I kept revisiting that place in my dreams. The same bridge, the same night. Physically, I refused to visit that incident with every conscious fibre of my being. But my sub-conscious had other plans for me. Sometimes I felt it was my mind forcing me to deal with the guilt. I had watched a man die. I didn’t stab him with the knife but in my dreams I always held the blood-stained knife. My inaction, my inability to help or call for help made me an accessory to that murder. I would never find out if the act was pre-meditated or not. I remained silent and slithered out of the picture. The scene of crime never had a trace of my presence. But it didn’t seem to want to leave my mind. The dreams only brought out what I refused to acknowledge about that night; I escaped that night from fear of dying a similar death. Some would call that a smart move. Deep down, I know I was a coward. The bridge wasn’t dark that night. The street light had gleamed off the knife; I remembered the murderer’s face clearly. I could have been a witness to that man’s death. I could have put the criminals behind bars. But I wasn’t strong enough then or now to tell anyone about that night. Thanks to my lack of courage, the murderers are still out there. And I was forced to live with the memory of that dreadful night when I watched a man bleed to death on the Howrah Bridge.