The ConfessionA Story by Rashmi KulalThe absolver becomes the absolved!The ancient clock struck nine, the decisive gong
momentarily disturbing the peace of the church. Father Casati sat in pensive
silence, head bowed, arms folded in reverence, as the forgiving figure of Jesus
looked down upon him with compassion. The sudden intrusion of sound broke him
out of his reverie and he opened his eyes unwillingly, taking in the altar
before him. He blinked rapidly, trying to get accustomed to the sudden
revelation of light and cursed as he tried to get to his feet. The penitent
would be arriving shortly, he thought. He walked slowly toward the
confessional, a small wooden piece of craftsmanship that looked rather austere
against the backdrop of the beautiful coloured glass windows. Once inside, he
settled down in the moth-eaten cushioned chair and waited. The sunlight sifted its way through the lattice,
casting designs, which he always thought was a divine sign of acknowledgement.
As a confessor, he worked as a medium between God and the sinner. Much to his
own bitter amusement, he often described his work as 'forgiving the Devil in
God's own workshop'. Indeed, the horrors that were confessed behind the
curtains that hid the sinner's identity often made him want to thwart the Seal
of the Confessional, a pact that maintained the confidentiality of the words
that passed between the absolved and the absolver. However, so trusting was he
in the will of God that he often thought of this helplessness as a form of
penance for his own past sins. This was a thought that relieved him, though
temporarily, of the guilt that came hand-in-hand with his duties. Time ticked away lethargically. There was still no
sign of the penitent. Father Casati shuffled in his chair, as the warm summer
heat tickled the sweat to flow in a free trickle behind his ears. Perhaps he
had decided not to come at all. Just as the thought made its way through his
mind, a slight movement caught his eye. The curtains ruffled and the chair
scraped. There was a faint clearing of throat and then, silence again, although
now punctuated by the occassional short, quick breaths of air. For some vague
reason, the sound unnerved him and his own breathing quickened with the
onslaught of misplaced panic. He sensed the claustrophobia creeping onto him,
but he fought it off. With a decisive exhalation, he began with the procedure. The man, a certain Mr. Seth, had been guided to
Father Casati by Mrs. Johnson, the kindly widow who spent her time in prayer
and guiding troubled souls. He was new in town and seemed weighed down by some
past demons. She had taken an instant liking for the withdrawn, yet polite boy
and had convinced him to meet the priest who, she was confident, would help him
get rid of his ghosts. The man had agreed, albeit only with a condition of
anonymity. Father Casati had agreed too, and now he was just a curtain away
from a new enigma waiting to be decoded. "What brings you to me, Mr.
Seth?" Though I doubt that's your real name, he thought. There was an
audible, answering sigh on the other side and then, nothing. Father Casati
waited patiently. Confession, even to a faceless outsider, required courage. The clock ticked impatiently now. Or was that the
personification of his own state of mind? Finally, after what seemed like an
eternity, a gruff voice spoke out, "Forgive me Father, for I have
sinned." Father Casati nearly jumped, but quickly composed himself before
asking, "How, my son?" A considerable pause later, the voice
continued, "I witnessed a murder, Father. I could have stopped it from
happening. But I did not. I waited and watched as it happened. I could have
told the authorities about it. But I did nothing. I ran away, Father. Like a
frightened rabbit, I scuttled away. This makes me an accomplice to the heinous
crime and I cannot live with this knowledge any longer." The last few
words had sounded strangled, choked with guilt and something else that Father
Casati could not name. Although Father Casati usually maintained a careful
detachedness even while delivering his absolutions, he couldn't help but feel
sympathetic to this man who had somehow become the scapegoat of time and its
evil minions, unfortunate circumstances. That he had sinned was beyond
question, but intention had to be given its due too. "Indeed, it is not
too late. Perhaps you could warn the authorities now?" At this, the man
laughed, a bitter, heart wrenching laugh that echoed within the confessional.
"A lot good that would do! Which corpse could survive nature's
mercilessness for 20 years?" 20 years! Father Casati's mind reeled. It is a
wonder, he thought, that the enormity of this burden he had carried for 20 long
years had not driven him to the welcoming arms of insanity. For Father Casati,
the nightmares that resulted from his daily duties, listening and absorbing the
terrifying deeds that could be committed by someone as human as him lasted a
few days which almost made him want to give up this facade of understanding and
on life itself, which spelt more misery and ugliness, than the beautiful gift
that it was made out to be. And here was this man who had lived with this
knowledge for two decades, and had finally let out the skeletons that gnawed at
his soul each day, each minute. This realisation, though, also made him curious
of another facet of this confession, something that evaded his understanding. "How old are you, son?" "Thirty three, Father." "So, when this unfortunate incident occurred,
you were just a boy of thirteen." "Does that really matter, Father? I was old
enough to know what was happening, old enough to understand that this was
wrong, and yet, instead of trying to stop it from happening, I looked, rooted
to the spot, unable to scream for help or run and get help either. I just went
home, cried for a long time and then, just tried to forget that it ever
happened." "Why did you not report it to the authorities,
though? I understand the shock of having witnessed something so gruesome takes
a while to wear off, but you could have let the police know later. One cannot
bring the dead back to life, but one can surely avenge them." Silence. He had hit the right nerve, Father Casati
realised. Perhaps the murderer had been someone he knew or perhaps he had just
been too scared of the consequences of telling on a criminal. The clock ticked
away, breaking the silence intermittently. Just as it struck 10, and the gong
reverberated throughout the church, a voice, firm and resolute came through
"He was a man of God Father, a priest, just like you." Instinctively, Father Casati clutched the cross
that hung from his neck, the symbol of his faith. "I had been to the woods
to collect some wild berries for my mother. The priest lived in a small cottage
there, known for his love for seclusion and solitude. There were rumours that
he often suffered from bouts of sudden paranoia, though the cause was never
investigated. Apart from that one shortcoming, he was a much admired man,
looked upto for his unwavering faith and his kindly nature. However, on that
fateful day, I saw him kill a man. What haunts me to this day, though, is the
look of utter terror on his face as he went about the act, and the desperate
pleas of help of his victim. After the ordeal, he just stood there, looking at
the mutilated body with disbelief and clutching at the cross that hung from his
neck, as though expecting his faith to deliver him from his unforgivable sin.
And then, he cried." Father Casati had gone rigid in his seat. Seth
continued, "Young that I was, this was not the behaviour I expected from a
cold, heartless criminal. I was confused, and just ran away. From what I heard,
the priest left town within a week and nobody ever heard of him again. The body
of the man was discovered weeks later, rotten and disfigured beyond recognition
in a ditch by a small river." The sunlight seemed to be dancing on him now.
Father Casati shifted slightly in his chair and asked, "Tell me son, this
man that you saved, at the cost of losing 20 years worth of sleep and lightness
of being, would you ever be able to forgive him? He took away from you the
innocence you were entitled to, and left you with a burden on your conscience
that will haunt you forever. Will you ever pardon him for this sin?" The voice on the other side of the curtain sounded
unsure. "I don't know, Father." "What if you found out that the man acted, in
what he thought was self-defense, though he was just a victim of a mental
illness that made him imagine things, and hallucinate? Would you forgive him
then?" There was an inexplicable stillness in the air. It
was as though the church had come alive, a creature that had sucked in its
breath in anticipation of a coming danger. Something had changed. "No Father. I could not forgive him. He took
not one, but two lives. I would not be able to forgive him." The ticking continued. For a long time, there was
no sound on either side of the curtain. After about 10 minutes, Seth called
out, but got no response. Worried, he got out of the confessional and entered
the side where Father Casati delivered his absolutions from. He looked straight
into the listless, dead eyes of a man clutching the cross that hung from his
neck, the face that had haunted him all his life, and would haunt him until
death. © 2013 Rashmi KulalReviews
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4 Reviews Added on February 9, 2013 Last Updated on February 9, 2013 AuthorRashmi KulalMumbai, IndiaAboutHeya! I am a 24 year old financial analyst who just happens to have a thing for the written word! Short stories are what I am comfortable with right now! more..Writing
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