Death comes as the end

Another assignment shared by J. 

Write a story (or part of a story) about a relatively young person (let's say under 40 years old) who will die soon. Only, s/he has no idea about this. You, the all-seeing author, do know: so write with that knowledge affecting your writing in whatever way it can or will.

As he stepped out of his brownstone, he gave a shrill whistle, calling to halt a taxi on the opposite lane. Sprinting into the cab, he quickly rattled off the familiar Chinatown address. Today was the day. He could feel it, luck was finally going to look upon him and smile benevolently. All he had to do was reach on time.

He had been chasing these coins for so many years; that they should turn up in his neighbourhood seemed fortuitous enough. Coins from the Qing dynasty were floating around in the black markets around the world, but these were special simply because they were also known as powerful amulets. After all, the emperor Kangxi, in whose time this coin was cast, was believed to have enjoyed a long and prosperous reign. He would love to live longer and possess some more of these beautiful artefacts; who wouldn’t want to welcome more prosperity! He could just imagine the future filled with prized antiques.

As he got down from the taxi, he looked around to ensure that he was not followed. One could not be careful enough. He had met his share of nasty people while dealing with antiques and had learnt how to protect his interests in a way. Nothing could stop him from attaining the Kangxi coins, unless a rival had beaten him to it. No! He could never allow such a travesty to occur. He first heard of the coins when pursuing the 1000-year-old coins from the Northern Song Dynasty somewhere in Mongolia and ever since, all his other purchases failed to thrill him. The coins falling in the hands of another collector would be sacrilegious. Only he knew their worth, only he was his truest admirer and they belonged to him and him alone!

He quickened his step, at times breaking into a run. He huffed a little bit, his lungs straining to keep up with his eagerness. He knew he had to slow down; the doctors treating his fungal pneumonia had warned him about his suppressed immunity. His stride slowed a bit but the coins seemed to call out to him; they would not wait. He increased his pace, half skipping, half jogging, finally bursting into a run as if it were a now or never moment, veering and dodging the obstacles in the pokey alleys of Canal Street only to come to a crashing halt, as he stumbled into a stack of wooden crates carelessly piled. He cursed and grumbled as he pushed the contents of the crates away, staggering and slipping in his attempts to get going. Finally he scrambled up, brushing away the dust and the glitter from whatever was in those boxes. He felt a stinging, burning sensation on his shin, he even felt the warm trickle of blood; he pulled his pants up a bit and noticed the cut—it wasn’t deep, it wasn’t bad. He had endured worse, survived all kinds of horror and come out victorious. Would he let a minor scratch stop him? Would it come in the way of possessing health and prosperity? No never. He would take his coins, and then move to explore the immeasurable treasures hidden within hundreds of miles of underground passages in Ecuador. He was destined for greatness; at 37, the youngest ever to do so. His future was set and nothing would come in its way.

The day before the day - Dido

As poignant as ever... for the first time even Dido failed to cheer me.

Speeches won't be made today, clocks will carry on

Flowers won't be left in parks, work will still be done

People won't be dressed in black, babies will be born

No flags will fly, the sun will rise but we will know that you are gone

...

I didn't get to say goodbye the day before the day

Was trying to get to work on time that's why I turned away

And missed the most important thing you ever tried to say

I've lived my life without regret until today

Another year older

The mountains have never been conquered, the dance classes have started and ended with me being the same—adamant, do-my-own-steps person, the guitar learning ambitions have died their natural death though they resurface every time I get home, the singing still continues, and the pottery class will remain on the to-do list.

Reflections are inevitable before a birthday. You wonder at the pace at which time flies; you once had all the time in the world and just like that you’ve reached an age that once seemed to be eons away. I don’t seem to be ‘feeling’ my age as people tend to say you do; for me it just feels like a digit change. Except on the few occasions when you have to fill the age in forms, I never quite realized that I’m in my mid-30’s. I love the look of surprise when people get to know my age. After a decade of being told that I look older than my age, it feels nice to be on the other side of the fence (shallow, I know, but we all have our guilty pleasures).

In the years that have sometimes passed like a blur, I’ve accumulated things, people, habits, mementos and trophies. Looking back, I’ve realized that I haven’t done great things, certainly not by any measurable standards but my life is dotted by plenty of small good things and blessings. I have my family who I can certainly fall back on no matter what. All the grumbling I’ve done over the years for the coddling and intrusions are the very things that have kept me alive and whole, the friends I have may not be too many, but I know that each of them love me. Some of them have been with me for almost two decades of my life. Their continued presence in my life is like a reassurance that I have something good within. My phone may not ring continuously or I may not be texting even but when they call me out of the blue just to let me know that they think of me, I feel blessed.

My life hasn’t turned out exactly as I thought and hoped it would. At times I grumble, but mostly I find myself just riding through whatever comes my way. It has not been easy to accept that some things haven’t come my way or a few have disappeared from my life. What have I earned in my life? What do I have to show for my 34 years of existence? Nothing much and yet, so much. 

The story continued ...

J shared her assignment from DD's Travel Writing Bus last month. I make her writing assignments my writing assignments, so DD is my mentor once removed (is that even applicable?).

The assignment: "Everything they say about wartime romance is true. When I saw my bride, she was in the most unravishing pose possible -- slouched against the wall in a windowless alcove, with both shoes off and her hair, which had become dishevelled when he had taken off her hat to adjust it, falling across one eye."

(from "Killing Rommell" by Steven Pressfield).

Write a story, up to 500 words, that starts with those two sentences.

My attempt:

Everything they say about wartime romance is true. When I saw my bride, she was in the most unravishing pose possible — slouched against the wall in a windowless alcove, with both shoes off and her hair, which had become dishevelled when he had taken off her hat to adjust it, falling across one eye. She stood there gasping for breath before breaking out into peals of laughter. He continued relentlessly, poking her sides and tugging her hair a bit more; the more she tried to evade, the more he persevered.

Her laughter rang through the quiet walls, echoing and mixing with his chuckles to produce a melody I longed to hear all these years. I stood there, observing her (and him), glad to be back. It took me back to when I first saw her at village festival—all dressed up in a pale yellow dress, a straw hat that covered her auburn hair and a pouch (which I would then see dangling on her wrist every time we met). She was selling pies —warm, gooey, strawberry, blueberry and cherry pies. I can’t remember what I purchased; all I remember was biting into a sweetness like never before. It must have shown on my face, for her gaze held on to mine in that knowing way. Her voice was even toned, not too shrill or too soft, and it sounded angelic to me, and when she asked me if I wanted more, there was no way I could say no.

It was her voice that lulled me to sleep in the cold trenches, her eyes that drove away the demons that haunted my sleep. Just the thought of getting back home, to her, kept me from doing anything stupidly heroic. She was my lodestar; my saviour who helped me endure all the horrible sounds that groaned and moaned and whistled their way all day and night.

Hearing her call out to him snapped me back to reality. They were running around, mindful of the sparse furniture, stalling, standing, teasing and laughing. There was so much fun and lightness to that moment that I hesitated to intrude. I stood there for longer, observing the changes in her. She looked taller and her hair was definitely longer. She was more womanly now; gone was that girlish charm that I remembered. Would her eyes still light up with warmth for me? Would her arms embrace and enfold me with love? Would she still remember those kisses?

I couldn’t hold back any longer. I pushed open the garden gateway and smiled as I spotted the rose garden in bloom. I smiled, remembering how much she loved her roses. As I made my way through the open door, I called out to her. They stopped immediately, froze and then she was in my arm and I knew I was home. I clung to her, happy and delirious, grateful and teary, kissing her with all the love I felt—our sweet and salty kisses that belied any anguish I may have felt. 

Now as I look at her, the eyes still sparkled with love for me, and I know her arms would hold me close forever. She didn’t flinch at my appearance, at the scars that marred my face, or even the loss of my arm. She held onto my hand, and kissed it; it was all the assurance I needed that I was still her man. Years ago, it broke my heart to leave her alone, a young bride, a stranger in a new place, yet I knew that our love would endure everything. And it had, she made this place blossom with love, my brother laugh with abandon. She filled my life with a hope that I knew would last us for now into forever.

Small wonders

It’s in the small steps.

Like tentatively reaching out to hold his hand and then being confident enough to let it stay there, as if it was meant to be there all along.

It’s in the littlest gestures.

Like surprising him by remembering the innocuous things he tells you.

It’s in the little things.

Like taking over from him when he is too tired or upset to function without saying a word.

Oxymoron

I’ve always maintained that I’m a fraud when it comes to understanding English grammar. I just happen to be blessed in a way that lets me be proficient in the language without really grasping the basics that make up the language. Time and again, I get exposed whenever someone asks me a grammar-related question.

So imagine my surprise when I found myself teaching my landlady’s daughter how to identify tenses. Needless to say, I was as lost as her but I think I did a better job of pretending I understood. As she looked at me for confirmation for answers that she was guessing (you know the ones where we add that question in our voice while answering — Simple Present Tense?), I peeked into the book to make sure I knew the answers. We both bluffed our way through a one-hour session of Future Perfect, Past Perfect and more. Put it down to small mercies that she did not have Future Perfect Continuous tense or Past Perfect Continuous tense.

Flipping through the pages, I noticed that her next lesson is Gerunds and Infinitives. My mind frantically searched for places to which I could disappear for the next couple of weeks.  As I went through the book, my heart sank as I read words like past participle, modifiers and more. I know if I sit to answer a grammar test where I would have to identify the main clause, adverbial clause, parts of speech or even simpler stuff, I would definitely fail.

Now, I just have my fingers crossed that the girl does well in her test.

Sent packing

It was a disaster. I sat there trying to calm my nerves, trying to stop my hands from pulling my hair off my head and from reaching the phone to say, “I can’t do this,” desperately trying to not have a full blown panic attack. Everything was a mess around me—clothes strewn in a heap, bottles scattered on the floor vying for space with packages and bags; and there I sat amidst that constricting circle of four open suitcases waiting to be packed.

It goes without saying—I am a horrible packer; it’s not like I can’t pack but more like I prefer not to pack, especially for a long journey. Things had to be labeled, everything had to be sorted so the weight is distributed equally, and also the contents so as not to arouse suspicion of overzealous customs officials, and the list, that never ending list of what cannot be left behind at all, was getting on my nerves. I took a deep breath and said, “Take it easy. One bag at a time.” Famous words, especially when I was struggling to fit things in the last suitcase. I can honestly say, I wanted to cry. Out of frustration. Out of helplessness. Out of frustration at being so helpless. Four hours later (or was it six, it felt like a lifetime though), at 11:30 in the night, as I forced zipped the last bag, I swore to never open the bags, till I got back home. That’s when I saw two small polyethylene bags, one with food tins and the other with Christmas decorations that needed to go in. I shut my eyes in silent rage and decided to just add another bag and stuff it there.

Today, I go back to reopening the bags. My sister, the expert packer, is coming in to help. It’s absolutely embarrassing but at least I know that everything will be in properly and not a thing will be left out.

All I can think of at the moment to best describe my situation is ‘Three Men in a Boat’ by Jerome K Jerome (somehow the author’s name is unforgettable) and with all pardon to Jerome, “Packing is (definitely not)one of those many things that I feel I know more about than any other person living.”