As I was rummaging my bag, looking for my elusive PAN card, I chanced upon this relic.This came into existence during one of those HR type trainings, that we were made to undergo in the initial training period after I joined my company.
As a part of the alternate/parallel-thinking session, we were all given a quarter kg cardboard, and were asked to depict four qualities that an ideal person should posses, through a picture or a scene.
I vaguely remember it also involved a part where a person proud of his work could present it to the entire populace there. I distinctly remember not volunteering for that part.

Mine looked something like what you see in the figure

PS: The figure can be viewed in its original size here

Tap Tip . Tap Tip . Tap Tip
The sheriff closed his eyes. The sound was rhythmic. Soothing. But he only felt sadness. The place was not the same as it once had been.

It used to be a lively one. The place where he now sat, was the workshop of the old, blind sculptor. The blind man was the best stone sculptor for miles. His workshop held a lot of space, and on most evenings, men from all over the village, after a hard days work came to relax. It was a jovial place. The old man was wise and sometimes small disputes would be amicably settled. It was also a go-to place for the local news.

The sculptor's son lived with him in a two storey house, a mile off the workshop. He was a bright, illustrious young man who helped out in the workshop as an apprentice. There was a guest room, next to the son's room on the top of the house, which would sometimes be occupied by paying tenants, travelers etc.

About two years ago, on the day the top floor raged with fire, there was a new young tenant, a traveler from a far off place staying in the guest room. The blind sculptor, who slept in the ground floor, having roused by the smoke, gathered help as fast as he could. But in spite of all their best efforts, the fire ravaged the entire floor. A body charred beyond recognition was found in the guest bed room. Based on the pieces of cloth adhering to the skin, it was determined as that of the paying guest. It was found out that the fire had been started intentionally. Also, the box containing almost all pieces of the masterpiece that the sculptor was working on had been stolen. It was concluded that the son had run away with the sculptures after setting fire to the house.

The old man and his workshop were never the same after that.

Tap Tip . Tap Tip . Tap Tip

The sheriff opened his eyes and looked around. The sculptor sat a few feet away, tapping a hard stone with his heavy hammer and nail. These days he never sculpted any intricate designs that he was famous for. Most of the times, he just tapped into stones, shaping their edges, as he did now. The only other occupant in the room was a kid sitting idly in the corner of the room. The desultory scene weighed upon him. He sighed, wished the sculptor a good night and left the place.

Not long after that, another man entered the workshop. He looked like he had been on the road for a while. His clothes were dusty. He had a full beard and long matted hair. He walked up to the place recently vacated by the sheriff. He sat there.

The nail slipped from the old man's hand then. It rolled over to the place where the stranger sat. The man bent down, picked it up, rose and started walking towards the sculptor to return it.

Suddenly, the sculptor rose from his place, and with the agility of a much younger man, covered the small distance between them, raised the iron hammer well above his head, and smashed it down on the head of the stranger in one vicious blow.

The man was dead even before he hit the floor.

The sculptor dropped the heavy iron on the floor, breathed deeply, turned around to the kid and spoke for the first time.

"You the baker's kid, right?"

"Yes, sir" came the nervous reply.

"Go tell the sheriff that this man killed my son, burnt my house and stole my work. I always knew that he would come back for the last piece, which I was still working on two years ago. The whole set would then be priceless."

He paused once and continued, as though remembering something from a long time ago.

"I was there half-asleep in my bed that night. The man that left the burning house was not my son."

He paused again slightly.

"Ya see, I never forget foot falls, kid. As for the rhythm of this man’s foot steps", he said, pointing to the prone figure on the floor, "I have been tapping it into stone, every day, from the last two years. I would recognize his walk in my sleep".

He had never cried. As far as he could remember. And, at this moment at least, the past was really clear to him. The place he was presently standing in brought the memories back. None of them, that came readily, were happy ones though. He remembered that particular day as if it were yesterday.

This place, where he was standing, along with his little brother and his grandmother, had been his house, his home for the first fourteen years of his life. The main door opened into a room with stairs leading to the altar, where he remembered his mother praying every evening. The room to the right of that place was his and his brother's, and the room to the left was his parent's. The house had been neither too big nor too small. It had been just right. It was times of war. It had always been most of his childhood. His brother, four years younger to him, and himself had always played in the broken, bullet spattered buildings.

But that day was different.

The sounds and the screams from the city were louder and more ominous. It was late evening. His mother was praying at the altar as usual. He remembered sitting with his brother on the step at the bottom of the staircase. His brother had fallen asleep on his lap, somewhere through
the story he had been reciting. For some reason that made him smile. Then it all happened at once.

The locked door was kicked open, and he was staring into the barrels of about five rifles pointed at him. He remembered not even being able to scream. The shock was intense.
Natural instincts had made him turn back to seek help from his mother. He looked back wide eyed, soundlessly at his mother. He would never forget what happened next. He could see his mother stare directly at himself and his brother. She looked at the soldiers. Then she ran away from there into the room on the right. Even now he could not believe it. She had betrayed them. That realization was worse than the initial shock. That was when he screamed. That was when his brother woke up. That was when the bomb hit the house and it half collapsed. The rubble instantly buried the soldiers and his mother too. He and his brother had escaped barely. They had run from there then, with his brother clutching their mother's locket which had somehow fallen in front of them.

That was three years today, to the date. They hadn't discussed about that event after that day. They had stayed at their grandmother's since then. Only their grandmother's repeated orders had made him come back to this place after all these years.

His brother had the locket on his person at all times. It angered him, but he didn't complain. He hadn't told his brother about his mother's betrayal. He didn't want to change the impression his brother had of their mother.

His grandmother stumbled, as she walked around the place where the house had once stood. His brother hurried over to break her fall. A flailing hand caught the locket and caused it to break open. It had never been opened by his brother earlier, out of respect for his mother.

The locket, on the inside, had a picture of his mother holding both him and his brother in a warm hug. The picture was lovely. It had captured true happiness. It was a really heartwarming scene. The locket also, held some small, round, white colored pieces.
His grandmother picked one of them up, looked at it closely and remarked it was some medicine for the eye. She said 'My daughter, your mother suffered from a certain eye disease, but she probably pretended that she could see, so that you guys wouldn't worry. Come to think of it, she told me that she couldn't do most anything for her children because of her condition. She must have had a real tough time on the inside, though'.

It was then that it stuck him. His mother couldn't see them sitting on the stairs. She had run into their room to alert them, to rescue him and his brother from the invasion. She had never betrayed them. The realization hit him like a sledgehammer to his stomach.

It was then that he cried.

The children always came early to the hanging. And they were usually the loudest. The man could hear them, even though they were out of his sight.

He walked slowly, with his head bowed. He had known it would come down to this some day.

He had no regret for his sins whatsoever. That family had wronged him one too many times. His was an act of rightful revenge. He had been unmerciful in his onslaught.

The trail had been swift and the sentence heavy. But that was expected of a multiple homicide case. He hadn't uttered a word.

A group of people surrounded him now. There were soldiers in arms, the high priest, the mayor, a few members of loyalty, and a swarthy guy from the family he had taken out, other clergy and a few merchants that walked alongside him.

The thought of that swarthy guy, really angered him. He hadn't been successful in taking out the entire family. It weighed heavily on his chest now and it hurt deep. Curbing these feelings made him get a bad taste in his mouth.

It started raining softly. It felt fitting somewhat. It helped to calm down his emotions a bit. He resolved himself to go on strong. He wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him break down.

The crowd was within sight now. The children ran towards them. The stones they threw were aimless, and even the ones that hit were ineffectual. Their antics and curses were more like a competition among themselves.

The adults were different though. The jeers and curses were more hurtful and profound.
But he shut out all sounds and only looked dead ahead as he walked.

The posse of people reached the gallows. The soldiers split into two groups and stood guard in front of it, armed and ready. It was at times like this something always happened. The crowd was waiting for the man to break down, try to escape at the last moment, for a woman in the crown to swoon, for a rattling old woman to start cursing hysterically.

The man stepped onto the wooden stairs of the gallows. The made a loud creaking sound as he stepped on them. He reached the top and turned to face the booing crowd.

He had always been good at hiding his emotions. His face was like a mask. The jeers turned more hostile as a few soldiers, the swarthy guy, the mayor and the high priest followed the man on to the gallows.

But he still showed no emotion.

The people, angered now, by the lack of response, were only waiting for the mayor's signal. Chants of 'hang him' 'hang him' rent out loud. The high priest finished his prayer and closed his book. The mayor then nodded and bowed his head. That was the signal.

The crowd erupted. The children, however, were staring fascinated - too strung out to make any noise.

The man stepped forward and placed the noose on the swarthy guy's neck, and tightened it expertly. He stepped back and released the lever.

The ground under the swarthy guy gave way. His neck broke with a loud snap.

The man allowed a faint smile on his face now.
He had, at last, gotten them all.

The crowd was mostly quiet now. They were watching mesmerized, as the dead body, caught by a breeze, started to swing slowly in a lazy circle.

Even if anyone in the crowd caught his smile, it wouldn't have mattered in the least.

The hangman always seemed happy after a clean hanging.

He thought as he walked. He would change. He had made up his mind. He would go back to what he had once been. He had never had any real complaints in his life. He was a cop. He was good at his job. He would go back to being just that. He would let time heal his present wounds.

He reached the entrance of the pub. The sign on the door said 'Push'. And so he did.

He stepped inside. He breathed deeply. He loved this place. This would be the last visit here. He would give up drinking. He wanted to celebrate that with this one last night at the pub.

He sat at his usual place. The waitress served him his usual drink. He started to drink. He was still far away, though. Lost in all the memories.

He always thought that he had lived a blessed life. That was until he saw her. Then his world had got even better. Nothing else in his life till then had such an effect on him. It had been beautiful. He had never believed in fairy tales or love or a soul-mate till that point. It was right here, in this pub, that he had seen her the first time. He could replay every second of that night in his mind. He had taken one look at her in the doorway, the wind managing to blow her hair into a heart-melting disarray; before, behind her, the door slowly closed with a small thump. She had looked at him. He had looked back. They had married within the month.

He had adored her. He still did. More than every thing else in the world. He had often heard whispers saying that was what had driven her away. That he had suffocated her with his love. He could never comprehend that.

He loved her. He knew only that.

But the truth was that she was separated from him. She had moved out of his house. She would not talk to him about it. He tried his best to start a conversation, the rare few occasions when they happened to meet. She always snubbed him. He heard whispered tales about her promiscuity. He
chose not to believe any of those.

He had taken up drinking almost from the night she had walked away. But tonight, he decided he had pined enough. He would let her come to him by herself. He somehow felt sure that she would come back. He realized that his drink was over. He signaled for another. And another.

A gust of wind from the door made him look up. He saw a man enter the pub. He seemed slightly familiar. The sound of a woman's laughter froze him. He hadn't heard that sound for a long time now. Then she stepped inside.

It was almost like a deja-vu.

But, the feelings that rushed into him this time were totally different. It was overwhelming. He couldn't remember what he had been thinking till then. He couldn't put his finger on the emotion he was feeling. It was a red hot mix of anger, betrayal, hate, self disgust and all other similar feelings. He wasn't sure that he had any control on his own body. Time appeared to have stopped.

From what felt like far away, he watched the couple in the doorway hug and touch each other playfully. Their flirting made his agony worse. He was dimly aware that he had removed his piece from the holster, cocked it and now it was held in his hand, aimed at the couple at the door. The
pub had become deathly silent. It didn’t register though.

The couple at the doorway suddenly became aware of him. He could see their smiles and laughter freezing on their faces. Their scared appearances did nothing to ease the roar that in his ears. The scene seemed somewhat alien to him. He felt detached. Numb out of his skull. Blank.

The steel felt cold in his hand.

He didn't want to kill. He had no clue what he wanted to do.

He became aware that the wind was blowing her hair into a heart-melting disarray.

He had to do something about the roar in his ears. He desperately wanted
to feel something else except his finger on the cold trigger.

Behind them, the door closed with a small thump. He tore his eyes off from the couple then, for a split second.

The sign on the door said 'Pull'.

And so he did.

And again.