Fear throbbed through me when I saw him arrive.
He was a young man with a stubble, his eyes gazing into a void. He had his hands clasped together – occasionally searching the pockets of his roughly knitted jacket.
Distant and detached, his unmindful deportment conflicted with those that were around him. He wiped the sweat on his temple and looked around. He saw fewer people in his midst.
Lumbering across, he chose a secluded corner, rested his head on a pole and crossed his legs. He was not in a hurry — or so it seemed.
I felt myself grow anxious. Already edgy about my present surroundings, I was also well aware of the recent incidents that had occurred in the proximity, on the fringes and far away. Those were not at all good events.
I couldn't take my eyes of off him. He now had his right arm around a pillar and was visibly restless.
There was something lethal in his eyes, a very dangerous kind of loyalty.
Yet, I could not do anything. I was helpless.
Then, I saw a strange glow on his flat face. His twin brows intertwined further and his lips pouted – a sudden intensity flashed in his otherwise blank eyes.
People devotedly surrounded the grave of the saint. Here only to realise all those countless unfulfilled dreams.
They were all victims of their fates. They kissed the walls. Their eyes welled up, their throats choked and their hands folded in subjugation.
Some of them read the holy book. Others shifted the beads of their rosaries between trembling faithful fingers. Their mouths were partly open breathing with a distinct divine hush.
There was a group of women, some with children sleeping on their chests, others holding the hands of their elderly.
I abruptly stumbled as I physically felt my heart sinking in my chest. A strange sensation, I realised I had never experienced the intensity of this before.
I stole another glance at the young man. He had appeared to get past his previous laxity and was up on his feet again. His eyes still shining with a mix of doubt and delight.
For a second, he crumbled. Rubbing his shaking hands, he slumped his body against the pillar again. His gaze now fixed on the infants glued to their mothers. He looked around again.
The space was almost full – echoing with whispers, quiet recitals and the occasional cry of a baby. He cast a long glance at a fidgety child pulling his mother’s kameez to express his suffocation as more people piled into the room.
He paused as if waiting for the child to leave.
The woman snubbed the child, pulling him closer to the grave for blessings.
At that instant, anger engulfed his eyes. He was not happy to see the child stay. But he had seemingly little time left. So, he hurried.
He staggered away from the pillar – still sweating.
I saw his hands reach inside his jacket.
I don’t know if the same happens to everyone who is confronted with such a situation but I could foretell what was in store for me.
I was horrified of explosions. I decided to implode. “It is time,” I told myself. Taking a deep breath, I held it.
When I exhaled, the screams started.
“Look!” someone cried. “The shrine has collapsed…”
I strained to listen but heard no explosion. Just a deadly silence.