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| Abha Iyengar |
Fair Game
She has made me remove my boots. I sit on a chair with long socks on. My head is covered with a small umbrella, its net veil forms a boundary around my face. My movements and vision are limited but I can hear the jungle’s relentless snarls echo in the surrounding wilderness. My heart beats with trepidation for I am at her mercy. My fingers clench, aching to reach for the axe embedded in the log in front of me, but I know it’s too far away.
She is close, rifle in hand, and free to do what she wants with me. I cannot stand the tension that courses through my veins, and wish that she completes the job, pulls the trigger and puts the bullet through the back of my neck to let me fall like hunted prey.
She pushes the chair over and I fall onto the ground. My mind races. What does she want? Also— a desperate thought— any way I can get at that axe? I know it’s impossible, but a desperate mind will try anything, think of a way to get out.
The umbrella still covers my face, its squashed against it. The brown, dry grass cuts my skin. There are flies buzzing around. Somehow, in the falling, my hands have become pinned under me; I have become immobile in every way.
She stands atop me, her legs apart, and booms, “You are fair game, now, mister.” Her words hurt my ears. Her legs poke my sides.
A shot rings in the air, and I scream. I am sure that I am dead; that I have stopped breathing. After a while, I open my eyes and find myself still on the ground, still breathing, but not easily. A heaviness is on top of me. It is the woman. What just happened?
Blood trickles from the side of my body. I don’t know if it is mine or hers. I cannot move at all now.
The body on top of me is kicked over. I am scared, my breath coming in short gasps. I steal a sideways glance through the veil. The woman, who had ambushed me as I walked the woods, pushed me onto the chair, and with rifle in hand made me do her bidding, lies still on the side. She, who had just a while ago, threatened my existence, is dead.
If I pretend to be dead, maybe the new predator will go away.
I am wrong. I cannot fool them. They are not one, but many. They turn me over, remove the veil from face, and look at me.
Countless women. Women of the jungle, but dressed like urban dwellers, no one would no different but for their sunburnt skin and unkempt hair. Some of them hold guns, some rifles, in their hands. Their leader, for of course they have one, towers over them. She is very tall, taller than me. Her head is shaved, and she has rings on her nose, piercings on her face, tattooed arms and legs. The rest of them are simply dressed, much like the woman who now lies dead next to me.
“She is a traitor. She wanted you all to herself. Had forgotten the lessons of the tribe. She has paid,” says the leader woman, the one with the tattoo. “You are ours now, for all of us.”
“You are fair game, mister,” she says, echoing my previous hunter’s words. I sense her salivating, the drool dripping from her mouth.
In the distance, a wolf howls.
One of them moves forward, removes the axe from the log in one easy lift, twirls it in the air with a laugh and throws it down again. I flinch. They all laugh, a loud, menacing laughter that chills my bones.
They replace the net on my face. Lift me in their strong arms. Begin to hum a low chant as they move in unison, holding my body above their heads.
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