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.

©Govind Mohan – http://govindmika.blogspot.com. All rights reserved.

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.

©Govind Mohan – http://govindmika.blogspot.com. All rights reserved.

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.

©Govind Mohan – http://govindmika.blogspot.com. All rights reserved.