Tears Shed in the Grip of Insufferable Oppression

 

Chapter 1 - Torrential waters

1917 November 7, was an insufferable winter day. October to January are the four months Russia shears off from Earth. Escalated cutthroat cold snow layer, with its frozen fingers clawing that huge nation tears it out from the soil. The next few months, the prisoning of that nation in some abysmal space. By squeezing its last ounce of hope, burning the last piece of wood that nation battles with it. Each humane resisting effort is transcribed into journals and literature. Release from the clutches of cold weather at the end of February is like the rebirth of Russia. Wriggling out from the dark womb, gently finding its way through the cold slow layer, steps into the new sunshine world beneath a fresh blue sky. Trees, Birds, Reptiles along with humankind every creature is resurrected. That part of the world knows the secret of death and the coming-alive life cycle.

But that November was different. Under the grayish snow layer, bullets were fired. The scattered red sparks twinkled all over the enshrouded snow layer. Ubiquitous cry of lamentation. It reverberated echoing in the surrounding red brick buildings. Observing that lamenting roar, the buildings seemed to grow in size. Hail slogans and war cries. The clamor of millions of people overwhelmed with the ecstatic feeling rocked the sky. That clamor piercing the ears of angels and the holy man sleeping in the sky relayed a message. Their thus far duty is done and dusted. For thousands of years, the downtrodden people who shed sweat and tears praying for remission from misery mounted a never seen before rebellion. They broke free from suppression to write their future. Arms became their new personal deities. Amidst the somber, snow-blanketed streets of Saint Petersburg, the fervent worker classes danced and sang in unison, echoing military and harvest slogans. Occasionally, bullets punctuated the air, fired skyward. Among the throng, two notable American journalists stood out: John Reed and Reece Williams. They had arrived to bear witness to the unfolding of the historic October Revolution firsthand. The entire nation is in euphoria, unprecedented. I marvel at how the very foundations of hell remain undisturbed," he penned. "Yes, indeed. When the surge of armed soldiers engulfed the Hermitage Winter Palace, it seemed as if the gates of hell were about to rupture. 'Moscow would have surely fallen,' declared Williams. "Such exuberance, such excitement. The French Revolution must have unfolded with a similar collective fervor." A peasant, adorned in rugged attire, brandishing a rifle, leaped forward, blowing a kiss and exclaiming, "Tovarisch, Tovarisch." Overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, he, with an idiosyncratic Russian fervor, bellowed, "Tovarisch, Tovarisch." Like a chant, stretching his arms towards the heavens, tears streaming, he repeated the slogans, an embodiment of the emotions surging within him. “What does that mean?” asked Reed. “A piquing word. It can be translated as comrade or fellow compatriot.” “Why does this word make this elder one crazy”? “This is one of the pivotal slogans of the revolution. It means equality, mutual support, and unity in blood. You can call anyone Tovarisch. Only in this part of the world, you can fondly address someone with this word. Remember, not because of the thoughts it evoked but the emotions it evoked, fire powered the revolution.“ “Each of these surroundings is never seen before. I feel excitement and fear at the same moment” “All great moments evoke these dual feelings” They reached the first line of the war fence. A young soldier carrying a smoke-emitting gun getting up on foot “Comrade, your identity card please” asked. John Reed showed his identity cards. The young soldier greeted him. “Allow me to introduce myself Tribanov. I am a commissar from Georgia. He is Yanishov from Neiboth” “Greetings Comrade. I would like to meet your leader Lenin” He laughed with the face appearing crimson caused by the cold frozen “ Leader? No one is around here with such a title. We have a comrade called Lenin. He is our mentor too” “Yes. True. I wish to meet him” “He is over there in the red square. Or he may be in Smoleny” “Smoleny?” “Tsar’s military college. Now it is the secretariat office of the Soviets” “Can you take me there?” “There is a heavy gunfight over there. There could be at least a thousand Military college students still resisting. Gunfire sound resonated in the surroundings. He heard the whistle blowing sound closer to his ears. “Comrade, Come here quickly and take cover” Once taking cover “Comrade, I guess you are in the war field for the first time,” asked Tribanov. “Yes. How did you know?” “The whistle sound you heard was the sound of bullets. You just escaped death in a whisker” They felt jitters in their gut. Reed `` Oh God. Can't believe the leader of the revolution is right here in this dangerous zone?” They did not respond as they scampered ahead for shooting. A few minutes passed, and there was a commotion. Then it was settled. “Are we really in a dangerous zone?” asked Reed. “Yes, Without a doubt, absolute death is just a few feet away. At this moment, I don't worry about my life as I savored the most cherishing events in these last 10 days. “ Tribanov's lips quivered, filled with emotion. “Comrade, I am not in a meaninglessly motivated battlefield fighting for some x against some x. I am dying for my future generation to create a world where justice alone prevails. There can't be any bigger cause for sacrificing my life.” John Reed, moved by those words turned emotional with profuse tears. He embraced that worker. A few hours passed, and reinforcement force arrived at the scene. The war fence was forged ahead. All the journalists in that spot were taken to Smolney in an old war vehicle. On the way, blood-effusing bodies of fallen soldiers scattered all over as apples fell in a garden. After two days, they came to know that no soldier survived that battle. Smoleny is an aged building. It was a realization of an astounding dream of the Tsar. Enormous red brick pillars. Huge corridor. Wide staircases. Huge parking space for Coach vehicles. There was even a bigger corridor on the first floor. The corridor and foyer swarmed with the heads of Red Army soldiers. Stench of humans. Lamentation of humans. The vehicle stopped a little away from that wave of crowd. A soldier wearing an unfit uniform came closer and asked “American Journalists?”. “Yes” “Come with me. Lenin enquired specially mentioning you” “About us?” “Yes. Come along. “ They penetrated through that bustling crowd and reached the corridor. A short man was sitting on the other side of a huge table in the Smoleny corridor. After checking our identity card “ Comrades, Please sit over there. Help yourself with the company of two German journalists” Those two were moved by that mass ecstatic state. The entire crowd appeared to be single-minded and emotionally hypercharged. Suddenly, there was a cry from the commotion. People around the square where the Tsar Nicholas stone statue was dispersed. Workers climbed all over the statue like bees. By the watch of Tsar's cold eyes, workers placed the hooks over his neck and arms. The ropes of the hook were pulled by hundreds of arms. The statue quivered mildly. Workers jumped out of the statue. Suddenly, the head breaking away fell on the ground and shattered. People scattered out of that place. The dangling podium of the statue fell on the ground rocking the ground. The shattering sound was ears piercing. A crazy mass celebration sound erupted. Unbridled laughter let loose with intermittent crying sounds. Workers climbing on top of the fallen statue, pranced. “Can ever a huge mass of humans losing themselves, unite into such a singular colossal power? Is it even possible?” asked Reed. “You are witnessing it indeed. Histories made when human mass unite as a single unit, motivate to achieve a single goal,” said Williams. “Monstrous power,” said Reed befuddled. “ If it is not channelized in the right path, it may even destroy the world” “He must be a wizard. He has full control over this flood.” “It may appear on the surface level. Didn't you notice the fall of the Tsar? After all, they had been ruling for centuries.” “But this is a different era” “Yes. The era of powerful yet reckless, impetus primeval man. The golden age is bygone. This is the Iron Age” “Do you think he is a man of iron?” “If he is not, this well could be the beginning of a great disaster. These people need an iron-minded leader. Motivated by impregnable fort-like wisdom, unwavering pronounced expressive words emerge from steel-like hearts. “Do you think Vladimir Ilyich is a wonder man?” “I don't believe that” “Let us hope” “Silence, Silence” a loud commanding voice ordered. There followed a cacophony of hundreds of voices. That command visibly enshrouded that crowd like a wave. The first row of men at the entrance turned silent. Slowly the entire crowd settled as if the ocean turned ice in seconds. One man climbed over a cannon vehicle brought there by a few other men. “Look over there. Who is standing over the cannon vehicle? Can't believe my eyes.” “History writing its pages” “Yet” “This is an Iron Age right?” There was a stout yet muscular man in a black robe with h globourous prominent forehead, short nose, tight lips, french beard, glittering hard angled browed eyes, and a spirited smile. “Yes, he is the one. He is looking just like how he was portrayed in the picture,” said Williams. His contagious excitement caught Reed too. The moment of truth is imminent. It is going to be a watershed moment for humanity. The future course of civilization is going to change in a decisive direction forever. Without skipping a beat, I must observe and write about each event, each scene, each news, every word from his mouth, and every pause he takes in this speech. I must store it in my deep-down conscious memory. I would live my entire life as a witness to this momentous moment. This is the sole purpose of my life. Reed’s entire form was quivering. That man, upon climbing over the cannon vehicle, raising his hand, greeted the crowd. A thunderous sound erupted in the crowd as if the smoleny building was going to collapse. He beckoned to settle the crowd. A Silent wave slowly covered the crowd. He appeared tired. His mane waved in the air. His dress was filled with dust and smeared with grease. He was like some enigmatic ancient drawing. The silence grew deeper. A cough, one rifle cling sound and a shoe scratching ground sound sealed that silence. The smell of silence slowly emerged. Mixtures of blood, sweat, firepowder, rugged boots, and snow smell wafted around. The entire crowd was frozen and fixed on that man to hear the next word from this mouth. “Comrade!” said he. As his voice was a little low, it was not audible. He shouted his lungs out “Comrade. We begin our journey for building a socialistic society”

 

Chapter 2 - The Bronze Horseman (poem)

By the billowing Neva River's bank,

Stood a stormy thoughts beset man Gazing upon enormous river flow, Solitude boat drifting, a silent woe A Pushkin ( A Bronze Horseman beginning lines) In October end, Neva freezes like a man recollecting a traumatic memory. The imposing senate building, situated in front of the leaf-shredded trees thoroughfares, not a soul dares to occupy the steel-grated stone tables that line it. The grind of the coach wheel making the snow powder only to be frozen back to snow, is not a pleasant sight. The snowflakes blanketed the steel grates, as I ambled ahead playing with the snowflakes, crumbling it between my fingers. My footstep seemed to reverberate through the mist. It occurred to me that a spectral image hounding me. I always suspect someone is surveilling me closely. Spying is not uncommon in this country. In my case, let me confide with you, I am spying on myself. The former Nicholoi Bhukarin beforemath of learning Philosophy and Politics, who was not a member of the party, a tenderfoot young man, whose sole life purpose was immerse into poems. He was an unassuming, anxious, butter-handed, scrumpy adolescent boy. He fretted over his overly prominent neck and scarcely noticeable lips. Throughout his awakening time, his soul incessantly pondered the question why does this earth turn so languidly? The love letters he penned never reached the mouth of the post box. In the recent past, when he read those letters hidden in a box stored in an underground room, he was seized by profound remorse, how come countless times he was ready to sacrifice his life, most of the time for a woman? He was filled with acute remorse feeling. He sought redemption in a holy altar to self-sacrifice his being. He was a sweet moron. Many of his beloved beauties faded into the recesses of his memory. He happened to see a few of them in the streets. Some peculiar attitude finds a place in the weathered faces of the aged beauties. He first noticed that when he saw the Rathyonavna Siyomski on the stage. It was the expression that made them beautiful in their teen days. The contrived manifestation of the very same expression would turn into the greatest caricature of all drawn by the god. It would make me sniggle. Poor Vera. Now she is the spouse of a Town committee member. He was lucky that his letters did not reach her hands. In this cold political era, love letters are perilous. He noticed a bloke sitting on the stone bench gazing at him. He averted his gaze when their eyes met. I wondered what piqued his attention on me. As a figure poised to attain historical significance, I seldom express my laughter, crying, and anger in public. Concealing the shrewd politician beneath a veneer of composure requires considerable effort. Perhaps he identified that concealed politician within me. I went near and sat beside that juvenile. There is a possibility that he might be a member of the Bolsheviks or a soldier of the Red Army. He might have met me in some instance. No, It is unlikely. I have not attended the party meetings in the last two years. After allowing a few moments to ensure safety and establish a comfort zone “ Good Day, Comrade” I began. His countenance turned pale. The bluish veins and prominent cheeks suddenly turning pale was a repelling sight. How could a man turn such pale? Sharp nose, and his Adam's apple was so thin. My mind was excited as his face looked familiar. “Have we met before?” He smiled. His expression resembled that of a fearful baby. After a brief pause, “ I noticed your gaze on me. Do you know who I am?” “No. I don’t” his voice was trembling, clearly taken aback by the directness of my question. I felt disappointed by his response. “My names Nikolai Bhukharin” He did not seem aware of my name. He smiled. “May I know why you were gazing at me?” I asked. “You must be aware of what it means to gaze at strangers these days” “You. You.. were quoting lines from a poem” said he. His face flushed crimson instantly. His head started quivering. “Did I quote poem? “ “Yes just now, when you were crumbling snowflakes from the steel grates” “It is not possible” “Yes. I heard the same lines of the poem that I was reciting from my heart” His contagious excitement enveloped me. “Which poem?” He seemed embarrassed “It is a well-known old poem. Perhaps you know by heart too. The Bronze Horseman” My heartbeat shot out. My legs moved involuntarily. That poem drove me crazy in my young days. On those days, I must have recited it at least a thousand times happily prancing around. Those verses are part of my every breath. But off late those versed slipped out from my memory. “Pardon me. Could you remind me of the lines you mentioned?” I asked “Those lines laden with traumatic memories. “ said he. “ May I sing them instead? Reciting the poem bores me “ “Please do” He cleared his throat and began softly. With each word, he emphasized the poetic depth, as if summoning another persona from within. "Neither died, nor one of the living, neither a beast nor a human, but some enigmatic spirit," he recited. An agonizing ache gripped me, surging through every fiber of my being and sapping my strength. I reclined, parting my legs in an attempt to ease the overwhelming intensity. "Did I hurt you?" the youth inquired. "No," I replied. "It's just some old memories resurfacing. Not sure if they're pleasant or haunting." "Indeed," he murmured. "Are you a fan of Pushkin's poetry?" I asked. "I would die reciting his lines," he confessed, shocking me with his fervor. It felt like déjà vu as he gestured toward the bronze horseman. "That's the bronze horseman. He's never changed except for the face." I glanced at the statue. As the mist dissipated from the Senate ground, a cleft in the sky emerged, resembling a cascading waterfall. Tsar Peter's bronze horseman stood revealed, bathed in a luminous glow that emphasized every crease in the dress and sparkle in the horse's mane. The elevated legs and sinewy flesh of the horse and its neck extended in a pose of majestic grandeur. Comfortable Peter emanating a sense of valor holding that rein in this hand. Statue’s countenance, etched with the imprints of dreams, pride, and a steadfast gaze, held an uncanny sense of familiarity. The 3D bronze statue imparted a dreamlike ambiance to the entire setting. It was as though a color drawing had sprung to life, endeavoring to establish a communion with us. "Two centuries ago, a man stood on the banks of this river. The Neva flowed vigorously, resembling a wild forest river, surging through the lightless marshes on both sides. Makeshift shanties of Finnish fishermen released smoke from their chimneys. Delicate blue wisps drifted through the enveloping mist. Dinghies tethered to dock poles seemed like restless dogs ready to leap into the Neva, breaking free from their chains. The fishing boats unfurled their wings. In that era, Russia, too, mirrored the essence of this river. Robust, unyielding, and relentless, akin to the stern love of a barbaric mother, it harbored a cruel devotion.” "Yes, that is history," I acknowledged. His discourse took me by surprise, yet I found myself completely immersed in his speech. It is rare to encounter such a consciousness unfiltered, human voice these days. "On that day, perched atop a rock, he spent hours contemplating the river. My country is an eyeless monster, a windowless palace. Let an eye appear, let windows emerge. Through them, we will behold the entirety of Europe. May the essential fragrance of all civilizations fill my soul," he commanded, beckoning with his hand. “Yes this is the destiny of this city” "This city, sprouting from marsh soil and dense forest, reached sky-high. Red clouds tapped on palace balconies and vibrant highways. Tapestry of life, bustling supermarkets, operas, army marching squares, feasts, and parties. Along the Neva, stone-crafted embankments emerged, hosting ships from far-off nations. The entire world seemed to descend from it," he began to sing. Oh Illustrious city of Peter May you thrive as bold as Mother Russia Mighty Nature’s forces will yield in front of you Former enemies dissolved in the annals of time Undulating Finnesh Waves pays homage to your splendor A gentle breeze caressing me unlocked all the doors of my soul. Tears welled within me. One single melody, one single poignant song that made me cry in the young days, propelled me to some distant realm and made me feel like a solitary boat drifting in a vast ocean. “So many lines left unwritten by Pushkin,” said that Young man. “This city was ascended over the thousands of Finnish fishermen's lives. Millions of slaves transported from the distant Chechnya, Turkmenistan, and Kazakhstan endured the cruel lash and toiled tirelessly until their last breath met in this soil. Human bodies enriched the base of this land as much as the forest deep woods” “Yes, Pushkin metaphorically captured their sacrifice through the impoverished Finnish young Yevkani,” said he. “Indeed. Did you get a chance to read the historical background of this novel?” “Not extensively” “Pushkin was fond of the name He directly referenced it in his verses and even authored a novella titled 'Yevkani Onekin” “Yes” “He was his fellow compatriot poet Yevkani Paradatheis. He had an ardent passion for Yevkani's poetry. Yevkani was originally part of the December Revolution. He was captured and exiled to Siberia. He died there. Pushkin has so many letters unsent addressed to Yevkani even after he departs” “Does that flood symbolize the December revolt?” “Undoubtedly. Pushkin meticulously documented the Decembarists in his journals capturing their visages with manic intensity. Through his vivid visual narrative, he indirectly suggested his profound connection, as if he too might have been a participant. Poor Pushkin. The faces of Decemberists hounded him forever.” “Why did not he take part in the movement?” The youth trembled overwhelmed with emotions then raised his voice “Sir, He is a poet. His actions are driven by his pure soul. For day and night, he could pour forth his emotions through his imagination. In his dreams alone, he could sacrifice his life by hanging a rope or firing a cannon. Only in his mind, he could be exiled to Siberia and toil through it. He did not directly take part in the movement as he is a poet” I was not surprised by his reaction as I know that was the nature of a poet. All of a sudden, he took a step back visibly embarrassed. “Perhaps” he hesitated “He is a coward. His reasons through poems must have been fiction mere excuses to hide his timidity. His poems are just reasons to fill the gap of his cowardice. His poetic sense is vast, and so too is his cowardice. “Pushkin’s aggression is evident from the lines describing the flood,” I said. “ As winter nears the end, Neva’s frozen surface begins to fracture, tumultuous collision of snow rocks emitted as if frowning. It erupts with a lamentation akin to a feverish man's anguish." In tumultuous churn, the waters coil, Sweeping through the islands' soil. Unbridled waves, and rains, they came, High rose the river, in wild flame, Like boiling water, Neva's might, Flood roared into the city's sight. His words resonated like the chirping of an unfamiliar bird. When I listened to the volcanic verses of Pushkin through his voice, a hundred new voices stirred within the depths of my being. It seemed as though I had traversed vast distances carried along by the currents of his voice. It was only when the waves of my mind began to settle that I noticed him, deeply immersed in his thoughts. A rare sobriety, akin to the quietude of early mornings, filled me. I resolved to dispel it by continuing the conversation. "Floods will eventually subdue, Comrade. We are not prepared to accept this in our youthful days." "Yevkani, for a few moments, fixed his gaze upon the Bronze Horseman, meeting its eyes directly. In that fleeting second, his resolute stare caused the pride-filled eyes of the bronze equestrian to falter," continued the youth. "Indeed, only those rare moments possess the power to ascend to the pages of history." "I witnessed Yevkani being swept away by the flood, seeking refuge beside the lion statue in the military academy, nestled under the dome at the corner of Peter's Square. Beneath his feet lay a tumultuous burial ground of bodies and countless treasures. Tongues of waves licked at everything around him. All that he had once looked upon with lofty regard, all that had held high rank in his eyes, now lay beneath him, subdued and lifeless. With a single push, he could reduce palatial structures to dust. Yet, his mind restrained him. He did not succumb to the intoxication of power. Instead, he found himself consumed by anxiety over the unfolding events. "What is happening, why such a disaster?" his mind screamed. Amidst the confusion, clear thoughts eluded him. In his later life, frequently he traversed through the same turbulent, fiery state of his mind. When Yevkani opened his eyes, he beheld the very image of the Bronze Horseman, turning grand, pride-filled countenance and haughty eyes. Flotsams and jetsams, rags draped over it, the flood coursing and covering its chest, it seemed as if poised for a leap. In a fleeting moment, Yevkani was startled. Peter, attaining a monstrous size, returned to life. Once his thoughts settled, his gaze turned toward the statue. The once dignified countenance now displayed a hint of provoked intensity, as if ready to burst forth with life. His focus narrowed on the statue's eyes, which conveyed an array of emotions—vengeance, humiliation, ferocity, and impotence. In the very next moment, a trace of fear flickered across the eyes, exhilarating Yevkani's senses. It tempted him to dance with excitement, though he refrained from shouting the triumphant slogan as the visage transformed into a sardonic smile. The smile, however, bore the weight of bitter indifference, eventually freezing into a chilling and merciless expression. Unable to withstand the statue's final expression, he averted his gaze. “Am I boring you?” asked the youth. I opened my eyes, hit by an intense headache—a consequence of indulging in alcohol during the late hours of the night. The influence of alcohol amplifies during moments of solitude, eroding our control over consumption levels, and resulting in weariness that consumes us like a relentless current. My room, once clear, now appeared shrouded in an impenetrable haze. Broken artifacts and remnants of days gone by weighed heavily on my mind, sinking into the recesses of memories. The room, filled with silent spider webs and lingering odors, only stirred to life at night. A rhythmic sound, "tat tat tat," accompanied by creaks and friction, reverberated through the air. Powerless to stop the noise, I would hastily reach for a vodka bottle. As the vodka poured, it inundated the room, submerging every object. Gradually, the noise subsided, and the submerged items found their place. The weightless remnants floated atop the liquid until, at last, the air escaped, bringing tranquility to my trembling body. A fleeting sense of fulfillment ensued as the room, like a ponderous ship in a storm, broke free and sank into a peaceful ocean, finding its rest. However, the aftermath lingered—the next day, my entire being carried the unmistakable scent of vodka. My nerves struggled under its weight. Morning would arrive, exonerating the pain and weariness. Now I found it challenging to convey this experience to the youth. To them, alcohol remains a mere liquid. I sighed deeply. “What are you thinking?” he asked. "After the draining of the flood, what remains are silts, dregs, decaying corpses, and sludges, remnants of the chaos that once engulfed us. The river, however, resumes its natural flow, indifferent to the upheaval it caused. These events witnessed firsthand, will soon find their place in the annals of history. History, an ever-present disheartening force, remains an unwelcome companion. The floodwaters recede, leaving behind marks on the walls, silent witnesses to the intensity of the deluge. As we contemplate the aftermath, we may dwell on the sorrow and wonder of what could have been. But it amounts to nothing more than a stumbling, revelry, and an emotional unraveling, no deeper than the surface amidst the ebb and flow of life." Yevkani’s visit to slum to meet his lover post draining is a sorrow filled sight. Here stood her humble Shanty, Here marked her entrance, Here defined its threshold, The flood, without trace, did erase. Emanating a nauseous sensation, a poignant emotion welled up within my core. Sealing my lips tightly, I strive to restrain the burgeoning sentiment. Despite my efforts, a subdued hiccup escapes. Moments later, my barriers relent, and my doors open. Tears flow freely, akin to a cascading waterfall. After years of restraint, breaking through the misty veil, I unleash the flood of my heart's lament. No trace of destruction remains, Sunshine blankets the scene, Veiling the day's terror, The world embraced normalcy Through open streets, detached, Strolled the inhabitants of the big city. My voice harmonizing with his in perfect unison, the lyrics of the song resonated deeply. Yevkani, transformed into a frenzied figure, rent his garments asunder and careened through the streets. From within those verses, a solitary line emerged, cleaving through me with an unexpected force. He was seized by a rush of nightmares. Startled, he awoke. Abruptly, his singing ceased, and he was left perplexed. To recover from his shock, he began to pace around. Across the merciless snow of Nova, the sunrays unfurled. "Were you able to identify the fisherman who seemed possessed?" asked the youth. "Who might it be?" "Who else but Pushkin? I see it with unmatched clarity. Sleepless, tormented by heartache and nights drowned in drink, he finds his way here. In the winter dawn, in a square deserted by souls, he stands before this statue. The city, now accustomed to the grim news of the December revolutionaries' demise, is slowly cloaked in a fear that camouflages itself. Before this bronze statue, he stands, feeling like a soul utterly crushed and humiliated." Raising his head, Yevkani cast a glance at the Bronze Horseman statue. Under the horse's reared legs, the city seemed to cower in fear. Disbelief took hold as his eyes bore witness to the impossible. The statue's bronze frame trembled, its tail quivered. The horse raised its head, shaking its mane vigorously. Suddenly, it lashed out at him, trampling on his chest with the ferocity of a wild beast. Horses, an army of them, unleashed for years, for centuries, eternally. The man, propelled by a maniacal terror, dashed haphazardly through the city streets. Pursued by the Bronze Horseman, now a magnificent and terrifying apparition. No hiding place could be found in the nooks and corners of the city. Desperate, he leaped into the icy Neva. As a frothy wave, the fog over the Neva was carried westward by the wind. The river lay still, its fractured snow floats drifting gently on its surface. The cursed dwelling stands forsaken, He collapsed upon its threshold, A hapless maniac, now lifeless, Passersby subdued his existence. He concluded by reciting a poem by Pushkin. His words reverberated within me, echoing repeatedly. Together, we walked in solemn silence, burdened by unspoken weight. Breaking that silence “ Thank you. I must leave. It has been quite some time “ "I must extend my gratitude. This poem and I have yearned for your arrival for a long time” It felt as though I had witnessed a flash of lightning. As my thoughts momentarily halted, I reached out for a handshake. His chilly fingers clasped my palm, and we shook hands. I struggled to cast off the thoughts of him as I trudged along the cold road with heavy steps. Over the years, I have been practicing the art of disentangling myself from incomprehensible thoughts. The boulders in the road appeared as if the fractures Snow rocks drifting over the Nova. Compelling my mind into the next step, I sought to attain a semblance of tranquility. I continued walking in this manner for a considerable distance. My name is inscribed on a fractured snow rock, cold impatiently drifting , eagerly awaiting the imprint of my foot. Why couldn't I sleep last night? Why did I read some old letters almost maniacally? Why did memories of him flood back to me? Why did I find myself repeatedly gazing at Anna's baby? It was here, on the banks of Nova, where he had once spent the best days of his life, his vibrant youth and sagacious spirit intertwined. In that epoch, a tempest swept through our existence. Veracious as it may be, history, at times, unfurls unbelievable pages. Indeed, it is the very purpose that led me to this place. The chill of the merciless winter has unveiled to me the depths of agony, instilling within my soul an overwhelming fear.

I discerned the shadow gradually veiling my surroundings. The relentless pursuit of its presence became apparent to me. Verily, it is the ominous silhouette of the Bronze Horseman.

 Chapter 3 - Gusts of Snow ( M Veerabadra Pillai B.A)

Stage: An Ancient Russian Home. There exists two doorways: the main portal and a secondary entrance, discreetly leading to the kitchen and anteroom. At the heart of this domicile, a flaming hearth constructed from red bricks in curvy fashion.  Above this source of warmth and light, a bookshelf stands. Crowning this repository a coals ablaze, smoke whispering samovar rests. Hanging from a silver holder, a dual candle burns, casting a twin flame. In this setting of, a pair of rocking chairs, occupying one, a young lady of eighteen summers, her figure draped in a woolen knitwear, finds solace in the pages of a book. Outside, the nature manifests as gusts of wind and as a sound of snowflakes descending. Over the wall, a statue of Jesus Christ, crafted from silver, captures the faint glow of the candlelight.

A middle-aged woman makes her appearance, entering the scene with a quiet presence. The young lady, catching sight of her, turns her attention inquisitively towards the woman.

Mother: "Haven't you gone to bed yet? Do you not realize how late it is?"

Anna: "No, I just feel as though he might arrive at any moment."

Mother: (Settling into the chair, which emits a creaking noise) "It's the dead of winter. I've never experienced such cold in this land before—it's as if God has forsaken us, leaving us in the clutches of Satan."

Anna: (Startled) "Mother, what are you saying?" (She glances around, assessing their surroundings) "When will you learn to temper your words? Do you speak so recklessly with everyone?"

Mother: (With a look of pity) "I was merely speaking of the snow."

Anna: (With fervent intensity) Choose your words with care before you speak.

Mother: Am I no longer permitted even to lament the harshness of the snow?

Anna: (Exasperated) Mother! Oh, Mother, I find myself at a loss to make you understand.

Mother: You were too young to grasp the past. Merely a toddler of three when the great October Revolution unfolded. Your father served on the front lines of the war for two long years. There were no letters exchanged during that time. I found myself on the brink of financial ruin, the house ensnared by the relentless snow. Venturing into the forest alone, I gathered sticks for firewood. With that, we could heat only this room. Huddled in front of the hearth, we spent days and nights. In those harrowing times, every part of our home, save for this room, succumbed to the icy grasp of the snow. Even rats and insects, desperate to escape the tightening grip of the cold, sought refuge near our hearth. In our midst lived an elderly lady, her demeanor still echoing the grace of a duchess, born into privilege and opulence. Unwavering in her loyalty, she could never comprehend the October Revolution, her allegiance to the Tsarist regime undiminished until her final breath. May I recount that tale?

Anna: I am not in the mood for stories.

Mother: What other choice do we have in this snowy climate?

Anna: Can't you see, I am reading this book.

Mother: The same old books again. How many times can you read them?

Anna: It's the umpteenth time you've recounted the same old story.

Mother: Memories may be old, but they never run dry. Each retelling brings forth new thoughts, a comfort found in words, assuring that the haunting days won't be relived. It could help us erase the past – the cold, starvation, loneliness, fear, and the loss of confidence. Huh huh. What horrendous days those were. We were clueless about what was happening and when the war would end. So many tales unfolded – the Red Army overpowering the Winter Palace, the death of the Tsar, followed by another narrative of the White Army obliterating the Red Army. And if that weren't enough, Mithayevna, the elderly lady, shared a spine-chilling story. Amidst the bleak aftermath of battle, the fallen soldiers of the Red Army lay, their severed heads forming a morbid mound reminiscent of Peter's transformation of the marshy landscapes into Saint Petersburg. Much like the Tsar's ambitious vision for a new city rising from the ground, here, it was to be built upon the somber foundation of fallen comrades. The biting cold gripped me, rendering my voice silent, unable even to shed a tear for the chilling scene before me.

Anna: (mockingly) Ah, a newfound eloquence in your storytelling, I see.

Mother: (dismissively responding to the jest) Turmoil ensued with riots and pillages unfurling in the streets. Peasants and rogues alike ran amok, raiding homes, capturing helpless women in their wake. In our exodus from home, seeking solace within the walls of the Churches, we encountered a stark reality – a scarcity of firewood. The challenge of baking bread with the limited flour at hand pressed upon us. In our desperate plight, we resorted to burning the furniture within the church. We subsisted on meager rations, sustaining ourselves with dry bread and tea bereft of sweetness. After a trying period of ten days, a glimmer of hope emerged as Father found us. It was as though sunshine had suddenly bathed us in its warmth, illuminating our surroundings with newfound relief. Father declared the triumph of the revolution as the red flag soared above the Saint Petersburg palace. Overwhelmed, he seemed to lose himself, tears streaming down his face as he sang songs of jubilation. In his euphoria, he showered kisses upon himself, me, and the elderly lady. The elderly lady remarked dramatically, "I am proud of your loyalty to the Tsar, evident in the shedding of your blood." , oblivious to the true nature of the situation.  Her sincere yet ironic sentiment elicited laughter from us all that day.  Would you care to continue listening?

Anna: Go ahead.

Mother: As we journeyed homeward, the streets bore witness to the devastation of arson, with public properties engulfed in flames and corpses strewn about. Homes lay ransacked, their contents pillaged, while within our own abode, only lifeless rats remained.Father, in a moment of levity, quipped, "Ah, the revolution, the antidote to our lurking enemy,"   likening our surroundings to the desolate streets of post-revolution Moscow.

Anna: ( Getting up moving towards window) Rain is stopped no Gusts of snow too. 

Mother: Yet, I have never known a winter as bitterly cold as this, where the very hooves of horses seem to crackle in the frost."

Anna : ( growing concerned), "Where has he gone? It has been very late."

Mother: ( reassured): "He holds a high-ranking post, likely immersed in the throes of hectic work."

Anna: "But he promised he would return by evening."

Mother: "His official duties likely prevented him from keeping his promise."

Anna's sudden somberness overwhelmed the room as she confessed, "I cannot understand, mother."

Mother, her tone subdued, responded, "And now you cry. I waved the red flag at this mismatched marriage. Your husband was your father's comrade, twenty years your senior. His life was spent mostly on battlefields and in village propaganda. You didn't heed my warnings; his high rank overrode my concerns."

Anna asserted, "I've told you thousands of times, Mother. It's not his high post that captivates me." Emphasizing her point, she continued, "He is the greatest revolutionary leader of our country, a close confidante of Lenin, Trotsky, and Stalin. A profound thinker in his own right."

Mother responded, "You urged me to hold my tongue, yet Trotsky's perilous name slips from your lips."

Anna, visibly confused and turning pale, shushed, "Do not shout."

Mother, with a measured tone, explained, "Your husband is a prominent figure, a member of the Politburo, bearing immense responsibilities. Being his wife is no ordinary role, especially for such a young lady as yourself." 

Anna: (gracefully turning her countenance) Though I am young, I am bound to him as his wife. (a hint of blush on her cheeks) Even now, amidst the frivolous affections of adolescent boys, the ardor of his earlier days of love for me still lingers. In those moments of fervent passion, he enveloped me ecstatically. I recall a day, strolling together in the garden. Reciting Pushkin's verses, he tried to pluck a flower, offering it to me with romantic flair. Struggling to pluck a flower from the cluster of plants, he stumbled through the verses repeatedly. That incident still elicits laughter from me even now.

Mother: The sweetness of love is fleeting.

Anna: (in a displeased tone) Perhaps that is your experience of love.

Mother: (sighs) Like the post-revolutionary honeymoon days, love endures.

Anna: The spring of love never runs dry.

Mother: I'm not one for poems.

Anna: (sighs) He might appear at any moment.

Mother: My dear, your patience in awaiting his arrival is a testament to your love. Yet, my eyes yearn for sleep. (Planting a gentle kiss on her forehead) Goodnight, my sweet. We shall meet in the morning. (She gracefully fades away.)

(Tense silence envelops the room, broken only by the rhythmic tick-tock of the clock. She tends to the hearth, coaxing warmth into the chilled air. After a moment,  She recites a poem loud and clear, each word slicing through the silence.)

Comrades, let us unite,

To sing the Dawn Twilight song in chorus bright.

The snow shall yield and fade from sight,

Each bird, in knowing, takes to flight.

The light shall free us from our binds,

Let us embrace the song that the soul of light finds.

To break our chains, the utmost bliss,

In liberation, we find our truest peace.

Anna: In his physical form, he carries the innocence of a child. Yet, how marvelously he lifts us into the ethereal realms of light with merely his words. Truly, he is a creator touched by grace, singled out by the earth itself from millions of souls, , endowing him with words of profound lightness.

(The familiar sound of a car coming to a halt, followed by the familiar creak of doors opening and closing outside.)

"Nikita!" (Her voice brimming with exuberant fervor, she rushes towards the entrance of the house.) "Nikita, how much longer must I wait to behold that face?"

Bukharin: Alas, it is late. Why are you still awake?

Anna: I was awaiting your return.

Bukharin: I was detained at the Central Politburo meeting.

Anna: Wasn't it scheduled for the morning?

Bukharin: It concluded during the night.

Anna: Nevertheless, why did it run so late?

Bukharin: Anna Mikailevna, it's  a complicated affair ( He closes his eyes and stretches wearily)

Anna: Have you had your dinner yet?

Bukharin: Yes.

Anna: (softly) Would you care for a cup of tea?

Bukharin: (Perplexed) Pardon?

Anna: (Gazing at him with meaning) Tea...

Bukharin: Yes, I would appreciate that.

Anna poured the tea from the samovar into a delicate cup, offering it to Bukharin. He sips it, deeply engrossed.

Anna: Osip’s poems were gracing my thoughts as you entered.

Bukharin: (half-absorbed) I see?

Anna: His words, like golden strands of the heart, ache with profound beauty. I wonder why he has not graced us with his presence of late.

Bukharin: (Startled, he fumbles, nearly losing his cup, but manages to steady it, his composure slowly returning) Did you mention Osip?

Anna: What troubles you? I simply inquired about Osip Mandelstam, the poet.

Bukharin: (Struggling to control his trembling fingers against his cheek) Anna... (pauses for a few moments) There's something I must confess to you.

Anna: (Suddenly gripped by fear) Osip? (Her fear echoes in a haunting tone.)

(Bukharin lowers his head in silence.)

Anna: (Shaking Bukharin urgently) Nikita, what has befallen Osip? You must tell me.

Bukharin: (In a fearful tone) I cannot say for certain.

Anna: What do you mean?

Bukharin: The last I heard, he was taken by the secret police for interrogation.

Anna: Then what?

Bukharin: It has been 40 days since.

Anna: (Her heart breaking, she weeps loudly) Osip, his heart was as tender as a child's.

Bukharin: (Touched by guilt) He must be alright. Just taken for questioning.

Anna: Do you not understand the implications of the word "interrogation" in this country?

Bukharin: Yes, I am aware. But my hands are tied.

Anna: (Accusingly) Ashamed, Nikita? You, a member of the Politburo shaping the destiny of our nation, and you claim helplessness? 

Bukharin: (Rising wearily) Every wife envisions her husband possessing superhuman abilities.

Anna: (Furious) How can you remain so composed? How can you absolve yourself of Osip's fate? Countless pleasant days spent in this room, engaging in literary debates. His sharp intellect and childlike camaraderie with you still linger vividly in my memory. Bukharin: (Sitting back in the chair) I spoke with "him" today. Anna: With whom? Bukharin: (In a furious tone) With whom? That sunset Jesus, Genghis Khan, Tsar Peter. Anna: (Sighs heavily) Keep yourself composed. Bukharin: There's nothing left to hold back. I poured out everything I've concealed within my mind thus far. Anna: (Trembling voice) Face to face, directly? (Anna, in a high-pitched wail, holds her head) Bukharin: No more use in veiled words and measured tones. I divulged everything to him directly. Bukharin: In truth, I went to discuss Osip with him. Anna: And what did he say? Bukharin: He responded calmly and amiably, listening to my grievances with open ears. He even made note of them, promising to rectify any mistakes made. The devil delights in preying upon the wounded. Anna: You mentioned he responded calmly. Bukharin: I could never fathom the emotions concealed behind those two enigmatic little eyes. Anna: Everything is just a figment of your imagination. Bukharin: (Maintaining composure, steadfastly) Anna, you are not privy to the intricacies of Party affairs. I refrained from discussing them earlier to spare you any distress. Anna: (Confidently) Well, you can confide in me now. Bukharin: I hold a profound belief in your confidence and patience. Each time I reflect upon it, I sense an exceptionally strong character within you. Intelligentsia, conspiracies, and commanders-in-chief, all vanquished. (He holds his head, experiencing a sudden surge of force emitting from within.) I've never made exceptions to these thought processes. (He holds his head, shaking it vigorously.) Anna, you epitomize the essence of a Russian woman. Oh God, what sort of artificial words are these? (He stands up.) No, Anna, no one can defeat you. One day, history will kneel before you, beseeching forgiveness. You shall not be destroyed. You will endure this coldest of seasons and witness the arrival of Spring. (Emotion-filled, he paces around the room.) Do you realize who you are? Oh God, how did I perceive everything so clearly. Tolstoy and Dostoevsky both immortalized your character in words, as Natasha, Nelli, Sonia, and Kitty. You never permit logic to shroud your conscience. Cynicism and fear never envelop your innate ethics. Your soul never runs dry, never loses its mercy. Because, you are the fertile land. Unlike us, mere matchsticks burning and turning to ash in seconds. You are the seeds from which eternal torrents, like generations, flow. They emerge from your soil, never aware of this cold weather. When they are born, there will be a resounding blow to these cold rocks. Yes, in tomorrow. (Filled with tears) How remarkably clear I could see the future. The confidence it imparts to today is akin to one who has lost their way, surrounded by snow everywhere, suddenly witnessing golden dawn rays at the peak of the mountains. Anna: (Composed) You were about to share the inside matters of the party. Bukharin: Yes. (Silence prevails for a few seconds) Anna, unlike what you may think, I do not hold a prominent position in the party hierarchy. Slowly, I've been relieved of all my responsibilities. Myself, Rico, Tomsky, and Papa Colin hold no official position within the party. Anna: Why so? Bukharin: When the new Economic Policy was revoked, we found ourselves jobless. Despite our best efforts to argue its benefits in the Politburo, our collective opinion held no sway. It became apparent later that the New Economic Policy had been used as a weapon to undermine Trotsky's influence. Regrettably, we were mere pawns unwittingly aiding in Trotsky's removal from the party. Anna: Where is he now? Bukharin: Unofficial reports indicate that he sought asylum in some South American country. Additionally, there are rumors circulating about the deployment of secret mercenaries sent to surveil and potentially eliminate him. Anna: I happened to see Trotsky twice in my life. A strong and stout-formed person, with an unyielding and passionate personality. On that day, there was a huge crowd thronging to catch a glimpse of his face. It was a wave of faces filled with exuberance. But Trotsky remained unaffected by that crowd's fervor. (She let out a Sigh.) Bukharin: Yes, that is Trosky. He was grown surrounded by extremely emotional people. Always filled with passion. Emotional debates. Speeches. But he was a very lonely person. The silence confined him like a glass cage. Anna: He has no formidable one to challenge - underscore him. Bukharin: I don't think so. He likes to walk on the cake, but he couldn't even bear the noise of dry leaves trampling underfoot. (Furiously) Coward, a big coward. Like a rabbit in a hole, he flinched at every sound he heard. He sees enemies in every movement around him. This cowardly tyrant is extremely pernicious. Anna: How could he not flinch every moment? After all, he catapulted himself to the peak of power just by plots and conspiracies. Bukharin: (Trembling) Ah, the cat is out of the bag. Your perception of my image thus far hidden stands revealed before you.

Anna: Oh no, I did not mean. Bukharin: I absolutely understand your perspective of me. (Getting up, walking around restlessly) In the early power struggles, I was the one who argued and convinced Siminov and Kamnev that if Trotsky came to power, it would mean the end for them, as they would be his main competitors. I used threats and bought their support. When I look back, I've been contemplating so much about how they bought into that argument. It must have been a reflection of the deep-seated fears in their minds. What is the source of that fear? These great individuals came together with a golden dream for humanity, as instruments of the great revolution. How did they become ensnared in this fear? Do you know why, dear Anna? Anna: Why? Bukharin: If Trotsky were to become the head of the state, the feared consequences were very much plausible. Anna : Nikta! Bukharin: Anna, above all, these two were the most intimate companions of Trotsky, familiar with his innermost thoughts. They closely monitored his psyche while collaborating closely. The tale of Philipkulmich Mirona remains etched in their memories. Anna: Who is he? Bukhari: He was a comrade of your father, one of the most esteemed commanders in the Red Army. He stood as Trotsky's closest ally for eight years. Born into a humble Cossack family, he ascended as soldier in the Tsar's army. He was personally selected by Trotsky for the Red Army. This man led the vanguard that stormed the Kremlin during the October Revolution. In 1921, he was dispatched to the south to quell the Cossack uprising. Distressed by the harsh treatment meted out to the simple Cossack folk and their possessions by the Red Army, he confronted Trotsky, pleading for an end to the brutality. He cautioned that if the Red Army's excesses in the aftermath of suppression were not curtailed, the entire Cossack populace would turn against us, perhaps even joining the White Army. Trotsky, however, refused to heed his warning. Mironov was subsequently accused of blasphemy and met his end through hanging. Trotsky was the one who ordered his capital punishment. Now, I find myself in Mironov's position, and he mirrors the Trotsky's state of mind . It's the same cycle of emotional turmoil, suggesting I may well meet the same end. But why say 'perhaps'? Indeed, my demise appears to be a foregone conclusion, imminent and unavoidable. Anna: Nikita! You've completely lost confidence. Bukharin: No, Anna. It's not about losing confidence; I simply have no plans for the future. The strategies we once held dear have crumbled to dust. Thus, we can evaluate past events without the burden of future worries. The Bolsheviks are, at their core, propelled by a vicious force—fratricide among comrades. The genesis of Bolshevik empowerment, if we trace its roots, lies in the intricate dance of plots and schemes. And behold, through the corridors of time, that legacy endures. Anna: Are you referring to Lenin? Bukharin: I am recalling his exact words regarding the Mensheviks. Though I endeavor to stifle such memories, they persist like an indigestible bitterness, stirring within me a nauseating unease. According to Lenin, the Mensheviks have no place on this earth save for the confines of prison. Any hint of opposition to the revolution, no matter how minuscule, must be eradicated without a trace. In the fervor of revolution's zenith, our senses were engulfed, our ears deaf to dissenting murmurs. The last Menshevik who dared to shun foreign asylum met his fate at the hands of the Revolutionary government. To us, the revolution stood as the resurrected son of God, its damage deemed as inevitable collateral. Anna: I am in disbelief; I hail from a generation that heralded the revolution as the dawn of a golden era. Bukharin: Indeed, it is a dawn. Have you ever met with Kerensky? Anna: I presume he was a Menshevik. Bukharin: (With a wry smile) Speak it aloud. Menshevik. Anti-revolutionary. Advocate of regression. Anna, recall the Mensheviks' stance. They contended that the revolution, led by the working class with the aid of armed forces, amounted to a mere transfer of power—a pseudo-revolution, lacking true transformative essence. They argued that the revolution must originate from the Russian soil itself. I recall Kerensky's impassioned speech on television, where he bellowed "Comrades" with fervor. Even now, this great nation remains predominantly agrarian, with 80% of its population still under the feudal yoke of landlords. Every village in this country stands as a segregated entity, untouched by the industrial tide. Many have yet to feel the slightest impact of modernization. The majority of the population remains unaware that the government is meant to function for the people. Let us begin by educating them on the principles of socialism. Let the first seeds of revolution sprout from there. Each of Kerensky's words seemed to echo those of Lenin from a few months prior. Anna: What unfolded afterward? Bukharin: Lenin seized upon an opportune moment, as weary, disillusioned soldiers returned from the battlefield, harboring resentment toward the existing government. He discerned their yearning for ceasefire, wasting no time in devising his scheme. Lenin envisioned the revolution as the ultimate battle for peace. All that transpired stemmed from that vision. Kerensky, once a proponent, lamented in the assembly, "Comrades, the faction of disillusioned armed men and agitated workers does not authentically represent the spirit of this entire nation. This chapter of history is undoubtedly complex. An interim government, acting as a compromised force between the army and the workers, could provide stability until the workers are educated in the principles of revolutionary philosophy. Kerensky's prophecy foretold of ambitious factions uniting to claim dominion, plunging Russia into the abyss of exploitation and ruin. Yet, in my fervor, I denounced him with damning words, branding him a coward and power-hungry opportunist. Trotsky, too, added his damning words, branding Kerensky as naught but history's scavenger. Now, every utterance of Kerensky echoes like the resurrected Redeemer, Jesus Christ himself, returning to challenge the conscience of our times. Anna: Did you not foresee this at the time, Nikita? Bukharin: My mind was veiled by the intoxicating fervor of victory. Even now, I recall those moments vividly. When news reached me of the Winter Palace's capture, yes, indeed, I had a boner, swept up in an undeniable rush of excitement.

Anna: (With disgust) Nikita!

Bukharin: The immense force of that wave was beyond human restraint, engulfing me entirely, penetrating every fiber of my being. When Kerensky fled to Norway, Trotsky dispatched secret police to track him down and silence him. In that moment, I struggled to see the cruelty in such an act, even for a fleeting second. So many assassinations, so much bloodshed, ethics blurred into oblivion. Humanity's moral compass lost amidst the chaos, discarded like ancient superstitions. A new brand of ethics emerged, concocted and adhered to with fervor. Lenin proclaimed, "After this great revolution, even the birds will soar as before." But was this truly a revolution? Merely a fleeting episode in the annals of history. Such occurrences have repeated throughout time, a recurring theme etched upon the pages of our collective past.

Anna: Nikita, are you rejecting Lenin as well?

Bukharin: Presently, I find myself without a definitive philosophical stance against Lenin, yet doubts about his ideology linger within me.

Anna: Are you questioning the very essence of revolution?

Bukharin: Indeed, I question not the concept of revolution itself, but rather its ethical implications. Consider, every hardship we endure traces back to the upheaval of revolution, does it not? Why then should we expect mercy from Stalin, when we extended none to the Mensheviks? Trotsky proclaimed that mercy belongs to an era long past. Words like love, loyalty, and culture were once wielded by capitalists to perpetually exploit the working class. In this new era's dawn, let us forge and uphold fresh morals, ethics, and values. Indeed, the lexicon of this new age is adorned with words like fraternity and equality. I can still vividly recall the brilliance in his eyes as he uttered those words in the dim half-light. That illumination was but a mere droplet of the immense force that swept through us all. May my eyes, too, be overwhelmed by that potent force.

Anna: (hesitantly) You've undergone a profound transformation. Your mind and heart seem utterly shattered. Not just your beliefs and ambitions, but every aspect of you appears to be in disarray.

Bukharin: (weeping uncontrollably) There's nothing left within me. I am but an empty vessel, soon to be consumed by the soil. My thoughts and body will fade away, my seeds never to be sown. Nothing remains that truly belongs to me.

Anna: (Holding his shoulder) Nikita, is this truly you?

Bukharin: (Settling) My ego lies in ruins. With its collapse, I feel utterly devoid of purpose. My entire existence seems devoid of meaning.

Anna: Nikita, I'm at a loss. (weeping)

Bukharin: I've come to realize the desolate destination my ego has led me to—void, emptiness. Yet, there seems to be no alternative outcome. For millennia, saints have spoken of this arrogance culminating in the abyss of emptiness.

Anna: Why must you shoulder all the blame for whatever has transpired? Bukharin: No, Anna, I'm not assigning blame to myself. I am merely engaging in critical analysis of my own actions. Did you know, I vividly foresaw these events in my instinctive thoughts long before they occurred? Anna: Can it really be so? Bukharin: Alone, as my innermost thoughts stir awake, casting aside the deceptive dance of words, fear grips me upon recognizing the unfolding events. Yet, swiftly, I endeavor to quell this dread, drenching it with words. I seek solace in the rational explanations I've spun, hoping to distill some shred of hope from them.( his anxiety palpable as he rises and begins to pace) Upon meeting Chengiz Khan alone, that same fear ensnared me, tight and unyielding. (He stops, lost in thought) I recall the day we resolved to cast our votes against Trotsky. In the Supreme Soviet conference hall's restroom—no, it doubled as a smoking room—Kamenev, Zinoviev, Radek, and I found ourselves. There we were, all four of us, in utter disarray. Trotsky had just concluded his address. It appeared he had swayed the supportive tide in his favor. He argued against the new economic policy with fervor. Meanwhile, Radek and Kamenev were fervently smoking their cigarettes, nearly consumed by their nervous energy. And as ever, Zinoviev was there, scribbling notes with relentless diligence, endeavoring to points for his argument. Radek, with a grave tone, declared, 'There is no other choice,' acknowledging the slender thread that separated our paths. In that moment, the root of my anxiety became clear to me. The fate of the Supreme Soviet hangs precariously by a few slender threads of votes. Should we align with the prevailing side, we may evade catastrophe. However, the specter of betrayal looms large over us—each of us casting suspicious glances at the others, pondering who among us might stray. This pervasive atmosphere of mistrust weighs heavily upon us all. Yet, as Chengiz Khan emerged victorious in the end, a wave of relief washed over me, soothing the frayed nerves and quieting the tumult within. Anna: "Had Trotsky emerged victorious, such a precarious situation might never have unfolded. Regardless, he belonged to the intelligentsia, a group known for their intellect and discernment. It's unlikely he would have wrought such extensive damage." Bukharin: "This is the plight of Russian farmers, a fate seemingly inevitable and beyond anyone's control." Anna: "I remain perplexed by your ability to speak about it so starkly."

Bukharin: "How else can one respond, having borne witness to such ruthless devastation? I can only imagine the colossal forces at play, where integrated minds brimmed with self-pride. It's not fate, but rather the machinations of an arrogant mind. Man is blessed to inhabit the soil, yet instead of peacefully coexisting in cooperation, he awakens a monster lurking beneath the earth. This monstrous force now reigns over Europe with an iron grip, wielding its power at the edge of its whip. That solitary monster finds companionship in another indomitable beast. Yes, iron and coal, the monstrous couple, have attained a supreme form. Their offspring, born of ferocious sex , now saturate the soil of the earth. Tanks, cannons, planes, tractors, motors—each relentlessly inflicting incurable wounds upon the surface of the soil. The great nations feed their insatiable greed, while we stand as mere droplets before these monstrous entities. A revolution, a revolution of iron, the master of them all. (Rising with eyes filled with a distant gaze) "Yes, I was there, witnessing the torrential flow of iron,. Helmets, bayonets, rifles—coal-rusted iron—it swept away the winter palace on that fateful day. The Hermitage's chambers were inundated. On that day, iron manifested through the Lenin, Trotsky, and Svestiyov. Now, transformed into tractors and tanks, it ravages our distant villages, pillaging the very essence of our land. Anna: (With a startled tone) Nikita, what truth lies behind the commotion yonder? Bukharin: Last April, during my journey, the train paused briefly at Mikilai Station. There, in the open, lay countless farmers, their garb tattered, shivering from more than just the cold. They were encircled by tanks, and soldiers stood watch over them. The snow, like a shroud, concealed them. And for a fleeting moment, as if the veil was lifted, I saw children, their faces pallid and lifeless, all their vitality sapped away. Anna: (Her voice breaking, tears overwhelming her) Pray, speak no more of such horrors. Bukharin: Behind the now veiled curtain, the silver gleam of marshaled tanks broke through. The edges of bayonets glittered ominously. Those were the Gulag exiles, bound for Siberia. Many perished even before the deportation began; others would meet their end awaiting the train. The exact number who would survive the journey to Siberia remains shrouded in uncertainty. Anna: (Lamenting) Jesus Christ, my Redeemer... Nikita, is this indeed true? Have your own eyes beheld such sorrow? Bukharin: The statistics I've managed to gather are even more harrowing. It is estimated that at least 10 million farmers have perished. If we were to stack their lifeless bodies, they would tower higher than the tallest buildings of Moscow and Saint Petersburg combined. Anna: (Covering her face with both hands) Please, say no more. Bukharin: To be honest, I wish not to burden you with such grim revelations. I desire for you to remain as pure and untainted as a fresh flower. It was only upon meeting you that I felt compelled to shed all pretense. In your presence, I find a glimmer of hope restored in humanity, akin to how flies seek warmth in the cold. Perhaps my guilty conscience is the driving force behind my affection for you since the very first moment we met. (Anna shed tears for a few moments, Then, a heavy silence descended, filling the space with an unspoken weight)

Bukharin: I feel as though Mother Russia herself is weeping, kneeling in sorrow. (She moves near the window) It appears a snowstorm is looming on the horizon. Outside, a dreadful silence blankets the land.

Anna: What caused the farmers to wither and decay like dry leaves? Where is the backbone that once rebelled against the oppressive tyranny of the Tsar?

Bukharin: This time, they face iron. Picture a scene where tanks and armored vehicles surveil unarmed peasants, whose only bond is with the soil beneath their feet. Seeking even the slightest hint of hostility, it unleashes its fury upon them. Those suspected of opposition are swiftly imprisoned. Farmers are coerced into laboring on collective farms. Had they acquiesced and surrendered, perhaps they would have found reprieve. But they underestimated the might of iron. Unyielding opposition only fueled the flames of total disaster.

Anna: Do not absolve yourself of your role in this crime against humanity. Did you present this as the second revolution at the 3rd Congress Conference?

Bukharin: It was part ignorance, part arrogance. (He smiled wryly) Yes, what I said is correct. This is indeed a significant second revolution. Merely a continuation of the violence unleashed upon the Cossacks by the Red Army following Lenin's orders.

Anna: Why has your knowledge and wisdom taken a backseat?

Bukharin: (with a heavy heart) You, my dear Anna, possess the uncanny ability to touch upon the tenderest recesses of my soul with such piercing questions. Indeed, you stand as a beacon of illumination, exposing the vulnerabilities within me. It is fitting that you should be the one to confront me. This is the destiny I rightfully deserve. (kneeling softly, his voice filled with remorse) I am but a coward, arrogant, capricious, a sinner more than that a murderer. 

Anna: (Quickly reaching out, she embraces him tightly) Nikita, Nikita, (She showers him with affectionate kisses) Your soul remains untainted, untouched by sin.

(Bukharin, regaining composure after shedding tears)

Anna: You are innocent.

Bukharin: Indeed. I can depart this life with peace in my heart.

Anna: Such nonsensical words you speak.

Bukharin: Yes, death draws near. Siniov and Kamov have been apprehended and are currently undergoing interrogation in prison.

Anna: (Startled) When did this happen?

Bukharin: It has been a month. They stand accused of poisoning Kero, betraying the revolution, and several other charges.

Anna: Good heavens, Sinovyov? Could such an accusation be leveled against him?

Bukharin: In just a few days, they will be coerced into confessing their supposed crimes with their own mouths.

Anna: (Clutching her chest) Oh Lord, my Savior!

(The snow blows fiercely, rattling the windows and causing every object in the room to quiver. Visibility is reduced to near nothingness in the onslaught of snow gusts. The twinkling lamp flickers, its light on the verge of being extinguished. The howling of the snow gusts fills the air.)

Bukharin: Next, it will be me, Ricov, and Tomsky.

Anna: No, it cannot be so.

Bukharin: It's only a matter of time.

Anna: Why must we face such a grim fate, Nikita?

Bukharin: In this age of iron, my mind and heart cling to the remnants of bygone ethics. Natural forces shape the movement of the earth in every era. I may be labeled as Satan, Lucifer, or the prince of darkness, each era having its unique vessel for such forces. Just as a king rules a country or a philosophy dominates a century. Before that omnipotent force, wisdom and prudence are reduced to mere dust. I failed to perceive, blinded by my own arrogance. I attempted to wield that force as a weapon  leveraging my logical skills, believing myself capable of determining the course of our country's fate.

Anna: Nikita, is that true?

Bukharin: Yes, indeed. I was consumed by that ambition. It wasn't mere greed or a distant fantasy. I truly believed I was destined to lead our nation after Lenin's passing. In my vision, Stalin would have been a formidable ally, much like Trotsky was for Lenin. But reality proved to be quite different. Lenin was a tool wielded by Trotsky, and I, in turn, became a key intellectual asset for Stalin. Throughout the ages, intellectuals and visionaries have been nothing more than instruments in the hands of the ominous forces that shape our world. When that force, draped in the cloak of supreme authority, emerged, we inadvertently facilitated its rise by furnishing the rhetoric to justify its actions. This supreme force has blanketed the globe with its doctrines—Socialism, Capitalism, Imperialism—using words as its most potent weapons.

(Snow gusts fiercely, with the sound of a tree branch breaking in the distance.)

Bukharin: Do you hear the clang of iron? (His demeanor is that of a possessed maniac.)

Anna: (Tearfully) No, I don't.

Bukharin: It could come upon me at any moment. I may never see you again. There's a strong chance I'll be coerced into confessing to crimes I never committed.

Anna: You mustn't succumb to their brutality. You shouldn't perish labeled as a criminal. The Russian farmers must understand the truth behind your demise.

Bukharin: It feels futile.

Anna: No, Nikita. There's purpose. Only then can your spirit find peace.

Bukharin: There's nothing left. Just emptiness.

Anna: You must resist no matter how harsh the treatment. You must never admit to crimes you didn't commit.

Bukharin: Anyone with a shred of love in their heart for anything in this world would eventually yield.

Anna: Is that me?

Bukharin: (Tenderly) Yes, it is you.

Anna: No, Nikita, please don't say that.

Bukharin: My love for you is the only tether anchoring me to life in this world.

Anna: I can't bear to live with this burden.

Bukharin: Don't be foolish.

Anna: I swear to you. I won't survive this.

Bukharin: Won't you grant me some solace by staying alive?

Anna: What will you leave for me besides my life? How can I go on knowing I only survived by bargaining for your life? How can I bear the weight of this guilt?

Bukharin: (Pausing for a few moments) Nothing. (The snow gusts, lights flicker in the distance) Anna. You may perhaps be right. History could unbelievably leap ahead in time. On that fine day, if the snow melts away, I shouldn't have to stand before that generation as a criminal.

Anna: (Gaining strength from his words) Well said, Nikita.

Bukharin: There's no use arguing in his court. You mustn't waste your words.

Anna: I don't understand.

Bukharin: My instinct tells me that you will endure these perilous trials. You will live to see the spring, perhaps many decades from now, in another era. You must survive those challenging decades. Like a survivor writing an distress message in a bottle and casting it into the sea, I am entrusting my statement to you.

Anna: (Startled) You burden me with sorrow.

Bukharin: My words will give purpose to your life ahead. They will be a beacon in the darkness. You will not perish. You are resilient. Raskolnikov confessed his crime to a pure soul like yours..

Anna: I am just an ordinary woman, Nikita.

Bukharin: You will discover your own strength in time. (Kneeling down) Let me begin my statement. This is for the generations of Spring.

(As Anna experiences an emotional meltdown, unable to feel her feet amidst the relentless snowstorm, Bukharin begins his confession.

The storm fiercely pounds at the door. Anna finds stability, clutching onto his every word with trembling fingers pressed against her bosom.

With an agitated body, Bukharin keeps his arm close to his chest as he proceeds with his confession. As the howling of the snow diminishes, only Bukharin's voice echoes through the darkness.)

Bukharin: Remember, the snow and darkness will not endure forever. On a beautiful spring day, this entire nation will awaken and open its heart and ears to your words. Fresh, fragrant flowers will grace my grave. They will weep, bowing their heads in homage, and call me "Comrade Bukharin." My soul will not find peace until that moment. I will await the awakening in my grave with fervor.

(Statement is completed)

Bukharin: Light the candle, Anna.

Anna: Wait a minute. (She lights a candle. The room gradually comes alive with light.)

Bukharin: Remember every word of my statement. You must not forget even a single letter. One day, you will have to recite it from the podium of history.

Anna: I swear I won't forget. Like breathing, I will recite this statement throughout my entire life until the day you mentioned arrives.

Bukharin: (Lets out a sigh) Now, all we can do is wait.

Anna: (Calmly) What would you like for dinner? You must be hungry.

Bukharin: Hungry, yes, and thirsty too. (He gets up, scratching his head) It will be quenched only after many centuries.

(Once again, the howling of the snow fills the air.)

Bukharin: This snowstorm is blowing from Moscow to Siberia. It freezes all the water bodies in between.

(The sound of a car engine is heard outside.)

Anna: (In fear) Nikita!

Bukharin: (In a steady tone) Stay calm. You must gather all your strength from here on out.

Anna: (With a broken voice) I beg you, flee to a distant country for your life. (She cries, resting on his chest)

Bukharin: (Gently releasing himself from her embrace) Don't speak nonsense. Gather your strength. Remember, you must survive this storm. Do not forget a single word.

Anna: I will never forget.

(The sound of a cluster of boots approaching the door. Followed by the door opening and inquiring voices.)

Bukharin: Extreme cold weather. You may have to face worse climates than this. Your soul must not turn cold. (He kisses her) Let me greet them. (He disappears)

Anna: Nikita! Nikita!

(Lights are extinguished. Snow continues to howl. The door screens agitate. Papers on the desk flutter. Anna's trembling fingers light the lamp. Anna holds a red flame, cupped in her palm.)

Chapter 3 - Prelude to the Interrogation ( Prokhorov- Independent translation M Veerabadra Pillai B.A)

At 10 am, during the initial security exchange, I noted it was my day designated for bathing and washing. In our confines, we're allotted merely three such days each month, with the timing often unpredictable. Standing behind the bars, the security guard Subletsky greeted me, "Good day, Anthiriyan. Today happens to be your turn for soap duty," his tone dripping with pretentiousness. Peering out of the window, I questioned, "Pardon me, what did you say?" "I simply mentioned your name on the schedule," he retorted.

The prospect of temporary relief ignited a spark of hope within me. However, as the news settled in, the confinement of that room transformed into torment. My body seemed to rebel against its own odor, the sweat clinging to me like a repulsive cloak. This discomfort lingered, relentless until I could cleanse myself. It wasn't merely the act of bathing; it was the chance to reconnect with humanity in the open space. Yet, whenever I was brought back to the interrogation room, the presence of other humans became an unbearable burden. Every movement, every uttered word seemed to amplify my turmoil. But in the bathroom, it was different. There, amidst the nakedness of others, there was a raw honesty, a simplicity.

*Anthirian Purokhorov, a Russian theologian, met his fate under Stalin's government through capital punishment. He was renowned for his work, "The Cross and the Holy Spirit Machine." His prison memoirs, titled "Awaiting Death Daily," was published posthumously, with translations available in both English and French. This specific chapter, now translated, was originally discovered as a manuscript in Malayalam, as is often the case.. Intriguingly, there is evidence that two magazines once rejected this story, leaving it unpublished.

Subletsky, affable in demeanor yet possessing the robust frame characteristic of Chechnya, harbors a pacific nature at his core. "You are already ready," he remarked, a smile gracing his features. "Yes, yes, always," I responded, echoing his laughter.

"Have you heard? The sub-jailer is being investigated for mishandling funds," he murmured in a hushed tone. "It's been an ongoing scandal; he's allegedly involved with the meat shop owners." Sublesky, a seasoned prison guard, possessed intricate knowledge of the prison's internal dynamics. Yet, as time passed, even the layman like him within these politics find themselves embroiled, subject to the strong biases harbored. Amidst the tales of corruption, alliances, and betrayal, every individual was entangled in the intricate web woven by humans, for humans. As I listen to the ramblings of this half-baked inmate, glamorizing the prison's corruption, I find myself pacing the confines of my cell.  Sleep eludes me as I passionately advocate for the possibility of innocence, nurturing a deep-seated animosity towards the corrupt forces that pervade this environment. In my frustration, I entertain thoughts of violence against those who have no bearing on my life. I chuckle bitterly at the irony - how mankind, in its folly, has birthed so many jesters.

Two security guards materialized, executing their duties with precision as they unlocked the door to my cell. "Prisoner number 618, step forward," one of them called out. I emerged, clutching my blanket tightly around me, feeling the chill of the outside air. Perhaps it was a trick of the mind, but the cold seemed more biting than usual. My legs trembled uncontrollably, and as I stepped into the open space, I faltered and collapsed to the ground.

We traversed through an icy corridor, leading to a spacious room on the other side. There, seven or eight figures awaited, clutching bundles of clothes tightly in sacks. Their faces bore a pallid, gray hue, their eyes devoid of life, resembling those of a deceased animal. Despite slight variations in facial features—widened faces, elongated jaws, crooked mouths—they all seemed to be replicas of the same human mold. As I sat among them, I couldn't shake the feeling of resembling them. Yet, I found solace in the consciousness that set me apart. Perhaps they, too, pondered their differences from others. Behind these gray visages, there may reside unique, volcanic thoughts, simmering in the depths like an untamed sea. They didn't even acknowledge my presence with the slightest glance.

Two more men made their entrance into the chamber. Their pallid visage too bore semblance of a animal recently succumbed, while his companion, a man of shorter stature, exuded a restlessness in both gaze and gesture, reminiscent of a rodent. Yet, there was a flicker, a fleeting light that seemed to have just vanished from his countenance, as if he teetered on the brink of uttering some jest, barely contained within. Our gazes intertwined. With a smile curving his lips, he made a direct path toward me, and upon reaching, he wasted no time in conversing. "Mironov insists on silence during our baths, yet has he pondered why the water itself sings? Does anyone question its melody, born from its lengthy journey from Siberia's heart?" As he spoke, his pupils dilated with an intensity bordering on the brink of madness, his smile broadening in tandem. "It's the untamed, devilish spirits that travel with the water to our very doorsteps. Are you aware of this, Your Honor? Just last night, the jar in my room resounded with laughter, loud and clear. How peculiar, when winter has not yet begun its reign, leaving autumn to dance."

As he approached, a semblance of solace washed over me, affirming that the breath of life yet coursed through my veins. Following the initial shock, a gnawing doubt began to afflict me. Was my mind in a state of equilibrium? How could one ascertain such stability? I was acutely aware of my thoughts simmering to a boil. In the solitude of a solitary chamber, the mind seems a cold, heavy companion, steadfastly clinging. It maintains a guise of normalcy when unobserved, yet the moment we attempt to scrutinize it, a wave of trepidation overwhelms us. Its purposelessness, its chaos, invokes a visceral unease in me. In search of external, tangible evidence to affirm my mental equilibrium, I find my selves at a loss, particularly within these confining walls where such assurances are notably absent. In such moments, beyond my grasp, my mind would unravel as horses let loose at the sound of cannon fire.

 Clueless on how to tether such wild thoughts, I would find myself bewildered the instant they ceased bumping into the walls of my consciousness—a territory of my psyche uncharted and unimaginable. Drained of all vigor, my only recourse would be to to sleep. Upon awakening, I'd endeavor to recapture that elusive train of thought, to scrutinize the workings of my own mind. I would count, from one to ten thousand, in a futile attempt to order the chaos. Between the numbers, thoughts would rush through, like torrential waters in a raging canyon, unstoppable and overwhelming. The completion of the counting always eluded me, a bitter reminder of the chaos reigning within. In this chamber of interrogation, sanity is a scarce commodity. Many depart with eyes glazed over, haunted by dreams of their inevitable demise. 

It is only after this harrowing "processing" that they are ushered into the court, where confessions are extracted. Abiding by the rules and regulations, they undergo thorough trials before receiving their sentences. The lord of justice, with no recourse but to mete out capital punishment, finds the accused already dead and decayed, their emotional demise complete.Surveying the occupants of this chamber, save for the rodent-like figure, I would condemn the rest to the gallows without a moment's pause. The rodent, however, prattled on incessantly, perceiving every object as a link between Moscow and Siberia, be it the wind, the sky, or mere voices. Such is the nature of the mentally unstable—they are confined within a narrow set of thought patterns, like a dammed river surging against its barriers they deluge incessantly same thoughts.

Two young security guards entered the room. "Quiet, Kulmich," commanded one of them in a firm tone. Rodent ceased his shrill. The other guard, though youthful in appearance, almost as if nature had blended the delicate features of a woman with the robust stature of a man. . With a commanding presence, he surveyed the room, his chest puffed out in a display of authority. What sort of influence his power can have over the inert and decaying yet still breathing forms.

 Power is most evident only in the resistance. As our eyes met, a sense of impending force washed over me, and instinctively, I lowered my gaze, adopting the demeanor of a defeated and haggard figure. The weight of his heavy boots lingered near me. His piercing gaze bore into me for what felt like an eternity. It was only when he finally departed the room that my shrunken sense of self began to expand once more. 

My heart raced, pounding in my chest. Meanwhile, Rodent Kulmich muttered to himself inaudibly, his lips moving soundlessly. In that moment, when I observed, the only noticeable contrast between us was the subtle movement of his lips,  that notion sent shivers down my spine. 

We stepped into the communal bathhouse in an orderly fashion. The scent of soap and steam enveloped our senses, filling our nostrils. For a few moments, a hazy layer of steam obscured everything around us. As my eyes adjusted to the misty surroundings, I noticed the restless cluster of crimson-tinged bodies. There was an undeniable allure in the way the garments clung to their forms, I got aroused.

With a sense of anticipation mingled with nostalgia, I shed my own attire, letting it join the warm, soapy waters of the communal tank. The scent of the soap mingling with the steam evoked memories of days long past, filling me with a rush of youthful exuberance and pleasure. It was a familiar aroma, one that carried with it the essence of simpler times and carefree days gone by.