Sunday, March 29, 2015

Forgive and Forget Part I

“I won’t forgive him”, he spoke.

“You have to”, she said. Her hands cupped his face and bought it close. They kissed for a moment and broke off.

“I can’t”, Hack repeated.

“If you don’t... it will consume you.”

They kissed again. He was on top of her.

“I’ll try”, he started to thrust.

“Hack, there is no try. Let go. There is no point of hating... forgive and forget”


How many years had passed since they had that conversation, Hack wondered. His baby girl ran with the little dog. The mud was soft from the last night’s rain. His wife came out from the hut. Her hand held swollen belly. “He’s kicking”, a big smile stretched across her face. “We thought it would be a ‘he’ last time”, Hack pointed out with a grin. “Well, we can’t call it an ‘it’”, she pointed it.

“Maybe we give it a name?” suggested Hack.

“No, no, we are not doing that even before we meet him”. There was no way he was going to argue against her.

In this village Hack was no ordinary man. He was the Chieftain, the village head, their leader.


Of all the times, of all the days, today he thought of a memory he rarely ever thought off. He was in the village field. His shoulder arched back and the machete launched forward and hacked into the thick sugarcane cleanly slicing it off. It was back-breaking work, but years at it caused his muscles to grow. Over an hour, he spent arching back and forward with the machete.

He was not the only one working in the fields. All around him, there were women and men working on the village fields. Some were cane crop, others were cotton , another was grain.

It was at the end of an hour that the boy came running. He sprinted across the field and Hack looked at him curiously wondering what the hurry was. Then he stopped in front of Hack. “He’s... back”, spoke the boy between breaths. He couldn’t have been older than eighteen.

Hack’s movement stopped and asked him, “Who’s back?”

“You know who” the boy spoke, “It’s him. It’s Josef”.

Instantly, the expression changed on Hack’s face. A deep furrow appeared on it and a grim look took over. “Where is he?”

“At temple, offering incense”, the boy replied.  Without letting go off his machete, Hack marched across fields and entered the village path.

News of Josef’s arrival soon enough filtered through the small village.

As Hack walked through the narrow streets between huts and arriving at the edge of the village, he felt strangely calm. That name did not evoke the emotions that it did a decade ago. It was as if he didn’t care. Then, he stopped walking and decided not to even go to the temple.

Hack turned around and headed back to the fields.


“I knew you stopped hating him a long time ago, why do you think we stayed together?” his wife commented.

The sun had set and Hack was back in his own home.

“I thought so too, but today... it was the final test.”, he noted.

“I told you before. Forgive and forget”. Hack nodded his head as the banana leaf in front of him was loaded with grain.

Go ahead and complete Part II of the story - Forgive and Forget II

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Sunday, March 15, 2015

Matter of Convenience

The irony of the French Revolution
Storming of the Bastille
It was like a school classroom. A single wooden chair hugged the corner of the room. It was like a seat reserved for the naughty child. A table and chair was in the middle and the other half of the room was occupied with rows of chairs. Now, imagine this classroom was filled with people, people from 17th century France because that’s where this story takes place.

The judge sat on his seat waiting for the next prisoner to enter for judgement. He flicked through the parchment paper reading the reports. The chairs were filled with people and even a few fellows stood behind the chairs because of the lack of them. They were either enjoying the entertainment or reporting it for a Journal paper. The grenadier bought the lady in. Chairs that were scrapping, voices that were chirping and gossip that was going around came to a stop.

Silence reigned the room as the lady sat down on the seat that hugged the corner.

The judge was tired and there were plenty more cases to go through. “You have been accused of betraying the revolution”, he stated without any further ado, “How do you plead?”

Her face held an iron clad expression. She did not wince, her eyes held steady in their sockets and there was a complete lack of perspiration on her face.

“I...I-I plead guilty”.

“I will read over your case and then pass judgement. We are done”, the judge proclaimed.

The grenadier marched her out of the room.


Back to the prison she went. A prison that saw light only in the morning, but as soon as the sun set, pitch darkness filled it. There were a few lucky few whose walls had cracks and gaps, and rays of moon light poured in. These souls did not sleep in their hay beds, rather slumbered on the ground, gladly receiving that tinge of light. She lay on the hay bed, in darkness. She was not one of those lucky souls. Her clothes were still the same ones that she wore when they came to arrest her. In her heart, she knew she was guilty.

Her vision drifted out into the darkness of the prison. This was the first place to be liberated, but no one was freed, not a single soul. Instead, more souls, who were wrongly and righteously accused, were put in here. The irony.


She sat there not in defiance, but in wallowing in her guilt. It was that same room.

“I have no pity on you”. It was another judge, but the faces in the crowd were all the same. Curious faces, but none that she remembered, none that she knew....  she was abandoned her by everyone.

“You are accused of betraying the revolution, while you were actually the one to advocate it first through your leaflets. Yet, when we came knocking on your door, for refuge, for advice... for help, you refused us and lives were lost. What do you have to say?”

“You... you don’t understand, I wanted to... with all my heart I wanted to”.  The frown on the judge’s face deepened, but he did not interrupt her.

“I asked friends, I took counsel, I... wanted to steel my doubt. You don’t understand” her voice began to rise with a pleading tone, “With all my heart I wanted to help the revolution.”

In her passion she jumped to her feet, “It is my failure that I didn’t take part in it, that I didn’t follow through, that I-”

“YOU’RE PATHETIC!” the judge’s voice roared over her argument, “It is wise to take counsel from your friends but ultimately, the decision is yours to make! I sentence you to death.”

Her feet felt weak and she almost buckled another her weight. A hand gripped her shoulder. It was grenadier holding her up. She was marched out of the room.


The Common way to execute someone during the French Revolution and Rein of Terror
Death by the guillotine

Was it today? Was it another day? Did I go back to prison? Her thoughts did not matter as stepped up the wooden platform. A black mask as pulled over her face, a priest said the prayers, the sounds of the crowd carried through the cloth.

Sophistication, darkness, incoming death... that what she felt. Her head was placed on the guillotine. It felt heavier than ever.  The sound of a blade slicing through the air.

The crowd roared.

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Sunday, March 1, 2015

The Falling Circus

Something you normally wouldn't see

He was sitting on the aeroplane and then, he was not. It was not like he had stepped out of the jet. Wind hit his face, harder and faster than you can ever imagine. His skin and hair was tugged back. His lips were forcefully tucked inside his mouth. His lungs found it difficult to catch a breath. Sam was falling through the air. One moment he was sitting in the aeroplane, a comfortable economy seat, the next, a vacuum suction and he was plummeting through the air. It almost seemed impossible, but that's what was happening.

Things were happening so fast, yet things were happening slow. Wait, how's that possible! That's when the bout of panic hit him. I'm going to die. Oddly enough, he didn't mind accepting it. His body spread apart, attempting to embrace the feeling, the pressure of falling down... but you can't really do that.

Winds of that pressure don't allow you to do that.

Sam turned his head to the right, an elephant was crashing down through the air. Its trunk was stuck up and like a whistle in the wind, the blow of his trumpet was heard through the air. On another side, there was a whole wing section rushing down and Sam could swear there was two mimes who were actually pulling themselves up with an imaginary rope.

Then came the clowns falling down, or cycling down if you will. They were on a single wheel cycle. Their feet worked furiously on the pedals and the wheels spun faster through the air. And as they descended down, the balls in their hands were juggled with even greater flexibility.

It was only then that Sam noticed the makeup on their faces. The white, black and red mix was running down their faces. They were scared just like him, they were afraid just like him, they all knew they were going to die.

The vast expanse of blue was growing stronger with each passing second and it was only a matter of time.

Then, splash.

Sam’s face felt wet. Like twitchy nerves, he jumped off his bed. His roommate stood there with a mug in his hands. “You need to stop dreaming”.

“It was the same nightmare over and over again. A circus falling in plane crash”, Sam spoke with a look of grave horror on his face.

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