I always knew that they lacked it, and so I provided.
Sin, otherwise known as the poorest rich man, was one who lacked it charitably. Dragging along a heart pure as a mirror, considered by humans to be that of a god, led him to generously lavish lakhs of rupees on the unfortunate beggars of the streets of Srinagar and Kashmir, regularly at that, from the moment he won his first gamble. Did I forget to mention that?
Sin was an addict.
After all, though filthy rich, infinity cannot be achieved by Sin nor humans; lacking both resources and the brains to ever try even to scrape at something so beyond reach, it was merely a concept often used to exaggerate. Nonetheless, the fool gambled all his life, for the sole purpose of alleviating poverty from the dusty scorching roads and he, only God knows how, had luck on par with infinity, slowly making him the richest man in India; but once a fool, always a fool, gave 90% of his “income” to those less fortunate, and lived-in conditions so primitive, the beggars even considered giving back. That was until we crossed paths. Marvelling at my beauty, he created for me a pedestal, upon which used to lay the Quran, which now rested on the dusty bookshelves in his dilapidated room in a house considered by his neighbours to be far too small.
At his evening meal, Sin, clutching his worn-out fork, ate the soup, pondering if he could ever taste something rather than his scheduled beetroot soup. Thoughts of a pure gold house larger than the Taj Mahal or a meal which was not soup gnawed away at his understanding of himself, as his brain slowly degraded into what humans may call a “zombie”.
I, of course, was the only one to see his, as even ruby can become impure.
Upon receiving his usual letter from the local charities for his scheduled donation, he plunged it into water. The charred paper against the water, continually washed the charcoal, with the crystal water slowly turning a smoky black as the fire reflected in his eyes something interesting, amusing, or rather, humane.
That, however, was not the only thing forming a dark precipitate. The smoke was visible through the now darker, succulent red.
I could hear the riots outside the wooden door of Sin’s house, of the unfortunate demanding their daily needs. Sin, wanting to only do his duty and protect his money, simply shot Ahtutma, son of one of the beggars of the street, Hashim, which inevitably consumed Hashim and his family with grief and rage. Not wanting to risk his nor his belongings life, Sin immediately purchased another house, a larger one at that, towering so high it did more for the beggars than him now by providing shade on the endless scorching days of Srinagar. I could not help but laugh; finally, humans seemed somewhat interesting.
Sin’s wife urged him to stop what he was doing; enraged, Sin declared that she was of no use, and so, to change this, he poured hot oil into her eyes and threw her into the streets. But legally, they were still married, and by the laws at the time, all, and any income his wife made, belonged to him. Such profits drove him insane and led him to grab a hammer with which, one by one, broke every single bone in all his son’s legs after which they met their mother. Looking out the window, I saw Sin grabbing and throwing his sons one by one onto the rough pavement outside.
The sight of her crippled sons stung her eyes, as Sin’s wife could do nothing but let her tears glide along her dry skin, clutching her sons till her red arms turned pale.
It was clear to see that at this point, what was once crystal clear was now silver-grey, brittle, hard and lustrous.
But I had merely just had a taste of the fun that was about to come.
On the 14th hour of the 11th day of the 5th month, I glazed my vision with memories of indulgence. Back when they were true to their nature, back when they could not tell right from wrong due to a lack of reference. The hundreds of years I saw the sword pierce the man in front, as it glided through the skin, painting the silver a wonderful red, as the soil below turned to mud.
“The Prophet”, they would call him, as they believed he was someone special, someone, who could see more. But none of it mattered, prophet or not; a sharp piece of silver cut skin, stained itself red, stole the life, and called it a victory. It was not until my former gleaming silver was permanently smeared with a dark red, did they consider it a pyrrhic victory. For me, this, this, is what marked my worst hour, when they realized what they did. When “the prophet” died, they found me; one of the many references that were made. From then on forth, they created a lie, a persona covering their true nature. The boredom was just as bad as the capsule they put me in, and from then, all I could do was see. Torture was an understatement of what I was put through, only able to observe the revolting events unfold.
Ha! It seemed they were all in a capsule as well!
But as I was indulging in my thoughts, a breeze passed by me. Sin was asleep, so it could not have been him who opened the window, then who? I saw the pedestal grow farther and farther away from me until I realized that the filthy beggar Hashim had sneaked into the house and was attempting a robbery. I could have easily killed him then and there, but I had not had this much fun for 1293 years, so instead, I watched Hashim’s motives turn pitch black. Slowly but surely, the value of Sin decreased minute by minute, step after step, till eventually, you could hardly call it a house anymore. Oh, how I would have loved to see the face of Sin when he awoke, to realize that he meant nothing anymore.
Following the days of the heist, Hashim’s family became rich. So immensely rich, that no one ever suspected them of such a robbery, and the crystal windows with gold frames and a house made of pure gold said enough for Hashim’s family. The fool so indulged in his possessions, claimed to be a man of the world, but forgot that he was a religious one, evidently as the constant abuse in his household continued.
That was, until a bulbul came through the window.
