22nd November 1994 was a different day.
The thirty five year old photographer had finally found what he was looking for and may be more. He managed to write his story. But the story was not any that he had written before. It was real life incident that happened and was still happening somewhere in the thousand of acres of land surrounding the Corbett national park. But there was a missing piece that needed to be captured before he could turn back to the confines of his desk and the writing pad. It had to be unearthed. And there was only way to do that; return to the park.
This proved to be his nemesis.
He walked alone. And as he walked he would stand still at times on the open road keep staring over his shoulder, never turning back to look in to the void behind him.
Fear was writ large on his face. His breath was heavy and even the darkness ahead of him was a relief compared to what he had left behind. He walked further down the road, breathed heavier and stood still at times to stare back at the sight and the events of that unfortunate night which seemed to follow him all along. He could see it happen right behind his back and he would gasp for air. He wished he could run as fast as possible but deep down he could feel the ice beneath the ankles. He was paralysed with fear at times. Fear he had not known since the day he was born.
He felt lost and but never tired, because he knew they were coming and they were very close to him. very close to feel his breath, to sense his plight, to see the droplets appear on his forehead, his watery eyes and the raised hairs under many thick layers of garment.
"They are coming!" that's all his mind could conjure. His lips was parched. The adrenaline pumped up and his breathing hard. He tried to walk as fast as he could summon his limbs. He remembered something and he let a gush of air vent through his nostrils. He had a gun, but there was only one bullet now or may be none. Had he fired all or one remained. He thought he prayed that god would listen to him just once more. They can't be killed with one but The one could relieve him of his misery. Yes! that's it.
He put his hand inside his trouser pockets, pulled out the gun, Cocked the gun, smiled at his fortune, and fired.
The Bullet did its job, and did it well. There remained no signs of his brains inside his head. It lay splattered all around as his body came tumbling down and finally rested on the side walk.
"Thanks" was the last word that his mind could sum up before the exodus...
To be continued....
