The Story of the Vase

Kept in that sunlit corner, it stands there, silent, mute. Watching everything that is happening around. Every person that passes the lobby, the smiles, the tension lines on the forehead, the jittering, shivering hands of the new people, the throbbing nerves of their neck, the throat that bobs while they gulp down their fear. It watches everything.

Daily it gets filled, with a little water and a bunch of fresh blooms are placed in them, by the lady who wears elf like dark framed glasses, with hair pulled back in a tight bun wearing neatly ironed crisp business formals, day in and day out. The one who is stationed at the wide wooden desk, right in front of the vase, bearing big letters in gold which says RECEPTION, either smiling at the people who come by or is heard making cordial small talk over the phones.

She gets the vase cleaned daily. The stale water which turns slimy over the day is thrown and it is washed thoroughly for to get rid of any slimy residue from the flowers of the previous day. And then fresh tap water is filled and another bunch of new flowers are placed.

Its a vase made up of glass, with thick long glass grooves moulded on its surface. Its burnished pink in colour at the bottom which fades and blends with the normal transparency as it moves upwards. And then it has a dark past.

The glass that it is made of is smeared with the blood of a war prisoner. The bloodied glass was a part of that single light bulb that had hung over the head of that man. He was sitting blindfolded on a crooked wooden chair and his hands were tied tightly behind. his legs too were tied from the ankles.

Whatever part of his face was visible was smeared with faint black grease stripes and grime. There were scratches and gashes on his neck and hands, which weren't very old, but the blood from them had trickled a very short distance and had dried up midway. His head hung low with exhaustion and his breathing was heavy.

It was a small dark room, more like a makeshift kind in the middle of the forest, which was under attack. No windows existed and there was just one small entrance. A burly man had entered the bunk around two hours later than the prisoner had been brought in.