Creative Clutter

2005-12-22T09:57:00.000-08:00

This blog has moved to a new address: http://demiurgeous.bytebite.net New feed address are.... RSS and Atom Please update your feeds and bookmarks, thanks.

Haunting

2005-10-08T14:58:00.000-07:00

He looked into my eyes. Something meaningful was in there, but before I could read it he closed them. The anesthesia had worked. “Okay people. It's textbook. We have done this before. Let's roll... Scalpel.” I have done it so many times that I can see it in the eyes of my mind. An open-heart surgery. The surgery went well. Everything is almost done. Stitches are in place. Now only if he is careful with them they will heal in two months. And if he stays on low cholesterol diet he would have a good use of his heart for another ten years. Will see his son graduate, his daughter getting married, move to a suburb with his wife and live happily ever after. Peenp… peenp… peenp… “Doctor heart rate is falling.” “Paddles… 200.” “Clear!” Zap goes the current through thorax. “Pump.” “1..2…3” “Clear!” Zap. “Increase it to 300.” “Clear!” Zap. The line goes dead. The tough question is not how to break the news to family or what went wrong. The tough part of life is not to face a lawsuit or see your pension go down the drain. The tough part is to live rest of your life with those eyes following you.

Perspective (Part I)

2005-10-08T14:05:00.000-07:00

A word: Before I start of with this story there is something I would like to share with you. Story behind this story; if I may say so. I started writing this story a long time ago while returning from Quebec. It was a long train journey and pictures of a toyshop in Quebec inspired me to start it. Though the journey ended, the story never came to an end. As is the case with adolescent mind, I got preoccupied and the story was put on a hold. Never found right words and right feelings, you may say. Then one fine day I talked with my grandfather on phone and the whole story came to me. I saw his story within this story. Though the characters remain as fictional as they always are, the sentiments of an old man are as close to reality as my immature pen allow me capture. This place is so old that ever time I visit it reminds me of the joke that my cousins and I came up with in childhood, “Isn’t this place a standing relic?” and our grandfather shared our blithe laughter. Ya, jokes of teenage are stupid in retrospect. At best feeble. It was built some time in 18th century when French were preparing a fort against British invasion. I am not sure of date, like it matters. This is my last visit here and I am more than thankful. “Can we go now?” I asked at the top of my voice. “In a minute,” came a meek reply. Difference between 20-year-old and 84 years used lungs is pretty apparent. When I came back to my parents place for summer I was expecting a quite nice time. I mean a guy deserves some peace and tranquility after sweating through the whole year. Instead I was given the good news that grandpa will be finally moving in with my parents from Quebec and I was the lucky one, chosen to help him pack and move. So after driving all the way from Boston to New York, now I had to drive from New York to Quebec. My grandfather is a self-made man, living with his own rules. He had a toyshop in Quebec fort. The shop is still there, it's just that it is not his anymore. A shop he used to run until age took its toll. Well, his piling years and new-generation-marketing-manufacturing process. He made all the toys with hand, which meant no two were alike, not exactly a quality-conscience 21st century buyers look for. Today is the age of uniformity every one dresses alike in Bloomingdale's; every kid wants the same toy for Christmas. In an age of mass production, where every shop displayed discount placards his shop window was occupied with a Christmas tree, throughout the year. Shop was more of a love affair than business. “Ok foxy, lets move,” he said in his gruff voice. I picked up car keys and headed for the door. “What are you? 80. If I can still walk to the shop, so can you.” “But it’s cold…” “Oh you want to make small talk or go?” He always had this energy, a will, surrounding him. When dad’s business was not so big and studies were something that could be dispense with, we used to come here for Christmas. We, me and my brother, could pick as many toys as we wanted… it was our shop then. Times change, now dad doesn’t have time and I am off to college. “I am tired. Can we sit at the fort square for a minute?” “See I told you. You sit here, I will go back and get the car.” “Oh don’t bother, we are more than half way there. Come sit.” So we sat. Not exactly my idea of hurrying up and get going, but then old age isn’t a picnic. “Remember on New Year’s Eve your grandma used to make that chocolate cake.” I nodded. “And we used to come here at mid-night to see fireworks. Why didn’t you all come down here this time? It was so much fun…” “Uhh… can we get going? I mean we have to get back and get some sleep. It’s a long drive tomorrow.” “Sure sonny.”

Chapter I. First Encounter

2005-09-21T10:09:00.001-07:00

It is late night in Shanghai and every single office in the skyscrapers is dark. The odd sound of air purifier mixed with buzz of air-conditioner is the only indication of his presence. Two eyes gleam with amusement in darkness. Musing if the darkness is in the room or in the soul. An eternal question he has been pondering over since childhood. He was standing on the terrace, all-alone. He was alone most of the time. He heard a whisper, ‘Are you happy?’ He looked around. His parents were asleep seventeen floors down, in luxury of a condo. He liked it here, high up on the terrace, where most kids were afraid to come. ‘This is not a life you are meant to live.’ This time he didn’t look for the source. He reassured himself that it was his minds playing games with him. “Wonder how it can speak in English, I have very limited knowledge of the language,” he said to himself. He always referred to the voice with ‘it’. ‘You must submit to my will. I am the real you.’ “Who are you?” ‘The important question is why am I here. There is a higher calling to your life.’ “What is that?” ‘It is not my decision to take, I am here to show you the path.’ “You are weird.” He didn’t know if it had taken offence from the statement or had nothing more to say but the voice had stopped talking. That was all his ten-year-old brain could come up with… “You are weird.” He went off to sleep, seeing same nightmares. After three hours of restless sleep he couldn’t take it anymore. He sat on the bed… gazing out of the window. Looking at the world that one day he was going to conquer. “…And now we take you straight to the site where our correspondent Ms. Raphal would give us an insight in latest happening. Ms. Raphal.” “The site looks devastating. The paramilitary forces from Maugta Corp. have cleared the suspected militant base. A few civilians have been reported injured. Tian-Yang Hospital building has taken a lot of damage and as the footage shows patients evacuated from the hospitals are currently kept in a base camp also set-up by Maugta Corp.” “Now we take you to White House where Mr. President is addressing the nation.” “… as much as I am happy to declare that our operation of war against terrorism is coming to a very successful end, I am also saddened by the suffering of Indonesian people due to attack by US military, supported by Maugta Corp…” “That was Mr. President from Oval Office. We tried contacting Mr. Nolan, CEO, Maugta Corp. but he was unreachable. It is to be noted that Maugta Corp. has become the world’s largest supplier of weapons and paramilitary aid. Though deemed as most profitable corporation in the world, it faces ethical and moral questions every day...” He switches off the television and the room reverts back to blackness. He does not want to hear about his own corporation from a penny worth of newsreader. Media, may be he should expand in this area. His satellites are already in place for survey purpose, he could use them for telecast as well. ‘These people will never understand,’ some one whispered. Next day the news paper headline were screaming… ‘Another deadly strike by Maugta’; ‘People of Indonesia cursing Maugta and buying it’s pills’; ‘Indonesian administration out raged by the attack. Says US and Maugta should have taken them in confidence’. No one really noticed a small news on some-inside-page about a large anonymous donation being made to Tian-Yang Hospital. Epilogue: I am not sure if Rufus Nolan is a hero or a villain. Agreed that he hears voices and likes to live in dark, but is that a qualification enough? He does have a good part in him. He is concerned about world peace… he provides support to people who will be troubled by his "projects"… but then again is monetary repentance good enough to clear a person of his sins? The story does not end here… it just begins.

Astray

2005-09-05T22:10:00.000-07:00

Prologue: There have been many inquisitive readers who wanted to know if "Freeway", my previous story, is real story based on my life till date, or is it the way I speculate my life. All I have to say is, "Thank you for your interest. It is partially my story, but only because it is impossible to create a completely fictional character out of thin air. Some part of "you" goes into "him". That is all there is... rest is fiction. Thanks again." People say it is painful, it is not. They tell you that your life swirls past your eyes like a fast-forwarded movie, it does not. After this moment nothing matters. It does not matter if I paid my taxes last year or if my weekend laundry is done. After this moment nothing matters, not what went astray… not what went wrong… not what went anywhere. I was a hard working boy. I wish I could work hard now but I can’t, but let me come to that later. I wanted to go to college but that is an expensive affair, especially for an orphan like me. So I joined a departmental store as salesman, earning and saving were the short-term goals of life. When I was finally able to afford the application fee, I was accepted at the college I had dreamed of throughout my childhood. In college, I never indulged in any booze parties or smoking pots, for I had work to do and studies to cover. My evenings were spent showing ladies’ shoes, while my peers went on dates and movies. But compared to childhood this was heaven. The glitter of store, the lights in showcase and cooling effect of air conditioning, it was literally heaven compared to the pigeonhole I grew-up in. Today morning I was very happy, happier than you can ever imagine. For you need to see the pain, the agony of deprived life to appreciate the good life. And then the happiness accumulates and grows… like a kid learning to walk. It rises in small steps first and then goes into leaps and bounds. I was in my final year and had saved enough to buy a second hand car. I had fixed a good deal with one of my friend. I went to the bank to deposit my salary cheque. Done with my formalities I was about to leave when I sensed something had gone amok while I was at the counter. Three men with black masks drew out guns and everyone went down on the floor, facing downward, on their instructions. The Police cars started moving in… I could hear the sirens. I thought, ‘It will be over soon. My car. Coming graduation day. I need happy thoughts.’ But if you have had a life like me happy moments are sparse. Police made their usual announcements and waited. We all waited. I felt a tug at my hair. Having no choice I stood up and felt the cold metal touching my back. It’s just not my day for I was chosen as the ‘shield-guy’, that’s the technical term police department uses. We walked out of the bank, every law-enforcer pointing small barrels at us. So this is how robbers see the world… small barrels pointing at them when they walk out with money. I couldn’t resist a feeble smile and at that very moment it happened. I heard a gun shot and felt warm blood on my left hand side. It is not bravery that kills; at times perfectly mellow straight-path-followers are killed because something as small as a bullet went astray. They tell you that your life swirls past your eyes like a fast-forwarded movie, it does not. You feel your heart going slow, your hand going limp… left first. And then your legs give away due to lack of blood supply. It all happens in a moment… a long moment. After this moment it does not matter who took the shot, if it was a cop or one of the robber. After this moment nothing matters, not what went astray… not what went wrong… not what went anywhere. You close your eyes and after this moment nothing matters.

Freeway - Part II

2005-08-30T01:57:00.000-07:00

Now, 3:45p.m. EST… “Ms. Brown”, she had insisted on being called Chloe but Ron would stick with business etiquettes, “when is my flight tomorrow?” “Scheduled departure is at 1400Hrs. Landing in Boston at 1520Hrs.” “Cancel the reservations. I will be driving to Boston. Pre-pone my check-in time to nine.” If he lands in Boston before 4p.m. he will be in time to address the bankers’ meeting, but he was planning to meet Professor Pollock, economics genius, at Boston University before. Driving there early in the morning would give him sufficient time for that. 38 months back, 5:55p.m. IST… Rohan's home in India. Rohan’s parents were planning to buy a wedding planner. He was well settled in US, working in a reputed firm… every Indian parent’s dream. When he got phone call at seven in the morning he knew something was wrong. He was working out in his terrace gym, breathing fresh sub-urban air. After the regular talks about how-is-life his father dived into the question, “Beta shaadi ki bare mein socha hai?” “Nahi and dad I can’t get married now!” “Kyun? You have a nice job and everything an eligible bachelor requires.” “Nope! I don’t have a job. I am quitting in a day or two. Joining Harvard Law School… planning to do a degree in Company Act and IPR.” “But why this sudden change?” “Dad I have some plans in mind… will call you back and we will discuss it then. Bye.” He didn’t call back the whole day and they never brought up the question of marriage again. He was on the run. Running from or towards a dream, he was not sure himself. Today evening… Back to Ron’s office. Time for closing index, turns on the TV. Dinner trolley comes and goes away. Dinner was pleasant and index predictable. After the first day of trading, stocks for his new VC project had soared. ‘Expected.’ There was not a trace of joy in this thought. He opens the presentation he is going to give tomorrow. His cell phone rings. He immediately realized it was 10 o’clock in the night. Every single day of his life ever since he moved out, his mom called him, without fail, to inquire how he was doing. He was the center of her universe. 24 months ago, sometime past midnight… Graduation party at Harvard As usual, Ron was flocked by friends. He had changed his name, officially, to Ron so that it was not a barrier in his socialization. He had completed his diploma in Law with two majors, IPR and Company Act… just as he planned. The Gods were smiling on him. “So where do you go from here?” asked Cindy. “The Big Apple.” “Wow! Me too. I have got a job in Reagan and Charlie.” “Good for you,” he replied with honest happiness for her. She said with hesitation, “I wanted to ask you but never had time, would you like to go out with me sometime.” “Cindy you are a nice girl and all, but I am not interested. Sorry.” He didn’t have time to date intelligent blondes and anyway he didn’t consider her to be his match. They were so different, compatible but different. The only girl he ever considered as meant-to-be-with was buried deep in his past under numerous accomplishments. Next day, 7:15a.m. EST… In a car on freeway 401. He left his house without eating anything 15 minutes ago. ‘Dinner with bankers, lunch with professor. Breakfast I will order on reaching the hotel.’ He could take an exit and stop by at one of those 24-hour open fast food joint, but that would mean a detour and extra time. To take his mind off the food he turns on the radio. They are playing Rufus Wainwright’s famous… I've heard there was a secret chord That David played, and it pleased the Lord But you don't really care for music, do you? It goes like this The fourth, the fifth The minor fall, the major lift The baffled king composing Hallelujah… ‘My life has been like a car on freeway. Fast, smooth and non-stop. Minor falls and major success.’ Your faith was strong but you needed proof You saw her bathing on the roof Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you She tied you To a kitchen chair She broke your throne, she cut your hair And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah… ‘But there are problems living this way. Sometimes you miss an opportunity you always wanted to take, for the fear that you might have to take a detour.’ Maybe I've been here before I know this room, I've walked this floor I used to live alone before I knew you I've seen your flag on the marble arch love is not a victory march It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah… ‘And then you regret it all your life. A non-stop life… a lonely life… is it all worth the effort? Love is not a victory march, neither is life.’ There was a time you'd let me know What's real and going on below But now you never show it to me do you? Remember when I moved in you? The holy dark was moving too And every breath we drew was Hallelujah ‘May be I should have taken the risk of asking her. Tell her what I always wanted to. Do what my heart said, for once. The reward of that risk would have been better than what my risks in share market and new ventures pay me today.’ Maybe there's a God above And all I ever learned from love Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you It's not a cry you can hear at night It's not somebody who's seen the light It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah… He took the next exit on The Freeway.

Freeway - Part I

2005-08-29T09:38:00.000-07:00

Today, 8a.m. Eastern Standard Time… Ron’s home. Ron picks up his PDA and goes through day’s schedule. Muses, ‘Busy as usual.’ Gets into car and drives away. Ron is one from the army of new executives, who believe in driving their own cars and carrying their own briefcases. Who believe chauffeurs and doormen are waste of resources. Who believe show-off is one thing companies cannot afford. That, however, does not mean living a deprived life. Wearing Armani and driving sedans is about maintaining your status in social circle you carry. 10 years ago, 8:35a.m. IST… Rohan’s hostel room. He tried to ignore the cell phone, but it won’t quit ringing. Finally says a lazy hello. “Abe Ronu, programming languages mein teri proxy pakdi gayi. Jaldi insti aa ja.” Rohan cursed the professor and hanged up. Found bike keys in left over pizza-box from yesterday night, which by the way was itself under the bed, and rushed to institute. He had been living in denial and defiance for last one year. Ever since he cleared JEE his girlfriend had stopped talking to him, may be because she didn’t get through… may be she didn’t wanted a long distance relationship. He never came to know the real reason for she won’t talk to him; he gave up on her after three months. The whole incident had made him bitter and he built a wall around him. Time developed cracks in his cocoon; he started making new friends after a year of dormancy. Very soon he had a huge friend circle, he was as good a dancer as he was debater and thus he found friends in every walk of life. He was a born genius, good at everything he did. Not exactly mirror-cracking material but he made up for that fact with his humorous talks. He was comfortable in a group discussing world politics and also among gossip mongers. These qualities earned him the acronym USB, universal serial boy… compatible with everyone. Present, 9:25a.m. EST… Ron’s 56th floor office. Lifting of breakfast tray converted his dining table into office desk. Not many people do their breakfast in office, but then not many are as successful as Ron. At 30 something, he was co-founder and CEO to one of NYC’s fastest growing investment firm. Skims through 16 odd financial expresses and picks up the phone. “Have the bankers arrived?” “Yes sir, they have been seated in conference room two.” Hangs up the phone, takes a look in the mirror, straightens his tie and walk out of the room… confident. Some 8 years ago, 11:15a.m. IST… cafeteria, IIT Bombay. “Yaar dekh, tujhe bolna hai to bol nahi bolna to mat bol… dimag ka fried rice mat kar”, words from a frustrated friend. Dimag ka fried rice… latest audibles from Yahoo!, a company which had offered Rohan a job. In his second last semester Rohan was faced with a dilemma, he liked a girl but he just didn’t want it to end like his previous relationship. It was similar situation; both were preparing for CAT, just like he had prepared with his ex for JEE. He didn't want to go through one more year of recovery. But she was too perfect; it seemed as if they were made for each other. He postponed the decision for now. He already had a lot on his mind. Today, 12:40a.m. EST… Club Queen, Street 21. “To the future!” Glasses clink politely. The bankers are happy on cutting such a nice deal. Ron is celebrating for he now has more working capital for his brain child. Five out of seven times he eats lunch with business associates, rest of the two days he takes it in his office. He doesn't mind coming to office seven days a week. Though he is a good cook, he finds the exercise of cooking too taxing on his time. 6 and half years ago, 2:10p.m. IST… Board Room, IIM Bangalore. He was facing three executives from one of the multinational consultancy, but there was not a single drop of perspiration on his forehead. “You will be joining us at our Mum-bh-ai.” “No.” “What do you mean?” “I will join your company only if you give me a posting in NYC.” His persuasive powers and confidence had built-up exponentially over the years, after all how many engineers go out to get MBA with finance as major. After a little bit of discussion they caved in. He was successful once again, but had no one to celebrate with, beside some shallow friends who accompanied him for he was a success star. Sometimes life gives you a lot but takes away one thing that meant a lot. ‘What happened to that IIT wali girl’, he wondered while walking out of the room. He never referred to her with name, even in his thoughts.

A Lie

2005-08-16T08:39:00.000-07:00

As she boarded the plane back to Delhi, she gave a sigh of relief. Memories of Bombay, now Mumbai, always brought a lump in her throat. Seven years ago she was happily married. Saurabh had everything a girl looks for in a husband. He was kind, considerate and dependable. To top it all he loved kids. They had been married for over a year now and were planning to start a family. “Madam, would you like some coffee?” Her chain of memories was broken by flight attendant. Sipping on her coffee her memories took her back to Bombay while the flight took her to Delhi. They had been trying to conceive for last six months, without success. They decided to get a medical checkup. The report came in a few afternoons later, she tore open the envelope… read… and collapsed in chair nearby. She re-read the report. She loved him too much, how could she say those words to him? She re-read it. How would he take it? She scanned the report again, checked the names on the report. Everything was convincingly askew. In the evening she told him at the dinner table. “I can’t get pregnant.” There was an awkward silence. He put down his fork, genteelly enough so as not to cause a ring, rose and left. A tear rolled down her beautiful blue-green eyes. “You are requested to put on your seat belts; we will be landing in 20 minutes.” She mechanically put on the seat belt and drove away. There is a limit to shock a brain can take… then it goes numb. She had been trying to cope with him, which was becoming increasingly difficult. Finally she was slapped with divorce papers, reason: Fertility issues which were not brought to notice at time of marriage. She signed the papers without a word and returned to her parents’ place in Pune. Pune was not far enough to escape the memories of her wrecked love marriage, so she took up a job in Delhi. Rishi, a friendly next door guy, asked her out after a couple of months’ into friendship. She fell for the right guy, again. They got married. “… We would like to thank you for traveling with Jet Airways.” She disembarked and went to waiting lounge. She spotted Rishi and waved. A small girl rushed to her squeaking, “Mommy, mommy”, with a twinkle in her big blue-green eyes.

2005-07-14T07:42:00.000-07:00

Life through my lenses #3

Prejudice

2005-07-08T17:50:00.000-07:00

As I turned to page 7 to read Rick’s article as I do everyday, I was more ashamed of myself than ever. I felt guilty as I read that article. The article ran something like this… Title: One look and he had judged me.. (After the narration of last day’s incident article went on to say…) And I have concern for these people. What I don’t have for them is pity, which I reserve for people who judge others without knowing them. Just one look and they have already judged others. Who reach conclusion, and that too worse, at the first glance. Who are too prejudiced, thinking world is full of corrupt and immoral souls, who have given up hope in humans and humanity. ***** It was my son’s birthday and as usual our family was celebrating it together. As my wife took our both sons inside I waited outside the restaurant, reserving a parking lot for my brother. Not that it was very full but the fact is that my brother is an amputee. He lost his one leg in car accident. But that doesn’t stop him from driving. He drives a special-design car which he can manage with limited use of his both hands and one leg. He is crazy about cars, the thought brought a smile to my face, we both are crazy about cars. As I stood there waiting in parking lot, holding a spot already reserved for handicapped people by a blue board a Mercedes drove in and parked in the spot. As I waited to see who was getting out, Rick Nelson stepped out. I have been Rick’s fan since my youth. Some how his articles on social concerns on page seven always appealed to me. I waited to see who else was getting down… who was the poor disabled person? With a press of a button and a beep, Rick locked his car. I cried out, “Hey! Parking reserved for disabled and old.” Promptly enough Rick took out the blue card and flashed it at me and went in. “These influential people, use there power in all the wrong way they could possibly think”, I muttered to myself, “They use there social standings to get these blue cards… all this dishonesty, just for a parking lot near the gate. Talk about social concern… my foot!” I am stamped only to hurt my own leg. Within a few seconds Rick came out again, this time pushing a wheel chair with a very old lady in it, probably his mother… the Roman nose was distinctly similar. Rick stopped by to say just one sentence, “I always drop my mom at the gate and then park the car away because I have the gift of walking, the lot near gate is for drivers with walking problem. I know.” And all of a sudden I felt ashamed of myself. Ashamed of my own thoughts which accused someone without knowing the circumstances, but the blow set in as I turned to page 7 to read Rick’s article as I do everyday.

2005-06-17T07:26:00.000-07:00

Life through my lenses #2

Warmth

2005-06-13T09:37:00.000-07:00

It is snowing outsides; cats are purring - sitting near fireplace, children are making snowmen - being called in by their mothers, couples are moving hurriedly - cuddled together. Amongst all the movement and hustle I see a still figure of Frank, who is sitting all by himself under the porch of a closed down theater. While men are wearing long coats and women are flaunting their furs; Frank sits in tattered brown jacket, patched with green and red cloth pieces and a black jeans, which has not been washed since god only knows when. As the sun is about to call it a day and wind is setting in everyone is hurrying to get back home, for Montreal streets are not pleasant in cold nights. Only a few minutes have passed since I started watching, the temperature of open streets has dropped down to -10 centigrade and streets are already deserted. Except of course for Frank, who is sitting in his spot not trying to move much. It took great patience and time on his butt’s part to warm the spot. A small island of slightly warm land midst of snow sea. I hear a police siren nearing. Must be one of the classy suspicious neighbor reporting poor Frank. Oh! I am not allowed to use adjectives like ‘poor’ for I am an objective narrator, but his conditions is heart-tugging. Protectors of law are getting out of car, Tony is little short and seems to be bulky though it is mostly because of his height and less because of chocolate donuts. Ron is taller with blonde hair, more like a model than an inspector. They both are talking about demands of children for Christmas. “Hey hobo! Budge off.” Frank shifts a little. Cold in his bones makes a crackling sound. “Get out of here, unless you want to get arrested.” He gives them a weary smile, but it is too cold to melt two hearts with one smile. “Don’t you smirk… just get out of here.” Tony gets his stick out as he said those words. Frank gets up, for he has no choice and starts moving. He is too old to walk without a stick and too poor to afford a stick. Staggering slowly he starts walking towards Market Square as the police car zipped away. Market Square has everything to offer except pity. Frank is looking into shopping window of a jewelry store. Frank’s eye catches a fancy bracelet, with a hefty price tag. A couple of hundred dollars would be enough to get him through winters. This bracelet is very similar to the one he bought for his daughter when days were prosperous. But those days were gone and so was his family. He is the sole survivor of 9/11. He had nothing left in New York except for memories, in fact in the whole wide world. So he got as far from the city as the left-over money he had could take him, which happened to be Montreal. Running away from memories is harder than running away from anything. Unable to bear cold and hunger any more, Frank is picking up a brick. With a crash the shop window comes down as a brick is hurled through it. Sirens are going off every where. Patrol cars are speeding towards the spot. Given the merchandise of the shop it was on police’s high alter. The cars are skidding in, but Frank doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. He is not running, he is as still as he was when I started watching him. He is very obediently following the instructions given to him. Pushed into a car he is been taken away. The scene leaves me perplexed. Why didn’t he grab the bracelet or for that matter anything? Why he didn’t run? Why did the police leave without securing the area. I notice a notice in window saying the jewelry on display is fake. Frank is not illiterate, on the contrary he has college education to his credit. I am a little confused, did he act in desperation only to find the notice later? Now I see Frank, sitting in his cell. It is not as big as market square but definitely warmer. The judge had said, “Three months for destroying public property, the payroll goes to the shop.” Three months, Frank is thinking, enough to get me through this winter.

2005-06-08T07:35:00.000-07:00

Life Through My Lenses #1

Last Note

2005-06-05T12:48:00.000-07:00

Richard Morris was speeding through the alleys of NYC. He honks, thinking, ‘I hope he is safe.’ Any person who knows Richard would know this thought was about his son… his only son and lone family member after his wife died of lung cancer. It was not lack of attempt or money that caused her death for Richard made both of them in plenty. But sometimes money and expertise go in vain. ******** “Mr. Morris is one of the most successful business man of our time”, Time magazine reported, “and is generous at charity will be least to say. Mr. Morris, or Richard as his friends call him, is not just good but rather examplory at business because of his vision and innovation. Currently Mr. Morris has multiple textile mills, biotechnology research labs, chemical factories, pharmaceuticals and many more diverse ventures. It would not be an understatement to say that WM group (Willy Morris, named after Mrs. Morris) touches every single aspect of our daily life.” ********* Having a office at Times Square is luxurious, having an office inside Trump Tower was perfect and Richard never settled for anything less than perfect. As he sat in his office planning on his new venture his phone rang. Lisa was strictly told not to forward any calls… he made a mental note to reprimand her. ********* After Willy’s death Richard gave more time to Richie. He never like calling him Richard Jr. Richie was ten, not independent enough to live by himself when dad was away on business tour, nor young enough to accept a new mom so soon thus Martha was appointed. Martha was sixty something charming lady with a thick Mexican accent. Richie loved her from day one and Richard had no complains. ********* The operator on the phone said, “This is emergency call for Mr. Morris. A fire has broke out in your house. Fire stations have been alerted and medical help is on its way.” Minutes later Richard Morris was speeding through the alleys of NYC. He honks, thinking, ‘I hope he is safe.’ As he pulled in the drive way he was asscorted by NYPD detective Robert Nixon. “The exact cause of fire is not determined yet but most probably the gasoline can was thrown into fireplace blowing the whole palce.” “Which room?” ‘It was 1535Hrs when the call came in, Richie must have been home, is he safe?’ “Third door from staircases on second floor” ‘That’s Richie’s room’, Richard panicked. “A dead body was found badly burnt with this note in the living room.” Dear Mr. Morris, I am sure you remember the blast that took place in your chemical factory in Texas. It was well managed and I was surprised to see that it was not even reported in newspaper. Bad for your stocks huh? Well you may not have lost much in that blast but I lost everything, my saving of life… my only son. His body was never found and any investigation by local police or private detective could not relate him to your factory as a worker, let alone the fact that there was any blast and he was victim. Here is my repayment. Regards, Martha Swearing that he would hunt her down and bring to justice he entered his son’s room only to be shocked to see a lady’s burnt body. A note on mirror said, ‘Richie is at Mark’s place, hope you learnt the lesson of life. I have nothing to live for.’

Dad

2005-06-01T08:16:00.000-07:00

On the flight from Mexico Mr. Davison opens his laptop and see the photograph from last Christmas set as wallpaper. Thought of his sixteen year old daughter and beautiful wife brings a faint smile on his lips. Perfect family. Life has given him everything except parents. As a first class passenger he is entitled to use net-on-flight. “These fancy engineers”, he thought, “how do they do it?” He passes the question off, as engineering was never his subject. As soon as he is connected a mail drops in. Contents were short and precise. “Thanks for saving my butt in courtroom. As per the deal, you will receive 10% of the traffic along with your fee in your account. -Trafficker” 10% of what the cocaine was worth.. that would be lot of money. Money was hard to come by in childhood, as an orphan he had to struggle for every penny. He had to do part time jobs to pay the tuition at law school; he didn’t want the same thing to happen to his daughter. Fee from this case would be sufficient to get her next birthday present, a red Ferrari. As an expert lawyer on drug-trafficking cases money was not a matter any more. As the plane landed at JFK he knew his wife would be there to receive him, she always came. After the usual chat of how the trip was he came to his favorite question, “How is the princess?” “She is at Alice’s place for sleep over.” As per habit, he reached for the answering machine as he entered the mansion. The mechanical voice said in monotone, “One new message.” “Mrs. Brown”, it was Alice’s voice, “please come down to Red Cross Hospital as soon as you get this message.” As he reached the hospital his heart was racing faster than his car. A doctor attended him immediately, “Mr. Brown your daughter was brought in a critical condition and there was not much we could do. I am sorry.” The autopsy report said: Death due to overdose of cocaine.