Blood and Sand

Brian woke up with a curious sense of uncertainty. He had earned bragging rights among his peers for being the most stable and secure, never overwhelmed, never underwhelmed. Not on this morning though. The morning he was looking forward to on all mornings except this. Playtime was over, a brutal and bloody street fight showcased as a war between nations had commenced. The United States must be defended. Brian’s hands were shaking as he grasped the glass of water near his bed. Steady now soldier. Tighten your stomach and the butterflies that are betraying your reputed sense of calm will be destroyed by noxious volumes of bile. As his heart slowly eased back into a gentle state, Brian walked over to the room he shared with Beth. They had been engaged for a few years now, though you wouldn’t know it from the missing ring on Beth’s long, frail finger. Beth was understandably enraged when she heard Brian was to commence his tour of duty in Iraq the next day. Brian barely made a living packing grocery bags full of organic, overpriced vegetables, health food, and fortified water for the affluent, snobby yuppies that lived along the Main Line. And he would now have to leave Beth to fend for herself and for their three month old son, Vincent.

It was nearing 10 A.M. now and Brian hoped to share a single, solitary, and loving moment of togetherness with Beth before he left. Brian wanted to tell Beth she would manage just fine, the army recruitment center had told him that she would be sent a monthly stipend and that she would be given an adequate amount of food stamps and government assistance. She was still fast asleep though, Vincent cradled in her arm, and she looked so peaceful. Brian walked over to Beth and slowly eased his head forward to kiss her forehead. Beth woke up, startled, and to Brian’s pleasant surprise, she hugged him furiously and began to weep. Brian kissed her and told her he would be back soon - the war would be over in a few months. He promised Beth he would marry her as soon he returned. In a touching display of acceptance, Beth reached for the silver engagement ring lying on the floor, humble in its appearance and yet so deeply extravagant in its message. She placed it back on the finger where it best fit, and Brian knelt on one of his knees, kissed her hand, and asked her to support him and to wait for his return. Beth nodded silently as he smiled and wept - words were unnecessary in an intimate moment that Brian hoped to cherish forever. He lifted Vincent out of his bed and placed his necklace, a crucifix on a single silver strand, over Vincent’s tiny shoulders. He then bid goodbye and walked down the winding pathway filled with trailer homes just like his, looking only at his fragile shadow as whispers of sand deserted his ragged boots.

*-----*

October 13, 2008. Brian was now a grand eight months and four days into his tour of duty. Her face had kept him awake all night. Those deep, brown, frightened eyes had pierced his soul as he frantically waved his hands in desperation. “It’s okay, it’s really OK! I am not going to hurt you”, Brian bellowed. She had turned ghastly white and only managed to clasp the frail boy closer to her chest. It was only when Brian had dropped his M4 carbine did the fiery look in her eyes give in. Brian was given orders to perform a routine search mission for insurgents in the Marj district and as Freddie and him had barged into the hut, a woman draped only in a glowing blue nightgown had shrieked and rushed to protect her son. Freddie and him swiftly began searching this very humble home and found no one worthy of the insurgent title. The woman, obviously petrified but too afraid to scream again, watched intently as Freddie and Brian concluded their search. Brian knelt down, reached into his pocket, and offered the boy a Snickers bar. Brian turned his rigid finger back onto his own chest and proclaimed – “Brian”. It was then that she spoke. A beautiful earthy voice engulfed the dark room. As the flickers of a lonely candle betrayed her face and probed it out of the blackness, Brian stood transfixed. “Aida, is my name. I’m a widow and this is my son, Abdul. My husband, Amir, an English professor at Baghdad College was killed in a Shi’ite mosque attack three months ago, this very day. He was not your enemy but after the invasion had destroyed us financially, spiritually, and mentally, he was also not your friend. If you need any other information, you will have to come by tomorrow when I am dressed. If you need nothing else from us, please leave us in peace and walk out sans the contempt and arrogance with which you barged in.” She said this in an icy vein and her eyes had grasped his with an unyielding will never to let go. Gone was her listless fright, swiftly replaced with brilliant confidence and a piercing glare. Brian staggered out with Freddie following close at his heels. He whimpered an apology and slowly shut Aida’s door, but not before he glanced once more at her ethereal beauty.

It was Brian’s innocence and sincerity that won her over. His rugged, handsome face surely helped but Aida would not admit it, never in a million years. He had brought her an enormous basket of fruits, fruits from home and some that were devilishly exotic. Cantaloupes and oranges, bananas and figs, strawberries and blackberries, apples and prunes. He even brought her Alphonso mangoes from India. Amir had told her that as a student in Varanasi, on the banks of the river Ganges, Alphonso mangoes were a prized lot. Amir would save up enough to buy a few during the peak of the mango season and experience himself pulled closer to God. The Alphonso’s nectar, Amir had told Aida, tasted sweeter than honey and its aroma was renowned to engulf you in utter ecstasy. Amir had always told Aida he regretted she never had the opportunity to try one. Now, as Aida plucked the golden fruit from Brian’s coarse hands, she was completing Amir’s wish albeit leaving him shrinking smaller and lonelier in his sandy grave. Abdul was delighted with his family’s new bounty and Brian laughed boyishly as Abdul held his palms out and said “Please”. While Aida was putting Abdul to bed after the incident on the previous night, Abdul, a mature six year old, had told her not to worry and pronounced that he trusted the white man. Somehow, as she restlessly tossed over multiple times in her bed that night, Abdul’s words reconstructed her mangled mind and became unnervingly reassuring to Aida. Now, only the next morning, Aida could see why. After Brian neatly stacked the fruits on the stone ledges precariously balanced on Aida’s makeshift kitchen wall, he got down on his knees and clasped Aida’s hands in his. Normally, Aida would be taken aback – she was not used to a stranger touching her, especially a man in a world of men dedicated to scorn her as used goods. However, Aida let Brian weave his fingers between hers and immediately, she felt a vivid bolt of light, power, and energy shift passionately from the inner recesses of her brain, through her heart, and down through her feet. He apologized to her, over and over again, as he told her for as long as he was on duty in this town, he would take care of her and Abdul. Even though Aida did not need Brian’s help, his reassurance was strangely calming and zealously quixotic.

A few weeks in, they were hopelessly in love. Brian would hold Aida’s hands in the same strong, yet comforting, grasp as they walked through the markets every Saturday morning. They would act completely oblivious to the death glares from passersby even though inside their hearts, they knew an imminent danger always loomed low. An Arab woman walking hand in hand with one of these infidel liberators? An Arab woman who had only recently lost her husband to a raucous, shattering, inferno? An Arab woman with a son to develop into a servant of Allah one day? Such callousness! It was a pitiful disgrace and one that would not go unpunished by Him even during the superlative rhythm of several thousand suns. Brian arduously endured the sight of Aida walking with him dressed in hijab, Abdul skipping around always a few feet ahead of them. They would send Abdul away to play soccer with his friends near the U.S. military complex and five minutes after he bounded away, Brian worked feverishly with his hands to get Aida off her cumbersome clothing. There, in the stillness of the desert heat and the cacophony of the neighboring markets, they would transform into one. Rivulets of sweat curiously cleansed their bodies in a pristine, composed fashion and abolished the vile depravity of the outside world. Suicide bombers, honor killers, religious fanatics, merciless invaders, foreign presidents, prudish families, and ghostly husbands all disappeared as Aida capitulated herself into Brian’s world and him into hers.

*-----*

Brian was nearing the end of his tour of duty. Obviously, Aida grew more nervous as the days passed. Brian wanted to take her back to his country but he was having problems processing her paperwork. They spent the nights holding each other tight, assuring each other that everything would be alright. However, Brian had not told Beth about Aida yet. He did not know how to, and he had not told Aida either that he was engaged to another woman and had a child of his own. He loved Abdul as much as he loved Vincent and he was resigned to spending the rest of his life with Aida. She gave him strength and energy like none other and Beth would just have to understand. She just had to.

Abdul grew more irritable as well; he hesitated going out to play with his friends because he wanted to spend more time with Brian. Sensing that, and against his squadron leader’s advice, Brian would take them both to see the faces of modern Baghdad – the newest supermarket on the west end of the town, the circus that had opened up a mile across from where Aida lived, and even the latest movie theater on occasion. They would argue though, Brian and Aida. About where they would all live, if the weather would suit Abdul and if he would make friends, if Aida would be accepted by Brian’s parents, and if he would love her as much as he did now. Their arguments only brought them closer and Brian knew he held in his arms someone special, someone who’s faultless skin he could caress for hours at end, someone with an immaculate face God couldn’t even perfect, someone with flowing black hair that could make the rivers weep, someone who’s perfumed flesh engulfed him with sweet intoxication, and someone who’s absence would drive him insane and permanently blinded.

Abdul was playing soccer with his best friend Fahad when the troopers surrounded them. Within a punishing few seconds, one of the soldiers had grasped Fahad by his collar and demanded to know where his father was. Fahad was kicking and screaming but being only three feet tall, he was no match for the monster threatening to choke his neck. Abdul watched in bewilderment as the soldiers he had grown to love suddenly turned into a pack of rabid wolves as they dragged Fahad through the market, away from him. Strangely, the soldiers had paid no attention to Abdul and it was perhaps by accident but almost likely on purpose. Brian was not one among the wolf pack and this pleased Abdul; Brian was his mother’s best friend after all. Slipping and sneaking, unbeknownst to the wolf pack, Abdul followed Fahad as he was being hauled through the throngs of hell, screaming vociferously for mercy. The wolf pack finally stopped at an abandoned hospital and lifted Fahad onto a crooked bed. Abdul hid behind a wispy white wall that was riddled with bullet holes; patient yet anxious about his best friend. As the soldiers continued to question Fahad about his father, supposedly a jihadist leader who had killed four Americans using a remote detonated IED, Abdul saw an image he would have selflessly immolated his eyes not to see. From the shadows of the misty darkness emerged Brian, shaken yet stirred. Abdul watched in guiltless awe as Brian took aside the leader of the wolf pack and discussed the situation animatedly. His mother, she must be warned! Brian was as evil as the wolf pack; he was probably pulling all the strings. They had captured Fahad and they would soon go after his beloved mother. His mother was the only person who held him close just as the sound of nearby bombs ripped his eardrums to shreds during an everyday afternoon. His mother was the only person who sang him some of his favorite melodies just as a blitzkrieg of shrapnel flew by his window every night. Abdul raced home only to find his mother missing; she was most probably at the market but he couldn’t be certain. In a flash of despair, he would go warn his uncle Ahmed even though Ahmed had not been nice to Aida since Amir’s death. He was Amir’s brother after all. For Ahmed to see his brother’s wife in the haunting clutch of another man, a murderous infidel at that, was too much to bear every day. Ahmed consoled Abdul and told him he had nothing to worry about – Brian would be taken care of. Seven hundred meters away, Brian stood over the decimated body of Shaun – the leader of the wolf pack. To break into a child’s heart with such atrocity was an act filled with vile cowardice and Brian would not stand for it. A kick to the stomach, an upper punch into his jaw, an elbow into his temple, and a furious twisting of his neck was all it took. Son of a jihadist or not, Fahad was a child. Brian apologized to Fahad and wiped away his tears with a damp wash cloth. A snickers bar was all Fahad needed to burst into a forgotten smile. Fahad had to run and tell Abdul quickly how good Abdul’s adoptive father, Brian, was. Brian had saved Fahad.

*-----*

They arrived in the darkness, white silhouettes piercing the night sky. Ahmed had told Salim, the leader of the local Sunni militia, about Brian’s location. Seven men came armed, assault rifles draped over their droopy shoulders and for good measure, curvaceous swords flung over their backs, flashing like diamonds on a sultry, sunny day. Two men stood over the terrace of the house nearest to Aida’s; they would gun down the infidel without mercy if he were ever gifted the rare prospect of escape. Two others would stand guard behind Aida’s hut, to prevent the foolish couple from even thinking of using their makeshift window to escape into an unforgiving, yet new, world. Ahmed and Salim would carry the torch of Allah and face down the infidel themselves; Salim’s bodyguard – the seventh crusader – would provide healthy backup. It was nearing three in the morning now, surely Brian and Aida were fast asleep. It disgusted Ahmed that Aida would even fathom such a thought of giving up her body, once reserved only for Amir’s eyes, to an infidel, an occupier, an invader. No matter, they could face their hellish wrath together for all he cared. Abdul must be saved from Aida’s liberalism; he must grow up strong and become a servant of Allah just like his real father Amir was.

It was over in a matter of seconds. For a trained soldier, it was laughable how little resistance Brian provided to their attack. The story might have been different if Brian had reached for his weapon instead of attempting, in vain, to protect Aida from their bullets. Either way, in Ahmed’s eyes, it was pleasant to think of his prey as weak – it would make his story all the more appealing to the rest of the militia. After a three count, they had stormed in through the thin wooden door of Aida’s home. Reprehensibly, there lay the white man and the golden girl, holding each other tight in a solemn embrace as they slept wishfully, dreaming of their faultless existence in a country on the other side of the world. Aida was scantily clad in a shimmering nightgown and this enraged Ahmed. It was truly an abomination for a mother to lie next to her lover while her young child slept in the next corner, no doubt ashamed of his mother’s existence. Brian and Aida would wake up startled as God’s chosen trio burst through the door and raised their weapons in unison. During the next second, in what seemed like an eternity to Ahmed, Brian swiftly swiveled his body to fall over Aida and simultaneously raised his palm upwards – a laughable attempt at protecting himself and the body beneath him. Seventy three bullets rained on the twitching, powerless bodies of Aida and Brian during the next few seconds, tearing open their sinewy muscles into fragments smaller than grated cheese and shattering their permeable bones into a million tiny pieces. Abdul would also wake up, lunging at the militia and especially at the man he trusted to protect his mother. A booming shove was all Ahmed needed to send Abdul flying across the room and into a stack of vessels, to be knocked out for five precious minutes. Abdul would be fine; Ahmed did not need him interfering in an act of God he was not mature enough to understand.

Abdul would wake up a definite five minutes later. His uncle was carrying him away from a house that did not resemble his mother’s anymore. Streams of blood crisscrossed the ceilings and the floors while the ghastly, mutilated remains of his mother and her friend lay abandoned and alone in the center of the home. Too exhausted and overwhelmed to speak, Abdul cast his eyes one last time on the only person who loved him indubitably.

Six thousand miles away, Vincent was using his tiny legs to walk for the first time. Beth looked on and wiped away a tear. Brian would surely be proud.

Metamorphosis

Bitter sweetness of indifference,

shrug off inhibiting cocoon

Wings poised,

readyflight with uncharted winds..

I am inside her. A pungent smell overwhelms me but oddly, it does not irritate. The smell wakes me up when my mind flutters into existence, as it does every day now. I cannot see and I cannot hear. The odor is the only feeling that keeps me company. I do not know what my purpose is just yet. That is probably because I cannot move. Discoveries are only revealed when one makes an effort to seek it. I have not had that privilege just yet.

My surroundings have been thawing away minute by minute. I remember the moment I first realized existence. I was bound so tight I found it difficult to breathe. After my second awakening however, the strings that had bound me tight released some of their mighty grip. I spent days interpreting their graciousness. Was it out of pity? Were they only teasing my fragile mind, soon to shatter my false hopes of freedom and grip me tighter than ever before? Before long, I realized that the strings themselves had no power of their own. They were being guided by a higher power. A power unseen but a power that reeked of love.

I can feel the breeze now and the unnourished air has an aroma that is so refreshing. A few of the strings clutch on for their own individual last gasps. They must know by now that they have served their purpose and it’s time for me to move on. Miss me the strings shall, until another spirit discovers existence. Some of the strings will die, scorched by the searing heat of the sun. Most will return back into their shell and remain observant. To find and envelope a new lost soul, a naked spirit released from the gates of heaven or shunned from the cages of hell. I feel exhilarated at my proximity to freedom. However, no longer will I be protected. The strings imprisoned me, guided by the astuteness of my mother. The strings also cosseted me, blanketing me from the sun and feeding me water and food through their own pores. Selfless, they were thus deliberately ignorant of their pain and sacrifice. The last of the strings slithered away from their futile clinging. I am but a child, tip-toeing my way into the unknown.

……………………………………….

The shadows always seem to haunt me. I have tried walking in the dark to see if the shadows vanish upon realizing the enormity of black. Even the almighty sun cowers at her mere appearance, hiding behind the white, sacred light of the moon. Never peeking out until the dark says goodbye to the world after her mandatory twelve hours have passed. She was the gatekeeper to the haunting doors of hell and to displease the dark would be unwise indeed. Drift away into avoidable thoughts, I must not.

The wings have begun to weigh me down as I run through numerous days of awakening. Days become nights, nights become days, and the only constant is the repeated awakening from my dreams. Daily. Unvarying. Unavoidable. I do not know why my wings have started to feel heavier but it must be because the corruption was not sudden. Those nasty devils found their malignant way home inch by bitter inch, like nails that slowly pummel their way through a freshly painted wall. I wish I had fond memories of the innocence of the years that have gone by. Instead, all that my wings bear are guilt. Void of peace. Hungry for salvation.

As a youngling, I tried to spark conversation at the meeting grounds. The elders told me to. The grounds were a foreboding place at first. None of the other creatures fluttered their wings twice as was always done before conversing. A rookie mistake, the elders later said. It was the duty of a youngling to bow his head before addressing those who were born before him. I made many friends after mastering this silly ritual. The hierarchy bothered me more than it did the others. I could never quite grasp the concepts the elders taught me. Respect? The younglings were the future – if anything, the elders would logically be the inferior species. Honesty? The creatures who waited until the hunters brought back the harvest were ridiculous fools. Us, the select few, knew the hunters only brought back ten percent of their winnings. They consumed the rest with brutal lavishness on their measured, hearty way home. Stealing from the hunters and poisoning their hearts with misery satisfied me more than the food did. The elders were an abomination and a danger to the world as it existed. Only a swift, competent termination would be the solution.

I had persuaded even the uns, the youngest of the young, about the urgency of our task. The elders were archaic and incredibly restrictive in their thinking. They had taught us the mastery of warfare but had ignored the advancement of strategy. They had painted our wings with wax in order to armor our flight, but were strangers to the deviousness of evolution and sharper teeth. They had helped the dragonflies build their nests on all the trees along the border but did not foresee the dragonflies’ jealousy of our hunting bounty and their consistent hatred of our kind. The elders were loving but the elders were weak. It would require a monster to annihilate the very creatures that embraced him for who he was and taught him all he knew. The younglings and the uns would be the easiest to manipulate. I was a monster. I was their God.

We used the blackness of the night. Lava infused wax would do fine to protect the fragile bodies of my soldiers. I had seduced them into blood-lust and all that mattered now was their skill. The elders were our enemies and we would strike them where it hurt the most – the depravity of love and trust. It would be easier than I initially expected. Most of the elders were murdered in the split seconds between their delicate dreams and forced awakening. The ones who resisted did not last long. The haunting shockwaves of betrayed sight obliterated the elders’ souls before the younglings even commenced sinking their canines into poignant hearts.

……………………………………….

The air was stale but if it has been any sweeter, I wouldn’t have noticed. The riches that I had gathered were of no use to me in my decrepit state. After the massacre in the sacred forests, I had assumed power and authority over all of wingdom. None of the elders were spared and we became a younger, more radical nation. I kept some of the younglings close to my side but I began losing my trust in everybody else. They were all after my power anyway, waiting to usurp me of my rule. Soon, I began to order mass executions. The dragonflies helped cremate the dead as there was not enough land to bury every traitor. We were near the end of our civilization but none of my appointed queens would bear me any offspring. Everything was wrong and the neighbors were closing in with their armies. Passionately furious, I would order the slaying of every one of my hundred wives. The elders had diplomatic relations with the leader in every landmass surrounding our borders but because the elders were all dead, the murderous wretches would soon recognize conquest of the lands they had earlier promised to never attack. We were at world’s end and I could not bring myself to care.

The darkness had taken over me. I was powerless under its spell and it has caused me inflict pain and sadness among the many. I yearned to feel the strings again, sheltering my body and strengthening my mind. Wishful thinking though it was, bring a smile to my face it did. I had lost most of my strength and regretting my past did not renew a single aching muscle. I sensed movement. The dragonflies were here. I was to be put to death today and the final chapter of our existence would turn its final page. They led me to a pit bathed in bright, white light.

……………………………………….

The truth was nauseous in its blinding insanity. I was a subject under common surveillance ever since my first awakening. Created to serve a single purpose; a living, breathing time bomb. The answer to all the jealousy the neighbors had to endure as the elders built a prosperous nation. I had lived all my life in a fish bowl. Scrutinized daily by the brightest minds the neighbors could gather. The stench I endured during the first few days of my birth should have given me my earliest clue; there had to be something wrong with a disturbed awakening. My creators had probably sensed my inquisitive disbelief. That’s where the strings would come in. They soothed my body and therefore enchanted my mind. I would soon be far removed from acknowledging my dubious existence and questioning the forgery of my environment. The elders in my world were genetically altered dragonflies, serving only to temporarily substitute for the real elders in the outside world.

Every creature I had encountered was an individual unit of a massive lie; serving only to act as fearless characters in an elaborate screenplay. The crime I thought I had committed had not actually happened. My actions within the fish bowl and detailed analyses of my mental patterns had unlocked a deadly secret. I had invariably planned every single minute detail of the extermination of my species, and my every move was analyzed with intricate detail. The dragonflies and the other neighbors now knew how best to kill the elders. Strategy that had evaded them all along was now handed to them on a silver platter. All they needed to do was to understand our kind. I was created to give them that kryptonite. Soon armies of my duplicates would be built and sent to the necessary areas that would have to be conquered; the elders would be betrayed by their own.

I had served my purpose. Death was near and there was nothing I could do to warn my brothers of their impending doom. The dragonflies thanked me for my service as if it was my choosing. I had lived a malevolent life and the revelation that it was all an elaborately constructed hoax did nothing to soothe my sorrow. The strings closed in as they said they would. No longer were they silky in touch and pleasant in smell. Their malignant, gnarled edges tore open my skin and their corrugated edges served to bleed out every last sliver of my life. For the second time in my existence, the pungent smell enveloped me. I have failed you, my brothers.

Soaring higher than before,

wings full tilt, lofted

More esoteric form of self born,

alchemy of human metamorphosis resounds

Luck and the Irishmen

A bumbling young fool. Pa always called me that. As I made my way through the bustling Dublin traffic on my way to work, I thought of all things past and how they made up the present. I lived on Bride street and no matter how much Dublin had progressed with its government aided public transport, I loved the walk I had made for thirty seven years. Open my wooden door on Bride Street and breathe in the sausages and the Irish coffee. Walk down to Patrick St. and offer my head and knee to the Lord. St.Patrick's Cathedral. The birthplace of worship in all of Ireland. Strolling by would be a mother pushing a baby carriage, oblivious of all salient beings except her little daughter. Hand in hand would a couple walk, eager to break away on their own paths after a frilly night of incessant argument. An old tramp serves pigeons their daily bread, the same loaf that was given to him in evening past. All at St. Patricks. All creations of God.

A sharp left at High Street and as my fellow walkers and I stroll pass Meath Street, High bequeaths Thomas. A finger touches my head, chests and heart before it meets my cracked blue lips. The father. The son. The holy spirit. This was a ritual I particularly enjoyed. As a street changed its name by the mere crossing of another, so could God change your soul through the interference of one another blessed servant. Pa had left us when we were seven and Ma was thirty four. Brian, my twin brother, had left us soon after. Cancer they called it. Ma, in all her desperation, never forgot her will to serve all life. My brother would go but Ma would want another to live. So would I.

I passed Tommy drinking coffee at the McFadden Tea Stall on the right. As always, as was customary, Tommy waved and smiled like a thousand flashlights. He and I did not know each other but ever since he joined the Guinness workforce, he has always smiled loudly for twenty years past. Tommy was an awkward kid. Not many liked him for he never hung out with the rest of us when we went to McGuillens on Friday nights. He was a slow, sombre soul and did not show any emotion except when waving and smiling at me. I tried to approach him and talk to him on occasions but he never did respond verbally. He only nodded his head left and right, up and down. And smiled. That deep beautiful smile.

I was always an angry kid. Angry at my father for attacking my helpless mother on first instinct. Angry at my brother for being sickly and a permanent inhabitant of the deathly hallows. Angry at my mother for taking my father's abuse without so much as a little whimper. Angry at God for making us all wretched and poor. I would show my anger at none of them however. I took it all out on the rest of Dublin. Immigrant children would be beaten with my favorite log of wood and thrown into dumpsters. Bread and eggs would be stolen from the neighborhood grocer and tossed into the River Liffey. A waste, considering my family went hungry on many nights. When Brian died, Pa had already left us. With no source of income and no hope left, Ma turned to a poster. And a boy in Vietnam.

Thang Nguyen wanted to live. The Humanity Council on Arbour Hill promised redemption for all problems past and hope and love for all events in the future. As Ma had dialed the number on the poster, she whispered a silent prayer for Pa and Brian. She loved them and never did think about the sorrows of her past. The Council told her to come in for a meeting and look through brochures of people who were in a worse state than her around the world. She took me along because she did not trust me to take care of the house. Little did I know that Thang would change my life forever. Sophia, the sister in charge of the Humanity Council, told us that Thang would need a kidney to survive and they were looking for compatible donors in the first world. A sample of tests later, I was convinced with very little prodding that saving another body could save my own soul.

The operation was a resounding success. I was a perfect match and that was disturbingly surprising, considering all that led to it was a single, solitary poster. In a matter of minutes and bloody instruments, my body lost a kidney and Thang was brought back into life. A Red Cross airplane transported the organ packed deep into a milky ice pack. It flew magically into Cao Bang province, a vast expanse of land bordering the great Chinese empire. On the banks of the Bang Giang river, white faces and silver knives plunged deeped into Thang and after a bloody mess of bile and purple veins, he smiled for the first time in eleven years. Thang closed his eyes and thought of his faceless savior. A multiple hundred miles west, I felt my heart beat easier and felt the golden warmth of the sun and the stars take over my body.

Ah! Reminiscing the past always brings you closer to the present. It was twenty minutes past eight now and I was well in time for work. I crossed Rainford St. and as I entered the barracks of the Guinness Storehouse, my employer for the last thirty seven, I waved to Tommy. He was at his customary spot, loading barrells into the trucks. I worked in packaging, ensuring the barrells were full and that the quality was up to snuff. Every time I turned around bored, Tommy always had an eye on me and I never knew why. Sometimes it would become a game - I whipped my head around quick just to see if he was looking. He always was. Creepy in an odd sense. He was like my watchdog. It was the same today. As I marked the barrells and lifted them from the belt, Tommy kept peeking in. All I did as I always did was wave.

Should have listened to Ma. The sweater was cursed, she had always said that. A few minutes past nine and I could hear screams and moans. The blood was pouring on to my face now as my right hand, fingers already severed, was being dragged into the very conveyor it had worked on for ages infinitum. My hand was still attached to my body and I could sense the end was near. Soon I would be dragged into the infamous Dubliner Fermenter, a monster with four massive blades that churned the beer day and night, fall and spring. Thank you Ma for all the love and I forgive you Pa for all the hate. Brian, I shall see you soon, my love.

Tommy pulled me out. Tommy risked an arm and a leg to save me. As I was being carted in to the ambulance, he whispered the Holy Novena and told me everything would be alright. I pulled through and gave Tommy a smile as a symbol of holy gratitude. There was nobody but Tommy in the hospital. He held my arm as I rummaged through pain. He wiped away tears as I thought of family past. He fed me my porridge when the nurses were not concerned. He was an angel in disguise and a lot more in heart. On a Saturday morning posing as a cold wintry day is when it all made sense. Tommy showed me pictures. Of the rain trees in Cao Bang. Swimming in the Bang Giang. His mother proudly showing him off to their neighbors.

Tommy was Thang. Thang was Tommy. He had smuggled his way into the Irish wetlands and in the fashion of Celtic gratitude and redemption, wanted to serve me life just as I had done. I got better and Tommy felt the same sunlight seep into his heart. He needed that feeling and it had finally come.

We would be soul mates forever.

In colour's hieroglyphs of mystic sense,
It wrote the lines of a significant myth
Telling of a greatness of spiritual dawns,
A brilliant code penned with the sky for page. -

Karmoyogin. Canto One: The symbol of dawn.

The El from 69th Street

Seven U.S. soldiers killed in Ramala. Maddy took a quick glance at the television screen as he shoved the last piece of pancake into his mouth. CNN said the same things these days. It was always a bombing, always a suicide, and always Americans losing their lives. It angered Maddy that there were so many dying. He had begged Nicole not to go. Patriotism ran deep but nothing counted in a guilt-ridden war. Iraq was in shambles a few months back just as it is now. However, Nicole was steadfast in her trust of the President. The spirit of her country. The lives of her fellow people. She called on occasion but Maddy always feared for her. Brian was only six and missed his mother in the guise of an orphan. To Brian, Maddy was only an afterthought.

The yellow bus snaked its way through the lively streets. It was a searing summer morning and Philly was bustling with activity. Maddy stepped out into the street with Brian clinging onto his shoulders just as the bus halted to a distinct stop. “Off you go, my love”. Brian shook off Maddy’s kiss as he tumbled up the high steps. Maddy would wave goodbye in spite of Brian’s indifference. Sometimes, Brian’s friends would gesture back out of pity. Nobody did today. Maddy slowly shuffled back in and closed the baby blue door. He changed into his yellow overalls and kissed Nicole goodbye. A photo to replace her horrid absence.

The El was aberrantly sluggish today. Every stop seemed to take longer and Maddy felt a mounting sense of frustration. Jung docked his employees half their hourly wage for every minute they were late. And Maddy was never late. He couldn’t afford a pay-cut this week. Silvio had imposed a direct threat on Brian’s life and Maddy would not risk non-payment. He would need all of Jung’s charity this week.

30th Street Station. Maddy was half way there. Students, nurses, accountants, and every other Philadelphian conceivable swarmed into the already crammed train. Maddy scanned the crowd like he always did and noted something different. An Arab. Just like the ones CNN always interviewed. He was wearing a head-scarf too. Maddy had heard on the news that the terror code had been elevated. Subways and buses were always latent targets. “Hogwash!”, Maddy would allege whenever Nicole talked about the imminent peril immigrants brought to the United States. At this moment however, the Arab was a threat and Maddy felt it deep within his blood.

The El began to empty out as it made its way through the city. As the train accelerated out of Suburban Station, Maddy managed to get a clearer glance at the Arab. He was dressed in grey and had a spotless white headscarf. He appeared to be breathing heavily as rivulets of sweat streamed down his bullet ridden face. Odd. It was pretty chilly inside the car and to sweat was quite unfathomable. His face was sickeningly brown. Like a tanning machine subject gone bad. The Arab appeared to be working on something but Maddy did not have a clear view. He picked up his toolkit and made his way to a seat two rows behind the Arab. Much better.

Shock and awe. Maddy was immensely surprised nobody else had noticed what the Arab was doing. The Arab looked to be working with an electronic gadget of some sort. It had a row of four red lights that were blinking furiously and a set of color coded wires that snaked around a metallic box. A pair of scissors was feverishly snapping away at singular points. His perversely long brown fingers twisted the red and the blue together just as his teeth clenched the already knotted yellow and black. Maddy had seen this simulation before at the movies. A bomb. A Muslim suicide that would send innocent Americans into a vile, fiery death at the behest of a terrorist. CNN would report this story for weeks and then Philadelphia would forget. The world would move on as a single, solitary memoriam would have the ungratifying task of remembering the dead. Brian would be all alone. An orphan at last.

Market East Station. The police would need to be warned soon. Maddy stumbled as he heatedly searched for his phone. Thankfully, his signal strength was respectable. Maddy rushed to the back of the car and dialed 911. “Hello…Yes…There is a Muslim with a bomb on the 8am El out of 69th Street. Excuse me? Yes. I am positive. POSITIVE. Light black hair, grey suit, 30’s, white headscarf. The only Arab on this train. Yes. Yes. I always sit in the 3rd train car. Yes. Somebody intercept the train at 2nd. I’ll round up the passengers. Yes. I will be safe…..Hurry. Please.” Maddy gestured toward two construction workers and told them about his call. They would need to confront the Arab.

“Inshallah. Nahi. Nahi. Yeh bomb nahi hai. Oh Allah. Allah. Allah hu Akbar Allah.” Maddy’s face was burning up. The man refused to offer them the contraption. And the lights were blinking faster every second. Gibberish. That’s all he spoke. Maddy grabbed hold of the Arab’s arm and the construction worker attempted to grasp it out. He was pretty strong. Suddenly the Arab started flaying his arms. He was standing now and pointed the contraption at Maddy directly. A direct threat. Screams from the other passengers. The Arab was making circular gestures now. This was a bomb and he meant to use it. It would explode upon detonation and nobody dared go near the Arab. The train screeched out of 5th street. One stop to second. Maddy did not have much hope. His hands were shaking now and it was only a matter of time. Nicole, I love you. Brian, I love you. The words would barely come out.

2nd Street. The train stopped but the doors refused to budge. Maddy threw all his weight onto the door but to no avail. A loud thumping of a million footsteps. The police were here. An officer quickly broke the glass with his baton and rushed into the car. A hundred hands moved in unison as a hundred fingers pointed in one direction. At the Arab in the corner. Crouched into the fetal position and violently shivering.

“Put the bomb down Sir. NOW!”.

“Allah….Allah….Allah hu Akbar”.

Four M-16’s had their sights set on the Arab. A single click and everything would be over.

“NOW Sir. Put the bomb down NOW.”

The Arab stood up just as sixty bullets pummeled their way into his body within seconds. No scream. No agony. Gallons of blood. Maddy watched in slow motion as the Arab sunk into eternal sleep. It was over. Maddy was a hero.

“Rahim! Papa!”. Maddy watched in disbelief as Wasim popped his tiny head out of the city cab and rushed to the ambulance that carried the Arab. A woman followed, panting and screaming in utter desperation. Wasim? Brian’s best friend? Maddy inched his way to the medical personnel that were laying a white sheet over the Arab’s body. Wasim was strangely clinging on to the man’s body and refused to let go. It took two officers to pull the woman and the boy away. As they sat in the waiting facility, Maddy approached the officer in charge. The Arab’s son and the Arab’s wife. Maddy felt heady and nauseous. He walked past the police car and sat down next to Wasim. The tears formed unending rivulets but Wasim was not screaming anymore. In his hands, he held the metallic object. Maddy’s bomb. Maddy’s eyes opened wide and he felt the earth fall under him as Wasim spoke. “Papa couldn’t afford to buy me the fire engine Brian got for his birthday. This was his solution”.

Wasim laid his head on Maddy’s shoulders. Sans fire engine. Sans father.

An eternal fire

Parvati stormed into the palatial courtyard. King Dhruv had met her first in this now lifeless boulevard. He had told her how much he loved her and proudly talked about the wealth she would be privy to if she married him. The money did not concern her. She was born in modest circumstances and gold plated coins never did point their wretched and selfish fingers at her. Her ailing parents demanded most of her attention and her brother earned enough to keep the food warm and her parents alive. Dhruv and her were married the year after they had first met on the boulevard of false promises. The days and weeks were emotionally and physically satisfying until the others came into the fold. First it was Radhika. Then it was Shreya. Not long after came Pavitra. Ria followed. And so did Laira. Gita was supposed to be the last. Until Sheila finally rounded up the pack. Eight women. Seven days. One woman did not get her heart recharged every week. And this week it was Parvati’s plight.

She would refuse to be one of eight. Sixteen women in the near future was a distinct possibility. Dhruv had an insatiable appetite for unsullied flesh. It was time to leave. It was time to go back and serve her loving parents. She conversed with Dhruv and patiently listened to his childish tantrum. He would have none of it ofcourse. He promised her death by firing squad. Parvati would have to wait and bide her time. As she sullenly made her way back to the queen’s quarters, she reopened the note her servant had given her in the morning. It simply said “To the woman who will always be admired and adored. From the boy who may never have her".” On the back was an address. Parvati would go. Alone. She was notorious for making rational and secure decisions. Not this time. A lover patiently waited in the drunken expanse that made up Dhruv’s kingdom.

Mandakini washed her hands and set down the bronze plate her husband used. Arjun would be coming home soon and dinner was taking longer than usual. A silent drop of sweat made a slow, sacred descent down her tired face. She had nursed her baby son for most of the day. When the baby had finally closed its miniature darling eyes, she began mixing the dough and rinsing the vegetables. Arjun demanded something special every Wednesday. Physical abuse was the norm. A whipping was the exception. And if dinner did not satisfy his usually inebriated mind and body, a whipping is what she got. The fact that the vegetables were taking longer to cook was terrifying. Her fragile body was at its breaking point. If her son was to become a successful merchant someday, he would need his mother’s nourishing.

Arjun slammed the door shut. He was obviously in a bad mood. He glanced quickly at his son and then shook his head in disgust. Mandakini quickly removed the vegetables from the burning fire and faithfully served her husband. One scoop. Two. Arjun then roughly pushed her away from him. Mandakini creeped back into the darkness. She mouthed a silent prayer and closed her eyes for two minutes. As she slowly opened them she caught a reflection of the chaata. Time felt like an eternity before the numbing pain finally took over all the nerves in her body. A single stroke. Deathly pain. Blood from the recesses. A sufferer’s shame. Arjun fell asleep soon after the alcohol completely warped his brain. Mandakini prayed this was the night. She silently stripped herself off her rags and donned her husband’s clothes. A distraught soul staggered out into the nectar-sweet night sky.

She took him into her arms. He kissed her forehead and nudged her ears with his nose. He kissed her chin and in excruciating slowness made his way two inches to her lips. She bit his lip passionately and drew in the silent stream of warm red. As their tongues interlocked in an exhilarating embrace, she looked into his brown eyes and immediately drew comfort. He breathed in her fragrance as he brushed his tongue on her neck. Three subtle vertical strokes was all it took to feel her cringe in his arms. He traced his long fingers down her spine and tiptoed patiently to her breasts. He cupped her left while he gently circled the right with his puckered mouth. She grabbed his hair, drew his face to hers and kissed him with fervor and unblemished passion. Then began an uncompromising descent into his deepest secrets.

Dhruv did not suspect a thing. Parvati always left in the dead of the night and her faithful servant kept a constant lookout for spies and Dhruv’s numerous confidants. Dhruv questioned her new found happiness once but was immediately appeased when Parvati told him it was only because she looked forward with fiendish excitement to spending every eighth day with him. All was merry and happy until that fateful day in November. Parvati was coming back from the royal baths when the king’s chief minister blocked her path and told her that Dhruv was dead. A peasant woman had shot at him while he was on his weekly hunt. She had escaped before the royal guards could catch her. A massive hunt was organized nevertheless to find the killer. Blood rushed into Parvati’s head. As first wife, she would be forced by societal and religious custom to keep her husband company as their souls made their royal journey into the underworld. There was no escape.

Parvati was dressed in red. She looked beautiful even in the face of impending death. The procession snaked its way slowly through the city streets. Dhruv was being carried in a gold-plated chariot and thousands of people threw rose petals and tulsi leaves at his body.
Parvati walked a few feet behind and she received the same adolation and attention. She had wanted to see him before her final moments but he was nowhere in sight. It was futile – she had not heard from him in months and he had probably given her up for good. Just like Dhruv once did. Death would not be easy and all she wanted was to smile in a solemn moment of happiness before her soul wrenched itself away from the physical. Dhruv was laid on a bed of the finest sandalwood. Thirteen logs would suffice to take the couple into their next life. Parvati crossed her legs, folded her hands, and took a final respectful bow at her subjects. The head priest brought forward a shapely log of oak and lit it on fire. With a gracious sweep that signified finality, he set the pyre ablaze.

Parvati silently watched the flames surround her and caught a familiar figure in the background. Mandakini? She had come to say goodbye! To Parvati’s complete and utter surprise, Mandakini hastily took off her clothes. Arjun’s clothes. In stark nakedness and in full view of the public’s disbelieving gasps, she made seven gracious steps and stepped into the burning flames. The royal guards immediately recognized her. The peasant who had the audacity to kill the king. Parvati shrieked with delight as she embraced her in loving submission. The boy who claimed he would never have her. Her man. Her woman. Her blood. Her soul. As the fire burned away their flesh, Parvati looked into Mandakini’s brown eyes and fell in love again. They would be together forever. Hiding was no more an option.

In your love, my salvation lies...

And I had a dream I stood beneath an orange sky...With my sister standing by With my sister standing by...I said Sister, here is what I know now...Here is what I know now...Goes like this.. In your love, my salvation lies...In your love, my salvation lies...In your love, in your love, in your love...

I looked at my sister lying quietly in the makeshift cot. She looked so beautiful in the night sky. Our neighbors had always called her a blue goddess. She was dressed in coal like the rest of us when the sun shined down during the mornings. However, she fascinatingly evolved into a beautiful and blue princess when the moon swallowed the sun later during the day. Father had been upset when she was born. He had always wanted a second son to help with the tiny plot of land the government had not taken away from us. Socialism they called it. Communism some others did.

We called it fate. We called it life. Father worked so hard every day to feed us. The hospital bills and the frequent militia raids offset any meagre savings we created out of the dry, scorching air. Times were tough and the only variable that kept our family smiling was Chantal, the blue goddess of the Nile. Anybody else in our struggling town would have given up Chantal for dead. Not us. Not after all we had gone through. The doctors promised hope and we thrived on these solitary sparks of anticipation. Chantal would get better. If only God could tell us when.

Drops of water. They keep dripping into our bamboo hut. Father knows the roof will break any time now. The rain fell like bullets on an angry mob. Chantal was getting worse and mother was starting to get worried. We needed medicines but we had none left. It was up to me, Mwale Akloyo, to save my sister's life. Redeem my father's faith in my boyish spirits. Bring in the elixer of immortality. Raise my mother's spirits. Even if it was only for one selfish day. There were reports that the Janjaweed planned to attack the city where Doctor Kwame lived. I had to be careful but I had never been caught before. They would find no use for me anyway. I was rail-thin and could barely hold a gun, let alone fire one. I would make a lousy child soldier and they knew it.

Mother looked at me dispassionately as father handed me a glass of goat's milk. She was tired and miserable. We were living in one of the darkest times of my country's history. We were the poster children of humanitarian projects. A hungry and lifeless family living in a nation where thousands died everyday. We were the dark, black faces on American television screens. Begging for salvation, peace, forgiveness, and safety. Losing hope as bullets, diseases, and hunger eliminated every one of us. Individually. Effectively. Efficiently.

I dodged bullets. Except there were none. I imagined them dropping dead as soon as they landed on my inpenetrable and invisible silver coat. The reports should have been characterized as rumors. There were no Janjaweed in sight. I walked with my chin up and my head held high. Mwale Akloyo. The savior of the blue goddess. The dark knight of Africa. I smiled hesitatingly as Doctor Kwame gave me the striped orange and white crystals. He gave me a reassuring smile as he told me this would keep Chantal alive. He promised me a month and I told him I would sing a prayer in his honor if his science gave me a day. A single, solitary day. As I walked back, I saw a couple lying naked on the street. Chest to back. Perfectly fit into each other's nooks. Like little spoons in a kitchen drawer. Their bodies creating a single, stunning form. Without a care in the world. Completely and delightfully ignoring death threat reports by the Janjaweed. I immediately knew everything was going to be alright.

Gunfire! The sound of a thousand bullets! I was not imagining it this time. My heart was in my stomach as I ran like a saint on fire. The reports were right after all. Except for the most important variable. The town they were supposed to attack. My town. My family. The Gods were coming down to haunt us again. And this time there would not be anything left to hope for. The wind gave me speed as I rushed through the wild brush. Panting. Gasping. My legs felt like chopped wood but I could not stop. If my family had to die, I would die with them. As I neared our home, I heard hoofbeats. The silent and scary winds brought only the steady and distant sound. Of aggresors fleeing after causing utter and complete destruction. Of the reviled militia. The harbingers of doom. The spirits of death.

I burst through the door and howled like there was no tomorrow. Blood from madness. Evil from good. My parents had fallen over my sister's cot. They were all dead. In fifteen seconds of annihilation, I had lost everything I had in this world. As I slowly creeped up to the carnage, I saw a blue finger raise itself from the dead. I watched in gorgeous technicolor as a fist pushed its way through my father and my mother. The blue nile was alive! I rushed to drag her out from underneath her parents' bodies. My sister was alive! Hope had risen through the carnage.

The sand turned orange as my father's blood rejuvenated the earth. The sky turned orange as my mother's spirit lifted up into the heavens. My sister remained a ravishing blue goddess. I was at peace again. Love. Life. Health. And hope.

...But sister you know I’m so weary...And you know sister...My hearts been broken Sometimes, sometimes...My mind is too strong to carry on...Too strong to carry on...You who are my home...And here is what I know now...Here is what I know now...Goes like this.. In your love, my salvation lies...In your love, my salvation lies...In your love, in your love, in your love...

Poem Credits (Italicized): Alexi Murdoch, Orange Sky.

Humble innocence

My first vivid memory places me three feet next to that orange scooter. I look into your slightly confused eyes as I beg and plead for another ride. Those trusting mellow brown eyes that look hauntingly like mine. You brush my fluffy black hair and give me that reassuring smile, which in turn implies a stable promise. We walk up the flight of stairs that leads up to our small but comfortable apartment. One honest hand leading two hopeful ones. I have to skip every alternate stair in order to keep pace with your brisk ascent. However, no ounce of gravity defiance can keep me away from your scooter. Jump I shall. A single series of hops maintain a dubious rhythm. I am panting quite distinctly now as we finally reach our home in the clouds. Amma takes the groceries away from your tired hands. You affectionately brush her hair but she shies away after an emotional acceptance of your solitary, yet simple, physical gesture. You beam at me again, telling me how proud you are of me. I revel in that lather of love but immediately imagine myself on that scooter again. You sense my anxiousness and guide me downstairs. I start to break away but I am quickly stopped by your firm grasp. It was a hindrance then but fifteen years into the future, your son knows why you stopped him. Protectiveness. Love. Compassion. Knowledge. Fear.

I would stand in the front while you piolted that fashionably ugly vehicle through the streets of Madras. The wind would try and tear my glasses away. The sun would cast its angry red shadow on my back. The smoke and dust from the fancy cars that screeched past us would hurt my eyes and have me sneeze uncontrollably. None of this mattered. It was a moment of freedom and I rightly felt on top of the world. It was a moment to be alone with you even though I would never admit it. It was a moment away from the chores Amma had me do. Moments not to be taken away.

I would accompany you everywhere on that scooter. We would ride to the temples with Amma sitting behind us like a ravishing princess. I would turn off the ignition secretly just as Amma stepped onto the rear pedestal, leaving both you and Amma confused beyond belief. Why was the motor shutting down just as she stepped onto the plate? Ten rupees given to the nearby mechanic did not solve the problem. It was only when I spilled the beans did everything make sense to you. You were more astonished than surprised. Your little ten year old son had just paid you back for those countless scooter trips. He had now taken you for a ride. In the literal sense of the word. This was not a ploy I created to irritate you. This was an attempt at bridging an alternate connection to your world. You had loved me enough. This was my way of thanking you for those wonderful moments. I knew I could show you gratitude by taking an interest in being more in tune with your world. You would now have a silly little story to tell your friends at work. I would now be a subject of many conversations.

I look back at those days with a smile. You have always been the rock of our family, through good times and the bad. Your smile could part rivers and make hell feel like God’s paradise. Your affectionate gestures and remarks made my most horrid moments disappear into the darkness. Your honesty and genuine trust of people did have negative consequences. You lived by the book my darling father. That single, subtle, aspect should not define our bad times. It’s not your fault this vile world is corrupt. If only there were more men like you. I should consider myself lucky. I was created by you. I was educated about the various facets of life by you. I was taught the ground rules of sincerity, humility, and honesty by you. I was nourished and cared for by you.

Your gifts can never be repaid, no matter how hard I try. I resign to shaping myself to become you.

My father. Mohan Nair.