Hail Mother Russia

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 12, 2017

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Submitted: August 12, 2017

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“Ignorance is power”.

The phrase rang about in Victor’s mind as the walls with the spray painted hues of the same phrase, like an engraved edifice of stone, spoke to him like the Gospels of old.

The recent transition of Father Russia to Mother Russia had caused massive outrage amongst the Far-Right Conservatives as the Act had been brought about by the only non-Communist, non- Rightist politician and also the first non- Rightist and non-Communist victor who had survived to tell his tale.

The country now was in shambles as Victor’s dazed eyes transcended back into the realities of now. The crumbling pavements of cobbled stones spoke of a past wounded by the hurtful tongue of the youth. The men slept on the pavements while the women made the meals by a stove which the residents had contributed out of human generosity. The children loitered about in their ignorance of the reality they were to face.

Victor moved onwards with the children hovering over the street like a swarm of flies.

Upon moving a few blocks forward, a twisted and mangled, fly infested body of a seven year old( the screams around Victor revealed so) was spread out on the street. The street, red with blood, gave off a spectacle of natural anguish amongst the Russians.

“What had happened, mister?” asked Victor to a man in rags sitting on the stairs to a bakery.

“Aye, sir. Motor car accident,” came the reply with a hauntingly unfazed note.

Motor related accidents were rather commonplace during those days. The children always suffered the brunt of it as they loitered about, and when a motor car did run over them, one could do nothing but grieve for, they were wealthy and in Russia, wealth was power.

Victor, lost in thought, moved on with the cycle splashing mud hither and thither.

The gut spilt streets with their characteristic smell of burnt flesh made Victor’s nostrils tingle. Nothing had changed even after the Bolsheviks had been overthrown by the daunting rebels of Krakow. The strong stench of death which guttered the streets of Moscow crept into Victor’s nose, like the ecstatic Chinese incense sticks with their floral fragrance, which made him dizzy.

The propaganda posters with Lennin’s face had been carelessly ripped off with his eyes still finding a way to strike terror amongst men irrespective of age. The eyes had been haplessly and bleakly painted over with a hue of light green to find a sense of meager relief in troubled times such as then. The wall upon which the poster was stuck had been smeared red with blood which indicated that the Picassos and the Boticellis in Moscow were dead. The Lennin sympathizers had struck again.

The bleak rays of the sun struck against the walls only to reveal the half torn poster of a Communist guerilla army which was recruiting. The present government’s downfall was inevitable unless the Governors came to know of its existence.

The privileged and the wealthy sat in their mansions with their capitalistic needs well attended to by the government while the poor and the downtrodden suffered the brunt of Mother Russia yet another day. The ‘could haves’ and the ‘should haves’ made all the difference to Victor that day.

 

 


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