Blood and Ashes

3.

He felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. He turned around and saw a man with no hands, sitting on a wheelchair, holding a paintbrush between his toes. The man smiled at him and said, "Hello, brother. Do you like my painting?"

He looked at the canvas and saw a serene image of Buddha, surrounded by lotus flowers and a bright halo. He felt a surge of anger and disgust. How could this man, who had lost his hands in a brutal attack by the Hindu fanatics, still paint their god? How could he betray his own faith and his own people?

He remembered the day when they were both children, playing in the fields of their village. They were best friends, inseparable, despite their different religions. They shared everything, their dreams, their fears, their joys. They swore to protect each other, no matter what.

But then, everything changed. The riots broke out, and their village was burned to the ground. He saw his parents and siblings slaughtered by the mob, while he barely escaped with his life. He ran to his friend's house, hoping to find him alive. He found him, but not as he expected. He was lying on the floor, covered in blood, his hands chopped off by a machete. He was still breathing, but barely. He looked at him with a weak smile and said, "Don't worry, brother. I'll be fine. Allah will heal me."

He took him to the nearest hospital, where he was treated by a kind doctor. He stayed with him for a few days, until he recovered. He told him that he had to leave, that he had to join the resistance, that he had to fight back. He told him that he had to avenge their families, their village, their honor. He told him that he had to become a martyr, a hero, a warrior.

He refused to listen. He claimed to have pardoned those who harmed him, asserting that he had mastered the art of painting with his feet. He insisted that his heart harbored no animosity, only love. He professed a lack of interest in vengeance, aspiring solely for harmony. According to him, violence held no appeal; his true passion lay in the pursuit of art.

He struggled to comprehend. He couldn't come to terms with it. Forgiveness eluded him. He departed, never crossing paths with him again. Until this moment.

He looked at him again, and felt a wave of pity and contempt. He was a traitor, a coward, a fool. He had wasted his life, his talent, his potential. He had betrayed his friend, his faith, his cause. He had chosen the wrong path, the wrong destiny.

He reached for his pocket, where he had hidden the detonator. He had strapped explosives to his body, ready to blow himself up in the crowded market. He had planned to kill as many infidels as possible, to strike a blow for his people, to make a statement for his ideology. He had prepared to die, to meet his maker, to enter paradise.

He pressed the button, and waited for the explosion. But nothing happened. He pressed it again, and again, and again. Still nothing. He looked at the device, and saw that it was broken.

He experienced a sudden pain in his chest and crumpled to the ground. A heart attack seized him, triggered by the stress, shock, and disappointment. He was succumbing, but not in the manner he desired. His demise was unfolding, not as a martyr, hero, or warrior, but as an ordinary person, a loser, a sinner.