Sonal Singh On Sonal's Table

In the early evening, we were still a distance from the Indian border when I felt the train jolt and grind to a halt. Cries of ‘Pakistan Zindabad’ rent the air and our bogie, second from the engine, was beset by a mob of men wielding knives, swords, and sickles. Cringing at the maniacal hatred I saw in their eyes, I looked at Biji. Her face had grown ashen. I saw a silent look pass between her and Bauji. Then she turned to me, kissed my forehead and indicated at the sachet. I consumed it immediately.

PC Buckroo took his duties very seriously. On most days he could be spotted waddling through the hilly streets wheezing like a freight train coming through a tunnel. Yes, his allergies were that bad. It was an idyllic life except for the village rascals. The scamps were the bane of his existence. They followed him around, marching a few discreet steps behind, huffing and chuffing and pompously imitating his gait. The scene caused the villagers much amusement.

The quiet of the morning was broken by a ‘thud’ that echoed in the tranquil valley air like a gun shot. Then all was quiet again. It was 3 am. No one heard anything. No one stirred. No one rushed to investigate. Come morning, they discovered her. She lay in a crumpled heap, blood congealed around her mangled body. There were no suspects. She had been a woman madly in love, just a tad unhinged. Her possessiveness had bordered on psychotic control or so everyone had been told. So, suicide it was then. Not a homicide.