"Land Mafia; Royal Enfield; Beer pitcher; Pigeon racing" Odd combination, right? Well, that was what one of my creative friends gave, to use and weave a story out of it. It was pretty challenging and here is the story of a man who couldn't live his life on his own terms. Read ahead.

Lark tried not to retch at the sight of so much blood. He had not meant to break the guy's nose. The wounded guy crawled into a corner and covered his nose with both hands, hoping to stem the flow. The wailing of the wife and kid was now only a background noise for Lark, it's initial sharpness having faded away.

Something was lightly beating on his sides and Lark looked down to find his hands shaking, with fright or with shame he wasn't sure which. He took a deep breath to dispel the buzz in his ears and put both hands into his trouser pockets and gripped the inside fabric for support.

The wife was now holding the hems of his trousers, face down whimpering. He could hear her muffled "Please don't... please don't..." interspersed with high sobs.

He shrugged away from her and smoothed down his trousers. The hems were wet to the touch and he involuntarily shuddered.

"The day after tomorrow, you shouldn't be here. Ain't nobody can save your husband if y'all try to go to the poleecemen. I may not be this kind next time", he said gruffly to the wife and left without waiting for her reply.

The droning of his Royal Enfield somewhat helped soothe his nerves. The courage he had summoned to beat the poor guy up had completely sapped his energy and he craved for a drink.

The bell clinked as he entered the bar and everyone turned to look who had entered. Some visibly paled at the sight of him but the majority held a look of disgust that clearly showed how infamous he was.

He slid into a bar stool and a tall mug of frothing beer came sliding over the table and rested before him.

"I will need the beer pitcher today."

"Here you go," said the bartender without meeting his eyes and placed a pitcher full of the golden brown liquid with a tremor.

Lark was a part of the land mafia dominating his hometown. He was in the executional wing of the mafia, but none knew that he wasn't a willing participant. He had been a pigeon fancier until recent times. He was the proud owner of several of the best racing pigeons in the interstate and along with his wife and two kids they had been his world until the 'Mafia' happened.

The land where he had built his tiny home and dovecote had unfortunately fallen in the sights of a wealthy tycoon. And he wanted his fifth harem to be right there.

There is a concept called 'Widowhood' in training the racing pigeons. The trainer allows the pigeon to nest and lay an egg. After it hatches, the nest is closed or the pigeon is separated from the nest and is not allowed to see it's mate and offspring, until the end of the race. This technique is said to give a sense of urgency and motivate the pigeon to return home as fast as possible and reunite with its family, if only for a brief period.

It had been over a month since Lark saw his family. Only phone calls were allowed in between 'assignments' at fixed times. Yesterday he got to see them because one of his victims had successfully caved in and it was a feast for the greedy belly of the Mafia. They had allowed him to be with his family for a whole day in celebration. It felt like he was being offered a thimble of water in a dry parched desert. His thirst would only burn stronger.

The beer pitcher was still full. All Lark could taste was the coppery smell of the blood he had helped spill earlier. He got up to leave and felt a wave of animosity emanate from the people. He closed his eyes tight to swallow the ball of sorrow and shame that had sprung up. He steeled his mind and proceeded to end this once and for all.

The pigeon lay twitching with its head covered in blood. The red on it's white body was so bright that it looked like blood had been spilled on snow. It had banged its head against the cage bars repeatedly without stop, not meaning to escape...but meaning to die. Fear of losing its family had been far greater than fear of losing its own life. The pigeon gave a final twitch and remained still.

The Royal Enfield was almost unrecognizable as its entire front body had crumbled on impact with the steel wall of the bridge. Lark had been thrown from the vehicle when it had happened and was lying a few feet away. A small pool of red expanded on the ground behind where his head lay and his throat gurgled with blood as it fought to rush out. His entire body trembled and he could feel a shadow fall on his eyes like he was falling into a dream.

No rush of images. No last recollection of memories.

He simply clutched in his fist, like a Talisman; the dark blue pigeon feather his 3-year-old daughter had gifted him, and he breathed his last.

The widowhood had ended. For him.