Subir Ningthouja
Blind Corner
Bankura’s rice fields lay silver under the moonlight. In a field shed, two figures slept—until something sleek and banded slid from the shadows.
Late evening, a man and his teenage son staggered into our ward, the plastic jar in the boy’s hand having a coiled, lifeless krait. The man’s chest was broad, his hands calloused; the boy’s frame slight, eyes wide and clouded.
Through the night, pumps hissed, monitors beeped. Sweat shone on their foreheads and ours. The man’s breathing steadied first; the boy’s hovered on the edge. Then, as the first light touched the ward windows, the boy’s breaths deepened—while the man’s slowed. His monitors went flat.
The boy’s eyes opened to morning.
mountain hike
a thrush's whistle
cuts pa's song
About the Author
Subir Ningthouja is a physician living at Imphal, Manipur state, India. He is an enthusiastic photographer with mobile phones. He has been immersed in haiku and related forms for over four years, with occasional publications.