A Plate of Rice

“He’s a wise little boy.”

The words uttered by the wrinkled old man sailed across the entrance of the compartment, staving off the oncoming gush of wind that was blowing in as the train furiously glided through a narrow bend in the tracks.

I was lost in thought, having surrendered to the stifling heat which nevertheless demanded beads of sweat as humiliating evidence of its influence. The old man pointed, and I followed the direction of his finger.

Next to the entrance at the other end of the compartment was a small boy. Given the opportunity of a bath and a visit to the tailor, the kid would have looked charming. Presently looking like any other street urchin, dressed in a dirty, yellowish white banyan that exposed his pencil thin arms, his face was pockmarked with dirt stains that did nothing to diminish the self-assured, arrogant look that he wore. With silky black hair that flopped onto his forehead, he seemed happy as he leaned against the compartment wall.

The Armchair Soldier

It is possible that Satish Gupta did not think of ‘The Armchair Soldier’ that evening, as his Chevrolet Cruze purred up the driveway of the plush hotel. After all, it was a story his communist-hating grandfather had told him several decades earlier. Besides, the lady in the passenger seat had his full attention. 

 

The Hyatt Hotel had over the years swung open its electronic glass doors to countless couples, but none might have matched the beauty that Esha Gupta radiated that evening. Dressed in the royal blue salwar that her aunt had hand-picked for this occasion, the 24 year old nursing graduate knew her husband had been floored. But he was charming enough to not show it too blatantly. 

 

The Silver Atlas

Without crumpling his neatly pressed black suit, Butler Meyers managed to place the last set of champagne glasses on the entrance table and entered the dining hall, where a contemplative Mr. Anthony D’Souza was peering at the mountain side from behind the thick, reinforced life size glass window.

“All ready, sir. The guests are getting dressed now, and will be down for dinner shortly.”

The owner of the freshly burrowed enclave turned around, and flashed a pleasant smile.

“Thank you, Meyers. You have performed your duties this weekend brilliantly.”

The butler smiled. “And you’ve still overpaid me, sir.” He bowed and took his leave.

The prematurely retired scientist turned back his attention to the mountain side, which was presently filled with deeply overcast skies that turned a murkier shade of dark blue by the minute.

The worst hurricane in the history of North America, the CNN anchor had predicted earlier that morning. His British counterpart was instead directing viewers’ attention towards devastating earthquakes in Asia.

Chasing Parisa

“Woah!”

I grabbed the phone from Varun’s hands before he could react. Holding it tightly, I stared at the picture, feeling envy growing within me.

“How the hell – so it’s true, huh?” I said, trying to sound casual.

Varun’s face turned a shade red as he tried not to blush.

I looked at the photo again and let out a low whistle. She was beautiful. It was a picture of a girl in her early twenties, who was facing slightly off camera, with her hand in the air as she perhaps tried to stop the photo from being taken. She had fair, creamish complexion, and her thin, red lips curved upwards, causing his cheeks to swell lightly. Combined with the slight reflection of her thin long nose, she looked almost angelic. Serene, I thought.

Mr. & Mrs. Sampath

Ram Sampath folded the day’s copy of the Times of India, sighing deeply as he did so. The stream of sun light flooding into the living room through the open window illuminated his creased face, revealing the pensiveness he felt. He sighed once again.

Nirbhaya had just died.

It made him feel angry, reading the reports over and over again. The media had done all they could to milk the story, that was for sure. But the fact remained – the girl had died a miserable death at the hands of scoundrels.

Mr. Sampath finally shook the thought from his mind when his wife entered the hall and placed two plates on the dining table. “Breakfast is ready,” she said softly. He watched as she walked back into the kitchen. Dressed in a light, red saree with its end casually tied around her waist, she looked beautiful, even seven years after marriage. With his eyes lingering on her pale, soft cheeks, Ram Sampath secretly thanked God for blessing him with such a beautiful wife.

He had no idea then, but a week later, Mrs. Sampath would be at a police station, weeping as the sympathetic inspector registered a case of attempted rape…

The General's Exercise

Retired General Joginder Singh opened his eyes on March 12th, 2013. He’d closed them almost six years ago. As expected, it set of a chain of events, starting with the nurse in his room dashing to alert the on duty doctor, and culminated in a primly dressed lawyer sitting in front of him, brimming with excitement.

“Good morning General,” Ranvir Kapoor said reverently. It’d been far too long since he’d uttered those words.

The general, wearing a mask that silently pumped oxygen into his body, nodded his head, too tired to utter the reply. He was still weak.

Ranvir Kapoor adjusted the set of papers resting on his lap, and thought about the best way to breach the topic. “General,” he started carefully, “the doctors couldn’t give me a definite answer about whether you’ve regained…full memory?”

Beneath the plastic mask a slight smile formed. The 62 year old General could remember everything vividly.

Borrowed Love

The residents of Apoorva Colony flung open their windows, welcoming in the cool morning breeze as children rushed from bathrooms, dodging mothers yells while pulling on clothes and combing their hair quickly. Before the morning sun had firmly entrenched itself in the sky, nestled between thick white clouds, the streets were crawling with people, talking animatedly as they walked towards the nearby park.

Large wooden beams had been erected the previous evening, along with banners and silk tables clothes, adorning the previously bare green park with countless stalls and counters. The annual bake sale was about to begin, and if the warm caramel smell wafting through the air was any indicator, it would be bigger success than last year.

Walking through the crowds, along the paved sidewalk, beneath the foliage of trees was Ananya Mohan, her pale face occasionally illuminated by meek rays of sunlight. Her long, thin nose, creamish high cheek bones and angular jaw seemed to have aged rapidly over the past few days, leaving her with a face that seemed to inflate her actual age.

Three Blind Men

Over the years, many of my readers have asked me about my first article as a journalist. Thinking back to that time, back in 2001, I could tell you the details as though it’d happened yesterday. 

On my very first day as an intern at The Hindu, I was well on course to being late for work. As I ran down the steps of the overhead footbridge two at a time, the railway platform was drowned in the sound of two oncoming trains. 

Great! I thought. Just what I needed. Within seconds, hundreds of passengers spilled onto the platform, flowing towards the footbridge in unison. As I pushed my way past college students, flower selling middle aged ladies and office workers who must’ve owned surprisingly defective deodorants, something caught my eye. 

No. 20, Kennet Lane

It's funny how life can change in a moment. All it takes is a decision. Yes, or no. And just like that, nothing's ever the same.

It was supposed to be a day well spent with Siddharth. After three years abroad, he'd finally decided to return home.

"Only for a few days," he muttered. But that never mattered to me. He was here, with me. And I'd enjoy every minute of it.

The Last Caller

“And with that, we come to our last caller for the night,” said Tony. Adjusting his headset, he added, “Thank God.”

It had been a horrible show. None of the callers had been remotely interesting, and Tony would’ve been worried about the ratings, if he didn’t have more pressing matters on his mind.

Colourless Snow

He stood still for a moment, silently surveying the vast expanse of snow all around. The dazzling whiteness seemed to calm him; slowly he walked down the rocky terrain, his army boots trudging through the thick layer of snow.

Lieutenant Aditya Mehra had spent the past six years trudging through the snowy hill top, following the same routine almost religiously. Posted as a Border Patrol officer, he was in charge of manning the Indian Check post that lay 400 metres in front of him. The rickety wooden construction had been his only shelter during the harsh snow storms that drowned the surroundings almost every day. He held a special attachment towards it.

Sleeping To Death

June 2010


Looking around the room, I nodded my head and placed my suitcase next to the bed. “I like it, I’ll move in next Monday.”

My new roommate Jonathan nodded his head and smiled. He was a simple fellow; never asked too many questions. He didn’t know why someone with such a good job would want a cramped room to stay in. He didn’t know who my previous roommate had been. And thankfully, he never asked me...

Meet Mr. David Foster

Dear Mr. DeVille,

This letter may perhaps come as a surprise to you. After all, as a Lawyer, I doubt you’d have come across as odd a request as my own. However, your excellent reputation assures me that you’ll handle my troubles quite efficiently.

My troubles, if such is the word to describe them, relates to the life of the esteemed writer, Mr. David Foster. You may have perhaps heard of him. This problem though, is delicate in nature, and requires your complete compliance...

Blood And Butter

"Well, Jack, looks like the village of Lavenham will be witnessing its harshest blizzard ever, if the weather forecasts are anything to go by," said the television weatherman.

"Oh dear," Grandma Wilmer said softly, as she walked past the living room, and into the kitchen. She placed a kettle on the stove, and took out a large metal tray from the cupboard. Grandma Wilmer was well past the age of 60, with wrinkled skin and a frail body. Yet she had surprisingly agile hands, perhaps the result of 40 years of devoted service to her late husband.

Though it was still snowing heavily outside her cottage, Grandma Wilmer decided to bake her usual batch of Sunday butter cookies. Pity no one else would taste them...

Three Men And A Grave

If you're a new comer to Laptop Diary, please read the Introduction...

Perhaps I am not the right person to be narrating this story. After all, how many people would actually want a person lying in a coffin in Hale Corbin Cemetery to tell them an anecdote?

But I guess I am the only one who can tell the story, so here goes.

Taking For Granted

If you're a new comer to Laptop Diary, please read the Introduction...

It was almost time for the morning assembly, and Andrew was still waiting near the second gate. Joseph was beginning to get restless.

"Dude," he started, "Why on earth are we waiting here? You know Vinod Sir is going to screw us up if we're late, right?"

Andrew didn't reply. He merely kept looking towards the buses that were parking outside. His eyes were desperately searching for a face.

"There she is," He finally whispered. Joseph turned to see a group of girls walking towards them. In the center was a short, thin, fair 9th Grader. Rebecca D'Souza. One of the most sought after girls in school. She had long, wavy black hair, twinkling eyes and a short nose. Her face was angular, and her cheeks were normally reddish in color. She walked with a grace that none of her classmates could ever possess.

A Boy Named Chris

The five year old boy, dressed smartly in a red t-shirt and small, black baggy pants, ran around the Business Class lounge, smiling happily.

Victor Fabiansky smiled.

A few minutes later, he was talking to the same boy. "What's your name, little fella?" he asked.

"My name is Chris, and I'm 5 years old," the boy replied animatedly. He had fair skin, puffy cheeks, floppy hair. Half the ladies in the lounge were watching him with adoring eyes.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"My name is Victor Fabiansky."

The boy ran back towards his mother, crying out excitedly. "Mother, mother, I made a new friend named Victor Fabiansky!". The mother smiled politely, trying to hide her embarrasement.

He came back a moment later. "What do you do, Mr. Fabinsky?" Chris asked, unable to pronounce his name properly.

Victor Fabiansky hesitated for a moment, looking into the 5 year old boy's innocent eyes. For a single, impulsive moment, he thought of telling the truth. Instead, he smiled again and said, "I'm a Fireman."

Chris's mouth opened wide. "Wow, you're a real Fireman?" He asked excitedly. He looked at Victor's large suitcase admiringly.

The truth was, the suitcase concealed eight separate metallic pieces, which when assembled within half a minute, produced one of the deadliest pistol in the world. The Night Hawk .50 Calibre.

Victor Fabiansky had a reputation for being one of the deadliest assasins in the world. He could fire six shots into a little girl's head at point blank range. Without blinking an eye. And he had a penchant for wearing Italian Suits.


"Where you going?" Chris asked inquisitvely.

Victor smiled as he replied. "To Hawai."

He needed to take a vacation. Especially after his last job. Suddenly, he was reminded of it all again.

Eight weeks ago, at around 11 P.M. on a cold, dry night, Victor Fabiansky had slipped into his friend's house using the spare key he always kept. Without making a sound, he went upstairs, and made sure the wife and kid were sound asleep. Seeing their faint outlines on the bed was enough. Then, he slowly made his way downstairs, and into the basement.

Victor Fabiansky had a reputation for speed. It was once said that he could kill six men in a duel, before anyone else could even fire a single shot. That kind of skill was excatly the reason he could handle Thomas Bergman so easily.

Before Thomas could even realise that there was someone in his basement, Victor had drawn his gun, standing mere inches away from the man.

"Last wish," Thomas had whispered before Victor could pull the trigger.

Raising his gun slightly, Victor looked at his friend coldly. "What is it?" he hissed.

"Spare me from a quick death. Shoot me in the gut. Please," Thomas added.

"Why?"

"Because I want to see my wife and kid before I die. Poison me if you want. You can be sure I'll die. But please let me see my wife and kid...one last time." There were tears in the dying man's eyes. Victor Fabiansky was said to have lost his heart after killing six children in a nursery. But for some reason, he lowered his gun and fired at Thomas Bergman's stomach. Without blinking an eye. Three shots. Just to be sure.

Just as he was about to leave, Victor saw a photo frame on the table. He picked it up and dropped it next to Thomas.

"In case they don't wake up in time," Victor said.

"Mr. Fabiansky?" Chris said for the fifth time. "Are you alright?"

"Oh yes," Victor said quickly, shaking away his thoughts.

"Is it tough to be a Fireman?" Chris asked curiously.

Victor looked at him with a sad smile. "Yes," he said. "Sometimes it's very hard."

As he saw the boy play around the lounge, Victor felt a curious sense of disappointment. Eight years of cold blooded murders had hardened his heart, or so he thought. But for the first time, he felt a sense of remorse. A feeling of loss.

"Mr. Fabinsky?" Chris asked again.

"Yes?"

"Would you like a milkshake?" Chris asked, offering him a large plastic cup of milkshake. Victor couldnt help but feel a sense of comfort with the five year old. His cute, innocent looking face looked familar for some reason. As though he'd seen the boy before. He gladly accepted the drink, and took a sip.

"Where's your daddy?" Victor asked Chris. The boy shook his head slowly and said. "I don't have a daddy."


Victor felt sorry for the kid. And he immediately wished he'd never asked the question. Chris stared at his feet, looking lost for a moment.


"I'm, I'm sorry to hear that, Chris," Victor said apologetically. He wasn't good at consoling. He was a hit man after all.


"He went to heaven," Chris said softly, looking down, probably to hide his tears. "And before he went, he told me that one day, I'd make him proud. That's the last thing he told me. To make him proud." Tears began streaming down the boy's face, as he thought of his father.

"I'm sure you will," Victor said softly. Suddenly, he felt his throat become dry. His eyes began to water, and he was sweating profusely. Before he could say anything, it felt as though someone ripped out his stomach. Writhing in muted agony, he slouched in his seat, his legs sliding forwards towards Chris.

Victor Fabiansky looked at the boy in front of him for one last time. Suddenly, he realised why his face was so familiar.

"What's your-- What's your...father's...name?" Victor said.

"Thomas Bergman." Chris said. "And I think I've made my dad proud. Yes, I think I've made him proud," he muttered, as he walked away towards his mother, who was waiting at the entrance of the lounge...



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Forgiven But Not Forgotten...

On the morning of 12th January, 2008, a man named Joseph Peccard went up to the terrace of his building, and stood next the ledge, threathening to jump. As could be expected, within ten minutes, a huge crowd formed at the foot of the 35 storey building, crying out to the deranged man.

"Dont jump, please dont jump Mr. Peccard!" a janitor who knew Joseph cried out.

"It isnt worth it. Sir, please move away from the ledge. Do you hear me? Move away from the ledge!" Another man shouted.

Five minutes passed before the police arrived, and when they did, Detective Martin Spencer was at the scene.

"Who is that guy?" He asked, straining his eyes to see the man. Someone handed him a binoculars.

"His name is Joseph Peccard. He's a Senior Accounts Analyst at J.P. Morgan & Sons. Has two children, both of them married. His wife is a well known socialite. He lives at 56 Vermont Avenue, in a large villa. Owns another house in Illinois. Financially well off. Seems like a perfectly normal guy." Detective Thomas said, closing the file in his hands.

"Yah. Except that he's threathening to jump of the roof. Something must be odd," Martin said sarcastically.

The routine procedure in such an event was simple enough. The police would create a soft landing pad at the foot of the building, which would require at least ten minutes time. Until then, Joseph Peccard would need to be distracted.

"Where is the psychiatrist?" Martin asked.

In such situations, a police psychiatrist would be the one who talked to the person, trying to calm him down and make sure nothing rash happened. This time, however, the nearest psychiatrist was stuck in traffic.

"Great! Well, then, I guess I'll talk to him myself," Martin growled angrily. He was in a particularly anti-social mood.

He reached the terrace of the building, and found Joseph, standing next to the ledge.

"Hey Joseph," Martin said casually.

"What, no, stay back. Stay back I tell you. Or else I'll jump. I swear I'll jump. Dont come any closer!" Joseph bellowed. Martin didnt flinch. In his life as a homicide detective, he'd heard worse threats. Nothing could bother him after 8 years in the police force.

"Alright, alright. I'm just going to sit down here. And then we'll talk. Alright?"

It took about ten minutes, but Joseph finally mellowed down. He sat next to the ledge, with Martin sitting several metres away. Tears were streaming down Joseph's face.

"You must think I'm a nutcase, right?" Joseph asked softly.

Martin wasnt a very diplomatic officer. Which was why he was better that killing murderers than dealing with mad men. "I think you're a moron. A big, useless piece of shit! Why do you ask?"

Joseph was surprised by the answer. But he smiled after a while. "You're right about one thing. I'm a useless piece of shit. Atleast I became."

"Look, I know you're wife must've left you, or you got kicked out of your job. That doesnt mean you jump off the roof. For god sakes man, get a life! Or atleast stop throwing yours away!" Martin snapped. He knew this was the wrong way to go about things. But he couldnt care. He was having a horrible week, and there was nothing comforting he could think of.

Joseph laughed. A long, hysterical laugh.

"My wife isnt going to leave me. We're supposed to celebrate our 30th anniversary tomorrow. And about my job? Within six months I'll be the Chief Financial Officer of the firm. So that's not my worry, buddy."

"Then what the hell is your problem?"

"The problem? A cake."

Martin had half a mind to get up and pound the useless buffoon in front of him. But something told him the man wasnt mad. There was a look in Joseph's eyes. It wasnt the look of delusion. It was the look of....disillusionment?

"You see, my wife Mary makes the best cake in the world. I mean it. In fact, she made the cake herself for our wedding. Man, I'm telling you, I'll never forget the taste of that cake. We've had it ever since, every year on 13th January. It's always been the same. We'd break a bottle of champagne, the kids would bring out the cake, and we'd have a wonderful evening together. Not this time, though.

"Yesterday, I had to work till 8 in the night. So I called Mary and told her I'd be coming home late. So she decided to take the help of our kids, Marshall and Lily, to make the cake. They went out to buy some stuff from the grocery, and were on their way back, when -" Joseph stopped, choking on his tears.

"When what?" Martin asked softly.

"When some drunk driver almost ran into their car on the freeway. Marshall swearved the car in order to avoid a collision. The road was wet or something, he lost control of the car. It slammed into the side railings of the road, and flipped over. Again, and again." Joseph's face was filled with bitterness. "Again, and again," he repeated.

He suddenly stopped talking, and looked up towards the sky.

"The last thing Marshall said to the nurse was 'Sorry'. Sorry for what, I asked myself today morning. Sorry for driving a car past a drunkard? Sorry for leaving me alone? Sorry for what?"

Martin didnt know what to say. His face had lost the look of authority and command. Instead, there was a paleness in his cheeks.

"So Officer, dont tell me to get a life. I just lost mine. I lost my wife who I loved for 30 long years. I lost both my children. Every evening I should return from work to an empty house. Every morning I should wake up, feeling the empty space in the bed next to me. Every single frickking day. Every single day..."

Joseph began weeping. He wept until his body slouched forward, and he rolled onto the ground. Martin knew what he had to do. In a quick motion, he placed a pair of cuffs onto Joseph's arms, and lifted him up slowly.

"Take the fellow to a hospital. And find out which Freeway his family was driving in last night," Martin said to Thomas, as he placed Joseph in the back of the police car.

"Do you know what drove me over the edge, officer?" Joseph asked, his voice dry and feeble. "Last night, I came home, and saw the kitchen was in a mess. The cake was half made, placed on top of the oven. There was no sugar left in the house. I guess that's why they went out to buy some. I'll never forget how my wife used to make those cakes, officer. I'll never forget..."

Joseph Peccard was admitted to the hospital. One week later, he returned to his work, apparently cured of his suicidal thoughts. As he entered his office, he found a note on the table.

"To Joseph Peccard,

I was the drunk driver who caused the deaths of your family members. I hope you will find peace and the will to forgive me. Because I cannot forgive myself.

Sorry,
Martin Spencer."

Three hours later, there was a large crowd outside the building. Someone had jumped off the roof. The fall had immediately killed the man.

The paramedics carried away the body of Detective Martin Spencer. Some deeds can be forgiven. Some, unfortunately, cannot be forgotten....


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A Handful of Olives

Maryam believed in the story of olives. Even when her elder brother Jassim mocked her, the seven year old girl refused to change her opinion.

“So you’re telling me that olives can protect you from evil?” asked Jassim, his tone revealing his disbelief. Maryam nodded her head vigorously. “That’s what Grandmother used to say, wasn’t it? She said that if there was an olive tree outside our house, angels would guard us from all harm. And that whenever we were frightened, all we had to do was hold a handful of olives in our right hand. You heard her say all this, didn’t you?”

Jassim merely chuckled, and said nothing. He was smart enough not to believe in such stories. After all, he was almost 13 years old…

* * * *

“Jassim, go and water the olive tree,” Jassim’s mother said, as she combed Maryam’s hair. Jassim looked irritated. “Why should I water the tree? Cant Maryam water it herself?”

“Jassim, don’t argue. You need to go to the grocery after this. I want you to water the tree immediately.”

Jassim hated watering the tree. It couldn’t technically be called an olive tree, since it was barely as tall as Jassim, and definitely much weaker. Yet, ever since his Grandmother had told them about the story of Olives, Jassim was asked to water the Olive tree. He secretly suspected it was all done just to please Maryam.

It was a sunny, yet cool December morning, and the village where Jassim lived, just on the outskirts of Gaza, looked picturesque. After filling the heavy bucket, Jassim walked towards the olive tree, and was about to start watering it, when he heard odd noises.

Jassim was too young to recognize the sound of an attack helicopter. But as he looked up towards the sky, he saw the imposing mechanical war machine advance towards him. And instinctively, the bucket dropped from his hand.

The water spilled, forming a puddle around the olive tree. Suddenly, there was a loud explosion, and a moment later, the spilled water turned blood red. As the helicopter passed by, Jassim’s uncle ran out of the house, yelling at the top of the voice.

Maryam’s mother dashed towards the window, fear instantly reflected on her face. Thankfully, Maryam was too short to reach the window. She didn’t see her brother lying on the ground, next to the olive tree, blood gushing from his body…

* * * *

Jassim had never slept so peacefully before. As he opened his eyes again, he felt the soft blanket beneath his body, and immediately realized that he wasn’t lying in his bed.

“Where am I?” he cried out, and looked around. Sitting a few meters from his bed was his mother, her cheeks streaming with tears. A man dressed in white stood over him. For some reason, his smile felt comforting.

“Assalamu Alaikum, Jassim! You’re a very brave boy, do you know that?” Doctor Khalid said.

“Why? What happened?”

“You survived a great explosion. And due to God’s grace, you’re safe. Of course, you’re head must still be paining,” he added, as he saw Jassim touch his forehead.

Jassim fell silent, and merely looked around him. “Where’s Maryam?” he finally asked.

“Ah, Maryam’s fine. In fact, she must be waiting to see you, Jassim. But you’ll have to rest now. You’re in Qatar now, Jassim. Once you’re healthy again, we’ll take you to see you’re sister again. Okay?”

A few minutes later, once his mother had kissed him profusely and thanked God for his mercy, everyone left the room. Jassim slowly drifted off to sleep. He dreamt of returning to his house. Of seeing Maryam again. After all, he had to tell her about how the Olive tree saved his life…

* * * *

For the next few days, Jassim lived a life which he was very much unused to. Doctor Khalid seemed to have taken a special liking towards him. Not only did he get three full meals a day, the nurse who took care of him, made sure he didn’t have to move a muscle all day long. Oddly though, Jassim was not allowed to see the television, even though there was a set in his room. And the Doctor firmly refused to give him any magazines or newspapers to read.

One evening after seeing Jassim fall asleep, Doctor Khalid returned to the Cafeteria. His friend Dr. Thomas was waiting for him.

“How’s the Gaza boy doing?” Dr. Thomas asked.

“He’s doing fine. It’s Gaza that’s in trouble, isn’t it?” Doctor Khalid replied bitterly. Overhead, the television carried images of dead and wounded Palestinians. A small scroller mechanically updated the death toll.

“It’s horrible, the way things are turning out. What about Jassim’s family?”

“His mother and father are here. They’ll be staying until Jassim is completely fit again. Then, I guess they’ll have to return to their village. Or at least what’s left of it….”

* * * *

12 days after he woke up in the hospital, Jassim mustered enough courage to ask Doctor Khalid the question.

“Doctor, when will I be able to return home?” he asked, when the doctor had come for a routine check up.

“Soon, Jassim. Within a few days.”

“Then, could I send a letter?”

Doctor stopped reading his pad, and looked at the 13 year old boy. “A letter? To whom?”

“To my sister Maryam. She must be worried about me. I just want to let her know everything’s fine. So could I send the letter?”

“Why not. I mean, sure. You can write the letter today. And we’ll send it by tomorrow morning, okay?”

As he walked away, Doctor Khalid felt worried. He didn’t know Jassim had a sister. He wondered what happened to her…

* * * *

Yves Martin, a Red Cross worker, surveyed the town of Al Mughraqa, his face showing signs of sorrow and pain. The destruction was unimaginable, to say the least. In front of his eyes, lay disseminated buildings, fallen electricity poles, and worst of all, limp corpses.

“Jesus Christ!” Yves whispered, as he set out to clear the dead bodies. He reached the rubles of what once used to be a home, and began searching for corpses. As he sifted through the stones and steel, something caught his eye.

* * * *

Doctor Khalid shook Jassim’s hand, and gave him a warm hug. “It was a joy to have you here, Jassim. May you grow up to be a smart, wonderful man. Take care now. And take care of your mother.”

“I will,” Jassim said solemnly, nodding his head. And then, after a pause, he asked. “Doctor, did you send the letter which I gave you, to my sister?”

“Yes Jassim, I made sure it was sent. Why do you ask?”

“Nothing. She didn’t reply for all these days. I thought she hadn’t got the letter. But now if she has, then…”
Doctor Khalid smiled. “Don’t worry, Jassim. You’ll see her soon. There won’t be any need for a letter.”

After Jassim’s parents had thanked the Doctor and nursing staff, the car left Hamad Medical Hospital. As he saw the car make its way out of the hospital compound, a question entered Doctor Khalid’s mind.

“Nurse, why did you give Jassim those olives?”

“Oh, that!” the nurse smiled, “well, it seems Jassim’s grandmother told him that olives will bring protection from harm and evil. Ever since he was saved from the explosion, Jassim’s believed in the story of the olives. It sounds a little silly, but after all, he’s just a child.”

Doctor Khalid smiled melancholically. “No, it doesn’t sound silly. The olives symbolize protection from harm. It’s a source of hope for Jassim. And when he returns to Gaza, he’ll need a lot of that. Hope. Hope and faith.”

* * * *

"Assalamu Alaikum
Dear Brother,


I felt so happy when I read your letter. Thank God, you’re alright. I and Uncle Basheer were praying for your health for all these days. When will you return home? I’m waiting to see you, brother. It’s terrifying here, with all the bombs and helicopters. Uncle Basheer says there’s nothing to worry about, but I see him pray for our safety, late at night. I’ve been saying all the prayers which Father taught us. And whenever I get very scared, I hold a handful of olives. Remember what Grandmother told us? Hope to see you and Mother and Father soon.


Assalamu Alaikum.
Maryam."

Yves finished reading the letter. His eyes fell on the body which lay limp beneath the ruble. As he slowly pushed away the debris, he caught a glimpse of the girl’s clenched right fist. He opened the fist slowly. What he saw brought tears to his eyes. Maryam had a handful of olives in her hand. Just before the bomb landed on her house…

* * * *

Jassim felt happy as he boarded the plane. Within a few hours, he would be back in Gaza. He would be able to see his sister soon. As he buckled his seat and waited for the plane to take off, his mother knew what he was going to face once the plane would land. She closed her eyes and whispered a small prayer: “Oh God, give Jassim the strength to bear his loss. Make his soul firm and strong. Do not burden us with pain. Oh God, give us strength, give us strength…”

[This story won First Place in a Short Story Competition held by Qatar Cultural Centre recently. The theme was "Sufferings of the People of Gaza". Please let me know your opinion on the story. And yes, please rate the story, if you're not going to comment...]

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In Memory Of...

"Excuse me sir, would you like to see ..." "Madam, I am sure that you are interested in this..." "Young man, have you heard about the new..." "Young ladies, may I have the pleasure to interest you..."

Unfortunately, he didn't have the fortune. Everyone passed by him in the mall, as though he was invisible, or they were deaf. Either way, Vikram Chopra was a miserable man. With his tie strangling him, and sweat drenching his shirt, Vikram was in a desperate state.

Being the salesman of Akon furniture shop, Vikram had to sell for at least 5,000 dollars in a month. Twenty-nine days had elapsed. It was almost impossible that he could salvage his job within just one day. Throwing his tie into the bin, Vikram walked home.

In the dim light of the orange bulb, the dingy room was illuminated. There wasn't much in the house, except for a bed, a wardrobe, and a few chairs. The bed almost touched the floor, unable to bear the weight of the depressed man sitting on it. Vikram wanted to get rid of it all. He wanted to get rid of his ridiculous job, his one room apartment ... his life, too.

In his hand were a few papers all weighing heavily on his already stretched wallet. The landlord was waiting to chuck him out the next day. Besides, the electricity department would hound him, for the three months of overdues he had to pay. Life was miserable.

Vikram looked up, and saw the table in front of him. In the dim light, the faint silhouette of a bottle was visible. And with strained eyes, he saw the six letters written on it. P-O-I-S-O-N.

Something that would end it all, quickly and silently. Vikram had joked about it a month ago. With every passing day, the joke became more and more real. It seemed as though life was playing with him, toying with his mind. He was drowning in debt, and had about an ounce of self esteem left. No prospective future, no ambition.

It was horrible to see that everything that he was doing at the moment was useless. Vikram's life was almost mechanical. He spent 2/3 of his life in the mall, trying to get at least a single customer. His bank account had almost gotten depleted, since he hadn't deposited or withdrawn anything. The reason was simple: The account was empty and he was broke.

But, even when he was contemplating the thought of a possible suicide, Vikram felt a deep urge to make a statement. Something that would make him famous. Something that would find himself a place in the newspaper.

He looked up and saw the fan. No, not the tried and tested fan method. It was so dull and unexciting ... then, with a sudden jolt, Vikram got up and looked at the thing in front of him. His eyes shone as he saw his way out. Using that simple apparatus, he could make sure that he had a solution, a final solution to all problems.

The next day, everyone moved around in the mall as usual. There was a large crowd, moving around looking for something that would appease them. Slowly though, it seemed as if a large crowd was gathering. It was not apparent at first. But, at about 10.30am there was enough people surrounding the Akon furniture shop, to make the boss come out.

"What is the matter here?" he asked, secretly wondering if they wanted to pull down the shop. "Sir," asked a young lady, with tears in her eyes. "Is this poster true?"

The boss looked at the poster. "Oh yes, we got the information this morning. thought this could be the last respects..." His voice trailed away as the crowd stood motionless.

On the window was a large poster, with a large face pasted on it. Vikram's eyes peered at the mall goers, oblivious to what was going on. Under the photo was a notice:

In Memory Of...

We regret to inform you that our beloved salesman, Mr Vikram Chopra passed away due to massive heart failure. We offer our condolences to his grieving family. Akon Furniture will also be accepting donations in the form of sales, to pay for Mr Vikram's funeral. He is survived by two handicapped parents and an unmarried sister.

The notice had a magical effect on the audience. Everyone looked down, silently grieving the loss of this salesman. The boss went into his room, grumbling that he didn't get the opportunity to fire Vikram. Besides, he had tried to ask the man who called, how exactly Vikram had died. Heart failure for a young healthy man like Vikram seemed highly unlikely. Something suspicious was going on.

Not only was something suspicious going on, but also, there was something unbelievable happening in the Akon furniture shop. Two hours later, the assistant banged on the boss's door, asking him the most ridiculous question:

"What do we do when our furniture stock is over?"

The boss chided him at first, but then, dropped his jaws, literally, in shock and surprise. In front of him was the largest crowd that he had seen in his life, at least inside his shop. People were moving around, looking for small useful furniture. There was no one to tell them the price, or the quality. Instead, they took the small handmade pieces to the cashier and demanded to see the manager.

"Dear Sir," said an old lady in a croaky voice, "Please make sure that you give the commission for this furniture to Mr Vigam Chopra."

"Vikram Chopra, Ma'am?"

"Right. Give it to Mr Vigam, please."

"And, mine too," the rest of the crowd chimed in chorus. The boss looked baffled. "But, he is dead ? I mean he has passed away!"

"That doesn't mean that his family can't take his money, does it?" Someone asked. The tone of his voice was dangerous. The eyes of the crowd were bulging.

The boss meekly nodded his head, and agreed. In front of their eyes, he zipped 45 credit cards and transferred 12.5 per cent to Vikram Chopra's account.

After the crowd left, the boss sat in his chair, and said to his assistant. "Oh, during his 29 days here, he couldn't sell a single piece. Now, he just emptied the shop. It is a pity he isn't there with us today. God knows how far above he has reached?"

********

"Excuse me sir, would you like to see..." "Madam, I am sure that you are interested in this..." "Young man, have you heard about the new..." "Young ladies, may I have the pleasure to interest you?" "Young man, would like to?-"

"Hey, mister!" A teenager snapped. "Why don't you understand? We don't want to buy your furniture, we don't! I wish you would drop dead!"

The salesman smiled. Your wish just might come true. He walked into his boss's office, and said:

Sir, tomorrow is the 30th day of my job. Please, make sure that you send all the commission to my bank account!

The boss gave him a spiteful look. Rahul Varma had hardly sold a piece of furniture. "I don't think I will be sending anything to your account!"

The salesman smiled. Well, that's exactly what my previous boss said, and then I died, and he sent me 6, 991 dollars. I am sure that you'll do the same!

Vikram Chopra, the deceased salesman, also known as Rahul Varma, walked out of the mall ...

?Mohammed Musthafa Azeez, 14, Grade 9, Al Khor International School-Indian stream, Doha, Qatar

The winners of the Young Times Short Story Contest 2006 are:
I Prize ? Mohammed Musthafa Azeez, 14, Grade 9, Al Khor International School-Indian stream, Doha, Qatar
II Prize ? Roshini Srinivas, 14, Grade 9, The Asian School, Bahrain
III Prize ? Husseina Ibrahim, 16, Grade 10, Dubai Carmel School
Congratulations!!!

This is a short story that I wrote for Young Times in 2006. Dont know how, but I ended up getting first place. Please give me your sincere opinion on this, because I dont think it was prize worthy...