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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Shoot the Cannon

Siege of Pyongyang (1593)

It was calm. A soft breeze blew across with various smells of death and sweat along with an intense tension. Han was not alone in noticing this smell. A unit of 50 soldiers stood on the parapet armed and ready to receive the attacking Japanese. He lowered his weapon for a bit and tightened his leather amour. Pyongyang is where the Koreans make their stand and Han was there to help them. He was so far away from home, him and another 30,000 Chinese soldiers were here to help their neighbour.


Negotiations had fallen apart and it was only a matter of time before the Japanese charged on Pyongyang today. Han’s thoughts went to his family who were protected by behind Chinese Walls and land. He would like to go back to be with his wife, children and till his land.

“Attention!” a voice screamed out amongst the unit. In a fluid motion Han picked up his weapon and laid it on his shoulder. A bulky looking soldier walked amongst them in steel armour. That was their Captain, his feet took step inches away from there and his eyes stared into each one of them.

Then, he vanished.


A few months ago, the weapon resting on his shoulder would feel heavy and burdensome, today his shoulder was used to that weight. His fingers were tightly wrapped around the wooden pole of his weapon and the heavy metal barrel was supported on his shoulder. Weighing twenty pounds, it was no longer than four inches. The gun powder and projectiles were already inside. Hand cannons were soon becoming a favoured weapon in the arsenal of Ming. Now, all they had to was weigh and bear the calm before the chaos of battle.

A typical Chinese Hand-cannon

Wanggeom-seong was heavily fortified. Hand cannons were not the only weapons that were on the parapets of the castle. There were soldiers armed with crossbows and bows, and if the tide of enemy soldiers weren’t stopped, there were several carts of rocket arrows. Han didn’t believe it at first, but rocket arrows had the capability of firing two hundred arrows at once.

Forts of Korea were much more different then China. Just like their Japanese brothers, the fort had a low and sloped wall, enough for an enemy to crawl up. It seemed foolish for a defending against enemies, but the longer he stayed in Pyongyang, the more he understood the challenge. The low walls were not a deterrent, rather a challenge to the attacker, a dare, an invitation to take the castle.

Han peered down, he could fall down from the parapet and survive with a broken arm, it’s known to happen. That’s when he heard it, the sounds of many hooves. Japanese warriors came pouring forth on the battlefield, a mass of demon soldiers. Each one of them was dressed in thick metal amour, terrifying face masks and their helmets protruded with horns. Truly, they are demon warriors.

Screams were heard along the parapets. Chinese and Korean soldiers primed their weapons. Bows were drawn, crossbows were loaded and hand cannons were stuffed with gunpowder, then, all of these weapons were pointed at the enemy. The archer let off their arrows first because of their long range. Japanese soldiers tumbled to the ground and those who were injured were trampled to death. Then, the bolts were let off, stabbing those demon soldiers and throwing them off their horse.

“First line ready!” screamed Han’s Captain.

He took a step forward with the rest of the line. The wave of Japanese soldiers was still rushing forward. His hands felt slippery with sweat as he clutched the pole, yet he felt confident, he couldn’t miss.

“Fire”

All it took was a simple clang on the wall to ignite the power on the nip and the projectile burst out. It ripped through at least three Japanese, but Han didn’t notice that the hand cannon was already revolving in his hand. The barrel was big enough to hold three shots and he banged the cannon two more times before stepping back as another line took their place. Swiftly from a wooden container, gun power was poured inside the metal barrel.

So the battle had begun. The air stank of death, the dying and gun powder from hand cannons.

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Forgive and Forget Part II

(If you haven't read, Forgive and Forget Part I, go ahead and give it a read!) 

The family ate their grain, finished dinner and the night mat was laid out on ground. The moon already shone brightly in the starry sky and it was time to sleep. His daughter had already dozed away. That’s when he heard a soft tapping on his mud wall. Someone was peeping from the entrance. His face was older, but Hack recognised it. Josef was at his door.

Silently he exited his house, so as not to disturb anyone. A thick, white beard covered Josef 's aged skin which had more lines than ever. “I hope I've not come too late to talk?” Josef asked. The scent of alcohol emitted from his mouth, but it was just drink, he was not completely drunk.

“What do you want?” Hack asked wearily.

“I expected you to meet me as soon as I entered the village.”

“Your business here is no concern of mine”

“Are you sure about that? The past...”

“The past is forgotten. I care nothing for your reasons of being here, just do not disrupt the village life.”

His tongue took a big lick of his lips and Josef concluded their conversation, “I won’t do anything to endanger what you’ve built”. He walked off.

**

Days and weeks passed. Like every other day, Hack worked in the fields. News filtered on Josef just hanging around in the village, drinking every day. As days and nights passed by, the harvest festival came closer. Hack buried himself more into his daily work. Chopping down sugarcane and managing the village. Everyday talk of Josef came in, but it was nothing to worry about. Soon enough the former village chief became friends with the village’s local drunks. 

**

Music, dance, drink, food. This was the splendour of the harvest festival, a celebration to mark the final day of harvest labour in the fields.  Grape juice dribbled down his chin as Hack enjoyed a traditional dance by the village’s fair maidens.

All around him he could see joy and happiness. All of their hard work at the field paid off. Soon enough, his own wife was dancing and then his baby girl came running up to him and dragged him off to the dance circle.

That’s when it happened and not for a moment was Hack surprised.

Josef was sitting in one corner, enjoying the festivities of food, drink and entertainment. From his corner, he charged out, brandishing the machete in his hand. His charge led directly to Hack. Throwing his daughter on to the floor. Hack went out to meet him.

They met in the oldest dance of all, the dance of death. Hack leaped to the side, avoiding the swing of the machete. He rolled a few more times, avoiding the swing of the machete. The festivities had stopped and the villagers sprinted away, all attempting to evade the wild blows. “No”, Hack screamed, but it was too late.

Two men jumped in, trying to lend a hand and boldly attempted to end the fight. The machete pierced his naked flesh, stabbed his heart and a lifeless body fell to the ground. The other man had his torso cleaved from his shoulder. “Stay away!” Hack screamed. Josef’s face was twisted into a smile.

The machete swung forward. Instead of leaping back, Hack jumped ahead with his hands outstretched. Through sheer skill, his fingers gripped Joseph’s arm, stopping the blade inches away from his face. For a few seconds, there was a battle of sheer strength and will power. Both of them exerting their fullest muscles capacity and will their opponent to lose.

Then, it was just over. The blade moved back, Hack’s head arched forward, breaking his opponent’s nose, Hack twisted Josef’s arm hard enough and the blade slipped through his fingers.

“You know I actually forgave you when you drove this village to war, death and destruction. I even forgive you that night... when you tried to have my betrothed.”  The machete was in Hack’s hand now. Josef was on his knees and defiance shone in his eyes.

“My wife... even after what you tried to do with her told me, ‘Forgive and forget’. I tried to listen to that advice. I forgave you... but I never did forget. It would be foolish to forget. I knew you would try something.”

“Stop your blabbering and do what you will.”

“I can forgive, but I can’t forget. I forgive you for trying to kill me, almost injuring my daughter, killing those too good men. But... I can’t forget”.

The machete hacked down, slicing through flesh and bone. A head rolled into the mud and blood pooled around.

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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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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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