Bhavika Sachan

Their voices don’t reach me. Even if I could hear them, I would not know who spoke and what.

They always come here when the Sun is directly overhead. When they come, I stop being myself and try to imitate them. But my new self does not seem to know who I am. Each day, when I open my eyes as if I am about to die again, I always find myself in a strange world.A world where they have divided us into colour-coded groups. Their distended eyes look bloodshot, and they hastily start chewing the Toffees wrapped in pink. Then as if they forget what they have been doing at all, they go back, in the same ceremonious march in which they came. Left, right, left…the golden sickle emblem shining brightly against the glare of the Sun.

I think they were the Reapers. They come to harvest and to discard.

I try to follow them, imitating their footsteps to avoid arousing any suspicion. I don’t want to disappear yet. I don’t know what they do. But they intimidate me. When I first saw them here, on this side of the city, I knew instinctively that I was different, and maybe…a threat. I kept my distance. But today, I feel a little courage surging in me and so, I follow.

They enter the city which is covered with an eerie dome-shaped,   glass-like something. The city is inside just like how the dolls are in a snow globe. Are they trapped? I peer in and try to see. Inside, people walk methodically. They don’t look at one another. They don’t look at anything.The ones in purple jackets look smart and walk the centre streets.One of them sees me. Our eyes meet and I seem to ask, “Do you know what this is?” but he is not looking. He is looking but right through me. Almost as if I am not there. But I am here, am I not?…read more on NOPR