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Game of Death
By Churaumanie Bissundyal
I lay suspended on a sling of ropes,
hung from ceiling to ceiling,
I couldn’t sleep on the floor:
it was knee-deep with water.
It was raining, a flood was all over,
the trenches overflowed with stench,
snakes and eels in front of my door.
Roaches and rats abandoned their quarters,
migrating to creases in the ceiling.
My books and other things floated sadly before me.
My room was a cemetery of stench and putrefaction.
I was dying with chickenpox fever,
entombed in a matchbox cellar.
And as I was dying,
(body ploughed all over with sores),
I remembered Marxist prophets
as they chanted mantras for salvation,
quietly filling their purses and living in mansions high.
This was their proletariat revolution, I thought,
from each according to his work,
to each according to his needs,
(a Socialist gyaan),
for even the rats and roaches
sought higher places of habitation.
In the middle of the night when all lights were gone,
I tried to look at my hands,
an eternity of darkness filled my eyes.
Everywhere was endless death and terror.
Across the road, a woman was shrieking,
her husband had died.
In the rain and thunder, I heard a mother wailing,
her newborn had made her last cry.
I guessed that my number was near,
the Ogre of Death was standing at my door;
he stood watching me:
four days I was bereft of food,
four days besieged by fear.
I heard the frogs croaking
and thought that there was yet life in the world.
I tried to move my legs,
but they had no strength for the putrid water.
Then I closed my eyes
and started my battle from a different plain.
I began moving away from my darkness,
going back long ago where I had wept and failed,
where I must play the game again
to spurn the Ogre of Death away from my door.
I was the last batsman of my side
to face the wrath of the demon bowler.
His pace was hostile,
my team was shattered,
their faces hanging in remorse and humiliation.
The spectators were perched in the fowl-cock trees,
the crows flew high in the sky,
circling and freezing for carrion.
This was a game of death;
I was the last hope of the sad faces watching,
one bad stroke against the demon bowler
and that would be the end of the game.
In two overs we must make twenty-and-seven runs,
a tall order for a tail-ender.
My average was zero in ten games.
I was no contender for the demon pacer.
The sun was shining harsh in the sky,
sheep were grazing amidst the fielders.
The pitch was bumpy with kneaded rice-dust,
my heart was pounding with a sense of failure.
I took my guard, nervous of what I was doing,
the umpire giving directions
and then nodding in terror.
I looked at the fielders preying upon me
like hawks ready to devour;
their eyes were resolute to get me out,
impatient for their victory hour.
The demon bowler was on his mark to bowl,
the Ogre of Death was yet standing at my door.
I was sweating profusely with a dying breath:
I knew that this was my hour.
The umpire signalled and the bowler started his run,
steaming with large, rapid strides.
His face was resolute with aggression,
his tall, huge figure looming like a giant.
He reached the crease, jumped and bowled,
the ball dropped and sped
and got me clean bowled.
The Ogre of Death at my door,
his face stern with ugly laughter,
made anxious steps to where I lay.
He took his shears to cut me down
and then to drag me away.
The fielders rose with one voice in the air
and appealed like a vicious predator.
The umpire ruled not out,
the bowler had bowled a no ball.
The Ogre of Death cut the ropes and I fell in the water.
“Get up and come with me,” he ordered.
“Your mission among the living is over.”
“No,” I cried. “Go away, you wicked sucker.
Even death cannot remove me from this torture.
I must live to prove my worth and power.”
The bowler walked back to his bowling mark,
fierce with anger.
The fielders crowded around,
the bowler began the long run of his race.
He reached the crease,
jumped and bowled,
the ball was pitched short, flying to my head.
I ducked from the missile,
the ball took an edge from my bat and flew high in the air.
The man at long leg was under it;
The man at long leg was under it;
he never missed a catch, so it was said.
The spectators shook their heads with tears in their eyes.
This was the end of the game, they said.
The Ogre of Death looked at me in the water.
Fish and snakes swam around to say their good-byes.
“Get up,” he ordered again.
“I am an official who has no sentiments for the dead.
Your time is up and with me you must come.
Your purpose of the dead has now begun.”
“No,” I said. “With you I will not come.
On this earth my mission is not over.
Illness and hunger are no match for me.
I am a hero of implacable power.”
The ball was soaring high in the air,
comfortable under it was the fielder.
It was dropping lower and lower,
the spectators began leaving.
As it was dropping in the fielder’s hands,
a sheep looking for greener grass,
ventured between his legs.
In surprise, he scrambled in a start,
the ball spilled out of his hands.
In the heat of this moment, we made two runs,
twenty-four runs away from the winning total.
The spectators began coming back,
there was still life in the game.
The bowler walked back to his mark
and, like a furious bull, he started his run again.
He reached the crease, jumped and bowled,
the ball was pitched on the offside,
the slip fielders like a broad net waiting.
My eyes were too weak for the speed,
but I swung my bat with all my courage.
I heard an impact,
then I saw the ball rolling and hopping
speedily along the covers.
A fielder was chasing after it;
the pace overpowered;
the ball rushed into the boundary for four.
I saw dried cow-dung flying in the air,
Little boys throwing them and laughing.
There was a great cry of jubilation,
the spectators were dancing in the fowl-cock trees.
The Ogre of Death summoned his attendants to pick me up,
but I kicked them in their faces
but I kicked them in their faces
and told them to go away.
“You have no claim on me,” I said.
“I am truly a living power of this day.”
We were now twenty runs away from the score,
I began feeling myself a champion.
An omnipotence suffused me,
and I told myself that I must win the game.
The next ball I played defensively,
the ball rolling back on the pitch to the bowler.
“A perfect bat,” the spectators cried.
“You are our hero. Keep your head and mind.”
The bowler began to show signs of nervousness,
there was no more zeal in his speed.
In a long run he reached the crease,
jumped and bowled,
the ball flew like a missile in a full pitch.
I saw the red apple coming to my left shoulder.
I swung at it: a glorious shot it was,
the ball took the leg-side field
and hopped into the boundary for four.
The next ball I played in defence,
the crowd roaring with approval and joy.
The fielder began spreading out,
for now I seemed a great terror.
It was the last ball of the over,
the crowd was shouting for me
to take a single to face the bowling again.
The bowler cut his run and bowled.
It was a good length ball on target,
pitched on the middle stump.
I leaned forward and stroked it gently to mid-on,
the fielder running in to take it,
an easy single was made.
The crowd roared in applause.
I felt my body surging with power.
The field quickly changed for the next bowler,
a burly man, stronger than his predecessor.
In his hands the ball looked like an awara seed,
a giant this bowler was
with a long run-up of ferocious speed.
His first ball was a quick one,
pitched on my leg side;
it beat the wicket-keeper
and raged into the boundary for four.
The captain reinforced the field
and cautioned the bowler with tense gestures.
The bowler took a shorter run and bowled again.
In my surge of confidence I went for a big drive.
I missed.
The ball hit my front pad.
The fielders rose in a confident appeal.
The umpire looked at me for a second.
My heart pounded in a blast of fear.
The attendants of the Ogre of Death
pinned me down in the water
to get a grasp of my hands and legs.
I kicked them in their faces
and cursed them of their evil.
“Get away from me, you dogs,” I said.
“I am the indomitable of this region.
Death is a weakling before me,
since I am the significance of the living.”
The umpire looked at me again,
the crowd was in a stress of silence.
Then there was a burst of celebration
when the umpire ruled me not out.
The bowler took his long run again,
jumped up like a Kung-fu fighter and bowled.
Like a thunder the ball was pitched short
and rocketed to my head.
In a wild burst of instinct,
I got on my back foot and swung my bat.
I heard a pleasant sound of connection,
the ball soaring high in my hook-shot.
It sailed over the fowl-cock trees
and dropped into the pasture beyond the boundary.
The blow sent the fielders scared,
the captain pleading to the bowler.
He strengthened the offside again,
the bowler came steaming in with his next ball.
He pitched on my off stump.
I swung my bat with all my might.
The ball took an edge and beat the slips,
rocketing into the boundary for four.
The crowd exploded in jubilation.
One more run to come with two more deliveries.
Limbs came tumbling down from the fowl-cock trees,
the spectators cared not for injuries.
The next ball I played quietly, no run added to the score.
The captain strengthened the field like hawks around;
the bowler now took a shorter run
and pitched on my middle stump.
I stepped forward and drove at it.
I didn’t get to the pitch,
an awkward stroke it was, with an edge to mid-on.
The fielder came in fiercely, got the ball
and threw it at the wicket as we tried to complete a run.
It hit the stumps, the fielders appealed in jubilation;
they were certain that I was out.
The Ogre of Death came in to assist his attendants.
But I took the rope and began beating them.
I was desperate man fighting for life:
to refute Death I was determined.
The fielders appealed again.
The square-leg umpire reviewed the crucial moment.
He hesitated for a while.
His finger was going up, then it came down,
and he shook his head.
“Not out,” he said, and that was the end of the game.
The Ogre of Death looked at me solemnly,
thinking of my strength and resolution.
The rainstorm was now over
and daybreak came with the shining sun.
“Get away from me,” I told my assailants.
And they stepped back cowardly to my door.
Then they disappeared in the howling wind
and Life came and embraced me with joyous cheers.
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