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A Boy and the Sound of an Enfield





He was thirteen when it happened. Red brick laid  paths, ponds with floating moss, the church bell cutting through afternoons like a blade. The church festival had illuminated  the village beyond itself. Lights were tied to bamboo poles, sweet smell of jaggery and frying oil hung in the air, and men drank more than they should have. By evening, voices hardened. By night, fists appeared.

The brawl started near the toddy shop—one shove, one insult too many. People circled instinctively, like they always did. That was when the sound arrived first.

A deep, confident growl.

A Royal Enfield.

It came through the narrow road as if it owned it. The rider stopped without hurry. Tall, broad-shouldered, hair slicked back, a cigarette hanging carelessly from his lips. His shirt clung to him like it knew him well. He did not look at the crowd. The crowd looked at him.

Someone whispered his name. It traveled faster than the bell.

He picked up a sugarcane from a nearby cart. Tested its weight. Then walked straight into the fight.

What followed felt unreal—sugarcane cracking against backs, bodies stumbling, men twice his age retreating. He moved with swagger, with contempt. When it was over, he didn’t stay to be thanked. He mounted the Enfield and disappeared into the dark, the engine echoing long after he was gone.

That night, the boy could not sleep.

From then on, he saw the man everywhere. Or maybe he wanted to.

Once, near the bus stand, arguing loudly with a shopkeeper. Another time, leaning against the Enfield, laughing with men who looked afraid to laugh louder than him. The boy followed him with his eyes the way some boys followed celebrities in the calendar pictures.

One evening, rain caught the market by surprise. Sheets of water came down. People ran for cover. That was when it happened again.

Three men cornered him near the fish stalls. Words turned into shoves. Rain soaked them all. The man did not step back. He stepped forward. Fists flew. The rain washed blood into the mud. When it ended, the three men lay scattered like broken umbrellas.

The boy stood frozen, rain dripping down his face, heart hammering.

That night, he folded his shirt sleeves the same way. Walked differently. Talked louder.

At school, he started pushing back. A shove here. A threat there. Small victories tasted sweet. Teachers called him in, spoke softly at first, then sharply. His parents talked at night, voices low but worried. His mother cried once. His father remained silent.

Nothing entered his ears.

Weeks passed.

One afternoon, his father called him into the veranda. He held a newspaper—creased, old, folded many times.

“Read,” he said.

The headline was small. No photograph. Just words.

Local Man Stabbed to Death Near Canal. Police Suspect Personal Enmity.

The name was there.

The boy read it again. And again.

The man was found alone. No Enfield. No crowd. No sugarcane. Just a body, bleeding into wet earth.

For the first time, the boy noticed the silence of the house. The ceiling fan creaked. A crow cried somewhere far away. That night, he dreamed of rain—but no one watching.

The next morning, he dressed quietly. Walked to school without swagger. When a boy bumped into him accidentally, he stepped aside.

The village remained the same. Bells rang. Festivals returned. Boys grew.

But somewhere inside him, a sugarcane cracked—

and did not heal 

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