Jail: A Short Story

Where am I? Who are these people? What is happening to me? I commence to get up, but a pain strikes through the veins of my body, forcing the gravity in the air to push me down. I start to perceive faces, three of them, holding long rusty brown sticks to hit me, forcing blood circulating in my body to come out and stream down my legs. They dash in my direction me like a herd of lions. The only possible thing I can think of is to scream. I start screaming, as I think it’s a good idea to divert my attention from the pain. It doesn’t help my case, and only worsens it by making them start to hit me harder. Why was this happening?

They’re picking me up by the arms, forcefully, and shouting orders at each other. I can’t understand what any of them

That dream, seemed so realistic. Almost like a memory. Where did the guards go? Had they forsook me? Perhaps they had, leaving just a plate of a basic Indian meal sitting in front of me. I think about eating it, but as much as I want it, I want something else more. The dream must have triggered my memory, since I now remember the reason for why I was in jail. But there should have been others who were jailed alongside me. There were many of them, who fought for justice, who wanted the British to leave India peacefully, who wanted all of this as much as I did. But they refused, they wouldn’t listen to any of our reasons, they didn’t even response peacefully, they responded with force. A lot of it, bringing out their army combined with Indian and British soldiers, who gave no mercy to watch many of us innocents, die. The soldiers were told not to shoot on the leaders, the ones who started these riots. One of these leaders included

It was those letters, the ones clenched in his fists. I recall returning to the farm a short while after I had escaped from the soldiers. I had returned to search for any belongings of his for safekeeping. The only thing I found left of him, were those letters. I took them discretely, as a memory of him. I remember I had kept them in the inner pockets of my vest. But the soldiers had completely stripped me before throwing me into this cage. I recollect reading them at the farm. But I vaguely remember the context written. They were addressed to me, written by father, during his stay in jail as a young adult. He had warned me to stay away from the British; they had no mercy for anyone. He was right this whole time, and yet, I didn’t listen. He also wrote about how he escaped from jail, to be with my family for some more time. Even though he knew they would come looking for him, and would eventually find him, and take him and his family away. He didn’t to risk the lives of his family, but he couldn’t bear not being able to see them for such a long