Without further troubling the reader, the reason for my spiritual chaos and the constant war between right and wrong in my head is Euthanasia. For those who are unaware, it is the process of painlessly helping an incurably ill person to die, also very well known as “assisted suicide” and “mercy killing”. Generally euthanasia is performed by lethal injection, using the same drugs as those on death row are performed. Having it strictly banned in different parts of the world, there are reasons for supporting and opposing euthanasia which punctuate discussions in the mind of an individual constantly.

Karen Ann Quinlan collapsed on April 15th, 1975. She was twenty-one years old. Within hours, she entered a coma from which she could never recover. Her parents, Roman Catholics, knew their daughter would not want to be kept alive by extraordinary means. A year later, as Karen lay in a “persistent vegetative state,” the courts finally allowed her treatment to be stopped; but artificial feeding was continued and she was maintained as a living dead body until June 1985, when she eventually died of pneumonia. Consequently her case stimulated thousands of letters of sympathy and fuelled the “right to die” movement.

Ramon Sanpedro hunted, through the courts, the assistance of a doctor to help him die with dignity. He was paralyzed in Spain as a result of a swimming accident during his youth. He described himself as “a head attached to a corpse.”

His exact words:
“Why die? Because every journey has its departure time and only the traveler has the privilege and the right to choose the last day to get out.
Why to die?, because at times the journey of no return is the best path that reason can show us out of love and respect for life, so that life may have a dignified death.” Ramon certainly did not suggest how other people confined in the same situation might feel. In fact, there are some people out there who, regardless of having the worst physical complexities in life, take enjoyment in living and continuing life as it follows. But Ramon made his choice and choice should be respected, however ensuring, according to the very concept of Utilitarianism, that no other individual’s life is endangered or pressurized.

Supporters of euthanasia are inclined to believe it is a dignified death and must be legalized as it proves to be a pain-free relief for many terminal patients.

On the contrary, a good question to ask is who benefits from the person dying? If a person dies, who will inherit? Who has the decision power? Is it a medical decision that is totally objective or a decision given by the family members that in some way may be biased? Are we not playing God’s role by choosing the time and procedure of our death? Is euthanasia not a nickname of “murder”?

Does it not rob one of his remaining times on earth? Who has the final say, the patient or the doctor?

The argument rages on and on. There are a lot of what ifs and whos and these need to be scrutinized in detail by lawyers, doctors and predominantly governments.

This article is open to all relevant comments, debate and solutions that bring this war between legitimacy and illegitimacy of euthanasia to a positive end!

At this hour only one or two autorickshaws can be heard in the distance. All other traffic is still sleeping, waiting for the crack of dawn to start buzzing like a bee or a young lover desperate to suck the nectar before it falls prey to some other, before fading in the summer heat, amidst cows, stray dogs, hawkers, beggars, road-side Romeos, shoppers, buses, trucks, cars, more rickshaws and anything and everything that can stir and crawl.

It is at this hour that she stands with her back against the about two and a half feet high balcony handrail. To say that her back was resting against the banister would make no sense, since she was far from it, even though she was touching it. Though, she might have felt at peace having made up her mind on how to escape.

She pushes herself up to sit on the still-wet railing, not even wondering if she would fall in the process. If it would all end before it all began.

Droplets of fear race down to her swollen lips which she licks without blinking hoping they would quench her thirst. This was not the time to give in to the urge, run to sip that last sip. Let fear cripple, society hold back, and love to vanish. They had given some, taken some, and now was the time to exchange some more. It was to be now or never.

He had said, “I love you.” They had said, “Never.”

Having got this far, she does not look down, her mind does not waver, even though her body quivers. Chickening out, pulling back, giving up, running away had never been her style. Instead, she lowers herself down holding on to the vertical balcony rails. By now she’s dangling. In spite of herself, she wants to cry out for help, but does not. She does not want to wake anyone up. Already her arms have begun to ache. She tries to pull herself up, but cannot. By now she’s convinced that climbing back up would be impossible, besides even if her parents did show up, they wouldn’t be able to help her up. Any attempt to do so would result in the inevitable. So she lets go first of her right hand and then her left hand.

Before time could travel, she had done so and landed on her back in the lap of mother earth, to whom it did not matter if is she had worshipped Lord Shiva or fasted during Ramadan.

Her name was Pooja Ramnani and she was eighteen when she decided to escape.

She had not stepped out of her room the night before to have dinner or to apologize to them. Instead she lay curled in a tight ball, in her bed, crying until she had no more tears left, biting her tender lips until she had tasted blood.

She had heard their muffled sounds, whispering about a couple of matrimonial prospects the matchmaker had told them. Her father, Ishwar, had wondered if she had been hungry since he was having his dinner and wanted her to join him.

“I think she’s asleep,” her mother, Parvati, had said.

“How could he have done that?” She had thought. Humiliate her in college, in front of them all. What was worse that even her mother had not helped her. And this was after she had grown up hearing over and over her mother say,

“We are all one. God is one. Hindus and Muslims are alike. We are all human beings, made from the same clay; must learn to love and understand. Here, dear Khala, take some flowers for me to the Darga; say a prayer for our good health and so that Pooja may find a good boy.”

Understandably Pooja had not wanted to speak with either of them that evening or later that night. But she knew that she could not tell them this. If they had found out that she was awake she would have to talk to them, because that’s how it was. Parents were to be respected. If they wanted to speak with you, you couldn’t say,

“Later, not up to being with you folks right now, or, leave me alone; this is my life.”

What could she do, but pretend to have fallen asleep, while all along hearing random words like “suitable boy, Muslim, Hindu, shame, name, game, dowry, marriage within a few days, or else too late.”

A couple of hours later when Ishwar had stood at his youngest child Pooja’s bedroom entrance he had not switched the light on, since there had been enough coming in from the kitchen and the sitting room to see if she was still sleeping. They had suspected about him, all along. But what in the God’s name could they have done? They could not allow it. They had left their home in Karachi to run away from people like him. And now, how they now allow her to marry him? What would the people say? He must be using her they had thought, like they all do in movies.

But now that he had caught them red-handed, they had done something about it  taught her a lesson.

When Ishwar had seen that Pooja had not stirred even though he was in her room, he knew that this time she was really asleep. Before he quietly stepped out, he covered her with the bed sheet since it was a cool night.

As soon as Pooja had seen the kitchen light go off, she had thrown off the cover even though it had been a little cool. She had done this because she had not wanted to be tricked by the mistress of sleep. As she saw it, the only option she had was to climb down from her bedroom balcony. That way she could escape from her parents and marriage to a complete and absolute stranger.

A sensible option would have been to pretend to go along with the marriage. And then just as she and the chosen by the parents stranger, to whom she was to be handed over so that their name would not be completely tarnished, were about to make the sacred rounds around the fire, she could have untied the knot and walked away. Just like that.

But this had not occurred to her. This could have made it clear to the general public that this in fact had been a forced arranged marriage, one to which she had never consented.

She had ruled out setting herself on fire, because her intention had never been to hurt herself or destroy her parents home. She knew how hard her father had worked his entire life to provide for them.

The bottom line was that she wanted to escape, but without harming anyone, or financially ruining her family. So she had decided to stick with her balcony plan.

Having thought that if she could get herself down from her balcony, she would walk fast or even run down the dark, quite, narrow streets of her neighborhood to get to Mustafa’s apartment, which was no more than a couple of miles away. She had been aware that the possibility of her getting a fractured limb or two existed, but she was willing to bear the pain, as long as she could escape. With her new-found tolerance for pain, she would be able to make her way through to Mustafa’s.

By now he seemed to be her only hope. She had reasoned that if she walked close to the edges of the narrow street, where it was bound to be darker, perhaps no one would notice a pretty young girl out alone in the middle of the early hours of the morning. The planned time to escape was around three in the morning, because by that time there would be minimal traffic, and hence less people would notice her. Even the homeless would be asleep a little after three.

Having decided her route of escape, she had concentrated on details.

For those who do not know, I hope to be in Mumbai (Bombay) towards the end of July. This will be my very first trip during the monsoons, many years after I left the country to do what most others do when they leave their country of birth. Prior to this, I have returned only during November-December when the weather has been bearable for most NRIs (non-resident Indians).

Getting to the Indian monsoons. As I do on most mornings, I made a concerted effort to get away from my computer and race outdoors before I get side-tracked with communicating. However, this morning the sky looked pregnant, more so than yesterday. But still I went out, “got to get at least 30 minutes of exercise, or else I’ll become a computer potato,” I thought.

Just as I was heading back home, rain drops as big as frogs jumped out of the sky without any warning, though not unexpected. Still it felt as if a switch had been suddenly turned on. But with the same suddenness, the frogs changed to tadpoles, and then to a faint drizzle, and then no rain at all. Yes of course I was soaked, since I cannot run. But it was fun! Fun because it was as if the heavens were playing with me, warning me, warming me, reminding me of what it used to be like before I became more of who I have become.

“Preparing for the Indian monsoons,” I mused. It had been many months, even years, since I had walked back home in the rain.

Heading back to computer, guess what I came across? A Sepia Mutiny blog entry titled, “Mumbai sensitive about its manholes.” The entry warns American citizens of the open drains in Mumbai, warns them that they could one minute be on ground and next underground since there are no markers or warning signs of the open human and animal engulfing holes. Only the occasional tree branches cover the holes, as if everyone is supposed to know what that means and can see them during the low visibility periods.

Here I had been going back in my mind to the good old days when I occasionally walked back home in Pune (Poona) during the monsoons, looking forward to perhaps doing the same in Mumbai. “Perhaps that will wash off some of the cynicism accumulated over the years through experience, of course,” I day-dreamed.

Just yesterday one of my new friends wrote to me, requesting that I should be careful walking over drains in India.

“Of course, I’ll be careful,” I thought. “It’s not as if I was going to the moon. Its only India,” I thought. Though nothing “only,” about the country whose economy is growing leaps and bounds, at least 8 to 9 percent per year, if not more.

“Needlessly worrying, how sweet though,” I happily thought. “How kind of someone I met this past weekend to be concerned about my safety in our mutual country of birth” I pondered.
Others have told, “take an umbrella, its your shoes and pants that get ruined,” Minor details I thought.

But reading the blog article has made me think this whole thing over. In the US, it is I who typically warns my friends, “Be careful, don’t walk on drains, as if the inevitable is waiting to become the evitable. One never knows.”

“Don’t be so paranoid,” is the look I mostly receive. But my friends know that I am the cautious sort, for the most part.

Turns out such things do happen, perhaps more so back in Mumbai. So if I do not blog towards the end of July, or ever again, please do not assume that I have been swallowed by one of those holes in the ground in India. But then again, you are most certainly free to think as you wish.

The idea stems from an interesting piece written by Nadeem Chauhan of Navitus Consultancy, who argues that managers need to use better vocabulary to excite, energize and bring out the best from their team members. For instance, while drawing a list of monthly assignments and projects for a team, a manager may use the phrase ‘a must do’ on each project, in his preach to advance the monthly objectives to be attained. However, in practice only some of the projects are really categorized as ‘a must do’ and others as ‘probable’s’. Therefore, if the manager is unable to effectively communicate this distinction, his team may not be able to differentiate between a specific ‘must’ based assignment relative to the ‘probable’, hence will not be able to effectively allot it’s energy, time, resources, mental and physical wealth to each project relative to priority, leading to sub-optimal results.

Let me consider the case of governance to illustrate the point further. The concept of accountability is excessively used in governance practice. However, the definition is overtly vague. What is a leader accountable for? A set of scientific or quantifiable objectives and goals which can be measured such as growth rates etc? or a set of moral objectives such as no cheating, allocative efficiency, equal opportunities etc? which although measurably, are an under-rated subset of the broader definition. Although most will argue for both, it is important to note, that one can be achieved at the expense of the other, hazing the true stance of accountability- its interpretation and subsequent policy action. For instance, productive efficiency (production of a quantity at the lowest cost possible- given the current structure of activity) which may be vital for growth can be achieved at the expense of allocative efficiency (producing with respect to the needs of the people). On the other hand, allocative efficiency may enhance accountability from a moral portfolio, but may undermine growth rates, that is, for example, if the need is health care for the elderly, hence may not have a positive impact on economic growth. However, the pursuit of one instead of the other will fulfil one objective (growth vs allocative efficiency or even both) at the expense of the other, therefore on the whole, how is one doing in the overall level of accountability to responsibility. Confused?

Assume that the year-end objective of a minister is to attain growth (where sustainable growth is a secondary objective- due to various political reasons), based on grounds of economic efficiency, which may subsequently have a positive impact on reducing poverty- hence equity aswell, as shown by some empirical literature in the field (between economic growth and poverty).

In such a case, a regime although low on scores of accountability to responsibility (measured through the moral definition) can still have a positive accountability evaluation based on quantifiable objectives. For instance, Vietnam lacks the existence of an appropriate judicial system, however, it continues to bag unprecedented rates of economic growth (Dani Rodrik, 2008). Similarly, as shown by evidence from India, Cambodia, China and Pakistan, governments have attained high level of economic growth under severe periods of low morally defined accountability-corruption (Anjum Altaf, 2005). Therefore, although our hindsight focuses on moral factors associated with accountability, policy in practice addresses (increasingly) accountability against a set of scientifically quantified and set objectives.

For instance, it is argued that devolved tiers of governments will be captured by the local elites; hence may lack accountability, and resources would be unevenly distributed, subsequently leading to lower levels of economic efficiency and growth (Pudhomme, 1995). However, this may not neccessarily be the case, as local governments, even if allocatively inefficient, can be productively efficient (based on existing structure and fragmentation of resources), hence greater economic growth. This is because, even if resources may be un-equally distributed among the population and may not serve the interest of the larger population, in other words be captured by the few elite, positive growth rates can be attained. For instance, assume that the elite is an industrialist ‘lot’, interested in doubling and tripling it’s income, as argued by Max Weber, who drew the link between the protestant church and industrialisation driven by their core belief of accumulating greater wealth to secure a place in heaven, hence such underlying incentives will lead to a lack of allocative efficiency but greater productive efficiency hence subsequent economic growth. Therefore, although a government may have low levels of accountability from the allocative and moral definition of term, it can still lead to economic growth measured through scientific data, fulfilling the other half of the terminology. Hence, what is the true basis of accountability- a broadly defined term, with competing objectives?

Until and unless moral factors are given quantification through scientific measures, or a distinguishing term in economic analysis, rather than taped under the broad breed of accountability and ‘justice’ driven policy (as generally used on the floor- exceptions apart in some academic debates), the policy apparatus will not precisely hit the ‘nail on the head’. This is due to the vagueness in measurement and globalising nature of our surroundings, leading to the rising importance of growth rates in the international arena rather than effective domestic distributional arrangements and optimising the target population welfare especially in the lagging and striding countries where such disparity is optimised.

Although moral and scientific measures of accountability together are vital for sustainable growth, as it needs to be based on set of generative and evolving institutional incentives (for a later date), growth in it-self can be based on the presence of either one. Therefore, given the hype to attain growth and achieve short term dividends in the foreseeable future, morally defined objectives may be noted as a second-best priority in the umbrella of accountability for developing country leaders, especially as we are re-visiting the age of cross border networks, competitive mentality and knowledge driven bonding- therefore the hype to succeed and be counted given the high stakes.

Therefore, until we disaggregate the definition through effective and precise vocabulary, drawing independence and subsequent respect for the objective and term (sounds extremely sensationalized- I know), there will be a wedge between our hindsight and what our policy sets out to achieve. Hence, the real problem will remain unsolved. In other words, language and vocabulary are one of the most under-rated, yet key ingredients to attaining optimal results, drawing clarity in understanding which is vital for subsequent remedy, which in the current age of globalisation are being exposed to their prime where language harmonization yet differentiation is at competing crosswords (given the rising importance of English as a language, yet its underdeveloped form of practice, understanding and interpretation world over), leading to the development of a bridge between ideology and practice.

The discussion drew from a class room debate of what is a government really accountable for? And what if, one branch comes at the expense of the other?

After losing the glare offensive, the five soldiers of her hand started creeping towards me. These soldieries were not communists any more, if they were, they would have imprisoned me by now. I can feel the vibration, caused by her creeping hand, falling into my bones. Although her hand is yet to touch mine; the oscillation of that heart-soothing near-future has made my hand to frustratingly wont for a passionate hug of that slender-finger neighbor. I desire to alter the coldness of my hands with the coolness of hers and it is not impossible. There is no one else breathing in this little hut of a bus stop and our hearts are anxiously excited to listen to each other’s beats.

But far away, in the deep hollows of my past, there is another heart, which has imprisoned my intentions. That heart has lived in my chest for countless heartbeats and I can’t ignore it.

It is Mia’s heart. My wife’s heart.

Trembling winter. Lonely afternoon. Muddy clouds. Some melancholic rays peeping through those dusty cornflakes in the sky.

Death faced skyscrapers. A road polluted with clumsy vehicles. Countless worn-out faces rolling on the road. Silently breathing hearts. Eyes fed up with monotony. Venomous minds. Incarcerated souls and frail bodies carrying the burden of a forced freedom____ This is Moscow. 1988.

I was born here and grew up here, under the dark daylight of the red sun. This red sun was there for everyone, whether one needed it or not. It was everywhere, in your house, your bedroom, your entire life and even in your thoughts. It never set anyone free. So many juvenile faces, novel ideas and enthralling dreams were burnt to ashes in this sun. Nothing could evade the red sun, not even the night.

I was also a part of this system. Who am I? Well, my introduction remains in constant use of millions of people in this world; “I am a common man.” And along with all those millions of common men, I lived in this system where we labored our lives. Carrying the burden of a compulsive freedom on our shoulders, we were transferred from youth to old age, and from old age to demise. At numerous occasions death separated the youth from old age. Our minds, our thoughts had so unfeelingly become a part of all this. Days, dates, years, all meaningless. Our time scale was the amount of work done by us. How many shoes made, how many cartons packed, how many radios loaded, and how many abuses assimilated. We were all inebriated. The dream of change was buried in the grave of our stomachs. And yet, in such suppressive conditions, an eccentric thing happened; instead of my mind; my heart revolted. In this atmosphere of belligerence and hatred, my heart opted for tolerance… and love.

She was beautiful; and full of life. She was strenuously breathing in this suffocating air. She had a smile dancing on her lips that would make me smile. She had eyes where I could see my dreams. She had voice that would disquiet my heartbeat. But most of all, she had feet that were treading towards me. Heavenly romantic. She was eager to step into my life, I don’t know why. I had nothing to give to her.

An aged room stuck into countless other lifeless rooms of a rotten building. Staring monotony. Intoxicated silence. Deceased air. Resentful walls. A wounded window. A colorless curtain waging a lost war against the firing snowflakes. A screaming, yelling wall clock. A repulsive towel. A pile of deformed suite-cases. A withered umbrella hanging on the hook. A clumsy picture making faces at me. A paralyzed bed. A tired pair of shoes sneaking from underneath the bed. A shelf sheltering a sorrowful row of ancient crockery. A faint effort of the bulb to lit up the room. A solitary chair sentenced a life imprisonment in these walls____ Nothing.
However, I had learnt to love. She taught me how to. I could fill her with love; touching her eyes with mine, driving my fingers through her hair, whispering my laughter in her ears. She would spread her tiny little complains with her head on my shoulder. We would aimlessly talk while walking on a deserted road in a tranquil evening. I would sing her songs in my gauche voice and she would disperse her melodious laughter in the air. I had planned everything. And along with this, I had also saved enough money to fulfill many of her innocent wishes.

And then, on a glistening day, she stepped into my world and became my world. There were just eighteen guests participating in our wedding. Ten of them were my factory worker friends; six of Mia’s friends and two were our combined, uniformed best wishers. Yes, the KGB. We had no one to call ‘ours’ but these few. After a short and simple ceremony, our friends departed us joking and laughing, while the KGB guests bid us farewell staring and glaring. They wanted to see us off to our bedroom door, I am sure. But I was not bothered by anything any more. I had found Mia. She was full of life and she pervaded me with it.
I didn’t buy her a wedding gift. I couldn’t find anything as incredible as her. So I decided to ask her.

“Mia! I know you must be expecting a gift from me on our wedding night. I hate to disappoint you but the fact is that I couldn’t buy you a gift. Not because I didn’t have enough money or that I couldn’t remember but because I couldn’t find something as gorgeous as you are. Everything looked dull compared to you. So I thought I better ask you. I’ll get you whatever you want.”

“You’ll get me whatever I ask you to?”

“Yes” I whispered with certainty.

“No matter how expensive, how difficult?”

“Yes.”

“Then listen. You don’t get tired of me. This will be your gift.”

“What you mean?”

“I don’t know why am I thinking this, but you get tired of looking at me every day, or when I get old and would cease to be beautiful, would you leave me, and not even look at me?”

“No, it won’t happen. I’ll never get tired of looking at you every day. And when you get old, so would I. And you’ll always be beautiful in my eyes.”

“Promise?”

“Yes promise.”

At that moment, she looked to me like a little girl. In a stormy night, afraid of lightning and thunderbolt, hiding in a corner, scared and trembling little girl. I assured her there was nothing to be afraid of. Storms, lightning, darkness, nothing could hurt her.
“I am with you, all around you.”

She turned my room into a home. I suggested of buying a little house but she insisted on living in that room until two of us turn into three. And I agreed with her. In this little home of one room, we lived very close to each other, without any distance. You must be thinking how and for how long could two people living in such a small accommodation tolerate each other. Believe you me; Mia and monotony are the names of two firmly and utterly opposite things. Mia is simply astounding. Every day she would put such a thought in front of me that I would be bewildered. She would ask questions that would leave me speechless. She would make such childish requests that the entire building would resound with my laughter.

One night, she was sitting in the chair sewing a button on one of my shirts and I was lying sideways on the bed reading a book. When suddenly, she put the shirt on the chair and lied down behind me the same way as I was. Placing her face right beside mine, our cheeks caressing, she held the book from where I was holding it.

“What is this?” I asked politely.

“Nothing. Just!”

“Just what? I am reading dear.”

“Then read, whose stopping you?”

“But what’s this all about?”

“I wanna read this book too.”

“Then read it when I am finished with it.”

“No, I wanna see how it feels the way you read it.”

And I was lost.

She was an expert on unexpectedly starting a mind twisting conversation. While experiencing silence or right in the middle of a chat, she would abruptly ask outlandish questions.

“Are you happy?”

And I, perplexed, could only utter, “What you mean?”

“I mean, are you happy living with me?”

“That’s a stupid question. And anyway I should be asking this question because I am the one who proposed you.”

“Then why don’t you ask?”

“What? should I ask it every day now?”

“No, but at least once in a while.”

“All right honey, tell me, are you happy living with me?”

“Alllooottt !”

And I was flabbergasted.

One day when I came back from work, she invaded me with a question as soon as I appeared from the door.

“Why don’t you twist my ear?”

“Are you crazy, you think I am mad or something? Why would I ever do that?”

“Well, last night while picking up the dishes from the table, I broke a plate and you said nothing to me.”

“And you want me to twist your ear on such a petty little thing?”

“At least you could chide me.”

“Ok, my fault. Next time I will.”

“Then do it.”

“What!”

“I broke another cup today.”

“That’s ok, I’ll get a new one tomorrow.”

“So you are not going to chide me?”

“No way, not on this one.”

“Then what am I supposed to do to make you chide me?”

“But why do you want me to chide you?”

“Because then you’ll say sorry to me.”

And laughter burst out of my stomach.

I could easily tell my friends that I have married a riddle.

But it wasn’t her; it was the system and the atmosphere in which we lived. In such a breath-hindering air, she was not only living but was keeping me alive as well. She had kept alive that precious feeling of love that had died in us. To remain alive in such a breathless air, she needed me and I desired her. That’s why I never got tired of her strange acts. I couldn’t leave her alone. If I had left her alone, I would have become alone as well.

Then one day, this system left me no option but to hate it and stand up in revolt against it. Mia was pregnant. She was facing a delivery situation. I rented a car to take her to hospital. We were both delighted. Everything looked fresh and new again. I hadn’t yet reached the main road when two policemen stopped me. They told me that I couldn’t go ahead. On my humble inquiry they told me that a member of the Politburo was to travel through this road so the passage was closed for general public. I informed them of my irresistible compulsion but they were earless. Justice is deaf in our part of the world. In response to my pleading, however, they had mercy on me enough to guide me to an alternate passage yet at the same time informed me that the road was under construction.

I considered it a blessing and turned the vehicle towards the alternative. That road was like highway to hell, full of ditches. I was trying my best to drive carefully so that Mia doesn’t get hurt, but it was all in vain. All those bumps and jumps; and Mia was in sheer pain. I would look at the road for one moment and would turn to Mia the next. I was continuously consoling her but I knew words would do no good. I never felt so much helpless in my life and I hated all this helplessness. I don’t want to go through all that misery again by stating the pains waged on Mia. All I can tell you is that this dreadful journey had a terrible ending. I couldn’t become a father and Mia, after hanging in balance between life and death, was deprived of ever becoming a mother again.

I entered the hospital room that was mourning the death of my dreams. Mia looked at me and tears sneaked through her eyes. In a torn voice, she started apologizing to me.

“I am sorry dear, you can’t be a father…”

I put my fingers on her lips.

“No, don’t say sorry. Its stupid. Rather I should thank you.”

“Why?” her eyes asked.

“Because you have come back.”

A soft smile appeared in her eyes. She wanted to say something but I stopped her. And then I kept on combing her hair with my fingers until she went to sleep.

If this system was some person, I would have killed it by now. It tortured me, refrained me from living a life of my own, but I never cared because I don’t care about myself much. I don’t care who does what to me. But Mia, these people harmed Mia and I care about her. I care about her more than anything in this world. I forgot every injustice ever done to me but I could never forgive the tyranny inflicted upon Mia.

That’s where I revolted against this red system. After taking the first step of revolt, I felt that numerous people were waiting for that first step. I only remained alone till the first step and then I was thronged with myself, the common man. We ejected the fear out of people’s hearts. The lava of emotions was given way and it melted that system to ashes. The country that had stretched the largest darkness on earth had lost its spell. The people living under the red sun found freedom; a freedom of their own.

The red sun had set.

During this revolution I couldn’t pay much attention to Mia. I had to hide in different places to avoid KGB. When I would go home with a break of few days, I found Mia waiting for me as if she knew the time of my coming home. She had become very weak. There were dark shades around her eyes. Her cheeks started losing their freshness. Bones started to peep through her round wrists. The shine in her eyes seemed to have gone quite some distance. And her smile was left on her lips only as her job. In spite of all this, she was still my Mia.

Once, when I came home after some days, I found a completely different Mia. A sad Mia. I could never see her sad.

“Mia, what’s wrong? Are you in trouble?”

“No, I am ok.”

“Then why you look so sad, so withered?”

“No, you are mistaken. I am just tired, nothing else.”

“Are you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you look happy?”

“I am happy, how else should I look?”

“No, I don’t see that joy on your face. I want to see your face full of life and happiness.”

“I am happy”, she said tiredly. But I couldn’t leave her like this.

“Tell me, what I should do to bring those smiles back again, to make your soul happy.”

“You really want me to tell you?”

“Yes, tell me. I’ll bring whatever you want.”

“No, I don’t desire a purchasable thing. All I want is… I want to stand right in front of you, so close that we feel our breaths hitting our faces, our hearts listen to each other’s beats, our eyes play together, your whispers vibrate my body, and I, taking your hands into mine, thrusting our fingers together, taking a deep breath, would scream so loud that all the tiredness inside me, all the sadness will vanish in the air.”

I knew the answer to her wish but I couldn’t say what I should have.

“Mia, I understand your pain but I have obligations. I have to be careful. The path that I have opted for, either leads to freedom or death. But believe me, we will be free soon. We will throw this blood-polluted system out of our lives for ever and then good times will come.”

I took off again to my destination. I knew after that incident Mia was very upset but I was doing all this for her, wasn’t I?
When the red sun was set, a bright new sun rose at us with a shining light. Its sunlight wasn’t red. It didn’t pinch. It shone to give us relief and warmth. But with the passage of time this sun also started throwing its hot spears at us. Its light only proved to be a sparkling darkness, which attracted us but failed to comfort us.

This system wasn’t flawless either. The government of the people couldn’t do good to the people itself. There might have been a change of system, but for us, the common men, it only brought “another government”. Too much freedom didn’t bring us too much prosperity. It became more and more difficult to make both ends meet. I lost my job and I would wander like a dog in search of work. Mia got sick because of malnutrition. I would come home late in the night and would get out early in the morning. We were running our lives somehow. There wasn’t much of a conversation between Mia and me. Perhaps there wasn’t anything left to talk about.

And then in such compellingly disappointing conditions, I found Tina. Even under these conditions she was full of life, breathing with all the energy. She wasn’t very beautiful but she was definitely very attractive. So it was natural for me to take interest in her but what surprised me was that she was attracted to me as well. I met her with reference of finding a job. She gave me the job and her company. I don’t know why, even though she was married.

This job was better. I was being paid well. She would take me to places every day, to cinema, coffee house or sometimes for nothing. Her husband worked in another city. It was her second marriage. She got divorced by her first husband; or she divorced him would be even more correct. She didn’t recall her present husband in good words either. Quite often she would reveal upon me the dark sides of her husband’s personality and I just listened silently.

In the mean time, Mia kept on getting farther and farther away from me. She never asked me where I stayed all night, where I worked all day, where I got the money from. She kept on doing house chores, quietly. May be her words were out of stock or may be she forgot how to talk. But I couldn’t feel all this. And even if I did, I suppressed the very thought of it in the graveyard of my heart where my love was sleeping. I was too busy spending the time with my boss.

With the passage of time, Tina’s conversations turned into passionate whispers. And I kept on drowning into the sea of her talking lips. I never tried to swim, resist or take control of myself. I left all of me on the waves of emotional mistakes, no matter where they take me.

And today, she is ready to swim me away. She is sitting very close to me. She tries to touch my hand with hers but I hesitate and put my hand in my lap.

“Give me your hand, I want to mix it with mine.”

I lost my strength for a moment, but then the very next moment a well-acquainted voice resounded from the unfathomable vacant of my heart. Mia’s voice. She asked me for such a favor once, but how innocently, not so professionally like her. Mia asked it for the comfort of her soul and she…….

Should I sacrifice Mia’s sincerity over Tina’s outwardly attraction? Should I forget all those innumerable moments spent with Mia for the sake of temporary pleasure? Should I betray Mia’s blind folded trust for a selfish wish of mine? No. Never.
I am running towards my home. On a distorted road, my feet are getting shaky but not my heart. I have nothing to give to Mia. My pockets are almost empty. But my heart is filled with love. I will give Mia the pleasure, the happiness. A happiness that would reflect on her face. I will get her back her long lost shining eyes, her smiles, her vigor, her innocence, her childish mischief, everything.

I enter the house. Mia is busy washing clothes. I grab her from her shoulders and make her stand right in front of me, so close that we feel our breaths hitting our faces, our hearts listen to each other’s beats, or eyes play together, and I, taking her hands into mine, thrust our fingers together.

At this moment with a loud scream, our entire tiredness and our sadness has vanished into the air.

————————————————————————————————————–

This short story was originally written in Urdu; has been published in magazine a number of times and has won best short story award. It is also up for short film production.

Enter Jim and Star – a Canadian couple who believed they could turn this town into something great. Their dream was very ambitious – to build a resort for retired Canadians, which would include a golf course, a five-star hotel and a virtual-medicine hospital (the first in Central America). For these purposes, they bought a lot of land on a cliff overlooking Pedregosa, a virgin beach where monkeys, oblivious to the very little human presence, still come down from the trees to play on the white sands. Pedregosa is the nearest beach to Matapalo, but is virtually inaccessible unless by 4×4.

As the project started to get developed, Jim and Star decided to invest in Matapalo and its people. They built a community center, donated musical instruments to the elementary school and opened the first free public-access computer lab in the country. This is where I came in, back in 1999.

I was brought in as Project Manager for the Matapalo computer lab. There was much to be done. First, we were able to find the perfect place – an abandoned annex in the local police station, right next to the town’s school. Then, we got a Canadian engineering company to send us their old computer equipment. We got a lot of useless junk, but in the end we were able to put together 10 working computers. All of these computers were different – some were 486′s and some 386′s, some had color monitors, some didn’t… the more advanced models had 32 MB of RAM and a hard drive of 100 MB… and there were only a couple of those. Due to space and memory constrains, we only managed to run Windows 3.1, and very early pre-office versions of Word, Excel and PowerPoint. We also had PrintShop Deluxe, a wonderful little program called Banner and some games, like the very first version of Prince of Persia.

After the lab was set-up, we trained a few local people on how to use the computers and these programs. Most of them had never even touched a computer before, so we needed several sessions to get them to a decent level because these guys were going to run the lab. Luckily, Luke and Louise, another Canadian couple who were friends of Jim and Star, relocated to Matapalo and they took over the lab.

After a few months, we were invited back to Matapalo for the first big computer lab graduation… what an amazing sight that was… under Luke and Louise, the whole town had become computer literate one way or another… and that day they were all receiving certificates for different things… Imagine a 65 year old woman receiving an “Advanced Achievement on Prince of Persia” certificate… simply amazing. I set up a satellite conference so that several people in Canada, who had different degrees of involvement, could also attend the ceremony through the internet – the first Webcast ever in Guanacaste! Our guest of honor was the Costa Rican Minister for Science and Technology and one of the major Costa Rican TV channels even reported the whole thing on one of their prime news shows. What an amazing day that was!

Today, I go back to Matapalo for the first time in 8 years to attend Jim’s funeral. The town remains pretty much the same, except that now they have a couple of supermarkets and a few other things. The Pedregosa project has been in a stand still for a couple of years due to legal and financial trouble. Luke and Louise are still there running the computer lab in the same old place. Now, they have better workstations and internet access, and there is a plaque with my name on it acknowledging me as one of the founders of the lab. Still, Matapalo strives on… and today the whole town is in this little chapel to honor the life of someone who has really made a difference here… there will be a parade later on, the band will play, the kids will march… according to Jim’s wishes, there is going to be a big party with traditional dances, food and fun for everyone… then, we will all help plant a tree next to the community center and spread Jim’s ashes on the soccer ground… this is a loving tribute to a great man from a thankful town.

Not many people knew who Jim Sparrow was, and many people may not still have ever heard of the little town of Matapalo in Guanacaste, Costa Rica… but to those of us who were lucky enough to ever know him, this guy really made a difference in our lives… because of him, we are all better people today… I know I am.

Moon was sleeping behind the clouds and the stars were on a leave that night. A solitary breeze was strolling through the lonesome streets. It was half past twelve when Elisa got on the bus. She was late; very late. At the last minute, her manager showed up with a pile of work; a project proposal that was to be submitted the very next day. She had to sit late.

“I might get a raise if I pull this all right”, she fed herself with a hope and got back to work. By the time she completed that proposal, the sun had gone home. She looked out the window; a thousand stars were vividly ornamented in the casement of the modern pyramids of the downtown. “May be they need a raise too”, she murmured and then picked up her bag to leave office.

When she reached the bus stop, the last bus she used to take, had left. So she had to take another one that dropped her a block away from her apartment building. She got off the bus and started walking with the soundless breeze. It wasn’t as quiet as she could hear. A faint__ to a certain extent, oppressed___ whistle of the breeze, the sound of her shoes hitting the pavement, a can dancing its way across the street and a car passing by on a distant road; she had some company.

She turned into a street which was lit by an old, pale street-light. The street was too long for that pale light to have veiled it completely. More she walked towards the other end of the street; more the darkness swallowed her shadow. She had reached half way down when she heard a footstep that wasn’t hers.

Without stopping, she looked back but couldn’t see any feet making that sound. She made her feet race each other a little faster. After a few yards she turned right into another street. The moment she turned, a shadow wavered in front of her eyes and a rough-edged hand was posted firmly on her nose and lips. A very thin space between those rugged fingers showed the way out to her torn breath. A loud scream started off from her lungs, into her throat and then went straight into her head instead of coming out of her mouth. Her brain reverberated with that scream and she felt as it would burst into pieces.

She clutched that arm to remove it from her face but it was cemented there. His other arm was searching through her skirt. With very little exit space for her swollen breath, she was losing sight. The light in the street was withering away when a sparkling reflection of street-light flickered in her eyes. She didn’t realize it was a knife until she felt it on the pumping veins of her neck.

Holding his arm with her right hand, she tried to take her bag off of her shoulder. Her intentions tried to bargain with that solid shadow, trying to offer him the money earned during the week, to save the self respect earned during life time. This offer was refused with a wild swing of his left arm that threw the bag away.

Knowing what to expect, she started scratching those pieces of darkness from his body only to find an evil skin underneath. His hands started displacing her clothes and then pushed her down on the pavement. Stuck between two solid rocks, she fluttered as much as the strength of her flesh allowed her.

Having her clothes torn apart, she then felt that gleaming and colorful fabric of her soul being ripped off. Another scream started off from her lungs, through her throat and came out of her eyes in tears. Her eyes were spreading those warm, salty cries but there was no one listening. That stinking breath kept falling on her face and stirring silence into her already fading screams.

For a few moments, that she didn’t want to count, that she didn’t want to remember, her body was invaded with cruelty and lust. And then she was left there; soundless and motionless. She looked at that silent, non-existing world around her through that red glass in her eyes and saw that ugly shadow starting to disappear in the dark.

Her head fell on to her left and there she saw another shadow; standing still in utter silence. There was something so easy and calm in the posture of that shadow that she knew whoever that was, had been standing there since the beginning; watching. She closed her eyes but that horror started rolling in them like a film. She opened her eyes, stood up, gathering her broken pieces into one broken piece and started walking.

Reaching at the end of the street, turning into another, she looked back. That silent shadow was still there. While her eyes were moving away from him and turning into the other street, she saw that shadow move and disappear.

All shadows disappear in the dark.

Ethan had lived in this neighborhood all his life. It was a calm and quiet place in general but in the night, bizarre things would happen once in a while. He had always heard of those weird things but had actually never seen them. That night, for some reasons, sleep kept avoiding him. Tired of fighting the night, he went out to get face to face with it.

He was wandering in an eternally ill street when he saw a tall shadow standing at a cursed corner. Ethan knew there was something to happen; something that he had always only heard of. While he was standing there watching that shadow, he saw a young girl appearing from the curve. It was a prolonged moment of utmost heat in his brain veins when he saw that shadow move quickly and wrapping his arms around that girl. The girl tried as much as she could but that guy was too big and too strong. Ethan never expected this to happen. He didn’t know what to do. He just stood there, struck in that dreadful occurrence of the unexpected.

While that shadow had finished spreading its darkness on her, it left. Ethan watched him go and then looked at her. She was looking towards him; at him. His feet froze in the melting sand of time and he couldn’t move. He could feel her complaining, “Why didn’t you do anything?” Ethan had no answer. He just stood there wrapped in fear and shame. She walked away and then turned into another street. Ethan went back home.

Some moments never leave you alone.

Elisa entered her apartment and fell on her bed as if she was throwing herself into the abyss of forgetfulness. But it wasn’t so. She couldn’t sleep. It was too painful a night to have carried anything with it as consoling as sleep. She didn’t want to think of what happened while there was nothing else she could possibly think of. All night long, she kept thinking of nothing.

For all the twenty four years of her life, she kept herself intact in a land far away in her head. She stayed away from all the waywardness the unscrupulous colors of life had to offer. She completed her business studies and moved to the Big Apple to become the master of her destiny. She found a decent job and was busy making herself worth the life she was given.

Love did breeze through her heart once when she was in college. But it didn’t sail smooth since her boyfriend was more interested in short and sharp fists of passion than in long lived emotions. She would only give herself to a person who would sail through the troubled waters of life with her. That breeze of loving whispers turned into a sandstorm of arguments and she had to leave it behind her.

She was lying on the bed face down and all the fallen days were swirling through her head. She wanted everything to be perfect. A good job, a house, true love, family and satisfaction of living her life to the full. But it all looked so bleak now because of an ill-defined shadow in a dark street __ that wasn’t even on her way home. Someone took that first time away from her; pealed it off of her body, piece by piece; dream by dream. It all seemed over. Night was spreading across her eyes and sleep was stepping down from her eyelids.

Next morning, she called up at the office and asked for a leave for next two days. Given the work she had finished successfully the night before, she was granted leave. Now she had a long weekend to scratch that painful memory off from her heart and to fight back through her life.

Life was fighting back.

Ethan opened his eyes and felt a moment fallen from time, stuck in his sight. He could still feel those eyes hitting him on his chest. A bitter taste of yesterday was pasted on his tongue. He felt terrible. He stood up and got ready to go to work. He knew it was going to be a slow sunset today.

The day went away somehow. He was clueless as to what happened during the day. All he could see was two eyes shining in the dark, complaining. He knew he had to find those eyes; he had to listen to them. He took the next day off and rode the bus home.

He got off the bus and walked towards the street where his sleeplessness had come from. He stood there at the place where some dreams turned into nightmares. He could see small pieces of cries, a melancholic stain and a dirty red glass. He could hear the shattering of a life, tearing of a soul and that silent death of light. He then looked at the place where he was standing last night. He looked at that place with complains in his eyes.

The world around him looked dusty. He didn’t want to go home so he took off towards the city. He was strolling through the busy streets trying to keep his mind superficially busy in the artificial details of unvarying life around him, when he found those eyes. He saw her sitting on the steps of the museum. He knew it was her, he could recognize those eyes even in the broad daylight. That pain was still fluttering in her eyes. He stood there for a while, looking at her. He knew this time he had to do something. He started walking towards her.

Heavy feet carry the burden of the mind.

Elisa was feeling suffocated in her apartment. Somehow the walls had shrunk and the air was lessening. She went out to the city to make her mind wander on the busy roads of the downtown than in the dark street of her neighborhood. After roaming through a few hundred random thoughts, her mind got tired and she sat on the steps of the museum.

A soft rumble of countless footsteps had surrounded her stationary feet as people moved in and out of the building. She was staring at her soundless feet when another pair of feet appeared and joined them in silence. She looked up and heard, “Hi”.

There was a young man standing there blocking her sun. He was about 28, dark hair, dark eyes and a very fresh skin. She looked at him with no emotion in her eyes and meaninglessly uttered, “Hi”.

“You mind if I sit here?” Ethan asked with a polite tone.

Tired of listening to that deafening silence, she nodded in affirmation.

He sat down on the steps and for a few moments joined her silence.

“Too quiet today, isn’t it?” he threw some meaningless words in to the pond of no words.

“Yeah” Elisa hardly uttered.

“Silence always hides painful words”, he intended to get her to talk about something.

“Not always”, she paused for a moment looking deep into something in the air that only she could see. “Sometimes it merely reveals the absence of words.”

“Yeah. And what makes the words dry out?” he asked.

“I don’t know”, was the answer.

“Pain?” he asked again fearing he might be getting too personal.

Silence appeared again as she fell deep into her thoughts.

“May be” she said without any intention of saying anything.

“A silent pain is more painful than a screaming one” Ethan wanted her to say something more.

She looked at him with a thousand expressions on her face. Fearing that she might suspect him for someone he isn’t, he tried to change the subject, “Ethan, my name is Ethan.”

With her eyes looking towards him but not at him, she said, “Elisa!”

They sat there for a while and then he took her to a nearby restaurant where they talked some more.

Elisa found a temporary refuge in Ethan. He was keeping her at a fair distance from last night and with every word he said, the distance kept growing. There was just one thing that disturbed her, that made her feel distressingly uncomfortable; his eyes. There was something about them; something related to her. She shrugged those thoughts away as she didn’t want to tell herself that it was love.

Love makes you feel lonely.

Later in the night she entered her apartment and felt alone again. She was safe here, she was free. But she had this fear in her heart that a detailed memory of the night gone by will visit her again and will pollute every night that is to come.

She didn’t want to switch on the darkness and didn’t like the thought of losing her sleeplessness. Tired of listening to her cracking thoughts; she picked up the phone and dialed Ethan’s number, that was painted on her palm by Ethan himself. Her heartbeat kept ringing on the other side and before she would give up on her heart, Ethan picked up the phone.

“Somehow I knew you would call now” he said in a firm voice.

“Yeah? How?”

“I don’t know. I just___ I just wanted you to.”

“Ok, I have called now.”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t know what to say and she didn’t know what she would hear. Silence was about to fill the distance between them, but before it would freeze, he broke it into pieces, and “Can we meet again?”

“Yeah” she wanted to hear that.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“11:30?”

“Yeah.”

“Same place?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok.”

“Ok.”

She shut the window to let sleep in.

The night gave way to morning sun and she woke up with light falling on her face. It was a quiet morning. She stayed in bed; just lying there, staring at the ceiling, thinking of so many things that she couldn’t focus on any one of them. She never wanted a day like this in her life___ or a night like that. It was all so imperfect__ it so didn’t match her plans. But whose plan was it? Of that dark shadow? Of God? Of her fate? Whatever the reason and whoever the culprit, she was the victim___ and for what sin?

“What would___ or ‘should’ if fate allows me___ I do now? What is this morning so silent and unbearably perfect? Where will this day go when its finished? Where will I store it? In my head___ along with that night? Who is Ethan? Why doesn’t he fit into my life so perfectly?”

Questions remained her sole company till the sun rose above the window. It was about time. She took a shower, got dressed and left her apartment.

Dreams travel the distance we avoid.

Sitting in the bus, Ethan was looking outside aimlessly while his mind roamed through the brightest corners of the day gone by. She so perfectly fit into that day, the whole memory of it.

The bus stopped and he came out of his yesterday for a while. A rolled up paper bag was place in his lap. Looking at it and holding it tight in his hands, he let the day before yesterday enter his head again. That night when a few inactive moments took him on a journey promising a melancholically beautiful dream and abandoned him in the land of insomnia forever.

“Why didn’t I do anything? Why didn’t I move; why didn’t I call for help? Why didn’t I help? Why didn’t I fight that dark shadow?”
In the junkyard of so many useless questions___ for it was over now and the fact remained that he didn’t do anything___ he didn’t find one purposeful answer.

The bus stopped again. It was his stop. He got off and walked towards the restaurant.

Heart feels like an ocean when you feel so many things swimming through it at the same time.

Elisa saw him entering the restaurant. He moved like a warm morning breeze through the wintry beaches of her eyes. There was something so calm about him, in his eyes, on his face, in his gate; that it scared her. Perfect things are stagnant things, they don’t grow, they don’t change, they don’t improve. She didn’t want things to be perfect between them. She left that fear roaming in her veins. Those salty beaches were now hidden in mist.

She laughed__ didn’t know after how many days__ but she laughed. He made her laugh. He dived into the deep seas of her heart and fished out the happy days. When he surfaced, he came out with laughter in his pockets which he merrily gave to her and she decorated them on her lips.

Things were about to divulge into perfection when she looked deep into his eyes. There was something so silently calm about them that she knew there were secrets to be told. She wasn’t wrong.

After all that was done, what was planned, he put that paper bag on the table.

“What is this?” she asked without saying a word.

He unrolled the bag, took out a shiny, stainless knife and put it on the table in front of her.

“What is this?” she repeated her question, this time in words.

“I found it.”

Something in his tone told her that things were about to fall apart.

“I found it ___ on 23rd street ___ in the corner ___ on the sidewalk___”

She kept looking at him.

“___ On the night before last night.”

Her heart shook and stopped for a while. Silence fell on her ears, her eyes, her heart___ her life. He kept talking, explaining to her the illogical reasons why he didn’t move, why he didn’t do something, why he just stood there. She wasn’t sure if she listened to him or not. The cynosure of her heart was that sparkling knife ___ the emblem of her fear ___ lying in front of her. It kept wavering in her eyes, casting a dark shadow on her memory.

“All this time I have hated myself, cursed myself for being such a dormant coward. I didn’t know you, but that night when you looked at me, I thought that’s what I was born to do, to protect you, and that’s what I didn’t do. I wasted my whole existence there; I denied the justification of my being alive. Now I know you ___ and I regret it even more…”

She picked up the knife and silence stuck in his mouth. She just gazed at that sharp-edged object of arrogance and ignorance. He wanted her to say something; he wanted to listen to her but she didn’t say a word. There was nothing to be heard, not even a sigh.

And then she looked at him ___ with no complains, no resent, no regret; nothing. She just looked at him; to say goodbye and it was too hard to say in words that she chose to say it with her eyes. Not sure whether he understood that or not, se put the knife in her bag, stood up and walked away. Ethan just sat there with an empty brain.

You waste life all life, then one day life wastes you.

All day long, Elisa kept wandering all over the city. She went to places she had never visited before because she didn’t have time. Today she had all the time on her wrist, she was free; free of any boundaries of time, any relationship, any obligation___ any passion. She wasn’t obliged to think of anything; not her past, not her future, not even today. Why should she bother herself to think of things so unreal; so much unreal that they don’t exist.

By the time night fell from the sky, she was all tired. She approached the bus station and sat there with a motionless body and a thoughtless mind and kept watching her bus leave every 10 minutes.

It was late in the night when the announcement for the last bus of the day was made. She stood up and walked towards the bus, holding her bag tightly in her hands as this was one possession that could salvage her painful heart.

She got off the bus a block away from her apartment building. For a moment she stood there silently and then moved towards twenty third street.

The wind held its breath when it saw her again there. A can trying to dance its way over to this end of the street; stopped half way. Her shoes hit the pavement but didn’t leave the company of silence. The street had eaten up her shadow. She turned right and felt a black shadow creeping on her neck. Before the shadow could touch her, she took her hand out of her bag while turning around, swung that shiny piece of metal with every piece of energy in her raging mind and stuck it in his neck. The knife entered that rotten skin all the way and stopped. Silence broke into a surprise-struck painful scream. The shadow flickered for a while and then fell down. She stood there watching it until it went motionless. A red piece of glass melted and rolled on the concrete. In that thick fluid, she saw her memory dieing away.

She stood there for a while with her eyes shut; and then she felt two eyes looking at her. She turned around opening her eyes and looked at that dark spot across the street. He had been standing there all the time; watching. A wave of tears went through her eyes but she didn’t let it spread out on her face. She replaced it with a wave of arrogant smile and a successful march of shining stars on her eyelids. Life came back; a raise, a house, a family, love and above all her worth.

She turned around and started walking towards her apartment building.

“I love it!” she squealed with delight.

“So be it, darling.” He replied with a smile as he looked at her flushed, excited face, and took out one of his many impressive credit cards to pay for it – it wasn’t practical to carry around a lot of cash.

Mr. Rahim, standing behind the counter, looked through his thick glasses.

“An excellent choice, madam!” he beamed.

The platinum ring with a huge solitaire diamond was brought to Rahim Shah by a contact from Africa along with other classic pieces promising huge profits. It graded highly on his scale of the four c’s, but surprisingly, it had drawn a much muted response from his customers.

It would’ve been rather silly and superstitious to say so – and Rahim prided himself on his rational approach – but it seemed to lose its brilliance the moment somebody put it on!

‘Not today, though!’ He noticed. ‘Why, it practically looks alive on the girl’s hand!’

“Here you go, sir.” He placed it in an attractive box, displaying his most impressive mannerism.

“May you find immeasurable joy in your life ahead…thank you for trusting us in your precious moments.”

He saw them leave with satisfied smiles on their faces quite matching his own.

*****

Zohaib’s father, Mr. Mannan, owned a thriving textile business and Zohaib was doing quite well as its General Manager. An only son, Zohaib was a tall, athletic young man with a charming smile, not to mention a very fat bank account! Judging from the admiring looks he received from girls wherever he went, he was any girl’s dream catch.

Alina, an attractive girl in her twenties, had recently joined the company as a textile designer, and was beyond doubt one of the most talented designers working for them. She had managed to endear herself to every member of the staff in a very short span of time with her gentle mannerism and professional acumen.

It was hardly surprising then, that Zohaib fell for her immediately, and she, for her part, didn’t hesitate a moment when he proposed three weeks later. She wore the classic solitaire diamond ring two days hence.

The girls at the office were ecstatic…well, most of them, anyway.

“Lina, its lovely! Congrats, girl!” Faria hugged her warmly.

“I knew she would be the one to catch the most eligible bachelor in town!” Shelly winked, as she made her way across the room to her dear friend. “I just hope he knows how lucky he is!”

“Oh, I think I’m luckier, really…” gushed Alina.

“Why, of course you are,” Muneera cut in acidly, “who doesn’t want to roll in money?”

“Shut up, Muneera!” Faria and Shelly chided her in unison.

“A diamond is considered mighty risky to wear, you know”, she continued unabated, “bad things have been known to happen if it doesn’t suit the person wearing it.”

“Pay no attention to her, honey…she’s just jealous.” Shelly tried to take the sting out of her words, but Alina’s smile had dropped at the corners.

She picked up her handbag, muttered a hasty goodbye, and left the office.

‘She’s just a superstitious old cow, who can’t see anyone happy.’ She muttered to herself as she walked down the corridor.

As she entered the elevator, Zohaib joined her out of nowhere.

“Hey, gorgeous…where to?”

“Huh…er, just …um…Zohaib, do diamonds bring bad luck?” she asked hesitantly.

“What? Hmm…now, who’s been putting silly ideas in your pretty head?” he ruffled her hair.

“Oh, no… I…er…I just…” she took a deep breath and blurted out, “I just don’t want anything to spoil our happiness.”

“And nothing will, I promise.” Zohaib squeezed her hand. “Stop working yourself up over nothing! Just relax and be happy…do whatever pleases your fancy till the big day…hmmm… hey, I can’t wait!” He pulled her close with a mischievous look in his eyes.

She pushed him away, blushing, “Now, don’t be naughty!”

The door slid open and she stepped out.

*****

The wedding ceremony took place with all the pomp-and-show expected, with a guest list long and heavy enough to impress the Queen! After all, it was the wedding of the Mighty Industrialist’s only son. Everyone turned up. Why it wouldn’t do to miss the grandest occasion in town…great time for building business connections too!

Both the families were ecstatic with the union. Alina’s father, Dr. Noor-ul-Haq, supported a lavish lifestyle, and a liberal outlook. He was quite pleased with Alina’s choice of a husband. Zohaib looked like a sensible boy who would keep his daughter happy. His wife appeared more impressed with his financial status, though!

Alina looked ravishing in her deep red wedding dress, decked up in exquisite designer jewellery worth a fortune. Her face glowed with an inner radiance evident of true love she had found so early in life.

The girls surrounded her with oohs and aahs, raving about how lovely she looked. Alina saw Muneera staring at her diamond ring. Their eyes met, and Muneera raised an eyebrow meaningfully. Alina looked away. She didn’t want Muneera’s jealousy spoiling her Big day.

Zohaib couldn’t take his eyes off Alina. He shook his head in wonder. The biggest skeptic when it came to matters of the heart, he mocked his friends when they spoke of falling in love. And here he was …head-over-heels!

‘I guess, it happens to the best of us!’ he shrugged his shoulders, smiling.

Finally, the rukhsati took place after much delay. It was almost 1:00 a.m. and the entourage proceeded slowly from hotel to home, the security vehicle leading. Zohaib and Alina sat together in the second car, tired but looking forward to a wonderful start of a new life ahead.

As they reached near their destination, suddenly the car in front screeched to a halt amid sound of loud gunfire. The sound of bursting car tyres and shattering glass filled the air.

Zohaib ducked instinctively and pulled Alina down with him, shielding her body with his own. There was chaos everywhere.

Then, someone pulled open the rear door on Zohaib’s side, and put a gun to his head.

“Step out with your hands in the air, and don’t try to be smart!” a menacing voice rasped.

Zohaib had no choice. He realized that they were surrounded, he was not carrying a gun and their own security force had been rendered useless … disarmed or dead. It was a time to act sensibly, not for heroics. He quietly stepped out.

Alina stared at him terrified, still crouching. Zohaib gave her a warning look, urging her to stay still.

“Okay, now, everyone start putting your purses, jewellery, watches…everything in the bag my friend is bringing to you. And no acts of bravery…or the handsome groom will be the first one to go!”

The leader had his face covered but the tone told everyone that he meant every word.

As Alina struggled to take off her jewellery, the diamond ring got stuck in her finger.

“Hurry up, we haven’t got all day!” screamed the one with the bag.

She pulled harder, but it wouldn’t come off. She panicked and cried out, “It won’t come off!”

Distant sound of police sirens began filling the air. The neighbours had probably alerted them.

“What the hell…just cut her finger, No.2!” They didn’t want to leave behind anything the bride was wearing…it would have to be worth a fortune.

The sound of sirens grew louder and No.2 seemed to panic. As he pulled the ring off in one savage movement, his gun went off …the sound of a single shot reverberated through the air…

Alina felt red-hot pain slicing through her chest…her head fell back as she tried to keep her eyes open…

“Zohaib…” she whispered through numbing senses and blurring vision…

“No!” screamed Zohaib as he lunged forward, kicking the leader in the stomach, and ran to Alina’s side.

The gang-leader fell backwards, rolled over and ran to his waiting car, screaming at No.2 to follow suit. Killing any member of the influential family had not been part of their plan.

“Lina…Lina…look at me…open your eyes, honey…” Zohaib shouted desperately over and over again, as he held his lovely bride in his arms, willing her to respond.

But she had moved on… to a realm beyond his reach.

*****

Sitting in the backseat, Aslam pulled off the mask and rested his head against the headrest. He was shaken. He’d never killed anyone before.

‘It was an accident; I didn’t do it on purpose.’ He tried to appease his conscience.

He touched the diamond ring on his finger. It shone brilliantly…he felt strangely hypnotized by its power. Not wanting to share it with the others, he slipped it off and put it in his pocket.

‘Everything went according to plan…never mind the little blunder.’ Roshan, the gang leader, seemed less affected by the bride’s misfortune.

He laughed aloud, “The booty is worth a fortune! We can take a nice long rest now.”

Haroon stepped on the brake as they neared their hideout, a small house they’d rented last month – posing as university students from out of town – pulling an odd robbery or two. Their latest was the biggest hand they had pulled so far. They had decided to move out, and find another suitable place as soon as the initial zeal and fervour of the police investigations faded out. They couldn’t stay in one place for long, anyway, and frequently moved from town to town to avoid being recognised or arrested.

They threw their weapons on the side table and sat around the large center table to empty the booty-bag.

Suddenly, a loud voice was heard speaking on the loud speaker, “You are surrounded. Come out with your hands up.”

“What the hell…?”

‘Had they been followed?’

They lunged towards the guns but a couple of policemen came barging in through the rear door, and started firing indiscriminately.

“Ow…I’m hit man”, Aslam put his hand over his chest and doubled over.

Roshan and Haroon tried to shoot back, but they had been caught off guard and the policemen were damned good shots.

“Run, Haroon…” screamed Roshan, gripping his bleeding shoulder.

Haroon, the youngest of the three, froze as he saw one of the policemen aim his gun at him and shoot at point blank range… Bang!

…He fell to the ground without a sound…a lifeless heap…

“No…! Haroon…brother…” Roshan tried to drag himself to where Haroon had fallen.

Sharafat Ali, the sturdy ASP, kicked him in the ribs and he fell backwards howling in pain, mourning injury… and loss.

Sirens screamed all around and drowned every other sound…

Aslam watched helplessly, rapidly losing consciousness, as the policemen searched bodies for weapons and took possession of the booty-bag.

Sharafat Ali searched Aslam’s pockets. As he put his hand inside his trouser pocket, out came the ring.

‘What a beauty!’ He thought and slid it quietly into his own pocket. ‘Who’d miss such a small piece?’

The injured and the dead were dumped unceremoniously into the back of the police van, and report of the ASP’s efficiency in nabbing the looters in such a short time was being radioed back to the base. There would be plenty of publicity and reward for the raiding party too – the tough job of being crime-fighters had its moments too.

*****

‘Ding-dong, Ding-dong …’

Sharafat Ali pressed the bell, an ear-to-ear grin betraying his inner feelings. He was always excited to see his lovely cousin. He had waited out some time for the publicity to die down and was ready to present Shumyla with the ‘borrowed’ token of his love!

Relaxing in bed, propped up on the pillows, Shumyla looked up from the book she was reading. She wasn’t expecting company.

‘Who could that be, at this time?’ she wondered.

She waited for the maid to inform her. The door opened without a knock and she was startled to find Sharafat barge in unannounced. She got up quickly, the book falling to the floor.

‘Hello, sweetheart! How are you this wonderful morning?” he asked as he looked at her adoringly.

“Fine…er…um…let’s go downstairs and sit in the living room, shall we?”

“Oh, I’m just fine here.” Sharafat settled on the sofa, making himself comfortable.

She adjusted her clothes, feeling terribly self-conscious in her dishevelled appearance. She had been unusually slow in starting her day. With Ammi gone to do some urgent shopping, she felt rather shy being alone with him in the house.

“Uh-ahem…I’ll tell Perveen to make tea” As she tried to walk past him, he leaned forward and got hold of her hand.

“Look what I got for you”, he pulled out the ring and slipped it on her finger.

“Oh!” Shumyla caught her breath.

Then she smiled. “Thanks, its beautiful…must’ve cost you a fortune! You shouldn’t bother with such expensive gifts, Sharafat.”

He felt a momentary pang of guilt, but shrugged it off immediately – in line with his training of keeping himself detached from emotions…and perhaps, conscience too…

“Hey, it’s nothing!” He winked.

“Bibi jee, shall I bring tea?” Perveen knocked on the door.

“Shumyla, I’m home…!” she heard her mother call out from downstairs.

“Let’s go downstairs, Ammi’s back.” She gestured, urging him to follow her.

Sharafat rolled his eyes as he got up, ‘Perfect timing, Auntie jee!’

*****

Munna shivered. He was barefoot, and insufficiently protected against the freezing temperature of the cold winter evening.

His distorted features, evident of harsh beatings, melted many a begum’s tender heart and helped loosen her purse strings. He could see some hard time coming though, because he hadn’t been able to ‘earn’ enough money that day.

He looked around. ‘Where are all the begums today?’

The woman he’d tried to impress just a while back had given him a long and boring lecture on why he should be working instead of begging.

‘Should be…sure, the world was just waiting for him with open arms!’

Some admonished, and some readily dropped a coin in his outstretched palm just to avoid listening to his well-rehearsed dialogues, but no one actually did anything for him.

‘Who’d hire him, anyway? His ugly face and disfigured body made everyone want to look the other way. Ustaad Faqeera had made sure he wouldn’t be of any use to anyone else, and he expected a good flow of cash every day in exchange for food and a place to sleep. And if he disappointed the Ustaad…?’

He shuddered, recalling his last beating.

Ustaad headed their colourful clan, commanding total submission from all members. It was the least they could do in return for his looking after their interests – even striking deals with the police to spare them whenever an anti-beggary drive was on the cards.

He spotted a pretty, young girl trying to cross the road amid heavy traffic. She seemed to be getting impatient. Munna limped towards her rehearsing the lines that got him the maximum response. He had become quite expert at finding just the right words to say to the soft-hearted maidens…

“Baji, God bless your kind heart…help this poor soul…may you grow rich beyond measure…may you find a handsome husband…may you become mother of many sons…” he went on, putting on his most impressive act to draw a favourable response.

She looked at him through compassionate eyes, taking an instinctive step backwards as the offensive smell he emanated entered her nostrils. Barely more than a child but wise beyond his years, he cut a real sorry figure with his torn, inadequate clothing and filthy, disfigured body.

‘God!’ she reached for her purse. ‘He’s worse off than an animal…why is life so unfair?’

She felt guilty for being well-off… dressed in expensive finery and wearing a diamond ring that could afford the beggar a lifetime of luxury.

‘I could’ve been in his place …’ she thought empathically.

“Here you go”, she handed him a hundred-rupee note, and took off the warm shawl she wore over her Shetland wool cardigan. “Wrap this around yourself. It’ll keep you warm.”

He looked at her. ‘Is she for real?’

He took the money from her, deliberately rubbing his hand against hers. She pulled back, surprised, and fished in her purse for a scented wet tissue.

The flow of traffic registered a small break, and she quickly stepped off the pavement.

“Oh.” Munna’s breath caught in his throat as he saw a speeding vehicle appear out of nowhere and hit her head on, dragging her along a little distance. Then it reversed and sped away.

She lay there like a rag doll, crumpled and lifeless.

A few passing cars slowed for a second, and then stepped on their accelerators…
‘No use getting involved – she was probably dead anyway.’

He ran to her side. She was unconscious, a trickle of blood flowed from her ear. He grabbed her purse and pulled the ring off her finger.

‘She has no use for it anymore’, he figured, but it meant extra food and rest time for him.

He could just picture the glint in Ustaad’s big evil eyes when he gave him the booty…

*****

Sharafat Ali sat quietly mourning his loss. He had just buried his beloved.

‘My sweet, innocent Shammo…gone forever’ he swallowed the lump in his throat.

Hit and run. And somebody had had the gall to pick her clean of her belongings too as she lay there helpless…

He felt his blood boil, ‘If he could get his hands on the…!’ he swore under his breath.

“I’ll get him!” he muttered through clenched teeth, and rushed out …

*****

Ustaad gazed at the ring, as it shone with all its wicked brilliance on his hand…

Unaware of its evil power, that far surpassed his own ambition…

Unaware, also, of his fate as the ring yearned for more blood…the next sacrifice.

It had indeed been a long night… he had had to deal with three petty criminals, the youngest of which had been particular hard to catch. He had chased him through what seemed a mile of roofs, over a bridge and down the rat infested sewer system for about three or four hours before he had come to a dead-end where he finally gave out from exhaustion and dehydration. Otherwise, he would have gotten away. Some nights, being a hero is not the most fulfilling thing in the world.

When he started out, many years ago, he used to match wits, resources and techniques with colorful and somewhat caricaturist “arch-enemies” who always kept him on his toes and pushed him to be the best he could be. Now, there was no color anymore. He was reduced to chasing faceless, nameless thieves who had broken the window of a car to steal a radio or stole a couple of flowerpots from someone’s backyard to trade them for a quick fix. There was no glamour anymore, and these kids today had become more dangerous and savvy… now, even the youngest ones carried heavy guns. And tonight, as a bullet barely scratched the skin of his arm, he had been reminded once again that they were not afraid to use them… As he finally pulled into his driveway and tiredly climbed out of his car, he gazed upon his blood stained uniform… “Who would have thought that even heroes have a right to bleed”.

“It’s all for the greater good… this city is safer tonight because of me”… he repeated almost mechanically the same mantra that has kept him going for years as he picked up yesterday’s copy of the Gazette with a picture of Commissioner Gordon receiving yet another award on the front page. In the last few years, the crime rate had dropped substantially, mostly because of his late night escapades. However, the Commissioner and the Police department always took the credit, and the rewards… and the awards and prizes. He often told himself he had no right to be bothered by that, after all that was the original agreement: He would work behind the scenes while letting Gordon take the spotlight.

“Making a safer city for children to sleep in is my only reward” were words that had often come out of his mouth but not from his heart. In truth, he would have liked to receive more than just a pat in the back once in a while… maybe the occasional reward or prize would have been most welcomed… but he knew that no matter how much he wanted it, it was not going to happen anytime soon… but even heroes have a right dream.

Years ago, when he started out in this hero business, he thought that he could make a difference by catching one criminal at a time… but now he often wonders if maybe he was a bit too idealistic… and sometimes he can’t really avoid feeling that people don’t really care anymore… that people have just taken from granted that he will always be there to save the day… and that a simple “thank you” would suffice… well, sometimes words are not enough… is it so wrong for heroes to be human after all?

“Maybe, at least, I’ll impress some girls”… he had said jokingly the first time he had put his hero suit on, but that never really happened… and the only girl he had ever wanted to impress had gone out and marry the Commissioner of all people… and now he was dead to her eyes, so he tried not to think about her anymore by concentrating all of his efforts in doing the only thing he knew how to do… chasing down dirty and ruthless men through the empty streets of a polluted city…

“I’m getting too old for this” he sighed as he climbed into bed a quick shuteye to regain strength…
Then… a bright orange light awoke him… painted upon the early morning sky was the distinct silhouette of the bat-signal… he stared at it for a few seconds…

“Blah… let Robin save the day for once”… and rolled over and went right back to sleep…

During those six minutes you will have more than enough time to contemplate the horror of what is just about to happen to you and to ask the question ‘why me?’ On the plus side this is the only time in your adult life that you’ll be able to piss your pants without being embarrassed, you’ll never have to join an airport check in queue again and you’ll be in no doubt that this is the right time to ask God to forgive your sins. Even if you don’t believe in the Christian God there’s no harm in having a cost free insurance policy, is there?

Such are my thoughts every time I set off to the airport. On one particular occasion I remember returning from Chicago to Heathrow, London on an Air India flight on the day the terrorist plot to detonate liquid explosives on a flight from the UK to the USA was discovered.

We arrived at about 6pm for the flight at 8pm to discover that our flight was delayed at least 4 hours and that the baggage check-in was being especially thorough. Now instead of just checking our bags and seeing them disappear onto a conveyor belt we had to pile them up in a sort of luggage mountain so the security guards could practice their climbing skills and open a proportion of the bags to trawl through their contents. Contrary to instructions one or two bags had locks on them which were cut off with wire cutters. Don’t security guards know that a locked zip up suitcase, which most of them are these days, can be easily opened by sticking a biro into the zip and waggling it about? The suitcase can then be rezipped and will be as good as new.

Travelling from large airports is never a pleasant experience due to the endless queuing, the restrictions, the fact that we all have to be treated as terrorist suspects, the boredom and our own deep held need to compete with our fellow human beings. To which we now added the fear of being blown up by terrorists. Our response was to laugh bravely making weak jokes about the explosive dangers of eating bean curry.

The endless queuing starts in the carpark where we wait for the bus to airport, then for the check in, then for the security, then for the bus to the aeroplane and finally we queue to take our seat on the plane. If the queuing is not well organised tensions arise as people try to guess which queue will take the shortest time, casually join the queue not at the back but part way down at the side. Sometimes people with knowledge know that the signed route is not the shortest one and can skip ahead of the queue. All people have an acutely tuned sense of fairness so anyone seen to be gaining an advantage generates irritation in fellow passengers.

On this occasion we watched as a particularly pushy family of four, each with an enormous bag bulging at the seams and big enough to contain a baby elephant weaved their way to the front of the queue and tried to claim their bags were hand luggage. The check-in girl was having none of this and firmly but politely advised them that the bags had to go in the hold and they’d have pay for overweight bags. There was a bit of tension before the family accepted the decision. You’ve got to sympathise with the check-in staff its often not a nice job.

Our flight was called and we sat down at the departure gate, where this same family started a queue so as to be first on the plane. It was with some satisfaction that I noticed that they had to stand for nearly an hour before we were allowed to take our seats for the flight.

Eventually we took off, 5 hours late, for the long journey back to London. Back in my car in London the petty squabbles of the airport behind us I ponder the fact that 100 years ago this journey would have cost me several years salary, could well have taken months, most of the time spent in enforced idleness on a ship with a much higher risk of dying at sea that we run now even with terrorists. Perhaps we all need to make sure we’ve thought about what really matters before entering a major airport.