It was a nice mild autumn day in Calcutta. I was standing in the middle of the entrance to the great white Victoria Memorial Hall and courting everybody to enter inside the building. I have been standing here for many decades, as a matter of fact; many people admired me more than the real white building. Many people remarked that this Memorial for Queen Victoria is a disgrace to the Indian culture and heritage. The British forced upon the people to build this memorial; so they could remember their Queen as the Taj Mahal.  But it was a failure. They try to copy Taj, but that was an impossible task.  So it was a white building built on nothing but emptiness. My job was to stand guard that lifeless white marble monument. I have been carrying those chores for ages, not happily, but what else could I do? After all, I am a horse-a statue made up of bronze.

I have seen a lot through my eyes. I remembered the day when the Prince of Wales opened the gate in 1921. It was a grand occasion. British Empire was on top of the world and Queen of England had everything in her hand.  Pageantry, pompous English nobility, and sahibs gave a good show. It thrilled me and proud to be there. 

As time passed, the light of England dimmed. The Bengali people revolted against British oppression and tyranny. Then the revolution came; and the revolutionary leaders like Surya Sen, Subhash Chandra Bose, Aurobindo, Khudiram, and others. The lolling fires of revolution in Bengal shook the foundation of the great British Empire. I have seen and heard many courageous acts of the people and their supreme sacrifice for freedom.

At last, freedom came. India was free from colonialism, but it divided the country. Many millions became homeless; millions died because of religious carnage, the whole place was in a shamble. I cried in despair. I could not believe that life means nothing to other human beings. It was a strange feeling. The sculptor who made me from a blob of bronze was a kind man. He had respect and love for everything. With tenderness, he gave me my shape, my life, and everything. But how could be the same human race so ruthless!? I sometimes cannot understand, maybe a horse is more humane than the real human.

Whenever I go back to the past, I become emotional and paranoid; let me look at the bright side of the life-the present. Yes, it was a nice autumn day. The breeze was pleasant; it rubbed my back with a gentle sweep. I was happy. They cleaned my face, no pockmarked inscribed on me yet by the ruthless wet acidic rain. I was handsome and graceful. Many commented about my beautiful eyes; I felt shy at the same time I was thankful to those peoples who were my admirer.

The noise of tram cars, Lorries, buses, the rickshaw, and human voices had died down as dark approached over the whole city. The sky was grayish and getting ready to welcome the full moon. The phosphorescent lights blinked for a few seconds and then stared all over us with a bright smile. My friend the great Saal tree stood there erect in defiance of gravity and its generous crown of leaves embraced the breeze. The shade provided shelter to people in rain; cool resting place during summer, and sanctuary for lovers under its shadow in spring. This shelter was always available and ready for occupation. 

This evening I could see a young woman standing under the Saal tree. She was a newcomer; I have never seen her before. She was young and pretty. She was wearing a sari made up of nylon and her pretty face filled with melancholy. Her sadness created a lattice of light and shade in the air. I was curious about her.

The breeze suddenly became a little gusty. It caressed the fleshy corners of the young woman with a fury as if it has never seen young flesh, nor it has touched before. This thin transparent sari was trying to fly away with the gust, but the young woman wrapped her sari tightly over her body as if she needed protection from someone.

A man with a stare of Jackal was looking at her from a short distance. He was smoking a cigarette with great pleasure. A cigarette glowed in darkness as a bellow attached to the up and down motion of the ribcage. The man sucked the white smoke of tobacco inside his mouth and released it through controlled spasms of puckered lips making circles. The gusty wind picked up the white circles of smoke and smeared them over the young woman’s body with lust. The wind and the jackal-eyed man were enjoying the whole episode. I felt like screaming for this rape-the inhuman torture of this young woman. But I was mute-sound, movement and other infallible rights of a living creature were not given to me. I was a statue!

The young woman broke the silence and with a tearful voice said,” Was it too much to ask for Rs.20? Do you know we have eaten nothing for two days? My little brother is waiting for me at our home inside the concrete water pipe.” The jackal-eyed man came close by, grabbed her hand and placed a five rupee banknote on her palm. He walked away from her and uttered in disgust,” Hell, whatever I got playing cards, that little dough slipped away from my hand.” He tossed the cigarette butt on the grass, squashed it with rage by his shoes and spat at it with infinite hate.

As the wind renewed its attack with the gust, it noticed that the woman was crying. The five rupee note was soaked in tears.  The freedom to cry was there. There were no more obstacles; no more inhibition to express the melancholy of life. Hungry, thirsty dry soil drank every bit of those warm tears and thanked for this gift.

The wind subsided as if it showered its warm body with cool, salty tears and it felt ashamed of its behavior. The squashed cigarette released its last breath through a veil of white smoke; it danced like a snake and dissipated in oblivion.

Blooming Rajani Gandha spread their sweet fragrance all over the place and declared in silence that flower still blooms in this earth.