The speakers of the city could be heard, calling all the workers to their meetings. The day’s labors had ended, and now was a time for community and togetherness, for renewal and thought, for self-criticism and absolution, for struggle and for joy.
The day was hot, like most in the Agra region -- but the ruined dome, blackened by the scars of the Liberation War, provided shade from the late-day sun, slowly moving towards the sunset. The Yamuna glistened as workers filed in, mainly on foot, for the evening convocation.
Today was a special day for Agra Worker’s Congregation #4 -- today, they got to renew their species-being, the essential energy behind their labors, the very thing that made them human. Today, Pammava, High Cadre of the Congregation and employee of the Bharati Spiritual Liberation Agency, would be conducting the execution of the heretics.
As workers slowly filed in, many from the other Worker’s Congregations of Agra, she began her sermon -- typical stuff, about the Three Invader-Thoughts, the Deviationist Heresies, and the eternality of Socialist Labor. Pammava, born in Bhagnagar in Telangana and raised near Kathmandu, loved her flock and her work. She had, even as a child-ward of the State, wanted to inspire her people with film and song. As a student, she had joined the SLA -- and took a natural shine to the work, learning sociology to complement her urge for the theatrical.
She had pulled out all the stops this time. Rather than using what was once a mosque on the western side of the complex, the convocation was held semi-outside, in ruins. This symbolized the defeat of the past, but also practically allowed for a larger crowd and for shade from the evening heat. Chairs had been brought in, to replace the mats normally used in the ex-mosque across the way.
The SLA had even sent a film crew -- perhaps it was the sin of Ego, but she was ecstatic. Her lessons to her people and the renewal of their species-being, on this night, would be memorialized and reused as a lesson for all of Bharat, from the Himalayas of her youth to the border fortresses near Dravida Nadu, from the hills of Bengal to the Indus.
As the sun languorously dipped into the horizon, torches were prepared. Other cadres from the SLA, members of her flock, gathered behind her -- this was to be no mere meeting, but a ritual triumph of the popular will. Executions were emotional, visceral things; one could not waste the solidarity-inducing potential of liquidating sinners.
The deviationists could sneer, Pammava noted, but religion was more than a mere opiate. In Bharat, it had been the primary system of economic oppression, the organizing principle of the feudal stage of history. It had divided the people into castes, and ensured that the powerful stayed powerful.
Any system of socialism had to replace the religions in the hearts of the people -- had to fulfill that social void of rules and community, had to slowly but surely wean the people off of their false idols. Opiates were diversions -- the Congregation created devotion.
She saw the last great wave of workers come under the shade of the dome, and gave her signal. The musicians, all Congregation members, came forth with Carnatic mandolins and Punjabi rhythms, a cosmopolitanism representative of the new Bharat. The cities of the north had swelled with Kannadiga and Telugu refugees, and Agra was no stranger.
Pammava preferred the slower, trance-like music, even for executions. Other colleagues used military music, or propaganda pop, or even the little foreign music allowed in Bharat. Pammava didn’t want false pomposity or hollow propaganda; this music seemed to entrance her brethren more easily.
Especially, of course, once the smoking of drugs was accounted for. This was, after all, a special day for Congregation #4, and so a dispensation for the consumption of drugs was issued. Pammava loved drug days, both for the personal high and for the unifying effect it had on her flock.
As the music settled down from its first crescendo, Pammava began tonight’s act, and her favorite routine: the execution of the enemies of Bharat, those assorted sinners, wreckers, spies and heretic, the poisoners of the General Will and the thieves of the people’s species-being.
The first man was brought out, in his late-30s, his hair disheveled clad in a torn orange sash and yellow rice-bag sackcloth, still bearing the effects of his confession session.
“Hear, my Bharatis!” This was the traditional beginning of a Congregation meeting. Of course, today people were a bit more passionate. They had been told of the executions for weeks; the daily meetings had mentally steeled them, given them reserves of rage for the ritual. And yet, Pammava continued with slogans. The energy needed to reach fever pitch.
“This man has been caught, worshipping the pagan idols of the Brahmins!” Pammava spoke loudly and clearly, and it sounded as if it were thunder in the midday sky. She had their attention, their interest, their momentary devotion. Now came the sale.
“These are the gods of the caste system, the poison that kills the General Will, the chains by which the people were enslaved by Aryan, Muslim and Englishman! And how do the people punish slavers!” Pammava ended her exhortation by raising her left fist in the air and slamming it on the podium. The people responded, as conduits of their own Will and their own judgement, with a clarion call of punishment.
“Death! Death! Death! Death! Death! Death! Death!” Their cries were full of bloodlust, of a collective passion for vengeance, of that most ancient stirring of spite. On the seventh chant, Pammava silenced the crowd and moved her right hand to the right, to refocus their energies. She noticed again the cameras, focused entirely on her.
“This wrecker lived by his elephant god, and devoted himself to subversion and lies! As he stole our species-being and our labor, let his beloved elephant steal his life!” Her voice rose towards a crescendo, a war-cry if you will. She pointed to the back of the ruined temple, and the trumpet of the pachyderm was heard.
Its very steps shook the earth, and the music took up a frantic speed as the tempo of the electric mandolins increased.
The condemned paled, and his eyes jumped foward in his face, and he tried to speak. No words, not even the piteous mumbles of a dead man, would leave his lips. All he could do is shake with fear. He had watched executions since he was a child,. He knew what awaited him.
Pammava pushed him to the ground, face first, and as the elephant reached the front of the crowd she spoke once more.
“In the people’s name, we take the life of Mohinder Chaudry! For he has stolen from the people, and lied to the people, and subverted the people’s holy labour! For his crimes, his schemes and his sins, may he be crushed by the elephant!” Once again, she yelled as she reached the end of her speech.
The people were rapt, and chanting “Kill! Kill! Kill!” and “Destroy the Brahmin-feudal class! Destroy the wreckers! Destroy imperialist thought! Destroy the invasive lies!” The elephant moved forward, and when his handlers gave the signal, he struck.
The beast’s left foot was placed on the man’s beaten back, and the music swelled into another crescendo. The elephant pressed down, and the man tried to scream -- only air and blood escaped his mouth. The foot was then raised, but this was no temporary mercy.
The left foot came crashing faster onto the man’s head, but one blow was not enough to kill him. The slow vice started once again, the man’s head trapped between the elephant and the stone floor. His eyes bulged out of their sockets, and as his skull cratered one could hear the CRACK-CRACK-CRACK as his head was destroyed. The elephant was well-trained and silent.
He could not scream, not even the gasping of before. He could only shake, and accept the finality of death. At least he had reincarnation, right?
As the man went limp, the elephant finished his bloody task, the brains and skull and blood soaking the floor. It was like a popping grape, an explosion of gore.
The people gazed in wonder, and began their chants of victory. The elephant was quickly guided out. Once he was gone, the people erupted into a roar, a formless jubilation. The enemy had been slain, and the species-being of the people was closer to balance.
Pammava, specked with blood, looked serene as she gazed upon the crowd. This was why she did what she did. The rush of bloodlust and the rush of belonging, the collective joy of a special Congregation meeting.
As she smiled a beatific smile, she started up again. The next one, a Muslim woman and ex-Republican militia member, came out with a stony gaze, full of resolve. Pammava spoke as she was led; this was to be a less ceremonial slaying.
“This woman still pines for the Republic and its rule! A former militia member, a killer in our midst, and a devotee of the Muslim Invader-Thought! No longer will she stalk the revolutionary people, and no longer will a disciple of the invaders live among us!
The war of the soul is permanent and unending, and the punishment for treason is DEATH!”
On the last word, the people screamed “Death!”, and the woman reached the front of the gathering. Her eyes took in Pammava, and widened. Pammava did not know it, but she was looking upon her mother, long locked up in a prison camp. Her stay had ended -- now it was time to travel to a more final destination.
Her secret mother moved forward, and tried to speak. Pammava took out her pistol and shot the woman right in between the eyes. She had no idea who she killed. As her mother’s blood pooled on the floor, the next sinner, a corrupt local official was brought out. It was time for fire.
And as the people chanted “Jaya He” continuously, and the music played on, Pammava smiled, ignorant of her own matricide.
But even if she had suddenly realized what she had done, it would not have mattered. The State was her parents, her guardian amidst the fog of ignorance and the stormclouds of imperialism. The State broke tradition’s chains, and freed the spirit from the cell.
Pammava was free, and a “mother” herself. She did not need heritage; she was the pioneer, the prophet, the performer and the preacher. And her wisdom, passed down, would educate the people for ages.
The day was hot, like most in the Agra region -- but the ruined dome, blackened by the scars of the Liberation War, provided shade from the late-day sun, slowly moving towards the sunset. The Yamuna glistened as workers filed in, mainly on foot, for the evening convocation.
Today was a special day for Agra Worker’s Congregation #4 -- today, they got to renew their species-being, the essential energy behind their labors, the very thing that made them human. Today, Pammava, High Cadre of the Congregation and employee of the Bharati Spiritual Liberation Agency, would be conducting the execution of the heretics.
As workers slowly filed in, many from the other Worker’s Congregations of Agra, she began her sermon -- typical stuff, about the Three Invader-Thoughts, the Deviationist Heresies, and the eternality of Socialist Labor. Pammava, born in Bhagnagar in Telangana and raised near Kathmandu, loved her flock and her work. She had, even as a child-ward of the State, wanted to inspire her people with film and song. As a student, she had joined the SLA -- and took a natural shine to the work, learning sociology to complement her urge for the theatrical.
She had pulled out all the stops this time. Rather than using what was once a mosque on the western side of the complex, the convocation was held semi-outside, in ruins. This symbolized the defeat of the past, but also practically allowed for a larger crowd and for shade from the evening heat. Chairs had been brought in, to replace the mats normally used in the ex-mosque across the way.
The SLA had even sent a film crew -- perhaps it was the sin of Ego, but she was ecstatic. Her lessons to her people and the renewal of their species-being, on this night, would be memorialized and reused as a lesson for all of Bharat, from the Himalayas of her youth to the border fortresses near Dravida Nadu, from the hills of Bengal to the Indus.
As the sun languorously dipped into the horizon, torches were prepared. Other cadres from the SLA, members of her flock, gathered behind her -- this was to be no mere meeting, but a ritual triumph of the popular will. Executions were emotional, visceral things; one could not waste the solidarity-inducing potential of liquidating sinners.
The deviationists could sneer, Pammava noted, but religion was more than a mere opiate. In Bharat, it had been the primary system of economic oppression, the organizing principle of the feudal stage of history. It had divided the people into castes, and ensured that the powerful stayed powerful.
Any system of socialism had to replace the religions in the hearts of the people -- had to fulfill that social void of rules and community, had to slowly but surely wean the people off of their false idols. Opiates were diversions -- the Congregation created devotion.
She saw the last great wave of workers come under the shade of the dome, and gave her signal. The musicians, all Congregation members, came forth with Carnatic mandolins and Punjabi rhythms, a cosmopolitanism representative of the new Bharat. The cities of the north had swelled with Kannadiga and Telugu refugees, and Agra was no stranger.
Pammava preferred the slower, trance-like music, even for executions. Other colleagues used military music, or propaganda pop, or even the little foreign music allowed in Bharat. Pammava didn’t want false pomposity or hollow propaganda; this music seemed to entrance her brethren more easily.
Especially, of course, once the smoking of drugs was accounted for. This was, after all, a special day for Congregation #4, and so a dispensation for the consumption of drugs was issued. Pammava loved drug days, both for the personal high and for the unifying effect it had on her flock.
As the music settled down from its first crescendo, Pammava began tonight’s act, and her favorite routine: the execution of the enemies of Bharat, those assorted sinners, wreckers, spies and heretic, the poisoners of the General Will and the thieves of the people’s species-being.
The first man was brought out, in his late-30s, his hair disheveled clad in a torn orange sash and yellow rice-bag sackcloth, still bearing the effects of his confession session.
“Hear, my Bharatis!” This was the traditional beginning of a Congregation meeting. Of course, today people were a bit more passionate. They had been told of the executions for weeks; the daily meetings had mentally steeled them, given them reserves of rage for the ritual. And yet, Pammava continued with slogans. The energy needed to reach fever pitch.
“This man has been caught, worshipping the pagan idols of the Brahmins!” Pammava spoke loudly and clearly, and it sounded as if it were thunder in the midday sky. She had their attention, their interest, their momentary devotion. Now came the sale.
“These are the gods of the caste system, the poison that kills the General Will, the chains by which the people were enslaved by Aryan, Muslim and Englishman! And how do the people punish slavers!” Pammava ended her exhortation by raising her left fist in the air and slamming it on the podium. The people responded, as conduits of their own Will and their own judgement, with a clarion call of punishment.
“Death! Death! Death! Death! Death! Death! Death!” Their cries were full of bloodlust, of a collective passion for vengeance, of that most ancient stirring of spite. On the seventh chant, Pammava silenced the crowd and moved her right hand to the right, to refocus their energies. She noticed again the cameras, focused entirely on her.
“This wrecker lived by his elephant god, and devoted himself to subversion and lies! As he stole our species-being and our labor, let his beloved elephant steal his life!” Her voice rose towards a crescendo, a war-cry if you will. She pointed to the back of the ruined temple, and the trumpet of the pachyderm was heard.
Its very steps shook the earth, and the music took up a frantic speed as the tempo of the electric mandolins increased.
The condemned paled, and his eyes jumped foward in his face, and he tried to speak. No words, not even the piteous mumbles of a dead man, would leave his lips. All he could do is shake with fear. He had watched executions since he was a child,. He knew what awaited him.
Pammava pushed him to the ground, face first, and as the elephant reached the front of the crowd she spoke once more.
“In the people’s name, we take the life of Mohinder Chaudry! For he has stolen from the people, and lied to the people, and subverted the people’s holy labour! For his crimes, his schemes and his sins, may he be crushed by the elephant!” Once again, she yelled as she reached the end of her speech.
The people were rapt, and chanting “Kill! Kill! Kill!” and “Destroy the Brahmin-feudal class! Destroy the wreckers! Destroy imperialist thought! Destroy the invasive lies!” The elephant moved forward, and when his handlers gave the signal, he struck.
The beast’s left foot was placed on the man’s beaten back, and the music swelled into another crescendo. The elephant pressed down, and the man tried to scream -- only air and blood escaped his mouth. The foot was then raised, but this was no temporary mercy.
The left foot came crashing faster onto the man’s head, but one blow was not enough to kill him. The slow vice started once again, the man’s head trapped between the elephant and the stone floor. His eyes bulged out of their sockets, and as his skull cratered one could hear the CRACK-CRACK-CRACK as his head was destroyed. The elephant was well-trained and silent.
He could not scream, not even the gasping of before. He could only shake, and accept the finality of death. At least he had reincarnation, right?
As the man went limp, the elephant finished his bloody task, the brains and skull and blood soaking the floor. It was like a popping grape, an explosion of gore.
The people gazed in wonder, and began their chants of victory. The elephant was quickly guided out. Once he was gone, the people erupted into a roar, a formless jubilation. The enemy had been slain, and the species-being of the people was closer to balance.
Pammava, specked with blood, looked serene as she gazed upon the crowd. This was why she did what she did. The rush of bloodlust and the rush of belonging, the collective joy of a special Congregation meeting.
As she smiled a beatific smile, she started up again. The next one, a Muslim woman and ex-Republican militia member, came out with a stony gaze, full of resolve. Pammava spoke as she was led; this was to be a less ceremonial slaying.
“This woman still pines for the Republic and its rule! A former militia member, a killer in our midst, and a devotee of the Muslim Invader-Thought! No longer will she stalk the revolutionary people, and no longer will a disciple of the invaders live among us!
The war of the soul is permanent and unending, and the punishment for treason is DEATH!”
On the last word, the people screamed “Death!”, and the woman reached the front of the gathering. Her eyes took in Pammava, and widened. Pammava did not know it, but she was looking upon her mother, long locked up in a prison camp. Her stay had ended -- now it was time to travel to a more final destination.
Her secret mother moved forward, and tried to speak. Pammava took out her pistol and shot the woman right in between the eyes. She had no idea who she killed. As her mother’s blood pooled on the floor, the next sinner, a corrupt local official was brought out. It was time for fire.
And as the people chanted “Jaya He” continuously, and the music played on, Pammava smiled, ignorant of her own matricide.
But even if she had suddenly realized what she had done, it would not have mattered. The State was her parents, her guardian amidst the fog of ignorance and the stormclouds of imperialism. The State broke tradition’s chains, and freed the spirit from the cell.
Pammava was free, and a “mother” herself. She did not need heritage; she was the pioneer, the prophet, the performer and the preacher. And her wisdom, passed down, would educate the people for ages.
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