motionless, face down on the floor. I tried to reach him with my untied arm, but he was too far away. I pulled with all my strength at the manacle. It didn’t budge an inch.
‘Ishmael,’ I shouted.
I didn’t care any more if they came and beat me to death.
‘Ishmael. Ishmael. Ishmael.’
He didn’t stir.
He was losing blood. If he wasn’t dead already, he would die soon unless he woke up and tried to close his wounds. I picked up my empty bowl andhurled it at him with all my strength. The sound of metal grinding against bone resonated through the cell. Ishmael moved a little.
I pushed his rice bowl towards him. ‘Eat,’ I said.
He looked at me. His eyes seemed to have been pushed back against their sockets; his nose, lips, chin had all been reduced to a bloody pulp. He opened his mouth to say something and tried to lift himself from the floor, but collapsed. He mumbled something; his voice was strained, his words unrecognizable.
He opened his mouth again. He stopped. And then, as if mustering up all his energy, ‘Just tell them something,’ he said. And collapsed.
He never rose again. Every day I envied him, and wished my release would come sooner.
They removed his body after a few weeks, maybe months, when the smell must have reached outside the cell and bothered them.
I felt no sadness when he was taken away. No one replaced him. I was alone in the cell but I felt no need for companionship. I felt nothing at all, just silent acceptance.
At first, I had been consumed with regret for giving Sam my passport. He belonged here, I thought, not me - it had been his idea to come to this wretched place. I held an irrational grievanceagainst the hippies, whom Ishmael and I had helped escape from the airport - they should have been here with me, I thought, instead of sharing their story at cocktail parties as they must be doing now. I had raged against the madness of the Khmer Rouge, who had locked us up for no reason at all - we weren’t enemies of the revolution, we didn’t care whether it was good or bad, we didn’t even know anything about it. Most of all, I blamed myself for the wrong choices that had led me here - abandoning India to study at MIT, agreeing to Sam’s Cambodian vacation, and holding on to life when it was so much easier to slip away.
Now, I thought nothing, I felt nothing. If Ishmael had learned to accept, so would I.
Months passed, maybe years. Time meant nothing in that small, dark cell where I lay, tied by my hand to a wall. I slipped in and out of consciousness, my thoughts coherent for only brief periods of time after I drank my bowl of rice gruel. When awake, I would try to imbue my day with some meaning by remembering equations from fluid mechanics or reciting passages from Milton’s poems. I tried to make myself indifferent to the pain, although sometimes when a sudden movement made the manacle press harder against the gash on my wrist or my decaying teeth began to slowly break away frommy gums, I would give in to the impulse of screaming silently until I collapsed. For the most part though, I waited, either for death or for a chance to escape, both options equally appealing - and unattainable.
After an eternity, they came for me. Two men, perhaps the same ones who had taken Ishmael - though I wasn’t conscious enough either then or now to be sure - untied the manacle that had bound me for months. They lifted me to my feet and dragged me out of my cell. I was escorted through the darkness, past a row of small box-like cells similar to mine, and out of a door which I had often heard opening and closing. It brought in flickers of light into my cell in the mornings and shadows in the evenings.
The sharp glare of daylight hit me like a lightning bolt, and I stumbled. They caught me, not unkindly, and I glanced gratefully at their blank faces. I took in a breath of fresh air and felt suddenly, irrationally elated. Down a flight of stairs we went, into a small but well-lit room
‘Ishmael,’ I shouted.
I didn’t care any more if they came and beat me to death.
‘Ishmael. Ishmael. Ishmael.’
He didn’t stir.
He was losing blood. If he wasn’t dead already, he would die soon unless he woke up and tried to close his wounds. I picked up my empty bowl andhurled it at him with all my strength. The sound of metal grinding against bone resonated through the cell. Ishmael moved a little.
I pushed his rice bowl towards him. ‘Eat,’ I said.
He looked at me. His eyes seemed to have been pushed back against their sockets; his nose, lips, chin had all been reduced to a bloody pulp. He opened his mouth to say something and tried to lift himself from the floor, but collapsed. He mumbled something; his voice was strained, his words unrecognizable.
He opened his mouth again. He stopped. And then, as if mustering up all his energy, ‘Just tell them something,’ he said. And collapsed.
He never rose again. Every day I envied him, and wished my release would come sooner.
They removed his body after a few weeks, maybe months, when the smell must have reached outside the cell and bothered them.
I felt no sadness when he was taken away. No one replaced him. I was alone in the cell but I felt no need for companionship. I felt nothing at all, just silent acceptance.
At first, I had been consumed with regret for giving Sam my passport. He belonged here, I thought, not me - it had been his idea to come to this wretched place. I held an irrational grievanceagainst the hippies, whom Ishmael and I had helped escape from the airport - they should have been here with me, I thought, instead of sharing their story at cocktail parties as they must be doing now. I had raged against the madness of the Khmer Rouge, who had locked us up for no reason at all - we weren’t enemies of the revolution, we didn’t care whether it was good or bad, we didn’t even know anything about it. Most of all, I blamed myself for the wrong choices that had led me here - abandoning India to study at MIT, agreeing to Sam’s Cambodian vacation, and holding on to life when it was so much easier to slip away.
Now, I thought nothing, I felt nothing. If Ishmael had learned to accept, so would I.
Months passed, maybe years. Time meant nothing in that small, dark cell where I lay, tied by my hand to a wall. I slipped in and out of consciousness, my thoughts coherent for only brief periods of time after I drank my bowl of rice gruel. When awake, I would try to imbue my day with some meaning by remembering equations from fluid mechanics or reciting passages from Milton’s poems. I tried to make myself indifferent to the pain, although sometimes when a sudden movement made the manacle press harder against the gash on my wrist or my decaying teeth began to slowly break away frommy gums, I would give in to the impulse of screaming silently until I collapsed. For the most part though, I waited, either for death or for a chance to escape, both options equally appealing - and unattainable.
After an eternity, they came for me. Two men, perhaps the same ones who had taken Ishmael - though I wasn’t conscious enough either then or now to be sure - untied the manacle that had bound me for months. They lifted me to my feet and dragged me out of my cell. I was escorted through the darkness, past a row of small box-like cells similar to mine, and out of a door which I had often heard opening and closing. It brought in flickers of light into my cell in the mornings and shadows in the evenings.
The sharp glare of daylight hit me like a lightning bolt, and I stumbled. They caught me, not unkindly, and I glanced gratefully at their blank faces. I took in a breath of fresh air and felt suddenly, irrationally elated. Down a flight of stairs we went, into a small but well-lit room
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