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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Matter of Convenience

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.

***

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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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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In Control

The Setting

“So you’re going to kill me?” Jake spoke, putting iron in his voice and not showing a hint of fear. He was barely past his twenties, the last few weeks would make any person loose to the fear of death. 

“I’m afraid I have to”, the elderly man spoke with a clipped voice. 

Anyone could make out the anger burning in Jake’s face. He was strapped to the chair. His t-shirt was bloody and torn and his face was battered and bruised.

On the opposite side, sat a thin gentleman attired in an overcoat and a hat over his head. They were in a small empty room. Except for a single bulb that hung in the middle, it was in darkness. 

“You don’t have to kill me. I didn’t do anything wrong”, there was a cold calmness in the boy’s voice. 

“No, I don’t have to kill you and no, it’s not your fault, but you still have to die.” 

“So why don’t you do it? Why don’t you kill me. Put a bullet in my head!”, he screamed with his voice gritted.  

The 9mm pistol with a silencer waved in the wrinkled hand, “I’d like to explain something before I do that. You see, people believe in order, that someone is in control. Whether it be me or the President of the world. You understand that more than I do.” 

“You’re the most powerful person in the city, you can do anything you want. You can let me go”, Jake pointed out. 

“You see that’s what I mean. I just run the most powerful organisation in the city, but control... that’s beyond even me”, his shoulder shrugged as he continued, “I can control people no more than you can. You understand that better than me. That’ how we got here... Check the conspiracy theories of the world. They come up from the Illuminati to the Mason, all with the belief that these people all have control, that they swit-”

“Michelle and that god-damn Roderick!” Jake cut in. 

“Aye”, the elderly gentleman agreed , “I didn't control Roderick when he raped Michelle, just like I couldn't control you when took matters into your own hands.” 

“Your god-damn code is for you”, Jake countered, his brows furrowing, his anger multiplying as his mind recalled the horrors of the past few days. 

“Ah! You may say that. But, the city is on the verge of tearing itself apart. Killing you would be one way to put things in order.”  

Suddenly, the pistol appeared up like a snake that rears its head up. “So now you know, now you go”. 

Jake suddenly jumped up and charged forward with the chair strapped on his back. Two steps that’s all it took for him to reach the elderly man. 

A pull of the trigger was all it took for the most powerful man to end it.  

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Life of a Bus

Wheels on the bus go round and round

Once everyone sang my song, now, few do. Or maybe I just don't hear it. Well, it does not matter. My wheels still go round and round. The roads have become bumpier and my joints groan, but still I run true as time goes by. 

Once I was painted yellow. Children jumped up my frame and ran through my corridor with crying plenty of sounds like bird calls to monkey hoots. Restless hands rattled my window planes. Heads constantly creped out of my windows, only to jerk back in when a man called Chacha shouted at them. My thoughts went gaily to my years as a young bus. Those were good years.

Then, the accident happened. I cried, I roared, my exhausted wildly spurted out smoke and my engine clattered .... it was all in vain. When there's a driver at the seat, controlling you, What can you do?

She died, that little child. Her head was first knocked by my bumper, throwing her on the ground and then... then... round, rotating wheels crushed over her. I don't know if any one heard it, I don't know if anyone felt it, but I did. My tires crunched her bone and the sound rang out.

The bus driver ran out, he escaped somewhere far. Another man drove me to a relatively quiet junkyard. True, for the most part it was quiet, but occasionally I heard something. Cutting and crushing of metal. Even in the corner of the junkyard I heard them crying out. They cried to be saved, but what could I do? Buses, vans, cars, all of them cried out. With no driver how could I do anything?

One day they came to get me after gathering dust and rust. It was not the first time I've seen them. When I was new born, they were the first one to board me. 'Inspection' they called it.

In their shirts, pants and their writing pad, all of them nodded their head and then, once again I was driven.

What joy I felt. Breeze brushed against my windscreen, skidded by my sides, my old tired rumbled on the ground.

I was built brand new again! A new paint coat, new set of tires and a fresh layer of grease.

From rusty yellow, I took on bright red. Oh boy, I can tell you I was beaming.

People started using me. It was no more just children, they were adults, students and kidoos - a wide variety of people. The conductor was called Master. He squeezed through the crowd, always clattering away with his ticket puncher and haggling for change.

People charged to get inside and around the city I travelled. It was good, I was supposed to live forever helping people get from one point to another.

I died in a burning blaze. It was some political protest. Metal, plastic, paint, cushion, everything burned, everything part of me. I died.

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Exploding Rockets II

Tipu Sultan's Rocket Demolish the British Army

(This is Part II of last week Blog Post Exploding Rockets I, so if you haven't read it, do go ahead and read that one first.)


His hands worked swiftly grabbing the powder and musket ball from his ammunition bag. David Baird crouched as he reloaded his weapon, pouring gunpowder into the barrel, shoving the musket ball inside and finally lining up the flintlock with a little gun powder. Then his rifle rose in the air and with a bit of aiming, he pulled up his iron sights just above the target’s head, he squeezed the trigger. A puff of smoke blew out, a Mysorean soldier fell of the fort’s parapets and Baird repeated the process of reloading his weapon. A quick glance behind revealed Colonel William Baillie holding the rear and firing off commands. Scuttling forward, moving closer to the fort with his fellow comrades, Baird took aim once again.

He was about to pull the trigger when a light streaking across the dark orange sky distracting him. At first it was only one, but then several more appeared and then even more. The sky was suddenly lit up with lights. “Rockets”, cried out one of the soldier’s on the battlefield.

What were so many rockets streaking across for? Baird asked himself. Usually, Indian rockets made of bamboo were harmless and just used for signalling. From streaking up in the sky, the rockets changed direction and plummeted to the ground. As gravity pulled them down, the rockets spun out of control. Their guidance stick whipped through the air. Guidance sticks were mainly made of wood. Those guidance stick aren’t wooden, he realised, watching a sword attached to the rocket cut through soldiers before exploding.

An explosion rang out, enough to create a crater on the ground. Baird watched in horror as over fifty rockets crashed on to their ranks, sending out fireballs. His body froze. The sky looked empty for a second before more lights filled it and rockets once again, plummeted down.

Fear gripped him and Baird wanted to run, to escape, to flee, to find cover, to hide under shelter, but in an open battlefield, there was none. The smell of burning gunpowder never smelled stronger and came along with the smell of with burning flesh. It sickened Baird to the pit of his stomach.

An explosion rang out louder than the rest of the rockets and Baird glanced behind. The army’s whole rear was gone in a blaze of burning fire. The Colonel was nowhere to be seen. The ammunition cart was blown to smithereens. The soldiers stopped advancing, threw their guns and began to flee. Baird wanted to join them, to escape, to live; but he saw no escape. Rockets slashed soldier and blew them to bit. Arrows and musket ball rained down. The fort’s door creaked open and a cavalry force charged out. The Battle of Pollilur was over and the use of rockets as military force was introduced. 

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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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