Friday, September 26, 2008


Tilak K C

Once I fell down and cut my hand.

I went to the doctor. He went on with the normal procedure. He washed the wound and applied antiseptic on it. Then he put a big tape on top.

The doctor’s wife was in other room cooking lunch.

She went on with her daily errand. She had a pot to fill and few clothes to wash.

She reached the well.

“Do you know that guy from that big white house?” She spoke. “He has a nasty cut.”

All the woman folks were intently listening to her.

Postman’s wife came back with a bucket of water. The postman was on the bed.

“There has been an accident in the village.” She spoke, “The guy of that white house broke his hand.”

The postman was listening to her.

The postman went to distribute daily mails. He reached my neighbor’s house. Mrs. Verma was in front lawn.

“Any Letters?” She asked.

He went through the packets letters and said, “No, none, but there is a news.”

She looked up.

“The guy from that white house had a fight. He broke his hand badly.”

Mrs. Verma had finished cooking when Mr. Verma entered the house.

“The guy from that big white house had a fight. He has a big broken hand. He was rushed to the ICU of the city hospital.”

Mr. Verma went for the evening walk. He walked with my uncle.

“Your guy had a fight. His hand was shattered. He is in the critical stage in the ICU of the city hospital.” He informed him.

My uncle rushed to our home.

“Our boy is in trouble, he is breathing his last breaths.” He informed my aunt.

By the time I reached home, people were mourning. They were preparing for my funeral.