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.