The powerful strobe lights hunted him down in the labyrinth of branches, trunks, boughs and whispering leaves. He was running as fast as he could, ‘Mom … where was she?’ He crashed into low, overhanging branches, tumbling down the muddy slopes, surreptiously covered in dry, yellowing leaves. ‘Oh man!’ he shouted, “Mom! Moooommm!!” and the tears brimming up in his huge, soulful eyes, slowly started to trickle down. One at a time, lazily meandering over his gaunt cheeks, till they could be patient no more and just poured in torrential cascades.
He woke up to his own voice sobbing, “Mom, Mom!” But there was no Mom.
He had been thrown into this dark dungeon, yesterday… or was it last week… probably a few months! He couldn’t make out clearly.
He felt around him. He had dozed off to sleep on the rough stone floor, cold but thankfully dry. The thin ground sheet, allowed the merciless stones to etch their shapes, stamp their presence on the soft body of the young child. Although a bag of bones. His fingers went on feeling, touching, exploring!
Nothing!
He reached further, extending his bony arm encased in his school cardigan; navy blue, edged in a red and cream stripe around the cuff. The undernourished arm snaked on ahead, foraging for something … anything!
A soft, worn-out satchel. His arm moved on excitedly, the shape and size was familiar…, he took his nose close to it. The familiar, leather smell, polished with the neutral, wax that mom used for their shoes too.
A smile spread across the gaunt face, with the sparkle back in those limpid eyes.
He pulled his school satchel close to him, hardly being able to see much, in that cavernous dungeon, with little light penetrating the overwhelming darkness. But the dark didn’t bother him. It were the lights, the psychedelic strobes that penetrated his head, eyes and very soul which made him crazy.
Delving deep, he found his familiar possessions. Mom packed them every day for school. His notebooks, his pencil pouch, his favourite scrapbook. He took the bag and put it behind him, like a cushion. And slowly pulled out his scrap book.
Footsteps thundered somewhere overhead.
So many of them. Some sounded like heavy boots of huge men… Crunch, crunch, crunch! Some seemed soft… barely there! Light and airy, like fit football players. He liked Ronaldo! He was a good footballer himself… Mom called him ‘Ronaldo’ sometimes.
Ever since those people came home and took Dad away, Mom would constantly say, “Shhhh!” She pulled him into the closet, that day. Imagine Mom playing hide and seek… in the closet! He had found it so funny, he started giggling, even when Mom placed her trembling hand on his mouth….
He laughed so loud, that the closet door flew open! He always told mom that he ate spinach to have muscles like Popeye! But it was some strange person. He didn’t like his smell… or his looks! The bright lights attacked him, and he fell down… barely watching his mother being dragged downstairs.
“Moooommm!”
“Moooommmmy!” he screamed.
Crash! Thump! Bang!
So many sounds and then the lights again. He froze. What was happening? The lights messed up his brains, his mind and even his ears. He tried to shut out the noise. He needed more than his hands… that’s when he remembered his pencil case… he pulled out his pencils and put them in his ears.
The SWAT team found him like that… black pencils in his ears, while ruby red blood slowly trickling down…
The doc spoke gently as he comforted him from afar. He smelt clean and dependable. As he turned to look at the stranger … he felt reassured. This man would take him home! As they emerged from the ramshackle cottage in the middle of the forest, the officer looked at the scrap book in his hands.
“May I see it son?” he asked ever so softly. The waif just extended his hands and dropped it in those big hands, much like Dad’s.
The book was filled with drawings, some which made no sense, were followed by brilliant portraits of what must be his parents and friends. Then emerged unbelievable pics of a man being shot, the details of the murderer as if in a closeup, the car behind. The numberplate of the car was clearly etched, as was the setting.
This was unbelievable! They had incriminating evidence of the assassination of the Governor. He was more than glad he had listened to the urgent pleas of a mother, looking for her son, suffering from Autism.
At his sign, the mother emerged from the van, wrapped in a thermal blanket.
The boy went flying into her arms…. “Mommmmy! Why did you not answer? I called you like a hundred, million times!”
As their tears mingled, they hugged each other tight!
The pencils were gently removed by the expert.
All’s well that ends well, but excellent if more than one cases are clinched in one go!
