The metal of the counterfeit Rolex felt cold in his hands as he rotated the dial, planning the murder of his father.

Click click click…. Click click click

The light seemed too bright for his migraine throbbing at the back of his uneven head. Even though he would be more comfortable with darkness, the uncomfortably bright LED helped with his guilt of not studying for the upcoming semester.

The protagonist still remembered the first time his father had laid hands on him; more like a branch, a broad wooden branch. His hopes of fun filled holiday during his kindergarten vacation among the mists of Siliguri were replaced with scars on his back. The children of his colleagues had stolen his ball and to seek justice, he went to the most supreme authority present, his father. That day he realised that not all tyrants rule countries.

The intensity of the beatings increased with time and everytime his father would deny his accusations of the same. What seemed to be sheer arrogance in the beginning revealed itself gradually in the form of a mental disorder. His conscience could not bear the burden of his infernal deeds so he created his own fiction to exist in.

In order to sleep peacefully, one needs to convince oneself that they are right. They are the good person. If not good, their bad is necessary evil for survival or for the greater good.The ones who cannot accept the implications of their actions in front of the jury of their own conscience, make others the scapegoat of their degrading self.Then he doesn’t think twice before grafting others with his fiction, and lynching the victim in public.All for the purpose of placating his own sense of guilt.

To what extent will a man go, to be able to hold his head high in front of the caucus of his own ghosts?How long will be stump around justifying the evils he has done?Once the burden of guilt becomes too much for even Atlas to bear, then it becomes the compass engaging him to journey across the sea of denial with a single destination:Peaceful sleep.

His mother, with the passage of time had demoted herself from an active accomplice to a silent partner. After all, torturing your own son with irrelevant excuses was a tiring job. But with advancing age the tyrant decided to severe ties with his allies and became dominant. Most of his life he endured silently because of food, water and shelter; his father being the only earning member of the family. He could tell that even his mother tolerated his father for the same reasons then. Love had flown out of the window.

His mind was set. Putting on the aged raincoat his mind went back to several memories of his father leaving him behind in rain as a child when he was irritated. His eyes felt wet, ears hot and head throbbing. Wanting of privacy made his father sleep separately in his study, forcing him to uncomfortably share a bed with his mother. He had ostracised himself to the bedroom the entire day, plotting the points. Few had the courage to do what he was about to. He was Pralhad. He heard them arguing once, “Bastard!”, he thought.

His mother was in deep slumber, snoring heavily. Thanks to her medication the bright light did not bother her. He slowly tiptoed towards the study, his father was a known light sleeper. He had imagined himself several times doing the deed, so much so that it felt normal. There was no gigil, no hooting of the Owl, no dagger leading into the study. He was on his own.

What lay behind the closed doors was beyond his wildest fantasies. His father wasn’t sleeping peacefully like an infant nor was he holding a colt in self defence. He lay on the armchair, head tilted to the left, throat slashed. There existed no other colour. Only red. All he could see was red. The whole room was a mess, there were papers everywhere, files emptied. The computer was rampaged, the CPU was forced open and the hard disc was missing.

His father had beaten him there too; he stood defeated.

“No, No


He would not let it happen. He gripped onto the Parker fountain pen from the desk as tightly as possible and drove it into the desecrated throat. Once, twice, thrice, repeatedly, till he was out of breath.

“I would not let him take this away from me. This is my moment. This is my kingdom come.”

Picking up his father’s bulky smartphone, he dialed 100.


Cops in white uniforms found the front door unlocked. The pervading silence associated with crime scenes had become an integral part of their life. The mother had to be woken up and given an unemotionally detailed report while interrogation. The boy was taken in.

The cold silence in which the mother gave her account was unnerving even to the inspector in charge.


His father had occasional fits of reminiscences where he incessantly reminded his mother how her illnesses had been draining all his wealth. It usually lasted a few days.

Only this time, his mother grew the spine to pick up the broad chopping knife she had bought from the fair the previous day and slash his throat while he sat with a bewildered look in his eyes. After the deed was done, an unexpected calmness prevailed over her nerves and she knew exactly what to do.

She wasn’t afraid of imprisonment or death penalty but she needed to be there for her son. She herself grew up with the belief that children need to be brought up with a stern iron hand and in the process she lost track, which drove her son away. It was her duty to give her son the healthy life he deserved. It was her duty to preserve his future cause he still had one.


8 thoughts on “Patricide

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