If Santa were real

THE DAILY HERALD

LETTER TO THE EDITOR SECTION

My name is Carolin and I am an unemployed elf. Until recently, I was employed – like many thousands of my comrades – at Santa’s Toy Factory, Inc. on the North Pole. I am writing this letter to the editor today to tell you of the things I witnessed during the last days of Santa’s enterprise.

About a year ago, I was the manager of the finance department of Santa’s Toy Factory (STF). We were committed to providing children with the best toys in the world. Every year before Christmas, we would get hundreds of millions of letters from children all over the world, asking for their favorite gifts. We made everything from IPods and IPads to Choo-choo trains and kites. But what we did not know was that ours was a failed business model.

For hundreds of years, STF had committed itself to serving the children of the world with toys in return for good behavior. But the world had changed since STF started operations. Children were no longer good, but downright imbeciles. Youth crime had become a rampant problem all over the world. The words “good behavior” had been re-defined so many times that we had lost count.

By 2007, Santa and STF’s upper management had a good idea that drastic changes needed to be made. There was talk in the management about budget cuts and non-sustainable business models. An increasing number of managers believed producing expensive goods under license in exchange for good behavior was a recipe for disaster. For my part, I did not believe in that. I believed in Santa and I believed STF was on a solid footing and that meant sticking to our ideals.

In late 2007, the global financial crisis struck. Lehman Brothers was the first to fall and there was a domino effect all over the world. Countries struggled to sustain their economies. In March, 2008, STF was audited by our bank for “financial irregularities stemming from a non-sustainable business model”. I still remember Santa cursing the stone-faced bankers as they showed him the legal papers. We all know what happened later. The bank foreclosed on STF and shut us down.

Thousands of elves lost their jobs. Because of us being elves, the Norwegian government refused to treat us as unemployed individuals. The argument being that the term “individuals” was for humans only. We fought a case in the courts and lost one battle after another. Some elves committed suicide. Others headed off to South East Asia to work in the sweat shops. Some still roam the wilderness and scavenge for food.

But what the world doesn’t know is another side to this story. The side never covered in the papers; and my reason for writing this letter. That side is Santa. After losing STF, the bank also foreclosed on Santa’s house which was company property. His wife left him for a slick banker. His reindeers were taken away by the bank and a hefty fine was imposed for “excesses”. Their reasoning was that they had been for company work but had also been used privately by Santa to go to his summer retreat on the South Pole.

Abandoned by friends, hated by the community that once loved him, Santa became a homeless person in Oslo. Out of desperation, and in light of the ill-times that had befallen him, Santa became addicted to Methamphetamine (also called Crystal Meth). Due to addiction, he quickly lost his jolly demeanor and his trademark belly. The shining white beard we had all grown up to love was replaced by a dirty stubble.

Santa died two days ago of pneumonia. He is survived by his son Paul who his half-reindeer half-human; the result of a brief affair with Rudolph’s mother Annette in 1989. I wrote this letter to let the world know that Santa was a brave and caring person and not the “kind-faced monster who personifies everything wrong with the global financial system”. A man, whose spirits had not been dampened by centuries of sliding down chimneys and eating cookies and milk, had been brought down by a financial scandal. The bringer of gifts died as a hobo in Oslo of cold.

Sincerely,

Carolin Elf (Former Finance Manager – Santa Toy Factory Inc.)

(Originally written by Kamran Zubairi)

In Memory of Jane

I looked at my watch; almost twelve. Almost time for lunch. My laptop pinged; an email had arrived. It was from Accounts. They were asking for a more detailed breakdown of “the costs incurred in the fiscal year”. I hate emails from Accounts. They always conjure images of old men with thick glasses and heads buried in books, in my mind. I told them I’d get back to them later.

I got out of my chair and walked to the coat rack. I got my coat off the rack and headed out. On the way, I told Enid – my secretary – that I was going out for an early lunch. Luckily, the elevator was at our floor and almost instantly, I was on my way down. The bell chimed; announcing my arrival on the ground floor. The lift doors opened and I got out. I walked quickly to the front doors, nodding to the security guard on the way. I’d been distracted all day today.

I got out of the building. It was hot and humid. Unusual weather for this time of the year. I turned left and started walking to the place where I usually have my lunch. They’d whip up something for me even if I was a bit earlier than usual. Suddenly, I felt something moist on my nose. It was a raindrop! And as suddenly as the raindrop had fallen, it started raining. In a few seconds it was raining as steadily as if it had been for hours.

It was times like these that made me think of Jane. She would call this rain presumptuous. She had these little and unusual adjectives for describing everyday life things. The rain would be self-presumptuous because it had assumed that it was expected and thus had started falling in a way that would make it seem like it had been there for hours. It was making itself at home.

I realized that while I had been thinking all this, I’d been standing in the rain. I darted into the shelter of a nearby building. I looked down at the pavement to check if it was really dry because I wouldn’t have known it; the way I was drenched. I saw a small blade of grass peeking out from between a crack in the pavement. Ambitious, I thought. I smiled to myself. There I was being the same way as Jane was. She was very unique that way, Jane. She could totally take over your mind to the point that you seemed to be an extension of her. And that ability did not diminish in her absence. My thinking like this after just one memory of her was proof enough.

Jane wasn’t a bad person, though. But she was a powerful person. Powerful, in the way, that she would have an impact on anyone and everyone around her. Jane had a big impact on me. After my mother died, we were all devastated. And totally clueless about what to do and how to go about doing it. But Jane had moved in. She had the complete run of the house within the hour. My father never even thought of contradicting her or asking her why she was moving in. Everything from getting us ready for school to breakfast, lunch and dinner to attending PTA meetings was Jane’s task.

Jane had been specially close to me, though. She used to tell me about her own children and what ‘incompetent idiots’ they were. She had only one dream, she told me. That one of her sons become a lawyer. But they never did. One joined the Army and the other worked in a garage. As time passed, Jane began to see me as a son. She wanted me to become a lawyer. And it hurt her when I chose management instead. During my years at college, I was going through a difficult phase; and coming at home and seeing Jane’s disappointed expression became too much after a while. So one summer, I put off going home. One summer became two and two became three and three became twenty.

Jane became a figment of the past, in my mind. Someone to be thought of when I discussed my childhood with a friend or a girlfriend. Then she receded into the deep recesses of my brain. Until this morning.

Jane had died three days ago. Her service was planned for today. They were going to bury here in the city. I had forgotten her family had lived in the city before she had moved into the suburbs with us. But this was not what saddened me. The saddest thing was, that nobody had told me. I had read it in the paper at breakfast. My father had passed away five years ago and I remembered Jane had been too sick then to attend the funeral. I, myself, had been in too much shock to go check on her and had taken time off. But someone should have told me of her death. I suppose the incompetent idiots forgot to tell me too.

The rain had stopped now and the sun was shining. It had been a very small spell. Perhaps just a cloud that wanted to shed its weight and move on. Even the water had dried whilst I had been musing. Like it had never rained. How presumptuous of the sun, I thought. And suddenly, I knew what to do. I quickly ran to the street and hailed a cab. I got in and gave him directions to the cemetery where I remembered they were having the service. It had been planned for nine o’clock, but maybe someone would be there.

No one was there when I got to the cemetery. It had been quicker than usual. It was easy to find the freshly dug grave. The gravestone was nice. It was dark green with a polished look. I wondered who had paid for it. It looked expensive. Then, I thought something Jane had once told me. I had asked her about dying and she had said this: “When someone dies they only die in the world. But the things and the people they loved last longer. The hearts they touch beat with joy when they think about the deceased. When I die, I don’t want you to shed tears. I want you to remember me in your heart and smile and move on with your life. But you make sure whoever you touch with your life, also smiles when you die.”

I smiled and walked away.

The Man on the Balcony

The man in front of Ally asked her a question. But she couldn’t hear him. She could see his lips moving and a somber expression on his face, but her brain couldn’t really register the words he was asking. The only words she could think of were, “I never asked him”.

Two years ago, Ally had moved into an apartment building. It was uptown and really close to where she worked. And it was at a bargain price too! The night she moved in, she and her friend Elaine were having a few drinks on the balcony and admiring the view of the skyscrapers when they saw a man come out on his balcony. He was in the block to the left of Ally’s and a floor up. He was very cute as well. When he came out and saw the two ladies, he raised his beer bottle to them. Like a perfect gentleman.

It began then and there. Ally had a good view of his apartment from her living room window and could see into his bedroom. She used to watch him walk the treadmill in the morning, or pick out his tie for work. Sometimes he would see her and wave. Sometimes, she would duck under the windowsill just in time. But she thought she caught him smiling later. Ally also saw him bring his girlfriends home and share evenings with them.

She loved watching him. Loved him just going through the business of living life. She was a bit jealous of his girlfriends sometimes. They shared intimate moments with him while she had to content herself from her living room window. But they had a ritual. Every night he would come out to his balcony and she would come out to hers. And together, they’d admire the view for ten or fifteen minutes. Not a word was spoken. Whenever he came out, he’d raise his wine glass or beer bottle to her. And she’d return his greeting in kind.

And so it went on until about a month ago. He had broken up with his girlfriend and Ally thought it was high time she made a move. So she braved her fears and went to check out his name. It was Richard Klein. Ally secret thought of herself as Ally Klein. She liked the feel of that. But before she could ask him out during their nightly ritual, she was sent on an official trip to another city. It was a ten day convention and an excellent opportunity for her to rake in some clients and thus advance her career.

The night she came back from the trip, he wasn’t on his balcony. She waited and waited but he never came out. She thought maybe he’d forgotten. She hadn’t been there herself. Maybe he was out of town too, like her. When he didn’t come out for three more days, Ally grew afraid. She decided to check up on him. After all, it would hardly be surprising that she be concerned.

When she went to his apartment, she saw some movers taking furniture out. Her fears were immediately verified. He’d moved out. When she asked the moving guys whose furniture this was, she was told it was Mr. Klein’s. Richard Klein’s? Yes. She asked if Mr. Klein was moving to another place. The moving man smiled sadly and said, “He’s dead, ma’am. Passed away from cancer. The building supervisor told us. Damn shame. Heard he was young and all.”

* * *

The man was asking her if she knew the deceased. She nodded and said, “In a way.” Ally left the church after that. She’d never asked him out.

Subway

I had bought a day ticket although I meant to ride the subway only once. But I bought it so they couldn’t get me off the train before what was going to happen happened. The petite girl behind the glass at the ticket booth had smiled at me kindly. I thanked her and told her she had a charming voice. That brought a smile to her face and her blue eyes lit up like the sun had come out of the clouds after a rainy day. Those blue eyes reminded me of my Grace.

I walked slowly toward the platform and punched my train ticket in the little box before the escalators. As usual everyone was using the escalators and not the stairs. It was different for me though, to use them. I had a reason to. But these young kids, they have no exercise. They don’t go out and play games when they can do the same on their Playstations and what not. No exercise, no sir. They just eat their burgers and get fat sitting on their asses all day long.

I got on the escalator. Slowly I slid down and the platform came into view. A train was just leaving from the right side. I had to get onto the left one. The usual array of people was present at the platform. I sat down on a seat and waited for the train to come. The board said ten minutes. I heard a child crying and looked in that direction. It was a little boy. He was asking his mother – who resolutely ignored him – to buy him a chocolate egg from the vending machine nearby. He kept tugging her arm but she wouldn’t budge. My Brian was like that too when he was little. Oh, the tantrums he used to make. But that boy was the most determined child I have ever seen. He never quit. That’s what they told us later, when they presented us with the flag at the ceremony. He never quit. Killed by enemy fire near Saigon. My little Brian. My little boy. How he would have been afraid. How he would have wanted us to be there by his side just this once. I begged and begged him to go to law school; but he volunteered for the army. I wiped a tear off my eye.

Four minutes. A man caught my eye. He was tall with an efficient air around him. His face was perfectly shaved. His hair brushed until even the most wayward lock stuck in place. In his hand was a shining leather briefcase and under the same arm was this morning’s newspaper. In his other hand was a paper cup of steaming coffee. I knew the type. He probably worked at a big law firm downtown. Probably wanted to make partner before forty. And I was sure he was heading to work an hour early so he could stay two paces ahead of everyone else all day. Two minutes more.

There was a sudden flurry of activity. People lined up their positions. The veterans who knew where the doors would be quickly stepped to that place. Many people followed suit, observing the veterans’ every movement. I got up too and stood behind the efficient fellow. Everyone was now eagerly waiting for the train. Everyone from foreigners to business men, housewives to secretaries, schoolchildren to shaven headed youths had two words on their mind: “come on”. For two minutes, everyone on the platform was united. And then the train came.

It made screeching sounds and finally ground to a halt. The veterans were proved right again. The whole platform came alive. Swarms of people got off the train and probably the same number of people got on. I got on too and luckily found a seat at the very back where I wouldn’t be disturbed. Just as I sat down, I felt a jerk and the train started moving again.

As though on cue, a shaven headed youngster stuck ear phones into his head and started listening to mind numbing music, a woman who looked like a professional secretary, tilted back her head and shut her eyes, the efficient man opened up the newspaper and started reading. Such is the life we built for ourselves. For most people travelling each day on the subway, it is like a blue line connecting one part of their life to the other. The blue line was something that you had to bear each day to get from one end to the next. Everyone has a routine; each one has a way to deal with it as he sees fit. Just a blue line.

Suddenly the train shook and the windows rattled with pressure. Another train had passed us by. All I saw was a blur and squares of light which were windows. And as I looked into those windows, I felt like I was looking into a window of my own life. I closed my eyes. For forty years I had travelled on the subway. I had my routine too. I’d read a book and not even think about the office. Many important events in my life had occurred on the subway. I met Grace here for the first time. She had gotten onto the wrong train and I helped her find the right one. I pretended it was my stop so she wouldn’t feel like she was burdening me. We got married a year later. On the exact same day. We went home straight from the church, changed and rode the same train again. And we laughed all the time. The whole carriage was staring at us like we were nuts, but we didn’t care. It was the happiest day of my life.

When Brian died I was coming home from work. When I got off the train I saw Grace standing there on the platform waiting for me. Her eyes were red and puffy and all she managed to say was, “They called about Brian.” I hugged her and soon all the people who had been clearly visible just a moment ago turned blurry from the tears. My happiest and saddest moments had been spent here. It was only proper that my last day be spent here too.

I put my hand in my pocket and took out the ticket. I put it in my hand and lay my hand on my seat with the ticket in it. I felt short of breath. They said it’d happen. The train had been stopped at a station. It started moving again and entered a tunnel that led deeper underground. The ancient Greeks had believed that the souls of the dead live underground. If they were to be believed, I was closer to my wife and son than ever before.

* * *
The Daily Times
MAN FOUND DEAD ON SUBWAY

A dead man was found riding the subway train today on line 16. He was discovered by cleaners who had come to clean the train in the early hours of the morning. Apparently, the man – identified by the city’s transportation officials as John Hutchinson, 78 – got on the train in the morning and died sometime later. The transportation officials believe Mr. Hutchinson was presumed to be sleeping by other members of his carriage, and as people keep getting on and off the train, nobody noticed anything out of the ordinary. His day ticket was found in his hand. It had been stamped by an official who also assumed he was asleep.

Transportation officials expressed their regrets on Mr. Hutchinson’s death and said they were trying to find his next of kin, but had not been very successful so far. It is their hope that someone reading this article may come to claim the body from the city morgue.

The Last Jump

If you ask a person what the most beautiful thing in the world is, they’ll say the sunset, or the sunrise, or babies, or their wives or husbands or girlfriends or boyfriends. Not me. The most beautiful thing is looking down at the world from the sky. It all spreads out in front of you in all its glory. Fields, mountains, lakes, rivers, they all seem to make sense in the most wonderful of ways. It’s like a pattern; an intricate web of things coexisting. It’s as if God, Himself, wanted us to see His handiwork from the top; just like He sees it. For those of you who haven’t experienced it: you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

I can feel the wind on my face. It’s refreshing. The cold wind tousles my hair, its smell fills my nostrils, and its noise is in my ears. That noise feels like music to me. I had always been the oddball in the family. My brother and sister wanted to be lawyers or doctors or teachers or soldiers when we were growing up, but I always came up with the most ludicrous of professions; wildlife photographer or mountain climber or hunter – the last one made everybody laugh each time I mentioned it. I was like the nose on a polar bear. All of the polar bear is white; it completely blends in with the surroundings of snow and ice. But the nose is black. The nose is in the starkest contrast with the polar bear’s body and his surroundings. So that was me: the family misfit. Everyone thought I was going through phases where I liked to live dangerously; that it would all blow over and once day I’ll wake up and decide I wanted lesser thrill from life. I thought so too. But this was before I jumped from a plane fifteen thousand feet above the surface with a parachute strapped to my back. The feeling was sensational. This is the best word that could describe it. It was like, finally, I was home. This is the love of my life.

I wheeled the wheel chair back a little to give myself more space. There was another spasm. I clutched my stomach and writhed with pain. Drops of sweat formed on my brow. My breath came out in rasps. But I knew I could take it; this was the last time. When it was over I breathed in great gulps of air. The open window helped; there was plenty of air to breathe. I remembered the first time I had felt such pains. I thought I’d eaten something bad. It didn’t happen for some more months and I forgot all about it. But then they came back, this time with vengeance. I went to my doctor who told me he needed to do a biopsy. A week later they diagnosed me with stomach cancer. They tried everything from then on, chemotherapy, the works. Nothing happened. No effect. In the end they came out and gave me a word that changed my life forever: terminal.

My parents and my brother and sister were there through it all. They cared for me. Brought me food and water and movies in the hospital. But they didn’t understand me. Not really. They never understood me, and it wasn’t their fault. I was like family anomaly. One day I was sitting with my mother and she was talking to me about heaven and hell, and I was drinking Oslo – it’s a brand of bottled water. While I sipped water from the Norwegian glaciers and contemplated my place in the kingdom of heaven, I realized something: I wanted to go down on my own terms. God would understand wouldn’t He?

And, so, I planned it all. Its early morning now and I’m good to go. I try to stand up but my feet feel wobbly and I sit back down on the wheel chair. I take a deep breath and tell myself, Sammy get your ass up from this chair and do it like a man. That makes me stand up. That also makes me smile. No one talks to me like that, not even me. I push the wheel chair away with my foot. Suddenly I was in my element. This was me, all the way. Bracing for a jump. But this would be my last jump. The hospital is perfect for me. It’s inside a thirty floor building. I am, of course, on the top floor. I walk up to the window and climb out onto the ledge. I bend my knees at the ankles and cross my arms over my chest so as not to hit the side of the plane on the way. Of course, there is no plane but this is how it’s done. The world looks so beautiful from up here. The city that makes no sense when you’re navigating through the streets in traffic suddenly makes so much sense. The dawn is just ending and I can see the sun finally peeking through the clouds. This makes the sky glow with the most amazing hues of blue, grey, orange and brilliant yellow. I smile. I jump. The wind rushes through my ears and it’s like I’m listening to a melody composed by the angels themselves. The world rushes up to meet me; to embrace me. Finally, I am home. There is a car parked right under me. As I come close, I can see that it’s red. I smile. It’ll be a lot redder in the next five seconds. I’m almost there now. Almost home. I close my eyes.

The meaning of life

Sometimes I wonder about the meaning of life. What is life? Is it being born, living it as best you can and die? Is it something to be totally spent in the service of God? Is it something to be enjoyed? Should it be spent in the service of other human beings? Or is it just something that is and we have to go along with it like everybody else?

You know how there are little drops of dew on the roof of the car in the morning, after a cold night? Have you ever just taken your finger and swiped it through the dew? It makes a line in it. When the sun comes up and the dew melts, you can see traces of the line you made; a faint imprint where your finger brushed away the dew. After some time, that too vanishes. It is replaced by dust or, if you clean your car daily, a shiny imprint free roof.

Our life is like that little finger swipe. The roof is the world; the droplets of dew, the people. Each person has a unique presence, just like tiny drops of dew. When we touch the lives of the people we know, we leave an impression on them. Even if we only meet them once. They remember us, even if it is for a tiny fraction of a second. They talk about us, laugh about us, tell their friends they want to be like us or unlike us, think about us and smile, secretly admire us, love us, hate us, say our name in sleep, think of us when they open their eyes in the morning, or completely forget us after a few moments. But just like the swipe we make with that finger; we make an impression on them and, in turn, on their lives.

Eventually, our impression fades away. If they know us deeply and intimately, it takes a lifetime. If they only happened to glance at us from across the street while buying fruit, it takes only a second. I look at the stars and wonder if these planets exist anymore. Scientists say their lights reach us millions of years later. I wonder, if I put a very powerful telescope to my eyes which could see that far, what I would see. Maybe a civilization at the pinnacle of its life, or a star just being born. Maybe a world destroying itself, or one just waking up.

But what if there is an alien out there on one of the stars I see as just being born? Millions of years later, it has evolved and now has a thriving population. And that alien, being scientifically advanced enough, sees the dinosaurs walking around on our planet. Maybe, someday, someone from a far away galaxy will see me lying on the grass and staring up at the sky; wondering about the meaning of life. And my life, just for a second, will impact his. He may turn around to his friend and tell him about the human he saw today.

I guess what I want to say is, our life does have a meaning. We just have to live it as best we can. Maybe long after we die, we’ll be remembered. Maybe our stories will be told to others. Maybe they’ll smile at the jokes we told or at the way we talked or how we used to tell a story. Maybe we can live long after we die.

You can always run away...

I have never been a very committed man. Although the people around me are rarely aware of it; I hardly ever make major commitments. And when I do, I always have an “escape clause” in my mind. But my fear of commitment doesn’t mean I’m not decisive. Quite the contrary; I’m a very decisive person. I look at the situation, I measure my chances and I take the leap of faith. Thinking of faith made me say a quick prayer. But even as I prayed, my subconscious reminded me I could always flee.

Ever since I was a child, and be asked to play a game I would think what if I lose? Or what if my team loses? My mind would always reply with this: you can always run away. And if I knew anything, it was running. I ran so fast I was in every school and college running team. I always made the squad. And that always made mom and dad proud. And when I would stand on the little stair – the one with first, second and third written on it – to receive my trophy and have butterflies in my stomach, I’d tell myself “you can run away Jack, you can always run away.”

So I ran all the way through school and I ran through college. When it was time to get a job and move into an apartment in the City, I felt uncertain, afraid, nervous; anything but confident. But my mind again sprang out the old piece of advice. Now it was like second nature to me. I trusted that advice. It had got me through twenty-three years of life! Never once had it failed.

Then I met Liz. She was the secretary of the Area Manager of the company we both worked for. We dated for a year. I had never felt anything to be so right in my life. She was smart, funny and beautiful. Her eyes sparkled every time she smiled and her cheeks had the sweetest little dimples in them. But my old commitment issues came up again. I started questioning whether I was ready for marriage; whether she was really the right girl. But with my old problem, my old advice returned too. Even though I had no intention of running away from Liz or the wonderful life I knew we were destined to lead, I told myself the option was still open. There was always an escape hatch at the back. I couldn’t help myself. It’s just the way I was made. Kind of like a manufacturing fault.

And, so, Liz and I got married on a sunny spring day in April. She looked so beautiful; I had no words to describe her. I still don’t. The two years of our marriage have been the happiest two years of my life. The sheer joy of waking up every day to the sound of my wife humming ‘What a Wonderful World’ makes me wonder what I did to deserve her.

The car behind me honked. The light had turned green and I hadn’t realized. Nothing like a traffic intersection to make you reflect on your life. I quickly turned right and headed straight toward the hospital. I parked in the parking lot, got the ticket and ran straight in. I asked the nurse at reception for my wife’s room. She was on the second floor. I couldn’t wait anymore so I ran straight for the stairs. Reaching the second floor, I told the nurse at the station my name. She smiled and told me everything was okay. I tried to smile too but something was wrong with my facial muscles so I grimaced instead. The nurse took me to my wife’s room.

When I saw the little bundle in Liz’s arms and the smile on her face, complete with the dimples and the twinkling eyes, I felt waves of relief flow through me. Liz mouthed “boy” and handed me the bundle. I took it carefully. It was tiny. It – he – was my son. He would be my legacy; my future. He was my son. The baby opened his eyes and his little closed fist touched my finger. I held it out to him. He opened his fist and closed it around it. My subconscious told me I could not run away; not now. And you know what, I didn’t want to.

The Life and Death of Jack Copely

Jack Copely smoked the last cigarette he would ever smoke. He held it between his forefinger and his index finger and inhaled the sweet smoke. He savored the taste of the smoke in his mouth and then let it out gently, almost as if he were kissing it. Boy, he would miss the cigarettes if it were possible. He leaned back in his brown leather chair, shifted to the side and put his legs on top of the table. He was satisfied to see his shoes were shining like always. To him, shiny shoes had always meant you were an important person and being important was important to Jack Copely so he kept them well shined.

Most men equate being important with having great power. Not Jack. No way. He equated being important with having money. Money gave you everything you desired. It gave you comforts, it opened doors, it provided women you knew you could never have otherwise, and yes it provided power too. But showing that you have money is always important. Jack knew the importance of dressing well, he always had all his suits tailor made. His shoes were always the best the Italians had to offer. His watch, the best the Swiss came out with that year. But his most prized possession was his car. His Caddy convertible. His very own personal door-opener. Thinking of the Caddy made Jack smile. He’d had fine times because of that automobile. He’d miss that too, if it were possible.

But Jack had not been born with such wealth. He was the son of a mechanic. A poor mechanic. When he was born, Jack contracted malaria. His father couldn’t afford to take him to a doctor. His parents tried to take care of him at home, and they did what they always did. They prayed. But against all odds, Jack lived. Ever since he heard his mother tell that story to him as a child, he thought one thing; regular people go to hospitals in such situations, but not the Copelys. At first he had difficulty understanding why. It all became clear on his first day at school. All the boys and girls had shiny lunch boxes, filled with sumptuous food. They all wore clean clothes and had hair that was so shiny it hurt Jack’s eyes. The first day really drew the point home. His parents had no money. They were poor. They were pitiable. Maybe it was that day, maybe it was after he got into that fight with Frank Granger who suggested he fetch other kids’ bikes from the school bicycle stand for a quarter; but Jack decided he would do something with his life. He would not remain poor. And he did just that. He ran away from home on his sixteenth birthday and never looked back.

He had fought life. He created his own rules and by hook, crook and everything in between, he became one of the richest men in the city. His parties were the most sought after. When he did people favors, they always owed him big. But he was like the highlight of the evening; come late night, everybody had to go home. And they went home. One by one they left him; old allies and new friends. The smiles on their faces were replaced be frowns, the brows furrowed, the eyes lost their twinkles when they saw him. Gradually, he became an outcast. Just like that lunchtime on his first day at school.

Jack glanced around his office. Sunlight from the window glinted on the glass case housing his honorary memberships of various clubs. The carpet in his office was the thickest of the Persians he could find. The hat and coat stand was made of ivory. The desk was polished oak. And on the desk there was another prized possession; his gold pen. It had been a gift from a wealthy banker who owed Jack a lot of favors. After the pen, he had considered all debts repaid. On the same desk, though, rested the Bernard file. Oh Bernard, he thought, you really ticked off the wrong congressman.

Bernard Watson had been found guilty of embezzling funds from the public coffers. A Congressional inquiry had found his broker, Jack Copely, also guilty. And thus it was that Jack was here in his office on a Sunday, reflecting on his wealth and achievements, smoking his last cigarette and thinking what his obituary would look like.

Jack picked up the pistol from his desk. Although it had been lying in the sunlight, it was still cold. As cold as death. Jack clicked the magazine into place, clicked off the safety, and weighed the gun in his hand. It felt light, almost as if it was telling him it was just a harmless piece of metal here to deliver salvation. He put it in his mouth. Jack Copely was not a religious man and it never occurred to him to pray to God. The cold steel helped calm him. He would never go to prison, he would never let the government take away his wealth and become poor again. He was born poor, but he’d die rich. He had promised this to himself long ago.

He pulled the trigger. The bullet entered his skull from the upper wall of his mouth and exited from behind his skull. Blood, bone and brain tissue were scattered all over the expensive Persian carpet and the curtains behind the desk. Jack Copely was born a poor boy, but he died a rich man. He had kept his promise to himself. When they found him later, the policemen swore his eyes had a triumphant look in them.

Miscarriage

They said it wasn’t her fault.
These things happen, they said.

She stared out the windows
to the playing fields ahead

she saw her son play ball,
he looked at peace.

She saw his first step,
she caught him before he fell,

she watched him grow up,
turn into a man.

But he still came running to her
like he had as a lad.

She saw him get married,
with sons of his own to have.

She saw them pick up his limp body,
she saw them shake their heads

This poem is based on an actual event. It may seem amaturish but the emotions behind it were hard to put into words.

Futile

The cry of a wolf pierced the night air
Cursed are all that hear

Darkness was all around him
Darkness and despair

He looked toward the heaven and cried
“O Lord! I tried

to forget all about her
but I had reached the height”

Why oh why, he thought
Should she die?

Wolves continued to howl,
The world went round

The sky then opened, and a voice pronounced:
“Till the heavens your cry was heard, but your plight denounced”

Su

Su didn’t love the sea. She didn’t hate it either. The sea was part of her life. Just like when you wake up in the morning and know that that the sun is shining, Su knows the sea is out there. Just beyond the little garden she had somehow managed to plant in the sand outside her house, beyond the little stretch of sand, its waves crashing on the shore every few seconds. To Su, the sea represented her life and all she had come to know. Just like she neither loved nor hated her life, she neither loved nor hated the sea. The waves on the sea were unrelenting, they crashed and they crashed but their life was completely sapped from them the second they crashed. They never even made it to the edge of the wall beside the road. Except in bad weather, that is. Such was the story of her life; she lived all the days as if she were declaring war on life itself. Never relenting until she died. But just like the sea sometimes got rough and splashed high against the wall beside the road, she had a few highs as well.

Su had grown up near the sea. Every major event of her life had the sea in it. She had been born in the house that she lived in now. She had also lost her mother the same night. Then there was Pa. Pa had gone waving and smiling one day in his boar from the pier and had never come back. It was quite a storm, that day. All the fishermen had warned Pa the crests of the waves were white- the surest sign of an impending storm - but Pa never listened to anyone in his life, and he didn’t start then. Thinking about Pa made Su smile. Pa was the crusty sailor. Her fisherman father. He always told her the fish he brought them to eat was caught by him. “Just like God intended,” he would say. Being a fisherman was a sacred duty in his eyes.

Then there was her husband. She had met him near the surfer’s bar. He was an Australian and a damn good looking one too. They had liked each other their eyes met. Love at first sight. But John had left her, for a dimwitted blond some months after they got married. Thinking of John still made Su sad. But, well, it was another stunningly beautiful day, even though it was December. Another day beside the sea. Sometimes, she wished she had lived in a cold place near mountains where it snowed all year round. Then she didn’t have to look at the sea all day long. She had seen enough sunrises and sunsets to last her a lifetime. Oh well, she thought, time to get to work.

She hastily ate a breakfast of cold tuna sandwiches and went out to her car. Her musings had already cost her to run late. And the traffic at this time would be immense! Even though it was just after 10 o’ clock in the morning, the tourists were already out in force. She started her car and heard an odd rumbling sound coming from the engine. The last thing she needed right now was engine trouble. She quickly got out and opened the hood. Strange, she thought, the engine seemed to be fine. Then the sound got louder and people started screaming. Su turned around and for the first time in her life, was afraid of the sea. An unreal sight met her eyes. The sea was receding! It was as if Armageddon had come upon the world. So forceful was the sea’s receding that people and boats were being swept away into it; it was as if a giant whirlpool had opened up right in the middle of it. Then there was a deep rumbling sound. Everything, and everyone, stood still and simply stared at the sea, wondering what would come next. What came next made Su relieve her life in her entire mind. She felt as if she was watching it all in fast forward, she even felt the emotions all over again.

When the giant tsunami crashed upon everyone, some ran, but most stood rooted to the spot. It was the most spectacular thing anyone present that day had ever seen. It was as if the sea was mocking Su, telling her that it had possessed the strength all along; it just hadn’t shown it to her before. It was the most overwhelming scene Su had seen in her entire life. The last thought that passed through her head was, about the weather. How clear the day was, how brightly the sun shone, as if it wasn’t aware of what was going on beneath it.

Every major event of Su’s life had taken place near the sea. She had been born there, lost her mother near it and her father to it, met her future husband there, spent her whole life there. And she

died there too.

The Old Man

The old man thought he was old. Too old for this shit. But, hey, what can you do eh? Life and all that. He decided to wait a moment, though. He deserved it too. He looked down at his hand, as if trying to decipher his kismet. All caked with mud it was. And the lines! Well, mostly they were cuts and dead skin, but he did have deep lines on his hand. His hands had been deeply lined ever since he was a kid. A fortune teller once told him he would be big and famous some day. What a waste of ten rupees that was eh?

He looked around. There were quite a few characters there today. The car nearest him, the black one, had a young lad in it. The car was too big for him to ride alone, but he didn’t seem to be complaining about it. He was rocking to a beat from the radio. Or maybe it was the tape recorder playing. He had seen tape recorders play! Sometimes they shook the very ground you walked on.

The car just behind the young fellow’s was a white thing. A little white thing. In it were a man and a woman and two kids. They looked like a family. Well there’s kismet for you eh? Four people in a little car and a single person in a big car. Just goes on to show you, he thought. The man and the woman looked to be in a heated argument though. The woman was telling the man he should have paid the bill on time, that way they would have avoided the extra fine. The man was telling the woman – presumably his wife – that he was busy at the office and she should have paid the bill instead. The two kids in the back seemed to be deep in conversation with their windows. Oh, how the old man knew about conversations with inanimate objects! Whenever Baba would come home angry from work, and beat Amma up, he would always go into his little corner on the roof and have conversation with the walls and the three legged chair. They were his only real friends for quite a few years. Many more years than necessary, he grunted.

There was a rickshaw beside the little white car. In it were two ladies. Or rather, a girl and an older woman. The woman looked resolute, staring straight ahead, eyes fixed on the red light. The girl was looking at him. At him! Why was she looking at him? Perhaps, she wanted him to tell the older woman the light only changes when it does and not a second before? Or maybe he reminded the girl of somebody. People told him he had one of those faces. Yes, he had paid the price of that. It was a dark night and he was coming to his house. The electricity of the entire locality had been cut; another effort of the government to root out the “enroachers”. There were four of them, four men. They had jumped him from behind, thought he was someone else. One of them had a meat cleaver. That one cost him his job at the tanning factory. Nobody wants some cripple working for them.

But he had accepted the fact now; he had to. Kismet right? You have to be born at the right place and at the right time. And speaking of time, it was time to get to work. The old man hefted himself up using his hand and began walking toward the rickshaw. Maybe the girl wanted to give him money. Maybe she was sympathetic. He walked toward the rickshaw; all the time keeping his eyes on the girl and making sure she saw the stub of his left arm. He came near and she held out a ten rupee note for him to take. He took it and muttered a half-hearted “Allah…” and went to the other cars. No time for idle thinking now. There was money to be made here.