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...



If you are a new reader to this blog, check the Top Rated Posts, as well as the Best Posts of 2008.

Subscribe to Laptop Diary by Email

If you haven't visited here for quite some time, take a look at the latest posts...

The Devil, The Angel...And Me

It was a lazy Summer morning. After waking up at 10, I dragged myself into the bathroom, where I lazily began brushing my teeth.

Just as I was half way through, the devil popped up, standing on my left shoulder. He was smart as usual, in his black suit, red shirt, black tie, red face, and two small black horns.

Me: What is it this time, Luke?

Devil: Oh, nothing. Just, you know, came for a chat. That's all. [He looks around for a moment, hesitating about something.] By the way, have you been visiting your blog lately?

Me: [coldly] Yes, I have.

Devil: [sarcastically]Ah, so you do check your blog once in a while. Wonderful, wonderful [whistles for a while.] And by the way, who was that moron who wrote the last few posts?

[I stop brushing suddenly, and look into the mirror. The devil is smirking at me rudely. His bloody cheekiness...]

Me: What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Devil: Oh seriously dude, when are you going to learn? You're blog's half dead? No one cares about stupid stories is which a police officer jumps from the -- hey, which retarded police officer commits suicide because of drunk driving? 

Me: [angrily] He was feeling guilty about causing the death of the guy's family!

Devil: [thinking for a moment] Hmm....you mean like he was feeling bad?

Me: [testily] Yes Luke, he was feeling bad!

Devil: [shrugging his shoulders carelessly] What a loser! I'd personally be proud if I could drive home while I was drunk...

Me: [shouting]Oy! 

Devil: Alright, alright, I'll get to the point. Dude, it was a really mushy mushy story. Well done. Excellent. But how many people commented? No one ever cared!

Me: [feeling proud] 12 people commented about it.

Devil: [slyly] And how many people actually read it?

Me: [feeling embarrassed, and looking down] I don't know...about 60...

Devil: [triumphantly] Ha! You see my point? So here's what we do to boost your comment count, and have people flooding all over the blog.

Me: You mean what I'll do

Devil: I'm you're conscience. You and I are the same person, you moron.

Me: Oh.

Devil: Moving on, I have a few ideas. First, stop writing boring short stories. Personally, the namings all screwed up. It should be long-yada-yada-yada stories. But that's not what we're talking about. Right now, you have to start writing about....how can I say...more interesting things.

Me: Interesting?

Devil: [looking annoyed] Oh God -- I mean, Oh Shucks! Okay, let me try to make it more clear. Right now you write boring posts about hope, friendship...yada yada yada. No one's seriously going to read all that. If you really want to be in the big league - and by that I mean triple digit comment counts - you have to write about...you know....a little more adult stuff, like...I don't know...maybe--

Angel: [popping out of nowhere on my right shoulder] Stop!

Me: [relieved] Thank God! Where on earth were you?

Angel: [apologetically] Sorry buddy. Had to stop by a bank and ask the robber whether he really wanted to make the mistake. Turns out he did....Anyway, what was this miscreant telling you?


[I look at the mirror, and see the Devil, his arms folded, looking anoyed, staring at the Angel. It would be a long morning, I thought...]


[To Be Continued...]
Dear Readers,
This is a new type of post that I thought I'd give a try. The Devil here represents, obviously, the evil side of my mind, while the Angel...well, you get the point. Whatever contrasting thoughts I have as a blogger, are represented through these two characters. Please let me what you think. I'm hoping for constructive criticism....
 


If you are a new reader to this blog, check the Top Rated Posts, as well as the Best Posts of 2008.

Subscribe to Laptop Diary by Email

If you haven't visited here for quite some time, take a look at the latest posts...

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....


If you are a new reader to this blog, check the Top Rated Posts, as well as the Best Posts of 2008.

Subscribe to Laptop Diary by Email

If you haven't visited here for quite some time, take a look at the latest posts...

The Best of Laptop Diary - Part One

On August 18th, 2008, I published my first post on Laptop Diary. At that time, I never knew how long it would last. I never planned on what posts to write about, what topics to discuss. In fact, at that time, Laptop Diary was merely the product, of a lazy Summer afternoon. Four days from now, it'll be one year since that day when I published my first post. Before that though, I'd like to present the Best of Laptop Diary. After 12 months, and 85 posts, I've finally chosen the best 15 posts. Here they are...

#15 : What's Wrong With My Hello?

What's wrong with my Hello?

Yup, I'd like to know that, thank you. At first I thought it was just some kind of a joke going around. But now I'm seriously taking up this issue.

For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, here's the details.

Like any active teenager, I receive phone calls from my friends. While attending those phone calls, I - as per 21st century protocol - start by saying, "Hello." (Continue Reading...)


#14 : Me And My Decisions
I have a story to tell,
One that you should listen,
It's not about a boy and a girl,
It's about me and my decisions.

I was once like you,
With absolutely nothing to do,
Except carry a schoolbag on my shoulder,
And a cap on my head...(Continue Reading)



#13 : Once Upon A Time, When I Was Cute 
Now don't laugh at the title. It's true. Once upon a time, I was cute. But I've grown older, more rugged now. Too much time in the sun, too much time in the kitchen....all have made me loose my cuteness. I wouldn't have complained about it, if it wasn't for an annoying picture. The picture of my 5 year old self. (Continue Reading...)



#12 : He Came, He Taught, He Inspired
I still remember the first time he came into my class. The bell had just rung, and we were practicing our customary stretching, when the door swung open. Before I could see who had entered, a figure passed through the side of the class, reached the front, threw his pink purse onto the table, and pulled off the cap from his marker pen.

Then, just as half of us realized that a teacher had entered, he wrote down the subject title on the board. Turning around to survey us, he uttered, "Yes, Sit Down." (Continue Reading...)


 #11 : The Story of Rajeev And Faisal
 It was that time of the year when every school in the city was busy hosting farewell parties for its outgoing batch. Our school was no different. In fact, the hype surrounding the farewell party was immense. It was all because of the Student Awards.

The Student Awards were a set of Awards given by the management of the school, as a token of appreciation to certain students. There was the "Best Outgoing Student Award", "Most Popular Student" award, and so on. But the most loved award, was the "Best Duo Award". And this year, the winners were a sure fire bet. Rajeev and Faisal.(Continue Reading...)


Please let me know your opinion about these posts. And the rest of the countdown will continue tomorrow. And yes, it wouldn't be fair to end without saying, Thank You. For the comments, for the support, and for all the encouragement. And yes, as always, be generous with the comments, will you?


Subscribe to Laptop Diary by Email

Wanted : A Loving Family

"Dude, let me help you. What's wrong? You've been quiet the whole evening. That's not like you, John. Now tell me, what's the matter?"

I watched as John hesitated. I had a reputation for solving problems. It was a reputation I enjoyed. It felt nice being able to help others. And if there was anyone who needed help right now, it was John. He had accepted my invitation to spend the Eid holidays with my family, since his parents were still in the United States on a visit. He had been excited about it. That is, till he reached my house. From then onwards, he was quiet.

"You really want to know?" he asked me.

"Yes, I do."

"What if you cant help me? That'd make you feel bad, wouldnt it?" He smiled wryly. John knew me well.

"Cmon man. Just tell what's bothering you."

"Do you know where my parents are now?" John asked.

"Yah, they're in the US, right?"

"Yes. Do you know why they're there? Because they're visiting their family friends. That's what the counsellor asked them to do. To resolve their problems or something like that."

"Counsellor?"

"Yup. Marriage counsellor. They're planning to get a divorce. I'm not surprised. If you'd spent a week in my house, you'd pay them to get a divorce. All this wouldnt have bothered me. I mean, I never had a loving family. My Dad never bought me a present on my birthday. Atleast he's out of town, so that's an excuse. My Mom's worse. She doesnt even bother to remember when it's my birthday. But you know why I'm thinking of all that now? Because, because I see how it's with you."

"With me?" I asked incredulously. I didnt understand what he was saying.

Just then my cousin brother knocked on the door. It was time for lunch, he said. As I got up, John moved towards the door. Before leaving, he turned around and said: "If you dont like your friends, you can drop your friendship. You can find new friends. You can choose whom to like, and whom to avoid. But with family - with family, you get just one chance. What do you do if that chance gets ruined?"

Eid Day Lunch was a festivity in my house. The table was surrounded by my father, mother, two sisters, my uncle, aunt, two cousins, another uncle, John and myself. As could be expected, there was a lot of talking, teasing and laughing. Plates were distributed, dishes were moved around. Everyone helped everyone else. Long stories were told. Jokes were cracked. The ladies blushed, the men shouted in mock anger.

For the first time perhaps, it all made sense to me. I could sense the love between everyone seated at the table. The witty repartee between me and my cousins; the way my mother told embarrasing stories about my childhood. Memories were brought back from years gone by; the table was filled not just with food, but a deep sense of happiness and satisfaction. It was one of the best lunches I ever had.

Later that evening, when everyone was out in the courtyard, having tea, John sat besides me. "So, what's your solution?" he asked. I had thought of it all along. What can we do if we have families where there isnt any peace, let alone love between one another? What can we do if our brother or sister, father or son, never give us the respect and happiness we deserve? I think he already knew what I was about to say.

"I dont know the solution, John," I said, perhaps for the first time ever. I looked at his face, a plastic smile hiding his emotions. At that moment I knew. The lunch we had, was one of the most painful experiences for John. It made him realise just what he was missing.

If you dont like your friends, you can drop your friendship. You can find new friends. You can choose whom to like, and whom to avoid. But with family - with family, you get just one chance. What do you do if that chance gets ruined?

"I dont know what the solution is..." I repeated again, more to myself, than to him.

[More than a thought, this post is intended to be a discussion. Please let me know what you're answer to John's question would have been. If you know anyone who feels the same way as John, please ask them to comment as well. If needed, please post the comments as Anonymous. This story is fictional, but as with all my posts, it's inspired from real life.]

If you are a new reader to this blog, check the Top Rated Posts, as well as the Best Posts of 2008.

Subscribe to Laptop Diary by Email

If you haven't visited here for quite some time, take a look at the latest posts...

Blogger's Block....

For the past one week, there's a ritual I've followed strictly. Every morning, after crawling out of bed, I'd make my way to the computer, and visit Laptop Diary. No, not to egoistically admire my own little blog. But rather, to see the date of the last post. And as of writing this post, its been 14 days since my last (some blatantly labelled, filler) post. And thankfully, just like any blogger would want it, the absence was noticed.

Of course, not everyone knew the right reason for it though. My teacher referred to it as a symptom of typical teenage problems. Most of you'll get what I mean. Well, that's not the case. Then what is it? Well, I believe there's a phrase for it. Blogger's Block.

It's a nasty little problem, Blogger's Block. Well, its symptoms are fairly recognisable. Lack of original ideas, difficulty in forming proper sentences, redundancy in thought ('I think I should write about life.....no wait, I should write about...Life!'), and a general lack of willingness to write anything at all.

And why does this happen? Believe me, if I knew that, I'd probably know the cure as well. One of my friends asked me why  I wasnt posting regularly. And I gave the generally egoistic sounding answer, "Because I dont want to write a lot of sub standard posts. Each post should have quality; a proper standard." By his smirk, I figured he wasnt a fan of Laptop Diary.

Then there came a point where I literally stopped hiding behind excuses. After my father showed me a newspaper clipping. It was about a lady in Kerala, who was completely paralyzed, save for three fingers. And the news is? She just finished writing a book. As amazing as it sounds, she wrote for one hour a day. And finally completed the book.

I stared at the photo of the lady, lying on her stomach, holding a pen with her three fingers. She had a genuine smile on her face. And she had a copy of the book she just wrote.

That's when I walked up to my computer again. Maybe I might not post for three weeks again. Maybe I'll fill your inbox with subscriber emails. What ever it maybe, I'll try. I'm not sure, but after reading that newspaper clipping, I think I just found the cure for my Blogger's Block...

If you are a new reader to this blog, check the Top Rated Posts, as well as the Best Posts of 2008.

Subscribe to Laptop Diary by Email

If you haven't visited here for quite some time, take a look at the latest posts...

Andy Dufrain

Have you heard the story of Andy Dufrain (actually spelled Dufresne)? If you've watched The Shawshank Redemption you'd know. But since we're all busy watching Harry Potter or the Transformers, I'd like to tell Andy Dufrain's story. (Warning: Given below is the plot of the movie. Spoiler Alert...)

Dufrain is a banker, whose convicted of murdering his wife and her lover. Due to circumstantial evidence, he is convicted and sent to prison for two life sentences. There he meets Ellis Red Redding. The movie shows Andy's experiences at the prison, but one thing note worthy, is the fact that Andy asks Ellis Red Redding to smuggle in a rock hammer and a poster of a movie actress.

As the story progresses, we come to find out that Andy Dufrain was actually innocent, and wrongly convicted of murder. Then, 17 years after he first entered prison, Andy Dufrain is missing from his prison cell. The furious prison warden discovers how Andy escaped.

Through a tunnel in his prison wall....

Andy Dufrain spent about 17 years chipping away at his wall, late at night after the prison lights were switched off. He used to take all the concrete that he chipped away, put them in his pocket, and emptied them in the prison yard every morning. Andy Dufrain was an innocent man. He was finally free.

After 17 years. 17 long years. Every day during those 17 years, Andy chipped away using nothing but a small rock hammer(the size of a slightly large toothbrush).

There's a line which Andy says to Ellis Red Redding in the movie. The line is: "Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies".

Hope. Something most of us lose within a week, or a month. We try dieting for three weeks and then decide its easier to just remain fat. We try to score better marks and after the first four report cards, decide we're maybe not smart enough after all. We try being friends with someone we really like, and then drop it after the first few tries. Worse still, we try getting back together with our estranged friends, and leave it after the first few no's.

Sometimes it does seem futile to hope. Sometimes you might hear them say, 'Give up Dude', 'It's no use', or a personal favourite of some, 'Get a life!'. Well, when Andy Dufrain asked Ellis Red Redding for a rock hammer, Ellis jokingly asked him if he was planning on tunneling his way out of prison. "It would take you 600 years to do that!" Ellis said, to imply how impossible the task really was.

He was wrong. Andy Dufrain took less than 20....


If you are a new reader to this blog, check the Top Rated Posts, as well as the Best Posts of 2008.

Subscribe to Laptop Diary by Email

If you haven't visited here for quite some time, take a look at the latest posts...

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...]

If you are a new reader to this blog, check the Top Rated Posts, as well as the Best Posts of 2008.

Subscribe to Laptop Diary by Email

If you haven't visited here for quite some time, take a look at the latest posts...

Black And White...Or Shades of Grey?

The class fell silent when John entered. It was always like that. No one spoke much in John's presence. After all, he was the infamous backbencher, the perinnial failure, the guy who dared to back answer teachers. Some even said he was a chain smoker. I didnt know what to believe. But one thing was for sure. John was a bad fellow.

A bad fellow. My cousin, who was studying in the same school as my senior, heard me mention about John one day. He laughed. "Funny how you treat life like a Lord of the Rings movie." He remarked. What do you mean?

Well, you've seemed to lable John as a bad guy havent you? Meaning you know some people who are good?"

That was an absurb question. Of course I knew good fellows in my class. There were plenty. Like Philip, the class topper for example.

My cousin shook his head, realising I wouldnt understand. Just before leaving though, he said. "Maybe you should know more about John. It might change your opinion about him...."

Three weeks later, I had just finished my Maths examination. I was waiting for my friends outside the hall, when my cousin met me. "Ah, just the person I wanted to talk to. Wanna know more about John?"

I didnt mind.

Fine, then here's a good intro for the guy. Till 9th Grade, he was amongst the toppers in class."

I laughed so hard my cousin hit me on my head. "It isnt a joke. And you dont have to mock me so much, too."

"I'm sorry. I just found that too hard to believe."

"Yes, so did I. Well, turns out till 9th he was in Bahrain. That is, until his parents had a falling out with some of his relatives and decided to leave. He didnt want to leave. He loved his school, his friends and most of all, his relatives. It wasnt him who had a fight with them after all. But against his wishes, he was made to join this school. The first two months were terrible for him. He was emotionally wrecked, and that showed on his mark sheet. Everyone was quick to label him a back bencher.

And that's where he's been ever since. At the back bench."

My smile had vanished, and I looked at my cousin seriously. "But then, if John was a brilliant fellow, why couldnt he prove himself?"

"I dont know. There could be many reasons. Firstly, he had a deep grudge against his father for forcing him to shift schools. Then there was the lack of motivation. For a guy whose lost all that he loved, getting 100 in Maths isnt excatly exciting, is it? But that's not how the teachers saw it. They piled on the pressure. So did his parents. They made sure he didnt have any of the freedom normal teenagers had. And it was bound to happen."

"What would happen?" I asked.

"John took to smoking. Believe me, it wasnt to prove himself or become a big shot. No, it was because he couldnt bear it all. Yes, it was a bad decision. But sometimes I wonder, if I myself would have done the same thing, if I had gone through what he had."

"So, he's been like this ever since?"

"Yes. Why would things change? He's labled that way isnt he? He is the bad guy, the guy who never studies, the guy who's good for nothing. In the wonderful class heirachy we've formed, he's below the Super Nerds, below the All Rounders, below the Sports Stars, below the Average Joes. He's at the bottom of the rung. And that's where he'll stay perhaps."

My cousin had to leave suddenly, since a teacher was looking for him. As I waited for my friends, I thought to myself: We spend so much time seeing the world in Black and White. Everyone's either purely good or purely bad to us. We praise those who are impeccable, and shun those who have flaws. So many of us can easily point out the bad in someone. How many of us try to figure out how he became so 'bad' in the first place?

We're not either black or white. We're not either completely good, or completely bad. We're shades of grey. Some lighter than others. But sadly, we've forgotten that. We've begun treating people in contrasting colours....

My impression of John had changed drastically. I could see him for who he really was. A brillant student, caught in the troubles of life. A fellow who reacted in the best possible way, to deal with all the pain he had to face. Yes, he smoked. Yes, he back answered a teacher once, out of frustration. Sure, he had utter disregard for marks or exams. But I wonder: wouldnt I have reacted the same way, if I went through all that he did? Maybe not. But maybe....just maybe....yes. I would have.

I went back into the hall to collect my hall ticket. That's when I saw John chuck his question paper into the bin. "How did you do?" I asked, trying to sound polite.

He shrugged his shoulders, and looked at me in the eye. "What does it matter", he asked. Philip commented as he saw him leave, "He's probably going to fail again this time. He wouldnt know half the answers anyway."

A minute later though, John's words had a new meaning. I had caught a glimpse of his question paper before he chucked it. It had scribblings all over it. As I took it out from the bin and straigthened it, I saw the answers to the six mark questions, written on the side of the margin. They were merely rough calculations. But they were almost fully correct.

John knew the answers to the questions. He was smart enough to calculate them on his own. But I had a feeling he never wrote them onto his answer paper. Why? Because, as he said, 'What does it matter?". Everyone expected him to fail. In their eyes, he wasnt a kid with a lot of potential. For them, he was one of those people who would never succeed, who would never pass. One of those people who would never be correct, who would never be 'Good'. For them the world was just Black and White...

If you are a new reader to this blog, check the Top Rated Posts, as well as the Best Posts of 2008.

Subscribe to Laptop Diary by Email

If you haven't visited here for quite some time, take a look at the latest posts...