Riches of the World

“The legends say that deep through the cracks of this mountain, pass the tunnels and caves, lies a massive mountain of gold”.

“Really Uncle?” the child piped up.

“Sage never believed legends. They are only myths and stories”, his uncle patted the child’s head, and then they parted away from the crack of the mountain.

That was a memory from a very long time ago. Sage glanced behind then looked in front. Now the only way forward was through the cracks of the mountain. It was only a matter of time before people from his village caught up and dealt down justice on him.

So he ran through. The wall on both sides was nothing but jutting jags of mud and rocks. There was enough space for a person to walk through. The path was winding all about. Sage never knew if it would end but he had to keep walking forward. The villagers would never catch him here because they dare not walk through the cracks of the mountain.

The afternoon turned to evening and the lights slowly began to recede from the mountain crack. A chill wind passed through and Sage quickened his page. The mountain path took him to an entrance inside the mountain wall. Above the wall was written, “Only those who seek their fortune may enter.” Sage did not pay much attention to it. I have to get out of here as soon as possible. Even though the villages would not follow him, he did not want to get stuck here. The tunnel was a straight path so all Sage did was march forward. His bag was beginning to feel heavy, but he didn’t mind it. The bag contained a bloody knife, a skin bottle of water and a heavy pouch containing the most important items for Sage – granules of gold.

Finally the tunnel ended and Sage was in a cave. He took a drink of water and continued on his way. Sage was just thinking, it’s not my fault. Damn those villagers, Gren, Ben, Ankit, damn them. All I wanted was a little bit more.

Uncle said that the mountain of gold does not exist but this path must lead somewhere.

A painting on the cave wall grabbed his attention. He held the torch in the front, the painting was of stick figures, it glittered and shined, and it seemed to be telling a tale. Sage did not have the time to linger. The reason no villager would enter the mountain crack was because all who go in search of the mountain of gold never return. Sage wished to believe that they were alive somewhere, they must be.

Through the winding path of the cave, he went down and then up. Sage’s thoughts drifted to Jharna. He didn’t mean to hurt her, but he had to get the granules of gold and she wouldn’t let him. His knife was still stained with her blood.

In the distance, he saw light pouring in. Sage felt excitement and relief. He reached the end, he just knew it. There was last painting in the cave. A large golden stick figure and besides that a golden mountain, underneath it was written – Midas. He didn’t know what to make of that. He was rushing to the exit and he then stepped out of the cave. Moonlight spread across the sky and he saw it.

It can’t be true.

A tsunami of thoughts hit him. The legends were true.

I found it, I’m rich, after this I can have everything I ever wanted. Damn the village.

With renewed vigour, he sprinted to the mountain of gold. The mountain rose high in the air, moonlight glinted off it. It was a solid triangular mass of gold. The prosperity of Sage’s village depended on the granules of gold that came down from the river. Everyone scoured through the river to find the granules of gold and the gold was collect together for the prosperity of the village. Sage decided that he deserved a little more, especially since he collected the most granule, but the elders refused him. That’s why he did what he did. Jharna didn’t give him the gold he deserved, which he worked hard to find!

Even though the mountain was 200 meters away, not for a moment did his sprinting slow down. A river appeared in his path and he did not stop. He dived into the river and swam across. Sage fought against the mighty river, he lost the bag and the gold he had rightfully taken. It did not matter, there was so much more gold to be had at the mountain.

When he crossed the river, things became weird. Animals, trees and human statues all stood across the land - frozen golden statues! A single gold statue would make Sage a rich man, but he had eyes only for the mountain. It was of vast riches. He reached the base of the mountain and there sat an old man on a grand golden chair.

“You seek the riches of this mountain?” the old man asked.

Sage was heaving in air and recovering his strength from the sprint.

Sage did not reply. He was walking towards the mountain. He couldn’t believe what he saw. A block of hard, metallic gold – the riches of the world.

“I will grant you riches of the world, just answer my riddle”, the old man said, but Sage had already passed him. He did not care for this strange old man and his riddle. All the old man had to do was reach out and touch Sage.

A hardness spread through his hand, then he couldn’t walk. Sage looked at his arm, and then he felt horror. A golden colour was spreading across his arm.

“My riddle is this”, the old man said, “What will you do with the riches of the world?”

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Regretting Hell

Have you ever smelled thousands of burning bodies? Have you ever heard the death cries of a thousand dying people? That’s where I was. The pain… the pain was unbearable. I had to pluck out my own eyes because the sight was too terrible to bear. I was in hell.

The screams were like an eerie thunder, you ever heard eerie thunder? Of course not, you’re not where I am. Even though I had gouged out my own eyes, the visual imprint was still stuck in my memory. Hundreds, thousands, millions of us just hanging on meat hooks, all above a  vat of fire. I can’t feel my feet anymore. I think they’re charred to burnt, crisp black.

“Yahoooooo”, a scream erupts in front of me. The demon torturer is back. Then comes the pain as the blade is stuck between my ribs, and then comes the twist, the agony. As the blade turns about, it scrapes against my bones. I grit my teeth and the usual and pathetic thoughts flash through my mind, again. Why am I here? What did I do? I don’t deserve to be here.

All those pathetic thoughts, because the honest truth is that I deserve to be here. The blade jerked out and the demon torturer slashes me a few times before moving on.

"To do the right thing, you have to do the wrong thing. Such is the world of grey. I sold my soul to the devil, what did you do?" a voice from the side came. With great strain, I turned my head to the right, there was another person, and like me he also hung on from meat hooks above a vat of fire.

“Me?” I said. If I could, I’d shrug my shoulders, but that’s not possible with hooks dug deep into the back of your skin. “Killed a few people, hurt some loved ones. Nothing that I regret.”

“Nothing that you regret. Ah… you are a good liar. Anyone who is here, hanging by meat hooks, with hot flames burning underneath and the constant pain given by the demons… what’s there to regret except you are going to be here for the rest of eternity”, he said.

“Bah, you’re foolish, if you think that I’m going to hang here for the rest of this life”, I proclaimed, “I’m going to get down from here and then, I’ll give pain, I’ll be pain”. I don’t know if he could see me, but I let out a big smile. Those thoughts sent a shiver of excitement through me. Such foolish thoughts.  “I don’t regret anything” I continued speaking, “not in the least bit. Unlike you, unlike most of the souls here, I chose to be here. I sold my soul to the devil. When faced with death, you can at least make your life matter and grant someone riches to a loved one.”

Silence reigned between us and I hoped he stopped talking. “Wh-at a-am I talking ab-about”, he wailed out, “I ha-hate th-is. I reall-y do! Urrrrgggghhh”. I glanced to the side. He was in a pain as a demon shoved a spear into his throat.

“Shut your stinking mouth”, the demon cut in. The next thing I heard was my neighbour was screaming out his lungs.

I, honestly, regret nothing. 

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Giving to yourself

The old man waved his hand in the air. He was performing a skit from none other than Shakespeare. This was a time before now - it’s called the past. You must understand, at that time, I was enthralled with acting. In this past of mine, I imagined my future - I would be - “the Great Orator” and great applauses would sound out everywhere. In this past, I had no idea that I would make a different choice in the future.

“You have to put everything into the role you’re playing. The very essence of your soul must believe that you are this character.” The old man was speaking now. What does it take to be a great actor? Was that the answer - The very essence of your soul must believe that you are this character?

That was then, this is now - now I’m old, married, have children who are married off to and I… and I have dedicated my life to the cause of others - an NGO worker for those in need. The phone is vibrating over and over. It has been so for the last hour, constantly buzzing on and off. I’m not going to pick it up. But, what if he kills himself?

‘How much do you give of yourself when you’re a social worker?’

“Let’s cut the cake”, my wife declares. I’m standing in the living room. She’s standing there too holding a cake. It’s my birthday.

“Get the candle”, she orders. So, I head into the kitchen, my phone starts to ring again, I ignore.

I enter back into the room, “Give it here”, she grabs the candles from me. Swiftly she places them into the cake and lights them with a matchbox. I look around, it’s just my wife and me. One child is in the States, another is in the Gulf. It’s just her and me.

“Happppppy birthhdddddddaay”, she starts to sing.

I join in, “Happpppy birtttthhhday to me”.

In the background, the phone is vibrating and buzzing. What if Ritesh kills himself?

I’m lost in thought, my wife shoves a cake piece into my mouth. It’s soft, tasty, delicious, I can taste the secret ingredient called love. No cake could taste better.

I want to relax today, no… I am going to relax today. I can only keep giving if I have the strength to give. I just can’t help any today. No one, not Ritesh.

Today, I don’t have the strength to give, the cup must replenish itself. If… if Ritesh kills himself, I’ll have to live with it. I wait for the ringing to stop, then I switch the phone off.  Today, I just don’t have anymore of my soul to give.

I want to be with my wife.

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Climbing Mounds

As we grow older, the more used to, the more comfortable we get with the structure, habit, schedule and the ultimate 9-5 job of life. Throw in something new for a child and they absolutely love it.  

The day is as usual for Ali. School in the morning and extra classes that run through afternoon because the exams were close. Of course, Ali didn’t feel he needed extra classes after school, but the teacher said, “We have to complete the course and only then you can give the exams.”

‘Bah,  I don’t need this nonsense’,  Ali wanted to cry out, but he held his mouth shut and listened to the boring voice of the teacher. She kept talking and talking and talking and Ali’s eyes drifted to the window, then the door, then the clock, then back to his boring teacher who still spoke in a boring voice.

All things must come to an end and that included the class. The class bell rang and Ali charged out.

He said good-bye to his friends and rushed home. That’s when life threw a surprise at him, a disaster if you will.

Ali’s home is not like the high towering buildings all around him. His home is a small house with one room. His home is not the only one on the road. There was a dozen of them lined up on the narrow road. The initial part of the road was made of red bricks, but faded into one made of tar. To Ali it didn’t matter if the road was made of bricks or tar. It was bumpy, uneven and potholed.

However, today, when Ali returned home the road was gone. It was not there. The red bricks were gone, the black tar was gone. He did not tarry and instead rushed home. He quickly undressed from his school clothes and put on something more comfortable.

“Oye! Ali”, his friend’s called him out and so he stepped out from his house. The road was gone. All  that remained was loose sand and mud. And all throughout the road lay mounds. Mounds of mud, mounds of sand, mounds of cement. “Come on!” Ali’s friend cried and sprinted forward with a large grin up the mound. Ali charged forward, determined to race his friend. Up and up his feet took him, and down and down he came. Every step in the mud threatened to make his feet vanished, but he pulled it out again. They ran up and down, up and down, up and down, the mounds on their street. Just enjoying something new, something different.

Ali’s lungs huffed and puffed pulling in oxygen and he and his friend sat down on top of the bound. Today was a good day, today was a fun day, today was different. They grinned at each other, caught up with their breath and rushed down the mound for another race.

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A Dying Bulb

No matter how much I try, the bulb still does not work. I have changed the bulb from big to small to tiny to huge, and it still does not seem to make difference. The bulb still switches off when it is not supposed to.

The switch ensures that the circuit is completely connected and even then the bulb doesn’t switch Perhaps these bulbs truly have a life of their own as my Uncle used to say. on. Maybe even electricity seem to have a life of its own. What do you think?

Oh, I guess you don’t even know which light bulb I’m talking about. It’s the bathroom light bulb. Can you see the problem here? Of course, you can’t - let me tell you.
Imagine you’re bathing, or you’re brushing your teeth or you’re taking a dump – either ways you’re doing something in the bathroom. The bathroom window is a tiny square that hardly lets in any sun rays, so you’re completely dependent on the bulb, because if it’s not there, it’s dark; pitch dark enough for you to slip and fall on a soap piece (that’s a story for another day).

So this bulb, it keeps switching off when I’m in the bathroom. One moment I’m in the bathroom doing what I‘m doing, doing what you in the bathroom. And, the next thing – I’m trying to figure is what the heck’s happening in the dark, because you know, it’s suddenly dark now and the bulb is not working.

Every single time I silently let out a curse – Goddamn bulb! Predictably, it does nothing to improve the situation on hand.

But, you can never really give up on things like this. To give up, means to accept randomly surviving in the darkness of that bathroom when the bulb’s life goes off. So I decided to try something else.

There’s a mop lying in the bathroom. I’m supposed to wipe the water on the floor after a bath so it dries off quicker. The next time the bulb dies off, I pick up that mop and jam it into the bulb. Off course, I don’t push it hard enough to crack the bulb.

And... CONTACT!

The bulb is on.

What do you think of that?

Fucking brilliance of it!

Sometimes, you just gotta try something different and something absurd and something random.

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A Call from Mom

The morning sun rained down heat and light through the window. I just wanted to wrap myself up and go to sleep. I didn’t want to face the day today. I kinda of knew what was going to happen and I wanted to avoid it. There was a hollowness in my heart, and nothing, and no one could fill that. 

The best thing I could do was get up and dive into work. So, that’s what I did. I rolled off my bed and started getting ready for work. My father was already awake. He sullen and silent as he read the paper. An early retirement meant that he had no work to go to. A quick breakfast later and I mutter a goodbye as I left home. 

I saw the sorry and pity looks that were directed towards me. Some even offered sympathy. Everything was a dream. I sat at my desk and dived into work. 

It seemed like time and work could not even last forever and I had to return home. Even though dad was there, it felt empty. 

“Your mother called today”, my father said. 

That was not possible, but I understood where my father was coming from, at least I thought I understood where he was coming from. 

I just nodded again and acknowledged my father’s statement. 

***

I returned from work again. My father still had a sullen look on his face. As days passed, his face looked more sunken too. “Your mother called”, he said. 

This again, I decided to go along. “What did she say?” 

“Nothing”. 

I nodded my head in acknowledgement.  

I would give anything to meet my mother. Those were my last thoughts before I went to sleep. 

***

“Your mother talks to me sometimes over the phone. She said that she loves you very much.”

“I know dad, you don’t have to tell me. I love mom too, no matter what.” 

He stared at me for a moment, before burying his head in a novel. 

***

It was a Sunday, so I was lazing at home. Father was asleep, afternoon nap. His phone began ringing. I looked at the screen. The impossible was happening, ‘Sharon’, my mother’s name flashed on the screen. 

Curiously, I picked up the called. 

“Mom….” I glanced around, my father was not in sight, “Mom, mom”, I spoke inside the speaker. 

I wanted to hear her voice. “I’ve not heard your voice for long, Mom”. 

The eternal silence. 

“You know I’ve been missing you too mom”. 

“Works been fine. They’ve given more responsibility than before.” 

“Yes, yes, I’ll ask them for a raise.” 

The conversation went on and on, from work to friends to life.

Finally, I put the phone down. 

My dad had woken up from his afternoon nap. “Who was that?” 

“Mom”, I answered. 

You know what the funny part was? My mother was dead. 

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A Flooded Battle

A war consists of many, many battles. There are critical battles that play a deciding factor in whether a war is won or lost. During that 1965 war between India and Pakistan, there were many battles that were fought but none like the Battle of Asal Uttar.

The 1965 war featured a battle on the border of the two countries. Immense military resource were mobilized and each country dedicated massive resources at a single point to gain a breakthrough in the defensive line of the enemy. A simple and effective strategy to winning the war.

***

Tanks rolled from the Pakistan border and crossed virtually unopposed into the Indian territory. In another 20 minutes, they would come across the first Indian town and that’s where they expected the first wave of resistance.

Amir kept his foot steadily pressed on the pedal and the Patton tank rolled forward. The Patton tank was the world’s foremost tank that proved its mettle during World War II. As of this moment, a mighty force of five tank regiments and one infantry regiment were moving through the open land towards their first objective, Asal Uttar. It gave Amir and his comrades confidence that any meager Indian military force stationed there would not have the power to stop over their 200 Patton tanks.

“Stop”, the commander standing on top of the hatch called out. “Khem Karan is in sight”. It was the village before Asal Uttar.

The scrapping of boots could be heard as the infantry soldiers on top of the tank alighted off.

Amir could hear the rumbling of the tank as they rolled towards the village. He thanked Allah that he was not part of the advance unit. They would be the first one to be shot down, through which the Indian military would reveal their position. Then all the regiments had to was rush forward and shoot at the Indian tanks and any anti-tank guns that lay hidden in the town. Their tanks won’t be able to withstand a frontal shot from the 90 mm gun of the Patton tank.

For the next 10 minutes the whole atmosphere was just silent, only the rumbles of Patton tanks could be heard. Amir sat, waiting for the wave of attack from the Indians at the advance unit ahead. His foot was already poised on top of the pedal, waiting to jam it down, charge ahead and break through the Indian defense line.

***

Two hundred Patton tanks were on their way, the information was passed on to every Indian soldier. It would be a battle like 300 warriors against thousand Persians.  

Centurion tanks, battle tested British tanks, were snuggly hidden from view, waiting for the enemy to attack. Battles were decided on numbers and strengthen and right now, the Indian side lacked both.

Against, five tank regiments, the sparse three tank regiments of India had no chance in open battle. Two of the regiments were of older and lighter tanks - the Sherman and AMX tanks. Only a Centurion tank was formidable enough to stand against them and Avinash sat in one. His eyes were pressed into the scope, waiting for the enemy to appear before him.

Khem Karan was completely abandoned and the enemy had taken it. Civilians were already evacuated to behind the defensive line of the town, Asal Uttar. And now, the only thing that stood between Asal Uttar and the enemy were three tank regiments.

All the Indian tanks were well hidden among the thick sugarcane fields. Sugarcane sticks were roped on the tank’s hull, while the tank’s tracks were hidden by another barricade of sugarcanes.

Avinash and the rest of his comrades in the tank took in the silence and the stress. Like him, they didn’t know if the strategy would work. Horseshoe, all the 135 tanks had formed a horseshoe. That’s how they were going to defeat a force superior in strength and quality. A ‘semi-circular tactic’ to surround the enemy.

Then, the enemy came, the rumbling of the Patton tanks. Sugarcanes was crushed as the Pattons streamrolled on them and then, their swift pace turned into a crawl. The Patton chugged into view with half their tracks sunk into soil, severely affecting their mobility. What the enemy did not expect was the soil to be waterlogged, making it extremely difficult for tank tracks to trudge through.  

“Wait for them”, the unit commander’s voice whispered through the radio. The 105 mm gave them an advantage over the Pattons. They struggled forward, completely unaware of the horseshoe of tanks around them.

“Now”, the whisper thundered from the radio. In unison, the Indian tanks roared out. The frontal unit of Patton tanks blew up into a blaze of fire. Confused and without having time to think in the heat of battle, the Pakistan army did what it only could. It poured more tanks forward. Their numbers were irrelevant as they got bogged down in the mud. The horseshoe trap around them ensured that each and every frontal tank was destroyed. Patton tanks that did try to reverse back found it impossible with the tracks stuck in the soil.

That is not to say, the battle was a cake walk. A tank next to Avinash exploded into metal bits and flames. The terrifying cries of dying comrades could be heard. A shell bounced off from the sloped armour. The Pakistani infantry soldiers that poured into the field were cut down by the machine guns from the Indian tanks.

At the end of the day, the Patton tanks that survived were bogged down in the flooded sugarcane field and were forced to surrender. Pakistan lost 97 of their tanks, India lost only 10.

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Unfair or just Lucky?

I put down my bag and take a seat. It’s freaking hot outside. Thankfully, the cool air from the office air conditioner is on full blast and it takes a whole minute for my body to really feel the coolness of the office. At the press of a button, my laptop is switching on.

The first thing I did was check my email, just another day at the office.

Any clients screaming at me? Did I mess up any work? Oh, what’s this?

The pointer moves on the screen and the new mail is opened.

What’s this….

“40,000”, I read. More a moment I was taken aback. So I read it again.

“40,000”.

Damn, it sounds the same.

I get up from my seat and head over the boss’s office. Everyone is already engrossed in their work.

“Did you just give me a raise?” I asked.

She quickly nodded her and went back to her phone.

It was the start of a new month, so I expect my salary slip, but not an increment.

Was that luck? Was that fair?

***

My feet are moving swiftly. I didn’t go to office. You shouldn’t go to office, if you’re sick, so I didn’t go to office. The illness is upon me.

Oh shit.

I’m sitting on the throne in the toilet.

Do. Not. Imagine. This.

Shit happens, literally.

Bad loose motions can have a terrible effect on a person and I had the bad kind.

Did I eat something? That’s can’t be, don’t remember.

Am I unlucky? Is this fair to me? I did nothing to deserve this. I drop another load.

It’s not pleasant.

I did nothing to deserve this.

***

Death hides behinds the clouds and when no one is looking, it swoops in and kills someone.

His father, brother and some other close cousins are carrying a coffin to the graveyard.

What did my friend do? The fool was stupid enough not wear a helmet while riding his motorcycle. Now he’s dead.

The coffin was lowered into the grave.

Hundreds of people ride in the city without their helmets, they try riskier things, they even come closer to death. I, we, his family, friends, we are not burying a single one 'them', we’re burying my friend, the safest rider I’ve known, except he never wore a helmet.

Fair? Unfair? Lucky? Unlucky?

Why did God allow this?

I didn’t know.

The only thing I can do is keeping moving forward. Luck, fair unfair, unlucky… who the fuck knows – just. keep. moving. forward.

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A Dental Visit

I wish my father told me, “Fear the Dentist, son”, instead of, “Always visit the dentist once a year, you only have one set of teeth blah blah”. However, now I have the habit of visiting the dentist. There is nothing to worry about from the moment you walk inside the dentist office to sitting in the waiting room. But then I worry and fear hits me as I get seated on the dental chair.

The grey metallic implements are clearly visible on the table. “Open wide”, she says and the bright light flickers on.

“Any complaints?” she asks.

“No, just a regular checkup”, I manage with my jaws still wide apart.

Her hand stretches out and grabs the pick and mirror from the table.

It’s okay, it’s just the pick. She always starts off with the pick.

The metal implement scratches against my teeth as her finger keeps flicking the mirror side to side in an attempt to get a better view.

She says nothing, I knew she wouldn’t say anything. There is nothing wrong with my teeth. She puts the pick and mirror down and then, she picks up the drill.

That’s when I feel the jitters. It vibrates through me as I watch her select a long pin and attach it on and give it a spin. The noise is terrifying for what is to come. As always she does not tell me anything. There is the fear of the unknown.

The drill goes inside and begins chipping away at my teeth. It’s a scary feeling. I wait for the pain to start. You can feel it touch the edges, sending vibrations through the root nerves and my face winced… or winced as much possible when its jaws are stretched wide open.

She took a pause and I took a breath. I didn’t realise in my anxiety I held my breath.

The drilling continued and all that can be said was that it was terrible. I felt parts of my beautiful teeth being chipped away for an unknown reason. When she paused, a quick internal lick of the tongue, revealed a small hole drilled inside.

White matter was poured into the hole and just like how a pothole is filled up, a filling was added inside.

But, that was not the end of it. To my horror, she had a new implement in her hand, one that I hadn’t seen before. Some sort of flat brush which began rubbing against my teeth. “This will give it the white look it needs”, she proclaimed, for the first time telling me what was actually happening.

But, wait, I didn’t want any of this. My teeth are prefect. That’s what I wanted to tell her, but in silence I sat on the chair and let her do the good work to my already good teeth.

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Mr. Khan - A man of this world

Mr. Khan is a man of Mumbai, a man of life and a man of the last age and this passing one too. Life treated him hard so he hardened his heart, but still kept trust in his soul. When his father died, he left college to take up the mantleship of a beard earner, all because his elder brothers were not willing to. He worked hard, a bit of this, a bit of that, learning his skills and eventually, setting up a small shop somewhere in Mumbai. With his small salary, he supported his mother and other family members and ensured they were fed, clothed and well. He took up his father’s job, while his brothers abandoned him. He left his dream of becoming a doctor, shed of his childhood and took up a job in the real world. It was tough, but with grit, a few good friends and unexpected help, he made it through.

However, Mr. Khan’s true love never went out of his sight, his love for education. When the business was set up and running well enough, he got back to college and went through a series of learning processes. From graduation, his thirst could not be sated and so he went on to finish his post-graduation. His did his BSc, an economic course and a few others too.

Then, he became the educator himself. To the Mumbai University he went to become a lecturer. As he poured in his heart and effort into the job a realisation dawned on him – that most students don’t care. They don’t want to study and they don’t know what to do in life. “Rather, they should get married”, he laments. That single line gives a look into an archaic thought of another age.

How many times have students come to him in the middle of the day, or at the end of the evening, all asking to be passed in their exams? The honest truth is that he couldn’t pass them even if he wanted to, one cannot mark a blank paper.

You may find Mr. Khan traversing through Mumbai with his hat on and a tuff on beard spread across his face. He has grown tired of his students who waste their money away dreaming and sleeping in his classes. Now, he resides in his shop, just living life and often… wondering what could have been and what will be. 

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The Apologetic Old Man

He moved cat-like because that’s how you needed to flow when getting onto the bus. Little did our protagonist know that today was a day of old men. He leaped in, his broad shoulders fighting for space amongst other commuters. It was a tiring day of sitting in the office, going through documents and typing things out. One never realises how tired you get, until it’s time to return home, until it’s time commute.

The red bus was crowded as always. Our protagonist made his way through the crowd, shoving his body through the thin spaces and little gaps. Some people grunted and hissed out loud, others bore the grievance in silence, it was just the way of traveling. There were no empty seats, so he stood there by a crowded side. The bus, as always was a jerky one, it went over bumps, the brakes constantly creaked and not even minute passed by when it didn’t jerk.

The bus finally passed a main junction and made its way across. People got up, there was more shuffling and a line formed to exit the bus at the next stop. A seat got empty and our man moved in like a predator to take the seat in the hopes of having a relaxing ride till the end of his journey. However, just as his foot moved in, a tap was felt on the shoulder. A glance behind revealed an elderly gentleman with his thick white beard and sparsely populated bald head.

Silently sighing to himself, the protagonist stepped aside and let the man sit. A grin spread across his white bearded face and he gave out a thanks.

For the most part, the journey passed uneventful, until the elderly gentleman realised that he wasn’t sitting in a Senior Citizen Reserved Seat. Immediately, he started apologising. He assumed it was a Senior Citizen seat that he had taken. In fact, the senior citizen seat was right in front of the one he sat on, so it was easy to get confused.

Awkward is not the right word to use… odd would be a better description. Our protagonist felt odd every time the elderly gentleman turned his head and apologised.  

It was an odd journey of an apologetic elderly gentleman who was trying to figure out a Bus Reservation system. 

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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

Stay tuned if you want to read the end of the story. You can easily subscribe to A Writer's Asylum on through email or Google+. Forgive and Forget Part II will be up by next week.
And, comments and feedback is always welcomed!

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Exploding Rockets I

“Here they come”, that’s the message that ran through the troops. Dinesh felt nervous as his sword slid out from its sheath. It was a curved blade that would have glinted in sunlight, if it had been there. Instead, the sky was painted with a bright orange shade as the sun set down.  He felt a little sadden looking at the beautiful craftsmanship. Today, his sword would not see blood.  Pollilur Fort was what stood between the Firang enemy and their homeland. Dinesh looked on proudly at his fellow soldiers dressed in their orange striped colours of their army. They stood on the parapets of the fort armed and ready. Bows were drawn out and the musket rifles were loaded. However, for some reason (which you will soon discover), the parapet in front of Dinesh was quite empty. Only a few soldiers stood on the edges, ready for the enemy. 

With a few steps forward, Dinesh peeked and stared at the marching enemy forces. Soldiers walked forward in a line with a few cavalry officer behind them and a large cart being tugged. Their dark red uniforms were easily noticeable and their fair faces told of their race. English, East India Company, Firangs, that’s what they were called. Half of the continent was taken over by them and this is place where we stop them! 

His arm rose up and his sword shook in the air, trying to send a menacing message across to the oncoming army. That’s when the first shot rang out and that’s all it took for the battle to start. Dinesh ducked on to the ground. I can’t die yet! 

From his position, Dinesh watched the battle unfolded below and bided his time. His blood boiled, he wanted to jump into the battle brandishing his newly forged blade, yet he restrained himself with a reminder, I’m a Corporal. Tipu has given me a role to play. 

Musket balls and arrows poured out from the fort. The enemy marched forward unhindered. Some stopped and crouched to take a shot or reload, while others marched on covering ground. For every inch they moved forward, plenty of red dressed soldiers just collapsed to the ground with a musket ball or arrow pierced through their tunic.  

However, neither were Tipu’s soldiers untouched.  Soldiers were shot, some slumped to the ground, while other fell from the parapets, and another soldier came from behind to occupied the empty position of the dead soldier. 

Soon enough, the stench of gun powder and the sounds of dying men dominated the air. The enemy marched forward closing in on the fort and leaving behind a trail of dead and moaning men. Their discipline was exemplary. 

Then Dinesh decided it’s time. Ignoring his enemies, he stood up, sword raised in hand, “Now we attack”, he screamed. Standing well behind the parapet his troops let out a roar. The burning flints in their hand were put forward, lighting the threads. 

Finally, the Sultan’s weapon would be used and these, on coming, Firangs would be slaughtered. The 9 inch metal tubes of rockets lit it up and launched into the air. Dinesh watched, with pride, as over fifty rockets cut into the air, rising above and beating the record of any previously set bamboo rocket. The British won't know what hit them! 

Find the second part to this blog post on Exploding Rockets II.  

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The Lone Woman and her Son

Her head rested on the on a make-shift pillow of a bag of clothes. Her eyes silently stared out, watching helplessly, knowing that right now, she has done all she could. Her son silently lay on the hospital bed. A needle protruded from his vein and an IV drip was connected to it. For the time being, he was asleep. A large plastic bag hung from the bed railing with a pipe connected to his body. She would have to call the hospital workers to empty it soon. 

Taking care of her adult son made her realise how old she was. The grey strands of hair were pulled back on her head and always felt like they were just there, but all this worry, all this hassle seemed to be taking a toll on her age. Gautam, that was the name she gave her poor fool. Once, what seemed ages ago, he had plenty of friends. Then, in time, from an occasional alcoholic to a constant one, he pushed people away from him and now only she remained. 

His liver was weak, crushed by the constant alcohol. Every night, she lay in a room that was dominated by men. The patients were men and the ones who stayed overnight were men. My husband would have never allowed me to do this. A memory of handsome man came to her mind.  He would be disappointed in his son, maybe in her too for the way things turned out. Then, she recollect, ‘the sins of our children are not our own, it is theirs alone’. Was it that man from AA who told her that? She failed to remember. 

Gautam was her son and she was all he had. No one would come to help up, but she would always be there, she promised herself. 

“Aaaaa...”, he began softly moaning as his eyes flicked out from his sleep. The pain was back. Her feet swung off the bench she lay on and she stepped towards him. Her thumb jabbed down the button, calling a nurse, but she knew that was useless. Until the dialysis was done, her son would be in pain.  

As both of them waited, the mother opened her mouth and softly began humming a tune. Perhaps a tune will reach out to him and ease his sufferings. 

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The Architect III

I am the architect and I’ve lived here in this room for so many years. It’s been so long, I can’t even remember when I was not an old man. An inkling, an urge entered me, I wanted to grabbed hold of the mechanical device’s head and shake it. Anger! Immediately I pushed the emotion aside. The solution was there in front of me, I was just not seeing it. The black rectangular core was a mistake, it was death. There was chance that the yellow triangle and brown square cores would have worked, but they didn’t. The circular one had to work, it was a circle, it had the colours of blue and white, water and soul and it should have worked. 

Instead, only its head swivelled on the neck.

I had to get this working. This device was my child, I never had my own. I knew all the secrets of the universe, yet here was a problem I could not solve. I pressed my face onto the chest and positioned my right eye to peep inside the cavity, but all was darkness. I sighed and was about to pull my face back when I saw the darkness glimmer. I looked again, there engraved in the cavity, through the darkness a line shone out, ‘Life is not made, it is given’. I don’t remember putting that there.

 Given I brooded to myself what did mean. I had given this mechanical device everything I had. The material I made and pulled out of the books. The designs I drew with my hand and my delicate fingers moulded the parts and placed them together. This mechanical device was the sweat of my brow and the work of my magnificent mind.

What more was there to give I asked myself, as I attempted to ignore, to silence a growing voice in my heart. To give a life... I have to give my own.

This mechanical device, no this mechanical being was to be my son. If there was no other way... I wouldn’t want centuries of work to go to waste... this child was going to be my imprint on the world, my mark of immortality. 

My fingers rolled into a fist and tapped against the right side of my chest. Flesh and bone parted to the side, revealing a cavity. This would have to be fast, before the last breath departed from me.

I dipped my hand inside my own chest cavity and pulled out a circular core. As the yellow light reflected across it, I paused to admire it. The circular core was much smaller, with smoother curves and the blue and white swam around each other. I could feel my chest becoming tighter and without wasting another second, for the last time, my hand thrust the core into the mechanical being, my child. 

Immediately, it began to whir to life, but my body was already falling of the chair I sat on. Everything was becoming dark, but through sheer will I forced my draining life to stay a bit longer. I could glimpse the eyes revolving to life, the hands moving and new legs growing and a device evolved into life. The dull gleam of the being erupted into a powerful glow, like the one you would see in a new born babe. 

Things were getting darker, no! I could not leave, just a few seconds more; I have to see this, my creation. Its hand was raised in front of its eyes, the fingers... they were flexing themselves. The nerves were being tested, electronic signals were being transferred from the wires to the mechanical brain. 

Instinct took over, the hands clutched the chair and taking support of it, the being attempted to stand on its two feet. The knees were straight, the back was bent, but by God, my creation was going to stand on his own two feet. 

Collapse. He collapsed back into the chair. 

My eyes lips there were almost shut, the darkness was not calling me anymore, it was dragging me off and my mind fought tooth and nail to hold on to my life force, I had to see this, my creation. 

His hands were once again straining against the chair, the knees were slowly rising up and the back was ascending. He was up! His foot took a step forward; he lost his balance, his body lurched forward to my chair, quick reflexes, his hands held my own lifeless hand taking support. 

His eyes, blue glass eyes, there were alive and stared into mine for a moment.  Darkness was dragging me. “Father”, the word was whispered out of his mouth. My son, I tried to speak the words. Darkness was tugging me with great force and whatever chain that held me here, snapped and sent me down. 

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The Architect II

If you've not read The Architect I- better it read before starting. 

The architect stretch out his hand and rolled it into a fist, knocking twice against the right side of the mechanical device's chest. He waited a moment and then the mechanical device reacted. Slowly, the outlay of a rectangle appeared on the chest and pulled back. A cavity appeared in the middle. The cavity had enough width and height to allow a being’s complete hand to fit through comfortably. The mechanical device would not work until he filled that cavity. 

He scratched his brows for a moment and thought. Like a bolt of lightning, an idea struck him and swiftly he stood up. His hand stretched up, his feet went up on his tiptoes and his fingers touched the yellow bulb. His face grimaced with pain and as his fingers struggled to clutch the bulb, but his toes gave away. At his full height of four feet and one inch he failed to grabbed hold of the bulb hanging above. He took in a few deep breaths and pushed the chair in front. His right knee pressed against the chair and clamoured over the top of it with his two feet. This time as he stood on the chair, his hands easily grabbed the bulb. With a flick of his wrist, the bulb was twisted about and shed light to one side of the room. Swiftly, he rotated his wrist and for some time, each of the four walls was lit with dim yellow light. His eyes squinted and observed his surroundings.  

His hands let go of the bulb and he climbed down. Hobbling over to one corner of the room, his feet kicked down piles of books to reach the table. He knocked aside a building of books and plunged his hand behind it. A rectangular device, no bigger than his palm was clutched in his fingers. It was completely black. His feet hobbled back to the mechanical device and his hand thrust it inside. He took a step back and waited hopefully. A whirring sound of mechanical tools could be heard from the device. And then, the hand shot out and clutched his throat, he felt cold finger squeezing his wind pipe, driving the breath out of him and making him light headed. Struggling, his arm stretched out and pulled out the rectangular core. The cold fingers let him ago and the hand dropped back down. 

His own warm fingers massaged his throat and took in a breath before he hobbled to another side of the room. This time his hand cleared piles of books under the table and was shoved inside. A yellow triangle device was wrapped around his fingers. When he thrust the triangle device in the cavity, the eyes whirled about in their socket. He waited for something more to happen, but nothing did. The eyes just revolved. His hand dipped inside the cavity and tugged out the triangle core.

Disappointed, he went to another wall of the room. With a sweeping swing, his hand toppled over all the books on the table and swiped it off clean. He hopped on the table and his outstretched hands removed a brown square device. His hand once again thrust inside the cavity and placed the device. The jaw dropped down... he expected it to say something, and then the jaw jerked back up. And again the jaw dropped down and a moment later it jerked up. He pulled out the square core. 

Finally, he hobbled to the last side of room. This time he did not have to topple any pile of books. On top of the first pile a circular device with a mix of blue and white lay. His hand took it and thrust it into the cavity. 

This was it he thought to himself as he took a step back. The whirring of the mechanical tools from the torso once again sounded through the air. And then, the head just started violently swirling around the neck. If he had not removed the circular core, he was sure that the head would have spun off. 

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