The Pandemonium: a short story.
THE PANDEMONIUM Standing at the doorway of our house, I knew the temperature was rather cold but my armpits were sweating continuously. My left hand was somewhere resting somewhere in my white jumper pocket. The other one was hanging at the other side squeezing itself. I was trying to figure out how to avenge. That was the thought that came to my mind when we had just heard the news of my father’s death. When the news struck my mother’s ears, she let go of the knife she was slicing okra with. She tried to control herself but to no avail. Okra was father’s favorite. ‘Arna, the infidels, have killed him’ was the statement of the person who brought the sad news. I came out shortly after the man had left. ‘Wallahi I must avenge,’ I soliloquized, even though I knew father would not have wished me to avenge his death. I knew, too, that it was impossible to control myself against it. ‘Revenge has never pleased the soul and so I will never,’ my father once said. ‘Revenge never brings bac
