“What do have say in your defense?” the Supreme Court judge asked Mohammed Maqbool, who was quivering in his open ended cubicle.

“I am guilty my lord, I am guilty. Hang me. I have killed my own child, with these very hands,” cried Maqbool, on his knees, begging for his own death. He had chosen not to have anyone defend him.

The crowd present in the court shuddered at this confession, and the Judge had to hush everyone with his mallet by saying the customary, “please maintain silence in my court.”

“The court would like to know why did you murder your own child in such a brutal manner?” the Judge demanded.

Maqbool, who had by now slumped to the wooden floor in the cubicle, stared with  painful eyes at the Judge.
 
“My lord I started performing autopsies at the government mortuary in Srinagar in 1990 and for more than 17 years now, I have performed post mortem on dead bodies to determine the cause of their death. At that time terrorism was very active in Kashmir. I had come to be known as the 'Master of Death,' because of my ability to accurately determine the cause of death. Just by looking at a body, I could tell whether the victim died a shootout, an explosion or any other form of violence. I took pride in that fact. I was summoned nearly every time a militant, soldier or civilian got killed. As you must be knowing, pathologists slice-open the body to conduct various tests to find out the cause of death. Whenever tragedy struck, I was called, no matter what time of the day it was."

"But the worst part of my job was when I had to perform post mortems on little children. Their innocent faces seemed to be questioning me as why they were not where they belonged. Why didn’t they feel their mother’s arms around them anymore? Why were they not going on walks with their father? Why were they not with their siblings?"

"My hands always trembled when I had to cut their bodies open. It seemed to me like they were begging me not to kill them more. At least keep them like they were. Some were there without their limbs. Some were without their eyes. I started having nightmares. The sight of their torn little bodies started haunting me. I couldn’t sleep my lord. Even 2-3 sleeping pills at a time didn’t help. I felt helpless. I used to get up in the middle of the night with sweaty forehead and palms. Then one day in my sleep I saw a dream. There was a girl who had died and was lying on my table. She was 10 years old. She had had her whole life ahead of her and it was all over. Everything…the end. The dreams that her parents may have seen for her. The dream of her becoming a doctor, an engineer or something, of getting her married."

"I had all my equipments in front of me. I started slicing her open. From the chest to the navel. I heard her screaming. I heard her crying in excruciating pain. But I kept going, because this was something I did on a daily basis. I was used to accusing eyes and painful screams. At that very moment, I heard a shriek and something breaking. Suddenly I woke up to see my wife screaming like something terrible had happened. She had dropped the cup of tea she was carrying and was crying uncontrollably. I didn’t understand what was happening for a while as I had just woken up. She was looking at my hands in a strange manner. I looked down at them to find that they were smeared with blood. I still didn’t know why. Then it struck me. My 10-year old daughter who was lying next to me was motionless. Her entire body was covered with blood. I understood why. Her body was sliced open with precision. It was a work of a professional. It was the work of me. I had killed my own child, my love."

"I now have to live my entire life with this guilt, this burden of wiping-off everything that was ever dear to me. I have killed my dream. I have killed what I brought in to this world, what I and my wife had created. My beautiful daughter Sumaira is no more. She was the one who was screaming in pain. She was real. Her pain was real. I had begun to see the unreal as real and the real as unreal. I want to end my life my lord. This profession has ruined me. It has ruined my present and my future. Please hang me. Please kill me." Maqbool was crying like a 2-year old baby. He had no one to live for. His wife had left him and his parents had died. He had no shoulder to lean on. He didn’t want this anymore."

The Judge sentenced him to life-time imprisonment.

For Maqbool, each day in prison was a living hell. Every time that evil night flashed before his eyes, he would squirm like a worm that had been stepped on by a pedestrian on the road. The guilt ate him slowly from within. Whenever he thought about what he had done, he felt disgusted. He started cutting himself to get rid of the pain within. He went on without food for days. No bath, no change of clothes, no shave, no nothing. He would just sit in the cold, damp corner of the cell with a little doll in his hands. He used to call her Sumaira, the beautiful angel. Maqbool would get very violent if someone even tried to get near his precious doll, let alone touch it and would never leave her side, attending to her like it were real.
 
As years went by, Maqbool grew very weak. He was not in a position to even stand up on his own and needed assistance. He had become gaunt and bony and had begun to look like those undernourished kids from Somalia who are shown on TV every time NGO's want donations to feed the poor.

One morning when one of the guards came on his regular rounds, he found Maqbool lying motionless on the floor, with his hands tightly wrapped around his doll. The prison doctor was immediately called, who declared that Maqbool had died last night. On going through his belongings, among other things were a letter to his dead daughter,a picture of her and a cutting of the paper that had the headline, "Master of Death Kills Own Daughter." In his letter, he had begged his daughter for her forgiveness and had written how much he loved her. He said how he would like to take it all back if God gave him one chance, but understands that it is not possible. He also wrote "yes, i have killed you, but your death kills me every second, minute, day, night, week, year."

As an atonement to his sins, he had written the entire 5 page letter in his own blood.