts when the bus stop and the girl slowly opens his arms, stretching and then wakes up jumping with joy to see his sister and relatives.
Then runs down the bus to hug them …

Across the street a sinister figure watches the scene. Its is showing an impressive indignation. Being faceless and nameless to the family observes attentively. Still shakes uncontrollably. Your hand can not lift up the old scythe.
For a moment she imagines what would have happened if she had to touch the hand of Pooja.
And in the midst of unimaginable terror disappears into the darkness …
The driver who had seen nothing happen, ignoring everything that happened up there, smiling slightly. He holding the steering wheel with both hands, which have strange marks on his wrists. Pisa strongly on the accelerator with his sandal allows to see in your foot an old scar drilling.
Looking for relatives tenderly embraced, sends a kiss to Pooja, who moved as if by an invisible hand, looks back in time to see the long-haired driver and his strange uniform, while the old bus disappears in the rain Torrential …
Pooja then gathers his little hands and whispers in the form of prayer:
– Namaste!
By far the driver´s smile.
A wide, grand and spectacular smile.

Deixe uma resposta

Preencha os seus dados abaixo ou clique em um ícone para log in:

Logotipo do WordPress.com

Você está comentando utilizando sua conta WordPress.com. Sair / Alterar )

Imagem do Twitter

Você está comentando utilizando sua conta Twitter. Sair / Alterar )

Foto do Facebook

Você está comentando utilizando sua conta Facebook. Sair / Alterar )

Foto do Google+

Você está comentando utilizando sua conta Google+. Sair / Alterar )

Conectando a %s


%d blogueiros gostam disto: