The man in the crowd

The weak December sun shone down faintly, upon the crowd below, through small holes that it had managed to pierce in the thick fog. A slender figure detached itself from the crowd, moved forward and set fire to a bus that stood abandoned by the roadside. His shining black eyes stared at the fire blazing in front of his face, and his hands punched the cold morning air joyously. His lips threw forth memorised slogans that were barely audible and were soon drowned by the majestic roar of the fire that now embraced the helpless bus. He stood still in front of the burning vehicle for a moment, smiling victoriously. Then he realised that he needed to keep on moving—motion comforted him in some strange, inexplicable way. The crowd had cheered him on and a few people had come forward to help him set fire to the public conveyance. Their leaders stood behind them, too coward and prudent to participate, silently celebrating their victories over the impressionable individuals before them.

He had been running on the empty roads like a madman since the past half hour. His throat was sore from shouting, but he kept on screaming into the young air. He had forgotten why he was out on the streets setting fire to vehicles. He remembered no more why he was shouting with a hundred other people—all strangers. He had forgotten the reason why he chose to be there, on a cold morning, with people he didn’t care about. The cause was forgotten; the drive remained. He felt nothing. No thought crossed his mind. He acted as if a will far stronger than his own controlled him, directing his actions. He behaved not as an individual, but as a part of a crowd that seemed bent upon destruction—of what, the crowd no longer was aware of. A hundred people shouted the slogans written on the placards and banners that they carried; they held these high up in the air above the heads. They weren’t aware of the words that escaped their lips anymore—the words had always been meaningless to their obtuse minds that had now stopped being aware of the existence of the permutations of letters altogether. The syllables that seemed to have a will and life of their own, tumbled out of the unaware mouths easily, forcing the weak lips apart and escaping into the air drunk with the confused, frightened shadows of the demonstrators.

He looked at the poster he was carrying—an old man stared back at him blankly; a garland adorned the photograph. He couldn’t recognise him. He made no effort to recollect who he was, though he had a strange feeling that he was fighting for that man. The thought bewildered him. He felt disoriented. He was confused. He snatched a club out of the hands of a man in the crowd, and smashed the windshield of a car parked nearby. The sound of the shattering glass filled the emptiness within him. It suddenly reminded him of the reason behind his actions; it showed him the source of his anger. He wasn’t fighting for the man whose photograph he carried; he tossed the poster away, on the road, as soon as he realised this. He was fighting for himself; he was fighting against the injustices that had been flung at him; he was fighting against all the missed opportunities; he was fighting against the people who refused to accept him; he was fighting against a world that refused to give him a chance; he was fighting against friends who expected him to become a person he didn’t want to be; he was fighting against the people who had taken advantage of his anger and channelled it to serve their own purpose. He suddenly became aware of who he was. He looked around. The mindless crowd was busy shouting empty slogans, in support of a cause they didn’t fully understand. He looked at the leaders who walked in the front, guiding the demonstration. They walked slowly, occasionally whispering orders to a group of faithful followers, smiling at the work of the crowd that they led through the deserted streets of the city.

He held his head in despair. He knew not what he would do next. He wished to be told what he could do to save himself. He looked at the leaders again. He felt a strong desire to kill them. He stood straight, determined at last to follow his own will. Angry tears glistened in his eyes. A woman behind him noticed that he carried nothing. Of what use is a mute demonstrator who has neither a weapon, nor a poster on him? She came forward and handed him a torch. He shifted his gaze from the leader he was busy staring at, to the torch that had been handed to him. He looked into the eyes of the woman who stood beside him. She looked back at him kindly, as if she understood him. He smiled at her, resumed shouting slogans, and joined the crowd in its activities again—the crowd that accepted him as its own part.