Because I have nothing to write about. I need a topic to write about of course, but there is nothing to write about. Of course there are many things I COULD write about, but I have NOTHING to write about.
So I decide to write about searching for a topic to write about, for isn't that what I am doing right now? But then again, I realize that this only confirms my premiseof being dumb for thats an age old ploy. Its like trying to choose a number really, like a good old 2, or a 7, a 99 or 49 but then realizing that you don't really want to choose a number and you choose nothing, but since you HAVE to choose something (say your life depended on it) you would probably choose 0. But zero is still a number and your back to square one. And that still makes me dumb.
Or maybe its all about growing old really, for you see, a kid who has just 'discovered' the trick of writing (or speaking, or enacting-whatever it might be) about the indecisiveness on what topic to write about would be elated at his/her unsurmountable achievement. But not me. For I am older.
Its like how old(er? maybe) people tend to not go against the system. They accept its nature and move along in life- living, crying, laughing and dying. The seem so sure about the eventuality of things and have accepted it all. But not the youngsters. The youth are always the backbone of any revolution or radical movement (Gandhiji spent most of his youth 'experimenting' on ways and means to break the system, so yea, whatever) and it takes some time for them to accept the existing system. Oh, but occasionally they succeed of course, and thats what leads to WW III's, Communism, Terrorism, The Red Cross, Astronomy, Physics, Microsoft Windows and what not. But I guess these are just outliers, freak accidents of chaos that help the Romantics extoll the greatness of the human mind and spirit. This, however is never the case, for your average Ram or Lakshmi (and Joe as well) whose's most significant contribution might be the writing of the text for a web page that helped a large number of senior citizens learn how to use the iPod, don't get to experience the greatest that a human being can be. Ah! but maybe you could count the first time they have sex, or see God, or when they hit the pavement at a 100 kilometers per hour as being significant high points in one's life, but those are things I cannot be sure of - yet.
So I guess, it really is ok to write about conventional topics, like love, your exams, your dreams, your family, your culture, your hobbies and the website manual that you might have to write in order to get that bonus, for however mundane they might be, at least they are true and relevant. In fact their very mundaness arises from the fact that they are true and relevant. So, for me, the search for something to write about was never really real, it was just a figment of my stubborn mind trying to be smart, act cool and show off. But in the end, if you've noticed, I did in fact succeed for I have written about searching for a topic to write about (Remember 0??) . The child in me is gloating over my victory (Clever aren't I ??) And this is what it means to grow older. I am old, for I got what I wanted, yet.. you think I didn't (But now you do because I told you for I do still need to show off.... because I'm still a child).
[Author's Note: This piece of writing is on this blog simply because I like it. It does not however add to the main purpose of this blog which is to showcase my fiction]
“Osama was a dickhead” thought Rashid. “Taking innocent lives for no reason was the sign of a thoughtless man. The purpose of his crusade was in no way justified, even redundant in this day and age. The western powers had won having secured the Middle East’s oil supply and beginning the systematic breaking of their culture using the forces of globalization. Osama had lost as he was destined to from the very beginning, for he had failed to deliver what the Islamic world looked forward to the most – justice”
The sun felt warm on Rashid’s face but the cool breeze that was blowing ironically seemed in stark contrast to it. The Prius that he was in was making good time. They had been lucky today, finding green signals all through the way. Rameez, his childhood friend was at the wheel. Having spent their early years in Afghanistan, they had migrated during their early teens to the land of promise and abundance - The United States of America. Learning English had never been a problem for the two young lads as Rameez’s father had been well versed in the language and had taught the two bright and inquisitive boys the language of the computer ever since they were 5 years old. They always complained as to why they had to learn an alien language when no one in their native land ever used it. But Rameez’s father had always insisted that their English be fluent, he kept reminding that “Ali Bhai” had great plans for them. Now, they both were technicians who specialized in high-end mainframe maintenance
Rashid could remember the day vividly. They had arrived in New York a couple of weeks back when the twin towers of the World Trade Centre had come crashing down. The 2 friends were watching TV at their aunt Hasifa’s place when the news of the WTC attacks forced its way into every television channel. Rashid remembered hardly being affected by it, after all buildings would crumble to the ground everyday in his neighborhood, this one just seemed a bit bigger. He remembered how his aunt walked into the room and shed tears while seeing the live broadcast. She had gone down on all fours and offered a silent prayer to Allah. It was only after attending college that Rashid began to understand the true economic and political implications of that fateful day. It had created tremendous political strife in his mother country and had caused the downfall of the Taliban regime. But all that was in the past. The year was 2020.
Rashid had become used to thinking in English. “The best way to learn a language is to think in it” aunt Hasifa had constantly reminded them. Both Rashid and Rameez had completed their engineering degree’s form the Carnegie Melon University 2012. Neither had been at the top of the class, nor were they at the bottom. Aunt Hasifa had insisted that they do some social service constantly. She claimed that it was a way of purifying the heart and soul. As a result, the 2 young boys did volunteer work in the Youth Association of Muslims and the Muslims for Charity. They realized that the Islamic community in the USA was not as bad as back home. The women were treated more or less equally and the men were more tolerant. They lived by American values and principles. They were the hard working middle class of modern, global America. The 2 friends were indeed glad to be in the company of such people.
But the situation back home had been deteriorating. Defense spending in the US was at its highest levels ever and most of the troops were currently in Afghanistan, trying to contain the various warring factions within the country. War-ravaged and torn, the country was in deep economic trouble, in stark contrast with neighboring India and China. The tensions in the region had overflowed into the surrounding area. The civil war that had followed the assassination of Pervez Musharaf in Pakistan had ripped the country apart. Big brother Indiahad taken advantage of the confusion and forcefully occupied Kashmir. Neighboring China had tried its very best to restore the militaristic regime but all of the supporters of the general’s administration had been systematically eliminated by the now highly efficient RAW. The civil war in the area had called for the deployment of the UN peacekeeping force that ironically consisted of both Indian and US troops. Furthermore, ever since the success of the US’s controversial campaign in Iraq, the nation had been on a permanent war footing. The North Korean and Iranian governments had been overthrown in much the same way as in Iraq. CIA agents had cleverly placed WMD’s in the respective countries soils for the IAEA officials to find. UN strikes had been authorized against all of these countries on the basis of them aiding terrorists, and holding the rest of the free world at ransom. The Islamic world was on the verge of being totally wiped out. Rashid and Rameez had not heard from their parents in years.
May 12th 2020 was a sunny day indeed. As the Prius sped through the streets of Mountain View, Santa Carla the friends could see prosperity and joy everywhere. Little children were playing on the road, bored housewives taking their dogs for walks, kids mowing lawns so that they could earn more pocket money, a young couple were making out in a car.Both Rashid and Rameez felt happy indeed to have grown up in such a place, for these were images of a prosperous happy society. But all this was about to change for terrorism aimed at destroying this. It aimed at bringing the effect back to the cause. Terrorism aims at educating the perpetrator of his crime, by showing him/her the pain and suffering that their actions caused to the others. Terrorism is justice, terrorism is education.
The Prius pulled over at the Googleplex entrance. Both Rameez and Rashid had their retinas scanned at the gate and were immediately issued clearance passes. Gone were the days of security passes, there were just retina scans at every security checkpoint now. The information regarding every employee was automatically transferred over the GNet to any other company so that the identity of the person could be verified. After getting their security passes, the two friends drove over to the entrance of the main building. Security at one of the most important buildings in the world was the tightest ever. However not a single guard was in sight. The company image was that of the “People’s Company” and that anyone was allowed into the building. But no member public had been into the inner regions of the building. No one needed to visit the complex, why people hardly moved out of their neighborhood these days.
The building loomed large in front of them. Their life’s purpose - Ali Bhai’s dream - stood on the other side of the door. With a small prayer to Allah they entered the building, their minds set and firm in their resolve. They were the only one’s who could do it; this was why they had lived happily all these years while their brothers and sisters had experienced hell. Wearing his most charming smile, Rashid walked over to the receptionist and said
“Hey there, we are from Super Soft Technologies, just a routine maintenance checkup” with a wink.
The receptionist smiled back at him saying “The elevator is that way sir; I hope you have your clearance cards”.
“Of course we do!” said Rashid, he always had a way with women.
They picked up their backpacks and walked towards the elevator. Rameez could feel his heart thumping. “This is it; the Day of Judgment has finally arrived” thought Rameez
As they got on, an automated voice asked them for their destinations. “The mainframe please” said Rashid.
As if in anticipation a panel next to the elevator door opened asking them for another retina scan. As Rameez placed his retina near the lens, he could feel the heat of the laser scanning his eyes. Google took no chances. After Rashid had his eyes scanned, the voice asked them to insert their clearance cards in to the slot. Following this the elevator zoomed up at full speed. Rashid and Rameez tried to stay as calm as possible. They knew that every single movement of theirs was being monitored – breathing rate, heart rate, eyeball activity and even changes in body temperature as they were accessing one of the most important equipment in the world. The elevator slowed up and finally came to a halt at the 35th floor.
As the door opened, the two comrades could see the hallway stretching before them, right out a Star Trek set. There were no visible sources of lighting, but yet the hall was well lit. Holograms of various abstract arts were placed every few meters, and flat screens displayed the current searches that were being done at that very moment. In front of them stood a stocky, well-built man in his middle forties. His face was disheveled and his dress seemed unkempt.His appearance was that of a typical Google employee, eccentric on the outside, a computer genius on the inside.
But he was not just any employee. He went by the name of Ken Bernstein but was born Babur Khan. He had arrived in the America’s and the early 1980’s with the sole task of becoming a major player in the forthcoming IT revolution. He was instrumental in setting up the undersea fiber optics that connected half of the world. He was a sleeper, not to be awakened until he was well placed in the upper echelons of corporate America. For 40 years he had crawled his way up the corporate ladder to become one of the key members of the GNet development team. He knew that what he was building would eventually bring about the downfall of the western world as he knew it, and that only inspired him to make it more influential, more powerful and the single most necessary service ever built by mankind. And today he was going to play a major part in destroying it. He would kill his own baby.
“Allah-O-Akbar” the words that he had not uttered ever since he last saw his brother in an abandoned airfield in Afghanistan came out of Babur’s mouth. Both his comrades smiled at him and gave him a hug.
“This way gentleman” said Babur ushering them into the narrow passageway. “I hope there were no problems with security anywhere, I took the necessary precautions. Two of our programmers have called in sick and I was able to re-program the computer to recognize the two of you as in order to give you the necessary access. However there are crawlers that constantly monitor all activities by the employees. We have about 10 minutes before I am identified for making the switch” explained Babur.
“Don’t worry my brother, it will all be over by then” said Rashid. “With the power of Allah, we can bring about the downfall of the Christian murderers. A new world will now be born out of the chaos and confusion that will ensue”.
Babur smiled in agreement “I have waited 40 long years for this moment; I have built this monster as the greatest weapon to be used against our enemies”
As the three of them reached the end of the hallway there stood a massive door blocking their path. “Reinforced titanium” said Babur. “Only three people in the company have access to this room and I am one of them”.
“How do we get inside?” asked Rameez.
“Hold on my young friend” replied Babur. "The security requires us to stand here for at least 2 minutes until it takes a reading of all our vital signs. Security personal believe that intent is more important than the history of a person. Once all the variables such as heart rate, breathing rate have been factored in, the computer comes to the conclusion as to whether our work inside in the main frame will be harmful to its existence or not. Thus I suggest that you keep calm……"
”You’re ID please” said the computer. Babur swapped his card in the slot next to the door and placed his eye near a small glass like object for a retinal scan.
“Access confirmed” said the computer voice and the massive door slowly opened.
As they stepped inside the mainframe terminal room Babur turned to the other two and asked “You are aware of the protocols aren’t you, once inside this room you cannot get out until somebody from the outside opens this door…”
“Of course we are. Did you take us for idiots???” said Rashid, clearly annoyed
“Ha ha ha, of course not “ replied Babur with a chuckle “Ali Bhai makes his choices well…”
“Our mission here is almost complete” said Rameez. “Finally we can avenge our brother and sisters” Babur smiled at them knowingly.
The room that they entered was cool but stuffy. It gave one the feeling of entering a hospital ward. There were huge supercomputers that handled all the data collected by the Google server. There were no windows in the room, but there were numerous ducts that protruded out of the walls and roof.
“Air conditioning vents” explained Babur as Rashid and Rameez stared up at them. “Although slightly inefficient, no one can crawl through it!!”
The two friends than began unpacking their backpacks. They had small plastic explosives that would have been impossible to detect thanks to their bio-shielding, for all the scanners merely considered them to be extra fat on the men’s body.
As the two young men began placing the bombs, Rameez could not but think about his life back in his home country. News reports had shown the sad plight of the people there. Death and disease everywhere, children with guns, Mosques turning into silos, even Africa was rapidly emerging to be a more developed area than the Middle East. But of course, this had come at a price. Africa’s culture was completely degenerated just like with Japan in the 90’s. Both were nothing more than cheap imitations of the Western world. What Rameez found the most ridiculous was the fact that Black women all over were aping to look white, like the girls on the cover of the latest edition of Playboy. The sales of beauty products had reached an all time high in Africa. But his country had stood tall and strong against the might of Capitalistic Christianity. He was proud of his heritage, willing to even die for it. He knew that his countrymen had not lost their sense of identity. They still believed in the teachings of the prophet Mohammed, living as the Quran dictated.Their souls were still uncorrupted by the forces of the West and it was for saving this purity was why he had taken up this suicide mission.
As the young men finished up with placing the bombs, Babur Khan looked at them like a proud father seeing his children grow up. He had left behind a son, who if even alive would be of the same age as the two men in front of him. He had left his son in the hands of Ali Bhai, the mastermind behind this operation. Ali Bhai was the true brains behind the Islamic terrorist movement. A man who was rarely heard and even rarely seen, some even believed that he did not really exist, but Babur was one of the few who had the privilege of knowing him personally. Ali Bhai was a charismatic man with no known history, but he was a man with an enormous sense of drive and purpose. He had the amazing ability of convincing anybody he knew to follow him. For years he had built his private army, riding on the resources of the better known organization such as the Al Quaeda and the Lakshar-E-Toiba, forever plotting the destruction of the western powers. And the task that the three of them were performing was of the utmost importance to his plan. A crippling of the communications and information infrastructure of the western world was sure to generate an apocalyptic impulse far greater than any nuclear weapon ever could. The collapse of GNet, the sole internet that the world had turned to would lead stock markets to crash, banks would lose money, information flow all over to be disrupted, to put it simply-the world would come to a halt. He remembered the words of Karl Marx who had said that the victory of Capitalism would be complete when the development of communications would reach a level like never before. But now, they were using the monster that the capitalists had created to their own disadvantage. And they planned on achieving this without a single bullet being shot, a single bomb dropped or even a single drop of blood shed. Killing wasn’t what terrorism was about, it was about justice and this was the only way of meting out justice. Ali Bhai refused to behave like his enemies; he said that doing so would only be demeaning oneself. Ali Bhai was a great man indeed.
The boys had now finished setting up the bombs and the timer had been activated. The three of them sat down in prayer, for they believed that being with God in their last few moments would save the pain that a soul experiences during death. They could hear the timer ticking, Rashid – the more mathematical among them lost count after the first minute, the timer having been set for two minutes. As the final few seconds ticked by, a great peace descended into their souls, a feeling of purpose, of a quite power and of love for love is all that mattered, for was that not why the three had taken up such an arduous task??
A roaring noise filled the room accompanied by a bright flash of light. The last few thoughts that Rashid had was that he was finally dying and that it was all over. He could feel the approach of the heat as it scorched his skin and began to eat into it. It was all over indeed……….
However, little children continued to play on the road, bored housewives kept up their walk with their dogs, kids mowed lawns so that they could earn more pocket money and young couples still found the car a perfect place to make out for a long long time to come….
To Be Continued…….
Author's Note: This story has been sitting on my laptop for almost a year now, hence the reference to Mushraff with regard to Pakistan (Yes, a lot has happened since then!) and the lower quality of English. This is also my first attempt at writing dialogue as a part of the story, so they might have come out as very bland and plain (Sorry about that, I swear to do a better job next time). But most importantly, this story is still incomplete in every sense, right from the storyline and narrative flow to the dialogues. But I could not bear to see the file titled 'Supercorp' in my laptop anymore. So here it is... Supercorp Part1. Hope you liked it! N do leave your comments \m/
The road that he walked was empty; with the likeliness of the bottomless pit that he felt in his breast. There was no one to accompany him on this journey, neither should there be anyone. His feet were moving automatically, with the rustiness of a forgotten katana, to be discarded along with its owner. His heart was made of stone, and his thoughts were cloudy, unable to comprehend the implications of his decision, only that it had to be carried out. After all, a samurai who had failed in his duty was damned for all eternity, in the eyes of his family, the community, the emperor and The Buddha himself. He felt a great sense of despair, one that he had never before encountered. Even the ten days that he had to spend alone in the wilderness as a part of his training had not been as tortuous. Back then he had known why he had to live, for his honor, family and pride. But this time the tables were turned on him. “Even old men have new things to learn “thought Ishida.
The grass in the meadow was a lush green, extending in all directions unto infinity. The contours of the plane gave one the feeling of infinite freedom, of a primordial potential where a man feels as a child, the whole world for him to conquer, a feeling of unlimited power that only a close commune with nature could provide. But Ishida was beyond that age. He saw nature differently. He saw her as man’s friend, a constant in spite of all of man’s murder, killing and pillaging. Emperors would change, and many a man’s blood may be spilled, but the birds would never stop singing nor would the sun cease to shine. He lay down gently on the grass, feeling it prick his old skin. But the experience of a man who had nature as a friend had taught him that the sharp grass would soon form a soft bed for him within a few minutes. He lay on the grass, letting the hours pass.
IshidaYamagato was born in the year 1257 A.D. in the Kamakura period. His father, like the previous eight generations of his family was a Samurai, dedicated to the protection of the emperor and the motherland. At the tender age of 7, Ishida was sent to the prestigious Shiyasin dojo for his primary education in the martial arts. His focus and dedication won him the favour of the head Senpai and was sent for special training with the famed Shaolin monks. Young Ishida was destined to be a great samurai just like his father; the 9th generation of Samurai is his family. But little did anyone guess the heights to which Ishida would rise. Due to various circumstances that favoured him, he had become the personal bodyguard of the young Princess Kagome.
He remembered that fateful day when his world was turned upside down. A couple of years back Ishida had become a royal guard in the household of the Emperor of Japan. His duty was to guard the princess at all costs. Every morning he would take over form the nighttime guard and wait diligently outside the princess’s chambers all day, guarding the princess with his life, not indorsing anybody inside without a known person to accompany him. He was also instructed to not allow the princess out at any cost. The job was most unfitting for a samurai of his training and reputation.
But Ishida had been elated by this new assignment. He was getting old and his skills as a swordsman were not as sharp as before. This assignment allowed him to be close to his family as well as perform his duty effectively. He was contended with life. He thanked his karma and The Lord Buddha every day for giving him such a fulfilling life. Ishida was a happy old man indeed.
It was the 2nd day after the new moon. The sun was shining brightly in the hot summer afternoon. Ishida performed the afternoon rituals as prescribed in the Zen tradition and paid homage to all the 5 elements - the earth, fire, wind, water and the sky. He then ate his mid-day meal with complete mindfulness, savoring every grain of rice as he ate, aware of the great cycle of life that it was a part of. He kept in mind that the rice would give him life and vitality and was thankful to it for that. On finishing his meal Ishida sat down outside the gate of the royal chambers. He slowly adjusted himself so that he had a full view of Mt.Fujiyama in the distance. The royal palace was built alongside a lake. On the other side of it lay the city of Kyoto, the largest city in the whole of Japan, the city of Ishida’s childhood. As he stared idly into the lake he could see the sun’s reflection creating a whirlpool of light emanating from it. He remembered telling his son that a dragon was hiding in the lake and that the only force the dragon was afraid of was the sun. That was why it hid in the lake during the day, and the bright lights coming out of the lake where the dragon’s flamey breathe. He told his son that the dragon would eat little children who did not eat their porridge on time!!! Ishida chuckled to himself as he remembered this. Memories always bring back a feeling of warmth for the old, be them good or bad. It always reminds them of their youth and the good times that they had. Ishida’s son was all grown up now, a high ranking officer in the military and a proud father of two beautiful daughters. Rumour had it that he had far exceeded his father in valour and had proved his mettle in battle. Ishida reached over for the water jug that was placed nearby, and took a couple of sips; the sun was really getting to him. “Guess I’m not as strong as before……” His eyes slowly closed as his hand slid limply to his side. Anyone who saw him could have mistaken him for dead.
Ishida was dirty, torn and bleeding. He was near the great stone barrier of HakataBay in the Kyushu province. The long dreaded Mongol ships were within eyesight. Covering the entire horizon they were like a black tapestry over the otherwise blue horizon, waiting to burn Japan to the ground, all 4,400 of them. Ishida saw Kururugi nearby, definitely in pain, but proud. They both had stuck to the code of Joei Shikimoku and had not betrayed the royal family. The rest of his regiment had fled to the mountains, for fear of the Mongols. Overwhelmed by the strength of the Mongols, many of the Samurai Lords had abandoned the emperor and the shogun. They no longer had faith in the glory of Japan or the protection of the Lord Buddha. The squabbling cowards had built settlements high up in the mountains and had taken their men with them. Their plan was to ally with the invading Mongols and gain their favour by aiding them in the overthrow of the Japanese monarchy and the Kamakura Shogunate.“Those bastards….” thought Ishida. But he was not one of them. He along with Kururugi and a few other like minded warriors from the other clans had abandoned their masters. They organized themselves under the leader ship of the legendary Yagami and had sworn to fight for the emperor till the very end. They were proud men indeed and like all samurai they were willing to defend their homeland till the very last drop of their blood.
The ships grew larger in the horizon, engulfing the sun from below. They had chosen to attack from the west as the suns rays would blind the Japanese, not allowing them to have a clear view of the ships. But the Japanese knew the fate that awaited them, one of death, destruction and most all…..Shame. Ishida and Kururugi were the first line of defense against the arriving army. They had traveled three days and nights continuously so as to reach the shoreline. They were short of food and water and their men were wounded. But they were prepared to die for the emperor, as the Joei Shikimoku commanded.
The ships grew ever bigger, growing at a faster rate with every wave conquered. The Japanses were tense, their weapons drawn, ready to meet the oncoming deluge of death, blood and murder. But then something happened. There was lightning, sparks of light that fell out of the sky and struck the ships with all their fury. One by one the ships were destroyed. The deluge that followed from the heavens was mirrored by the fury of the sea. Her waves swallowed the ships by the dozen, like a monster unable to control her hunger and consuming everything that dare come in contact with her. The Gods had spoken.
The few ships that did make it to the mainland did not have the adequate number of soldiers to occupy Japan.
Ishida drove his sword into the Mongol soldier. The sound of flesh tearing brought joy to him. He felt his muscles tense as his sword pierced the armour and came out from the other end. He had to draw the sword out quickly so that he could defend himself from the onslaught of the Mongol soldier whom he could see charging him. Ishida kicked the limp body with all his might and got the sword out. Within a flash he was on his knees, taking the Mongol by surprise as his sword slit his stomach. The splash of warm blood on his face and the adrenaline rush that he was experiencing was so great that Ishida let out a roar of victory. The feeling, the moment, that single moment of infinite glory that a warrior goes through when he sees his enemies slain, his years of training bearing fruit, his honour upheld………
Ishida suddenly found himself on the floor with three royal guards staring down at him angrily, their swords drawn and blood stained. Ishida was quick to realize that he had done something terrible. Terror gripped his old heart. He realized that something must have happened when he was asleep. He realized the truth behind his wife’s wise words when she asked him to start taking kendo classes at the city dojo rather than work directly for the emperor.
Ishida was down on his knees, his legs opening backwards, in the classic seiza posture. His katana lay by his side, his head bowed down in shame. He was in the inner chambers of the emperor himself. The great lord sat but a few meters away however Ishida was unable to see him, a paper screen was blocking his vision. He was however able to make out the shadow of the man who was the saviour of Japan, the man who had united the various warring tribes and had ushered in a new era of peace and prosperity for Japan. Ishida remembered the last time he was in this great hall, the hall where the emperor gave audience too all those who sought his help and advice. Ishida was being honoured for his brave deeds in the war against the Mongols. His heart had been filled with joy and loyalty to the motherland as well as towards the emperor, but this time it was filled with sadness and shame. He who had slain at least 50 Mongol soldiers was unable to complete the simplest tasks assigned to him, to guard the chamber of Princess Kagome. The law was that the royal family should not be seen by the common man unless they themselves wished so. But when Ishida had faltered, the little Princess had snuck out and was roaming the palace grounds, where she was found by the royal gardner. The innocent man had brought the princess back to her chambers, where he was discovered by the other Samurai guards. He was executed on the spot, the screams of the princess coming to no avail. Ishida was spared an immediate execution due to his impeccable record as a Samurai and his personal favour with the empereor.
Ishida had the privilege of hearing the voice that few had heard. The voice was that of a kind man, a benevolent ruler who understood humanity and was completely in love with it, in spite of its many shortcomings. The voice that had pardoned the various lords for deserting the emperor, the voice that gave them back their lands, the voice that had made the strongest of men weep with joy and shame and begging for forgiveness. Thus spoke the emperor “Ishida, your actions have not been fitting for that of a Samurai of your rank. Due to your incompetence, there has been a great breach in the security of the royal family. I have many enemies Ishida, powerful men who want to see me dead. The emperor and his family are not immortal you know. The gardener had to be executed as per the law, but in your case I am making an exception. I grieve greatly in ordering the execution of Japan’s worthy sons…. Thus I bade you be gone!! Set not foot in this land again, you have you life” The light behind the screen was put out. The emperor would talk no more. Ishida sat in seiza for a few seconds, bowed low with his head touching the ground and stood up; he had made up his mind.
He lay on the grass, letting the hours pass. Ishida took a deep breathe and felt the morning air cooling his chest and lungs from the inside. The sun would rise soon, sincerely doing its duty and bringing light upon humanity and to all the creatures that sought its radiance and warmth. Ishida remembered that day he had sought his warmth too, the day he had met Sakura. She seemed like a thousand cherry blossoms as the orange rays of the sun struck her flowing long hair. As he approached the field he had seen her from a distance, like a goddess with the morning sun forming a halo around her. He stopped a few meters behind her, unsure of what to do. But as if the sun had told her that he was behind her, she turned around and looked at him. She looked deep into his eyes; it was their eyes that made the pact, the pact of spending their lives together, forever. She smiled at him and walked away. They were married a month later. Ishida had many happy memories of this field. He would bring his son and daughter to this very field where they would play for hours together. He would tell them stories of dragons and maidens, of gods and emperors, of samurais and ninjas. This was a happy place indeed.
Ishida saw the first rays of the sun piercing through the clouds. They warmed his closed eyes and the orange glow in them slowly grew in strength. It was time. Ishida stood up slowly and paid homage to the Gods, to the emperor and the motherland. His sword would be his final companion…. He lay on the grass dead, his sword sticking out of his stomach like a third appendage….seppuku.
The wind was cold and bitter. It stung like a thousand pin pricks into a shaman’s doll, but it still felt warm to his frozen soul. He did not let thoughts trouble his mind. But a single thought escaped his vigilance. “I love her, I love my family, I still do….”
The key fitted the lock perfectly. With the decisiveness of a man who had just conquered the world, he walked into his new luxuriant apartment. It always felt new although it was a couple of years old. The sweet smell of sandal wafted through the air to bring a feeling of safety and content to his tired mind. She ran into his arms and looked at him with those big eyes full of joy. Kissing him caressingly on his lips she gently whispered into his ears that she had missed him. She gradually loosened her embrace, but he didn’t feel like letting go and held her tighter. He didn’t want this moment to pass. She responded with a giggle and cuddled up in his arms. After what seemed like eternity she told him that his tea was ready and that she would bring it to him. The smell of her hair on his face as she turned around and walked into the kitchen was intoxicating. The TV was on and the lights were dim. He took the bowl of popcorn placed near the sofa and stretched his sore legs. He felt on top of the world, like an emperor who was back to his beloved after conquering strange lands, taming savage tribes and bringing light onto the hitherto dark world. “Yes it was worth it…”
The fog was all around; the lights from the close by crack houses formed a psychedelic mix of malformed colors playing tricks on his eyes. With steps that were evenly spaced, neither too short nor too long, he headed in the direction of the pier. His gait didn’t show the dreariness or the heavy heart that his feet were carrying. He walked like a man of purpose, with a clear plan and a clear mind. The streetlights threw dark shadows that seemed to cover him in all directions, enveloping him, consuming him. But the sadness that filled him was one that even they could not touch. It ebbed out all other feelings that constitute a man, pleasure, pain, anger, fear, envy, greed - there was just sadness. A rat scurrying across the road made him stop short and laugh to himself” I too was once like that…”
He tore into the piece of dried roti, feeling like a rodent, content after doing it’s scavenging for the day. He sat down on the begrime floor and stared out of the window.
He could see the beautiful people of the city passing by, in their fancy cars, wearing their flashy coolers, women in tight skirts, handsome men with their bulky muscles and streaked hair. Wealth seemed to be the order of the day, designer clothes, hep coffee pubs and the gleaming neons. India was shining right in front of his eyes. But it didn’t disturb him at all. He looked inside the dilapidated room and could barely see the lizard scurrying across the floor in the light of the single bulb flickering above him. The paint peeling off the walls made him think of a mad man clawing into the walls, desperately trying to find his way out. The stench of urine, blended with smoke from the nearby factories and motor vehicles made the air almost un-breathable. His mother, sister and he lived in this 10x10 apartment located in an industrial wasteland that was built during the time of the British.
He worked at a local fish market, delivering the best quality fish to the urban elite of his city. He had to wake up at 3 A.M. in the morning and help the fishermen sort out the night’s catch. This was followed by a painful 10 kilometer walk to the local market with a basket of fish on his head. On his meager pay he could not even afford the cost of public transport, besides he wanted to save every last rupee for his family. Earning barely enough to feed his mother and sister, he would return home everyday, tired, but with a fire in his belly. He wanted this life to end, this life of misery, subservience and shame. He couldn’t bear to watch his mother toil as a maid. His sister’s body was regularly sold to men whom he didn’t even know. They used to make her drink so as to ease the pain and to keep her from panicking. Each night she would return home with a blank expression on her face. She rarely smiled and ate only when told to do so. She would sit staring at the wall for hours, the light in her eyes faded. The best that he could guess was that she was living in her magical world, full of fairies, toys and happy people everywhere, unable to comprehend or withstand the pain of her harsh reality. The poor thing was barely in her teens. The future seemed bleak without any hope or reason to live. But the fire within him grew, day by day, fueled by his pain and suffering till it scorched his very bones. He became the very embodiment of the fire that moves a man, which makes him do the impossible, the unthinkable and the great.
He had reached the pier. The night was clear and the moon shone in its full radiance. He looked up into the sky but saw no stars. They were nothing but lights faded their true radiance unable to penetrate through the depths of space to reach a torn man on the docks. Exhaustion was never his forte, neither was stress. He had always lived as if he had nothing to lose, nothing could be worse than what he had been through, but for the first time he felt tired and worn out. He fell on his knees and thought of God, but God was a being he never much liked. An unkind impersonal entity that looked down with amusement at our little theatre, filled with actors who behaved like automatons, using each other and wanting to be used.
The Temple. When his father was alive they used to visit the temple regularly. In the last few years of his life the old man had suddenly developed a taste for the divine. He used to pray in the temple for hours and hours and sometimes would break into tears, begging for forgiveness. His mother tried to console him but he said that it was of no use. He said that she was just humoring him and that in her heart of hearts, held him in contempt. His court cases and lewd business associations hardly gave him enough time to spend with his children. He died leaving a debt of Rs.2 Crore. “F*** that old man….”
He wanted to question Him but knew that he would hear no answer. His belief in God had died along his old man. He was a man of reason, of purpose and meticulous planning. But his present predicament had caught him off guard. The water below him shimmered in the moonlight. Like a thousand light bulbs lit up by some underwater civilization, they were calling to him, a place of safety and rest. He wanted to reach out to them, feel the full effect of gravity on his body as he fell forward into the deep ocean. But he knew that there would be no coming back.He had never been a coward or a quitter, why be one now? He had wanted the best for everyone, but knew that it did not matter anymore. He looked into the dark horizon and saw an orb of light growing bigger, bigger, bigger. “There’s no looking back now….”
After the death of his sister, his mother had moved in with them. The self proclaimed head of the family sat on the old cane chair, walking stick in hand. She held a tight grip on it as if it was the only thing that could protect her from the monster that stood in front of her. He stood in front of her, the bright afternoon sun on his back, silently, having a polite look on his face that could almost be interpreted as curiosity.” What now....?”
“He’s my son…..but, he’s my son”. She adjusted her huge thick glasses and looked up at him. He stood there, tall and handsome as ever. She remembered the time he had returned home with broken teeth, a black eye and his little sister following him, sobbing lightly. He had single handedly fought of 7 boys who had been bullying her. Her thoughts reached out to how he had lovingly nursed her when she was recovering from cancer. In spite of working all day he would still manage to stay up all night taking care of her. His kindness and compassion towards had always been impeccable and worth all the love and respect she could give him. But the thought of him being like his father, a curse, a hex on all society was one which she could not tolerate. A faint voice inside her was screaming “He’s your son; you can’t do this….he’s your only son….” The decision would HAVE to be made. A great energy surged through her body and she screamed “Get out, get out you wretch, don’t ever set foot in my house again. Your father was a wicked soul who should be rotting in hell, the evil fiend that he was, now you too are like him………………” All the pent up and anger that she felt toward her husband was spat out at him. She could see him in her son, an incarnation of the iniquity that had been in her life. Like the eruption of a sleeping volcano her words spewed out balls of fire that penetrated him deep, so deep that they did not have any meaning there. It hit the source, the very source of his energy, and life. His mind was blank. The world in front of him reeled. The words that he had heard could never be taken back. He stood there for what felt like eternity, and slowly turned around and left. He did not see the tears on his mother’s cheeks but knew that they were there. He was a drugs trafficker.
“Here I am”. The vessel was named after his beloved. The “Yasmine”. She did not know about its existence and he had wanted to surprise her on their anniversary. But it didn’t matter anymore. She hadn’t spoken a word in his defense and had spent the afternoon in the bedroom crying. She said that he was dead to her and that she never wanted to have anything to do with him. His mother had access to the family’s bank account and he was sure that she would aid in finding her another groom if need be. However he didn’t want the name of the boat to change, the name meant nothing to him anymore. Unlimited wealth and an international passport were his. He had friends, powerful friends all over the world who would be glad to help him. Besides it was through him that they made most of their profits, a true businessman and every drug lords dream broker. He could go anywhere, do anything he wanted, live any dream.
The “Yasmine” docked. For one final time he evaluated his position. He had to make changes, drastic changes as he had done once before. Decisions would have to be made. This was not the end; he would just have to come up with a new plan, a new life, and a new reason for living. As he stepped on board, he never said his last goodbye; he just looked up at the stars and thought “Why??”
Hello there! Thanks for stopping by. This is a blog where I like to upload my fiction. Hope you like it! Oh and your comments are more than welcome. Trust me, they make my day.
