Shadows of a Vulture

High in the sky, my wings fly

Shaking the fluffy clouds, I fly

Against the gusty wind, I fly

Hovering over the dead, I fly

Casting a shadow of doom, I fly

The village of Palampur was full of scavengers. The crows struggled for titbits with shreds of flesh. The vulture's call sent a chill down their spine. They ran for their life like Ranga was running here, few hours back. Shot in the head, stabbed in his chest, Ranga's body was cut into pieces and offered to the vulture God. Binya Devi, herself fed the vultures, each bloody piece. Like a pet, the bird sat on her sturdy stump of an amputated arm. With her right hand, she fed it a chunky piece. As the beast relished the marrow, Binya Devi rubbed congealed Ranga blood on her forehead.

Ahaaaaaa.... Binya's predatory cry echoed in the desert. Few crows, from a distance, flew away with their black hearts pounding in their chest.  Standing on the prey, her eyes blazed with anger. Embers glowed in her clenched fist. A throbbing jugular vein, thumped against it's walls. The scar on her right eyebrow emanated a fresh spurt of blood.

"Kamina, suvar ki aaulad! Mane police mein dega?" Binya spat hard on the scattered remains of Ranga. 

"No one, absolutely no one dreams this feat. One who does....hahaha....the graveyards are not far away. But you are special, Ranga." She shut his half open eyes. Petrified look, had still not left his dead face.

"You are special, my wafadar Ranga. Jis Ma  ne tare ko seene se lagaya, tu unke police mein dega." She forced fed another clunk to a vulture, "Dekh tari gadari, gidha bhi tare moh na lage."

* * * * *

That night, two shadows had left the dark city forever. Breaking off the shackles of atrocities, insult and violence, Binya had fled to her village in Rajasthan. A dead husband, an unborn fetus kicking in the belly and a son wailing in hunger, Binya had restored to first petty crimes and then to robbery. Gulal gang was born out of her undying efforts. Widows like her for whom, their past hovered over like a vulture's shadow, could never breathe in peace. Tumultuous patriarchy loomed over their existence. 

From Binya to Binya Devi, the woman donned the hats of Sardar. Weapon in one hand and rocking a cradle with another, she nursed the children with her now venomous milk. Like scorpions, both thrived under the rock called Binya Devi. Vipers and pythons, none rattled the children's play. Dry, grainy living was their first taste of freedom. 

Binya became notorious for ' on the spot insaaf'.

Desolate women flocked to her for shelter and found training on her camp. From being a rudaali, Binya  was now a hunterwali. On camel backs, her army surveyed the territory. Tourists and locals alike, kept even their shadows away from Binya's reflection. Anti-social, the jungle law ruled her decisions. 

"Khoon ka badla khoon se. Eit ka jawab pather se."

The Gulal gang chopped limbs like brinjal stalks. The kali avatar reincarnated here multiple times. A woman walked in as the docile Lakshmi or sometimes an intellectual Saraswati but here she ended up only and only as kali. Ruthlessness personified, ingrained into every fibre of the living cell. 

Children obeyed the laws of nature and offered themselves to be trained for good. The tribe increased and sand dunes moved in all directions, marking a deep boundary for Gulal Gang. Time lapsed, but Binya's ferociousness was as de novo as when she had first punctured her husband's insides with a broken bottle. She was the absconding criminal, the missing apple of the eye of Mumbai police. Not a single woman knew this story. Only her first born, the sole witness to the crime, recollected the incident, preferred to be tight lipped about it. 

For life is always ebb and flow. Waxing is followed by waning. Ascent followed by descent. Loyalty followed by deceit.

Binya's second born had never seen a male figure father a child. He questioned his birth but found cold answers. Maybe he was the only one who had not experienced the atrocities of a father. Other children in the camp, were either battered or burned in the angst of alcoholism, poverty and on occasions clenched in the tentacles of drugs. Binya's dominance over their domestic living, offended the free-spirited youth. Living in the shadows of his mother, he pined for a city life. A freedom from absolute matriarchal tyranny.

Many thought of him as the black sheep but none expected him to be the wolf in sheep skin. One sultry afternoon, a police siren was heard among the protected sand dunes. Wiser with age and grizzled with experience, Binya's troops could escape the surrender. Stabbed in the back, Binya was an injured lioness. 

"Gadari ka koi Ma na koi baap hota hai. Gaddari zairili nagin hai. Kat daalo iss gaddhar 

lakadabagdha ko (hyena)!"

First time her orders went unfollowed. Women dared not move to execute the command. Looking into the remorseful eyes of her troops, she picked up the gun to do the inenvitable. For a true lioness, her pride came first over her cubs. Cubs who played on her back, had now found the weak muscle. She couldn't afford to let the poison inflicted in the toe to creep upto the knee. The toe needed to be chopped off. Completely. 

"Na Ma,na...Hume maaf kardo." Ranga's pleas fell on deaf ears.

Phat...phat..phat...exactly three bullets brought Ranga's downfall. 

*  *  *  *

Feeding the last morseful to the vulture, Binya left the remains to rot. Few sand grains,tinged with blood wandered, to tell the story of Ranga's murder. Son murdered by mother. Yet, in the law of jungle, survival of fittest prevailed. Adapt or perish ruled. The wrinkled earth beneath Binya's feet quaked but a wrinkle on the aging woman's face didn't stir. The merciless judgement had no maternal instincts. Her wrinkles had no age. 

A lone vulture circled the cloudless sky. Like Binya, it too was humming, 

High in the sky, my wings fly,

Shaking the fluffy clouds, I fly,

Against the gusty wind, I fly,

Hovering over the dead, I fly,

Casting a shadow of doom, I fly.