Diary of a Prisoner

Of all the stories ever written, none has talked about you. Yes you, my reader. But don't worry. Sit back. This story is yours. 

Yours, my reader, it has to be yours. After all, you owe me a lot. It is because of you I am in prison. I am not complaining. How can I complain? A writer has nothing but his readers. 

The one to be blamed is a Gentleman. It is everywhere 'A Gentleman Slaughtered by a Barber'. Slaughtered? Gentleman, you tell them, Slaughtered? No, my dear readers, never believe them. But to start my story 

'Slaughtered' is an impressive word. 

Have you ever been to a slaughterhouse, my reader? I know you have never. But let me be at your mercy to describe to you the most heinous act of mankind. The innocent animals are herded, and their bodies are sold. They are made to believe they have no strength. Every possible revolution by animals is submerged. And then, their fate is death, decided by their master. 

Dear writers, have you ever thought about their dreams? What does an animal want to do? (it would be wicked to think they have no aspirations!).

Man has never been sensitive. These Gentlemen think they have the right to exploit, and we like animals never protest. 

So, my readers, I think you would show some pity for my story. You would understand my situation in a slaughterhouse.

It was a dark morning, clouds were hanging low, and winds howling through the crevices of the door. It was a day you would rejoice being human, my reader. I held a pen and paper and described the puffiness, complexion, and waviness of the clouds. The whispers of the wind, its rhythm, its youthfulness. A customer interrupted and pushed the Saloon door. A bossy-looking man, in professional attire and a suited overcoat. His hair was perfectly parted and a white goatee beard with little extra patches on his cheek.

"Good morning, sir." I wished with a little bow. 

"Clear these extra hairs on the sides and over the ear... and get the beard shaped... and a face scrub too... make it fast, I am already late." The Gentleman bombarded. 

I dropped the pen and paper and prepared the chair, towel and other tools.

"Sir..." I turned to welcome my customer. But my dear reader, humans are hypocrites; they talk of privacy; the new fad of our society. But this Gentleman, my dear readers, was reading my words. Slowly, patiently, his smile broadened. I stood like a child ashamed of my mischiefs.

"Sir..." I interrupted. He showed me his palm to wait, while he continued to read. 

In a moment he guffawed. "What silly thing this is... he he he..." he made a neighing sound. "It was like my ten-year-old child scribbling words... You made my day boy.... Anyways.. do my hair, or else I'll be late." 

"Yes sir..." my voice was filled with soot. 

Dear reader, it is hard to be a writer. Our pages reflect emotions that were felt by our hearts, our words dance when we rejoice, our words cry when we grieve, and they tear you apart when we are traumatized. But my dear readers, a writer goes through this drama to appease you. A writer has nothing but you my dear reader. 

A feeling of disgust descended for this Gentleman. 'What does he know of writing? I don't think he might have ever read Mirza Galib. Stupid!'

"Are you lost?... you fool stop scissoring... get a trimmer..." Gentleman spitted words in anguish.

"It is getting charged," I replied apologetically.

"Ohhh..." he whistled air.

I continued my job. They say the customer is God. How repellent can sometimes God be!

One should never criticize a writer. Your words can be perilous to his mind. His peace is disturbed like turbulence in silent brooks. 

"Excuse me, boy..." The Gentleman interrupted.

He had a call. "Hmm... okay..." was all he said. 

I did some more finishing and the hairs were done.

"Perfect" he exclaimed. 

I smiled. My mood lightened. 

"You must do what you are made for..." my face shrunk promptly. It was like an hourglass inverted.

"Society has made certain divisions... I see they are eroding nowadays but.... at least a Barber should not write poetries... he he he..." he produced an annoying neighing sound.

Dear reader, a writer never discriminates. I never asked you if you are rich or poor; what you do; or how much you earn. My words are for all, equally. My eyes and my emotions are for you all my dear reader. 

But I don't understand this Gentleman. They live captivated in gilded walls and consider their right to seize our senses. Rob our words, our pen and pages. Why dear reader, why? I know you think otherwise, dear reader. You think like me. 

The man on my saloon chair believed that scissors and not a pen is my destiny. They want us to be slaves, polish their shoes, clean their suits and live for their service. But I will end this, only a writer has the might to end this. 

Words are fragile to fight. My voice would be submerged by gentlemen. So I decided to break the slaughterhouse. 

Do you know Gentleman's weakness, my readers? Every time they get shaved in a saloon they are at the edge of my blade. But I like an animal to be slaughtered never protest. I have the weapon, the power. And this time I will object.

I applied the shaving gel. Did a little massage. Moisturized his neck and slowly, very slowly, my reader, I drew the blade deeper into his throat. Blood oozed out like a fountain, red-black and thick. A peaceful death a Gentleman deserves.

I revolted to be free.

I don't think I did any wrong, my dear reader, did I?