Laptop Diary Short Stories

Laptop Diary
Short Stories
A Handful of Olives Three Men And A Grave Taking For Granted Meet Mr. David Foster Blood And Butter No. 20, Kennet Lane In Memory Of The Last Caller Colourless Snow A Boy Named Chris A Train Ride Forgiven But Not Forgotten The Airport Story

A Handful of Olives
Maryam believed in the story of olives. Even when her elder brother Jassim mocked her, the seven year old girl refused to change her opinion. So you re telling me that olives can protect you from evil? asked Jassim, his tone revealing his disbelief. Maryam nodded her head vigorously. That s what Grandmother used to say, wasn t it? She said that if there was an olive tree outside our house, angels would guard us from all harm. And that whenever we were frightened, all we had to do was hold a handful of olives in our right hand. You heard her say all this, didn t you? Jassim merely chuckled, and said nothing. He was smart enough not to believe in such stories. After all, he was almost 13 years old ****

Jassim, go and water the olive tree, Jassim s mother said, as she combed Maryam s hair. Jassim looked irritated. Why should I water the tree? Cant Maryam water it herself? Jassim, don t argue. You need to go to the grocery after this. I want you to water the tree immediately. Jassim hated watering the tree. It couldn t technically be called an olive tree, since it was barely as tall as Jassim, and definitely much weaker. Yet, ever since his Grandmother had told them about the story of Olives, Jassim was asked to water the Olive tree. He secretly suspected it was all done just to please Maryam.

It was a sunny, yet cool December morning, and the village where Jassim lived, just on the outskirts of Gaza, looked picturesque. After filling the heavy bucket, Jassim walked towards the olive tree, and was about to start watering it, when he heard odd noises. Jassim was too young to recognize the sound of an attack helicopter. But as he looked up towards the sky, he saw the imposing mechanical war machine advance towards him. And instinctively, the bucket dropped from his hand. The water spilled, forming a puddle around the olive tree. Suddenly, there was a loud explosion, and a moment later, the spilled water turned blood red. As the helicopter passed by, Jassim s uncle ran out of the house, yelling at the top of the voice. Maryam s mother dashed towards the window, fear instantly reflected on her face. Thankfully, Maryam was too short to reach the window. She didn t see her brother lying on the ground, next to the olive tree, blood gushing from his body ****

Jassim had never slept so peacefully before. As he opened his eyes again, he felt the soft blanket beneath his body, and immediately realized that he wasn t lying in his bed. Where am I? he cried out, and looked around. Sitting a few meters from his bed was his mother, her cheeks streaming with tears. A man dressed in white stood over him. For some reason, his smile felt comforting. Assalamu Alaikum, Jassim! You re a very brave boy, do you know that? Doctor Khalid said. Why? What happened? You survived a great explosion. And due to God s grace, you re safe. Of course, you re head must still be paining, he added, as he saw Jassim touch his forehead. Jassim fell silent, and merely looked around him. Where s Maryam? he finally asked. Ah, Maryam s fine. In fact, she must be waiting to see you, Jassim. But you ll have to rest now. You re in Qatar now, Jassim. Once you re healthy again, we ll take you to see you re sister again. Okay? A few minutes later, once his mother had kissed him profusely and thanked God for his mercy, everyone left the room. Jassim slowly drifted off to sleep. He dreamt of returning to his house. Of seeing Maryam again. After all, he had to tell her about how the Olive tree saved his life **** For the next few days, Jassim lived a life which he was very much unused to. Doctor Khalid seemed to have taken a special liking towards him. Not only did he get three full meals a day, the nurse who took care of him, made sure he didn t have to move a muscle all day long. Oddly though, Jassim was not allowed to see the television, even though there was a set in his room. And the Doctor firmly refused to give him any magazines or newspapers to read. One evening after seeing Jassim fall asleep, Doctor Khalid returned to the Cafeteria. His friend Dr. Thomas was waiting for him. How s the Gaza boy doing? Dr. Thomas asked.

He s doing fine. It s Gaza that s in trouble, isn t it? Doctor Khalid replied bitterly. Overhead, the television carried images of dead and wounded Palestinians. A small scroller mechanically updated the death toll. It s horrible, the way things are turning out. What about Jassim s family? His mother and father are here. They ll be staying until Jassim is completely fit again. Then, I guess they ll have to return to their village. Or at least what s left of it . **** 12 days after he woke up in the hospital, Jassim mustered enough courage to ask Doctor Khalid the question. Doctor, when will I be able to return home? he asked, when the doctor had come for a routine check up. Soon, Jassim. Within a few days. Then, could I send a letter? Doctor stopped reading his pad, and looked at the 13 year old boy. A letter? To whom? To my sister Maryam. She must be worried about me. I just want to let her know everything s fine. So could I send the letter? Why not. I mean, sure. You can write the letter today. And we ll send it by tomorrow morning, okay? As he walked away, Doctor Khalid felt worried. He didn t know Jassim had a sister. He wondered what happened to her ****

Yves Martin, a Red Cross worker, surveyed the town of Al Mughraqa, his face showing signs of sorrow and pain. The destruction was unimaginable, to say the least. In front of his eyes, lay disseminated buildings, fallen electricity poles, and worst of all, limp corpses. Jesus Christ! Yves whispered, as he set out to clear the dead bodies. He reached the rubles of what once used to be a home, and began searching for corpses. As he sifted through the stones and steel, something caught his eye. ****

Doctor Khalid shook Jassim s hand, and gave him a warm hug. It was a joy to have you here, Jassim. May you grow up to be a smart, wonderful man. Take care now. And take care of your mother. I will, Jassim said solemnly, nodding his head. And then, after a pause, he asked. Doctor, did you send the letter which I gave you, to my sister? Yes Jassim, I made sure it was sent. Why do you ask? Nothing. She didn t reply for all these days. I thought she hadn t got the letter. But now if she has, then Doctor Khalid smiled. Don t worry, Jassim. You ll see her soon. There won t be any need for a letter.

After Jassim s parents had thanked the Doctor and nursing staff, the car left Hamad Medical Hospital. As he saw the car make its way out of the hospital compound, a question entered Doctor Khalid s mind. Nurse, why did you give Jassim those olives? Oh, that! the nurse smiled, well, it seems Jassim s grandmother told him that olives will bring protection from harm and evil. Ever since he was saved from the explosion, Jassim s believed in the story of the olives. It sounds a little silly, but after all, he s just a child. Doctor Khalid smiled melancholically. No, it doesn t sound silly. The olives symbolize protection from harm. It s a source of hope for Jassim. And when he returns to Gaza, he ll need a lot of that. Hope. Hope and faith. ****

"Assalamu Alaikum Dear Brother,

I felt so happy when I read your letter. Thank God, you re alright. I and Uncle Basheer were praying for your health for all these days. When will you return home? I m waiting to see you, brother. It s terrifying here, with all the bombs and helicopters. Uncle Basheer says there s nothing to worry about, but I see him pray for our safety, late at night. I ve been saying all the prayers which Father taught us. And whenever I get very scared, I hold a handful of olives. Remember what Grandmother told us? Hope to see you and Mother and Father soon.

Assalamu Alaikum. Maryam." Yves finished reading the letter. His eyes fell on the body which lay limp beneath the ruble. As he slowly pushed away the debris, he caught a glimpse of the girl s clenched right fist. He opened the fist slowly. What he saw brought tears to his eyes. Maryam had a handful of olives in her hand. Just before the bomb landed on her house **** Jassim felt happy as he boarded the plane. Within a few hours, he would be back in Gaza. He would be able to see his sister soon. As he buckled his seat and waited for the plane to take off, his mother knew what he was going to face once the plane would land. She closed her eyes and whispered a small prayer: Oh God, give Jassim the strength to bear his loss. Make his soul firm and strong. Do not burden us with pain. Oh God, give us strength, give us strength

Three Men And A Grave
Perhaps I am not the right person to be narrating this story. After all, how many people would actually want a person lying in a coffin in Hale Corbin Cemetery to tell them an anecdote? But I guess I am the only one who can tell the story, so here goes.

One night, I was lying in my grave like I was supposed to be when trouble began brewing. The cemetery is always guarded by three watchful, yet slightly corrupt watchmen, who are given strict instructions not to let anyone inside after midnight. On this particular night, however, a man named Stan walked into the cemetery. It was a chilly night, and not the perfect time for a stroll. Yet Stan carefully walked through the cemetery, trying his best not to upset any dead chaps lying in their graves. Finally, he reached the centre of the walled cemetery, considerably distant from the nearest living being. With a small sigh which you might see school boys give as they start their homework, Stan took out a spade that he had concealed beneath his cloak, and began to dig. It was 12: 15 when he started, and I think it took him about twenty five minutes to finish removing the soil * * * * * * * * A month earlier, there had been an amazing scandal that shook London. Not literally, of course, but the events that took place filled every major newspaper in town. Four men were involved in a bloody murder, the kind that would make even the toughest of men shriek with fear. They had conspired to kill an extremely rich business man, take his wealth, and live happily ever after. The usual kind of stuff. What was unusual was how they set about murdering the poor fellow. After intruding into his house and overpowering him, they set about cutting him up. Later, the body was disposed off cleanly, and the perfect murder was over. However, just when the four men had decided to enjoy their new found wealth, the law decided to ask a few questions. All four of them were charged with murder, and the case made headlines. That s when things took a really nasty turn * * * * * * * * Stan had finished digging the first grave, and paused to take a break. Wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead, he was about to continue, when he seemed to hear the rustling of leaves. Instinctively, he turned around. Obviously he couldn t see anyone. Stupid graveyard, he muttered to himself, and continued digging * * * * * * * * Two of the four men, Rupert and Sebastian, were the prime suspects in the murder case. They were offered a deal by the prosecution. Reveal who committed the murders, and they would be set free. Rupert and Sebastian already knew what they had to do. Jeffrey Wallace was the least brilliant among the four of them. He would have to be the scapegoat.

It was all carried out swiftly. The Prosecution was granted an arrest warrant for Jeffrey. They wasted no time in setting out to capture him. Unfortunately, Jeffrey wasn t as dumb as everyone thought he was. He knew his game was up, and did the smart thing before the police would lay a finger on him. Jeffrey committed suicide. The murder case fell apart from then onwards. The prime suspect had committed suicide, and the prosecution couldn t harm Rupert and Sebastian. It all seemed to be going according to plan. Of course, nothing ever goes according to plan. The prosecution may have been on the right side of law, but they were just as cunning as the murderers. Rumors were leaked that Rupert and Sebastian were cold blooded criminals who had gotten away with murder. That was enough to damage their reputation. The wealth they had looted was still safe, but what was the use now? And like all good plans turned bad, this one too had a sad ending. The newspapers squashed the business by announcing that Rupert and Sebastian had died of excessive drinking. It was a sad end to a bloody story. Or so it seemed * * * * * * * * It was close to 12: 30 when Stan finished digging both the graves. Then, sinking the spade into the soil, he took out a lock pick, and got to work. Although he had practiced it a hundred times, it was still difficult. Finally, the locks were broken. Smiling with glee, Stan opened the coffins * * * * * * * * The doctors knew it was possible. Reducing the heart rate, slowing the breathing, changing the coloring of skin. Everything was scientifically possible. But could it be pulled off? However, as they soon learned, there was nothing that couldn t be pulled off, without the help of money. The coroner was bribed for his medical report. The morgue officials were bribed for their help. Even the coffin maker received a heavy tip. * * * * * * * * How are you, mates! Fourteen hours inside the coffin is one hell of a thing, isn t it? Stan asked. The two figures rose from the coffin, looking pale but decidedly cheerful. They hugged their friend, and enjoyed the moment of triumph. To the outside world, Rupert and Sebastian were dead and buried. No one had seen them step out of their own coffins. Officially, Rupert and Sebastian no longer existed. Alright, now first things first, said Rupert, looking around to see if they were truly alone. We have to put these coffins back into their places, and close them up before leaving. Hey, I m sorry, but I just finished digging the two of you out, said Stan. He looked visibly exhausted. You re right; we should take a break right now. We ll dig after a while said Sebastian.

And that, if you were to ask me, was a bad decision. They should have finished their business and gotten the hell out of the cemetery. But no, instead, Stan had to attend nature s call. So be it. Walking towards a slightly isolated part of the cemetery, Stan began whistling as he urinated. Suddenly, something caught his eyes. A few meters from where he was standing, almost completely hidden beneath leaves and grass, was, what Stan assumed .the body of man. His face turned pale white. He tried to move, but he was frozen with fear. Straining his eyes, Stan could see it clearly now. A tall, well built man lay in the grass, stiff as wood. Just as his mind finally grappled with the eerie sight in front of him, Stan spotted a coffin nearby, wide open, next to a large dug out grave. He screamed in terror.

Stan should have understood what was going on. After all, he was looking at my body. I lay there limp in the bushes, looking quite out of place outside my coffin. If only I could tell Stan how I ended up there Still screaming with fear, Stan began running, hoping to meet his two friends quickly. His mind was racing. Some sick monster was digging out dead men. He knew he had heard someone when he was digging. Now Stan was certain. A cold chill ran down his spine as he wondered. Was there a ghost around? He couldn t find the answer though, for at that moment, he was struck in the face. After having his throat slit, Stan was carried over, and ironically placed in the coffin where I should have been lying. Sometimes weird things happen * * * * * * * * Where on earth are Stan and Rupert? Wondered Sebastian. Rupert had gone looking for Stan, and it was about time for the two of them to return. Feeling restless, Sebastian began to walk around. He had heard, just three days ago, that the cemetery was haunted. For some reason, strange men visited the cemetery at odd hours, and eerie noises could be heard at times. Suddenly feeling cold, Sebastian drew his cloak tighter around him. As he began wandering around the cemetery, Sebastian glanced at the names on the tomb stones of the graves. Most of them were unrecognizable. Then, seeing a name that was all too familiar to him, Sebastian smiled. He was standing in front of the grave of his former friend, turned enemy, Jeffery Wallace. Looking at the surprisingly fresh soil covering over the grave, Sebastian couldn t help but chuckle. Jeffrey had been a fool. So foolish that he blindly trusted his friends. So foolish that he committed suicide instead of seeking a way out. Ah, Jeffrey, I wish you could be here now. You would be so jealous, Sebastian muttered. He looked up, and standing in front of him, pale, ghost like, as though part of the chilling air, was Jeffrey. His heart racing with overwhelming fear, Sebastian ran as fast as he could. He didn t know where he was running to. He didn t care. The only thing that stayed in his mind, was the image of Jeffrey, hallow, deathly.

Finally Sebastian stumbled, and fell near his former grave. Standing up, he saw one of the graves was sealed. His blood began to turn cold. Both the graves were supposed to be open. Now, only one remained. His. You know, there is a short cut to reach here, said a high, hallow voice. It came from behind Sebastian, but he dared not turn and look. Instead, he kneeled down, wondering what would happen next. Your friend Rupert was similarly surprised. So was Stan. Now, I don t like wasting time, so shall we just get it over with? Sebastian could feel a spade being lifted above his head. Just then, he turned around and looked at his executioner. Are you the ghost of Jeffrey? I didn t reply. I merely smiled. Please, I know you re the ghost of Jeffrey. You should know we had no part in your death. I mean I mean, it was a suicide wasn t it? I smiled even more, looking menacingly at my victim. Just before I slammed the spade into his fore head, I paused to ask, Why on earth would you think I was dead? Ten minutes later, Sebastian was safely sealed in his own grave, this time, actually dead for a change. After collecting the spade, I walked out of the cemetery, paid the two guards their promised fee, and began walking down the street. I knew Stan, Rupert and Sebastian would sell me out to the court. I knew they had faked their deaths. What they didn t know, was that I had faked my death as well. A suicide, the papers said. How much more wrong could they get? I had spent three weeks in my grave, occasionally getting out with the help of a grave digger at midnight. It was a harrowing ordeal, but I knew it was worth it. It surely was. Rupert and Sebastian were now officially dead. No one would be able to find Stan s body. I was part of the history books. I was free now to start a new life. Revenge is sweet

Taking For Granted
It was almost time for the morning assembly, and Andrew was still waiting near the second gate. Joseph was beginning to get restless. "Dude," he started, "Why on earth are we waiting here? You know Vinod Sir is going to screw us up if we're late, right?" Andrew didn't reply. He merely kept looking towards the buses that were parking outside. His eyes were desperately searching for a face.

"There she is," He finally whispered. Joseph turned to see a group of girls walking towards them. In the center was a short, thin, fair 9th Grader. Rebecca D'Souza. One of the most sought after girls in school. She had long, wavy black hair, twinkling eyes and a short nose. Her face was angular, and her cheeks were normally reddish in color. She walked with a grace that none of her classmates could ever possess. She was Andrew best friend, the love of his life. They spent the past two years chatting, until they reached a point where neither of them could deny how they felt about each other. Once Andrew got his own mobile, they began talking on the phone. Soon, they were spending hours every day, glued to the phone, talking as though the other person was their personal diary. They were the closest of friends. And presently, she walked past him without even giving him a glance. "Dude," Joseph said slowly, amazed by what he'd seen, "What was that?" Andrew's expression quickly changed. He began walking towards class very quickly. "Dude, seriously, what was that? She didn't even look at you! What the hell?" "She's showing attitude. That little --" Andrew said, more to himself than anyone else. "Just because I got angry with her yesterday. What, she thinks things will only be done her way? What, I cant decide stuff anymore? What the hell does she think of herself? Fine, she wants to piss me off, I'll show her how it's really done..." He broke into a run, leaving Joseph behind. Watching his best buddy dash towards his class room, Joseph couldn't help but smile. He'd seen countless episodes like these. The biggest problem between Joseph and Rebecca, was that both of them had huge egos. Both of them wanted to be right. And the funny thing was, that's what made them so special. They'd argue for hours, get mad at each other. But never would they ever stop talking.... "I'm not going to talk to her," Andrew said. "Listen man, don't simply act like a moron, alright?" Joseph said. It was break time, and the 30 minutes they'd get was normally when Andrew would meet Rebecca near the library. This time, though, Andrew wouldn't budge from the canteen area. "I told you, I'm not going to meet her." "Why not?" "Because I don't want to?" He replied. "And, because," he added, a cunning smile forming on his face, "I want to make her go mad. Let her get pissed off a little, it wont hurt." During the second Break time that day, Jenny came along, saying that Rebecca wanted to meet Andrew. Andrew merely nodded his head, and continued to stand in his spot. Joseph swore loudly, and shook his head. Five minutes later, Jenny returned, this time looking anxious. "Please," she said urgently, "Rebecca really wants to meet you!" Andrew walked away without saying a word, towards the storage room area. Joseph's yelling was drowned out by the large generator that was running nearby. Finally, Joseph caught up with Andrew. "You're mad, you know that?" Joseph said.

"Why?" "Because, you're refusing to speak to the girl who loves you. Cmon man, you're simply taking things for granted." "Taking things for granted? What am I taking for granted?" "Rebecca. You think she'll just hang around forever, waiting for you?" Before Andrew could answer that, he spotted Rebecca walking towards him. Something was odd. She was crying. And she looked as though she was in pain. Something else was wrong too. Andrew looked towards the large, metallic cage that housed the generator. Something was definitely wrong. "Rebecca, NO!" He cried out, gesturing her to stop. It was all too late. There was a deafening explosion. And it was all over.

**********

Andrew's eyes were red, if that was technically possible. Without saying a word, he walked out of History class. No one bothered to stop him. No one even acknowledged him leaving. That's how it was now. After what'd happened on 8th June.

The only person who could comfort Andrew was Joseph.

"Joseph, I cant bear it anymore. I seriously cant," he said, sitting outside in the corridor. There were a few minutes for the bell to ring.

"The pain. It's just too much to bear. I mean, it's all my fault!" he said, tears forming in his eyes again. He looked pale and ghostly. He'd lost weight, and he was wearing the same set of clothes for what looked like ages. You tend to lose all sense of fashion in such a situation.

"It's not your fault, don't say that," Joseph said softly. He looked helpless.

"Of course it is. I should have just met her at the library. But no, I had to walk away. I had to walk towards the generator. Why? Why Joseph? You were right. I was taking things for granted. And I hate it now. I miss her, dammit! I miss the smell of her hair. I miss the way it feels when her shoulder touches mine, as we sit on the bench in Lake Park. I wish I could get back to loving her. To seeing her say she's happy about me. To see her smile in front of mine. It's all gone now, dammit!"

Just then, the bell rang, and students spilled out of their classes.

"Listen, you have to get a grip on yourselves. It's been three months already. Many of us go through such things. But you have to move on. Dont you understand?" Joseph said.

Andrew wiped his eyes, and got up.

He was about to leave, when he saw Rebecca and her group of friends walk past him. He extended a hand to touch her, but Joseph stopped him.

They walked past a large picture frame of them smiling broadly, under which was a caption: "Andrew Thompson and Joseph Stephens died from an accidental explosion. But they'll live on in our hearts forever..."

Meet Mr. David Foster

Dear Mr. DeVille, This letter may perhaps come as a surprise to you. After all, as a Lawyer, I doubt you d have come across as odd a request as my own. However, your excellent reputation assures me that you ll handle my troubles quite efficiently. My troubles, if such is the word to describe them, relates to the life of the esteemed writer, Mr. David Foster. You may have perhaps heard of him. This problem though, is delicate in nature, and requires your complete compliance...

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The Housekeeper knocked on the door twice, and waited for a moment, before hearing the familiar, Come in! . With clock-like precision, she entered, began her cleaning, and was done within an hour. Over the past four years, she had never once broken the routine. Which was one of the several reasons David Foster enjoyed staying at the Emerald Pastire Hotel. When the clock struck 9, the head waiter smiled inwardly as David Foster made his way through the lobby, and into the restaurant. He took his favourite seat by the window side, and had his usual scrambled eggs. In the fast moving Hotel Industry, nothing was constant. Except David Foster. The six foot tall, moustached 57 year old gentleman was, the young hotel manager found out, an accomplished author. In a career spanning over thirty years, he had won a Pulitzer, and sold several million books, mostly to the literati that now seemed to be vanishing as the years passed by. Though he had not written a novel in over four years now, Mr. Foster kept himself occupied. Every day, he spent anywhere between four and six hours writing short stories, poems, and on occasion, chapters of serialised novels. These were then sent to local newspapers and magazines, many of whom published the work with great interest.

And like most other accomplished authors, Foster never bothered to read the published works themselves. What did interest him, though, were the letters of appreciation that kept piling up in the letter basket outside his hotel room. There were all kinds of letters. From young adults who d only just discovered the David Foster way of writing, to old timers who knew the value of being able to read a Foster short story in their local newspaper. Foster diligently spent his time replying to each one of them, at least initially. Soon, though, the sheer amount of letters overwhelmed him, and he resorted to reading them several times before putting them away for safe keeping. Such a routine, firmly enshrined in the author s life for the past four years, would ve continued, had it not been for an ill-advised change in his lunch. Upon the recommendation of the head waiter, David ordered the grilled Salmon, something which his late wife would ve never let, and for good reason, he soon realised. After an uneventful evening, the real trouble began when David retired for the night. After tossing in his bed for over two hours, he realised that his night s sleep was effectively ruined. A short trip to the toilet followed, and then David, against normal conventions, decided to try and complete a short story he had been working on. Just as he sat down near his writing desk (David, like other writers of his generation, still shunned modern technology when it came to writing,) he noticed a shadow fall over the small slit of his front door. Motionless, he watched as the shadow moved slowly, gaining in shape. Over the stillness of his living room, David could hear the ruffling of paper. It sounded as though someone was picking up letters. Realising that he was most probably being robbed of his mail, David darted towards the front door, unlocked it, and flung it open. To his surprise, in front of him stood a man, well dressed in a suit, holding the letters in his hand. He made no attempt to run, nor did he try to explain himself. Instead, with a calm expression on his face, he asked softly. Mr. Foster, may I come in? There is something I need to discuss with you. * * * * * * * *

....I must, however, stress to you Mr. DeVille, just how important it is. You have to make sure that you explain the truth in case you are caught while depositing the mail. Running away, will, as you must have understood by now, only ruin the whole plan. It would be best if you could take enough time and make sure things are fixed. Everything should go back to how it was. That, is imperative... * * * * * * * *

My name is Jonathan DeVille, sir, and I m sorry for surprising you the way I did. I do have an explanation for all of this, of course. But first, I hope we can have a cup of tea? David Foster, still looking dazed, was shaken by the young man s confidence. Perhaps he was a con man, a trickster? Not sure of what he ought to do, David proceeded to the kitchen. Oddly, Jonathan followed him. Please, let me help you, he said and proceeded to take out two cups from the top left drawer. With complete efficiency, he helped David make two cups of steaming tea. Are you still out of biscuits? Jonathan asked as they sat down with their cups. No, I think there s a packet in the bottom most drawer, David said cautiously, eying his midnight visitor carefully. After they d settled down again, Jonathan took out a biscuit and bit it softly. Mr. Foster, I am a lawyer who specialises in Property and Inheritance Wills. You may perhaps have heard of me?

Yes, I thought I had heard your name before, David replied, relieved that the stranger in front of him was a reputable man. And now you re wondering why I was tampering with your mail a few minutes ago, yes? An explanation would help, yes, David replied, feeling more at ease now. Well, since there s no easy way to put this, I ll say it. I was submitting your mail, Mr. Foster. Your fan mail, to be particular. My fan mail? But why would a lawyer like you deliver my mail? Because, Jonathan said, sipping his cup slowly, all of the mails were forged by me. Placing his cup back onto the saucer, Jonathan continued, as though his monologue had been rehearsed beforehand. Mr. Foster, I work for your publisher, HarperCollins. It was they who had entrusted me with the duty of supplying you with forged fan mail, on a daily basis. You must be joking, David replied warily. I mean, this must be some kind of a prank, right? Jonathan looked at him severely, his expression unwavering. I m afraid none of this is a joke, Mr. Foster. I have two clerks who compose the letters themselves. Due care is taken to ensure that there is as much originality in the letters as possible. To your credit, one of them used to be an avid fan of yours. But but, David spluttered, trying to make sense of what the lawyer was saying. Suddenly, he realised what it meant. How dare you tamper with my mail! Why you would want to forge mails to me in beyond my understanding. And what are you doing with my actual fan mails? Jonathan laughed lightly. I m sorry, he said quickly. It s just that I never fail to laugh at that line. Mr. Foster, haven t you understood yet? There is no actual fan mail. How could there be, when almost none of your works are being published in the first place? What rubbish! David yelled, jumping to his feet. He looked furious now. Jonathan, completely unperturbed, tossed a few magazines and newspapers onto the table. See for yourself. None of them carry any of your stories. Except the first issue. The editor, who used to be another fan of yours, did that out of courtesy, by the way. And since you yourself don t subscribe to any of these magazines or newspapers, it makes my job all the more easier. Unable to believe the lawyer s words, David began rifling through the newspapers, desperate to prove the man wrong. As the pages flew by, the 57 year old author felt his knees going weak. He slowly slumped into his chair, looking shocked. I cant understand. I mean, why? Why such an elaborate con? Because it was necessary, Mr. Foster, because it was necessary. Do you know when was the last time you submitted a manuscript for publication? Five years ago. And that book was a complete disaster. The critics ripped it apart, didn t they? And since then? What have you written that s been worthy of your talent and reputation? Before David could reply, Jonathan continued. These short stories and serialised novels in newspapers. That s what s been keeping you going for the past four years. Why is it that you wake up everyday with such eagerness? Because there s something to look forward to. The letters. The numerous letters from your admirers, fans and readers.

But none of it is true! David bellowed, the truth sinking in. All of this has been a horrible farce, concocted by you and the others. None of it means anything anymore! Just as tentative tears began appearing in David s eyes, Jonathan opened his suitcase and took out three strips of tablets, which he placed on the table. Until an hour ago, though, all of it meant something, didn t it? David looked up at Jonathan, trying to understand what the lawyer meant. Until an hour ago, Mr. Foster, you were happy, weren t you? Content with the fact that you were an accomplished writer; a loved, admired writer. Now that feeling has been shattered. Though I am no writer myself, I do know how that feels. No more letters, no more appreciation. No more admiration to fuel your writing. It can damage a person s self esteem, yes? Why, I d say it could even crush it. Tapping the strips of tablets, he said. So why not forget that which hurts you? I don t understand, David said, looking incredulous. Mr. Foster, the tablets in front of you are powerful peripanadols. Drugs capable of causing short term memory damage. You can swallow them now, and have a proper night s sleep. Tomorrow morning, you ll wake up with a headache, and no knowledge of ever meeting me. David looked numb for a moment, staring blankly at the tablets. Then, quite suddenly, he leapt up, enraged. Jonathan did not flinch a muscle. How dare you belittle me, you scoundrel! What do you take me for? My works may not be published in newspapers and magazines now, but I am still David Foster. I m a Pulitzer Prize winner. The voice of a generation. The finest American author since Edgar J. Sallinger. And you dare to treat me like a petty little writer. How dare you! Please, Mr. Foster, take the tablets, Jonathan said calmly. No, I wont! You re crazy if you think I ll let you fool me again now. Get out Mr. DeVille, now! Mr. Foster, believe me, you ll take the tablets. I assure you! There was something in the way the lawyer said those words. They sounded firm, almost prophetic. David, his temper momentarily subsiding, paused uncertainly. Something struck him as being odd at that moment. He remembered how the lawyer had strolled into the kitchen, knowing exactly where the tea cups where. He d asked whether they were still out of biscuits. How had he known that, just a few weeks ago, David had finished his stock of biscuits? Wait a minute, David said suddenly. Wait, how do youHe stopped mid sentence, as his eyes caught the expression on DeVille s face. Now it all made sense. You ve been here before! David said breathlessly. You you ve done this. This entire routine....before? Several times, Mr. Foster, Jonathan said, relieved that it had been so easy. You ve found out in several ways. Sometimes you realise that the letters are all slightly repetitive and have a pattern. Otherwise you get hold of the latest edition of the local newspaper, and realise something s wrong. And most often, you catch me in the act of dropping of your fan mail. David stood motionless, his mouth slightly open. He looked astonished beyond belief.

Your reactions have always been varied. Sometimes utter disbelief, sometimes uncontrollable rage. I ve found a way of mastering the whole routine now. Initially though, it was almost impossible to get you to take the tablets. Tears began streaming down David s cheeks. Fighting back his emotions, he managed to ask. For how long? The answer was devastating. Four years. A few minutes later, as David gathered enough courage to open the strip of tablets, Jonathan collected his suitcase and prepared to leave. Cheer up, he said as he opened the door, you won t remember any of this in the morning. With that, the door closed shut. * * * * * * * *

....Such an exercise would seem vain to a man of logic such as you, Mr. DeVille. But authors, you must understand, deal in a trade where the only reward is appreciation. Feedback, acclaim, reaction. Mere financial gains hold no value. And for a man whose loss of talent leaves him with no other means of achieving the desired appreciation, especially after a lifetime of familiarity with acclaim, resorting to such means is, sometimes, the only way to cope with it. Trusting that you will carry out my wishes to the fullest, David Foster.

Blood And Butter
"Well, Jack, looks like the village of Lavenham will be witnessing its harshest blizzard ever, if the weather forecasts are anything to go by," said the television weatherman. "Oh dear," Grandma Wilmer said softly, as she walked past the living room, and into the kitchen. She placed a kettle on the stove, and took out a large metal tray from the cupboard. Grandma Wilmer was well past the age of 60, with wrinkled skin and a frail body. Yet she had surprisingly agile hands, perhaps the result of 40 years of devoted service to her late husband. Though it was still snowing heavily outside her cottage, Grandma Wilmer decided to bake her usual batch of Sunday butter cookies. Pity no one else would taste them...

"...We would also like to remind our viewers that the serial killer Jack Lloris is still at large. Since his escape from Wales Maximum Security Prison two days ago, there have been no sightings of the fugitive. Police have requested residents in nearby villages to take extreme caution. Jack Lloris is armed and extremely dangerous..." Grandma Wilmer strode towards the television, and quickly switched it off. There was a look of distress on her face, one which was quickly replaced by a smile as she watched William walk into the room. "Good morning Grandma," William said, still rubbing his eyes. Grandma Wilmer had hired him as a helping hand a

few years ago, and today was his thirteenth birthday. "Good morning dear," Wilmer replied with a smile. "Happy Birthday! I've got a small surprise for you," she took a small envelope from the top of the television and handed it to the short, wiry boy. "There's about 20 pounds in it," she said with a smile, "why don't you take the day off and enjoy with your friends?" William looked more than happy as he grabbed the envelope and headed towards the door. Just then, there was a loud knock. "Could you get that, dear?" Grandma Wilmer asked, turning her attention back to the kitchen. William opened the door, and craned his head upwards at the large, broad shouldered man who leaned against the door frame. He had a rugged beard and long, unruly hair. As he observed the little boy and elderly woman in front of him, a smile formed across his face... ***** Inspector Harper buried his face in his hands, feeling exhausted after 18 hours of work. His eyes were red, and the floor was littered with empty coffee cups. Taking another look at the map in front of him, he tried to think about the problem yet again. Where was Jack Lloris? Almost as though on cue, the door was opened and Constable Jeffrey entered, looking visibly excited. "Sir," he said without bothering for the usual salutation. "The prison guard has just regained consciousness. And he swears that Lloris escaped towards the south, into the forest." Immediately the finger was placed on the map. "He's most likely within a 5 mile radius. The blizzard would've slowed him down considerably," Inspector Harper said, as he tapped again on a small dot, marked Lavenham. ***** As he trudged through the snow, his small frame wrapped in half a dozen layers of warm clothing, William felt uneasy for some reason. His mates had promised him a grand birthday party, and the thick envelope in his pocket would normally have ensured a smile. Yet William frowned as he stopped and turned to look back at Grandma Wilmer's cottage. He remembered the look on the stranger's face. There was nothing peculiar there. An ordinary traveler's face. One that's endured a torrid blizzard, seeking shelter. Shrugging his head, William continued walking. He had almost made it to the paved roadside, when with a sudden jerk, he turned around, and began running towards the cottage. Inside the cottage, Grandma Wilmer was pleased to have a guest after so long. At least there would be someone to taste her butter cookies, she thought, as she placed a tray into the oven. "What is a handsome young man like you doing in such a quite village, that too in such horrid weather?" "It's a long story," Peter said, as he knelt next to the fireplace. As he warmed his hands, he observed the room around him, looking rather impressed. "I have an important package to mail, and since the post wont be working for

the next few days, I decided to drive till the nearby office. Unfortunately my car broke down and-" He stopped talking as he saw Grandma Wilmer, staring out the kitchen window, her face looking pale. "What's wrong?" he asked quickly, stepping forward. "Oh, nothing," Wilmer said quickly, waving her hand dismissively. "Have a seat, dear. The butter cookies will be ready any moment now." As Peter sat down, Grandma Wilmer tried to steady her hands as she took the tray out of the oven. She had seen someone moving through the trees outside. For a moment she panicked, remembering everything she'd heard that morning. Everyone was searching for the serial killer Jack Lloris. Over half a century of experience had taught Grandma Wilmer to remain calm. It was something her husband, who'd fought in the War, had taught her. How she wished he was with her now... Just then she saw him again. A tall figure moving through the snow. Grandma Wilmer's fingers turned white as she griped the tray tighter. She continued staring at the figure, hoping. Praying that it would go away. The door flew open with a burst, and Grandma Wilmer yelled loudly, dropping the tray onto the table. Peter was on his feet immediately, looking alert. A breathless William stood in front of them, still panting from his run through the snow covered lawn. Seeing him stand in the hallway, Grandma Wilmer felt a renewed sense of security. Without asking why he'd returned, that too in dramatic fashion, Grandma Wilmer said, "Glad you've come back, dear. There's a man outside. Could you see he'd want?" There was a firmness in her tone, one that William had rarely heard before. He glanced at Peter once, then nodded his head obediently. As he closed the door, he observed the stranger again. His angular face, his long nose... ***** "Sir, we've had a tip off from Lavenham," Constable Jeffrey said as he put down the receiver. "Someone's claimed to have seen a stranger walking through the village. It could be Jack Lloris." Inspector Harper thought for a moment. "Maybe, or maybe it's just a stranger. Still, get the informer on the phone, and see if we can get a description. Also, tell them that Jack Lloris is an extremely dangerous man." "Just how dangerous is he?" asked the Inspector's wife. She had dropped by to deliver her husband's lunch. "He's been charged with over eight killings, but never proven guilty. Until eight years ago, when he was captured after trying to murder a couple. He was sentenced to life imprisonment for murder of the husband, and attempted murder of the wife. Jeffrey glanced down at the photo of Jack Lloris. He would never forget the angular face and pointed nose of the man... ***** Grandma Wilmer smiled to herself as she saw William talking to the man. Apparently, the sight of a boy had deterred

the fellow. For now at least, she would be safe, she thought to herself. "Dear, the butter cookies are ready. Would you like some?" she asked, as she bent down to take the second batch out of the oven. Peter stood up and began walking towards the old lady, his eyes fixed on her. "Sure," he said softly, as a smile formed across his face again. Without making a sound, he grabbed a knife from the table, and stood behind Grandma Wilmer. "There was something I wanted you to see," he said softly, as he looked at the shiny blade of the knife. A second later, a knife slashed violently, and the body fell to the ground with a soft thud. Blood splattered onto the butter cookies. After eight long years, Grandma Wilmer had finally killed her husband's murderer...

No. 20, Kennet Lane
It's funny how life can change in a moment. All it takes is a decision. Yes, or no. And just like that, nothing's ever the same. It was supposed to be a day well spent with Siddharth. After three years abroad, he'd finally decided to return home. "Only for a few days," he muttered. But that never mattered to me. He was here, with me. And I'd enjoy every minute of it.

Giselle Faleiro, I later came to know, had her C.A. class cancelled. Which meant she had a monday morning free. So after a few phone calls, it seems, she was driving down Kennet Lane, with her driving instructor next to her, looking apprehensive. "Well, atleast you're better than Mr. Sharma," he muttered, referring to the middle aged student whose place Giselle had taken. "Thanks," Giselle replied nervously. It hadnt been a compliment. "So, bhaiyya, when are you going to tell me about your new job?" I asked enthusiastically, as I scanned over the tshirts. "Why would you care," he replied, "as long as you're getting your treat? Now pick something, fast!" "Your manners have sure improved," I retorted. But by then, he'd walked out of the shop. Probably to have a smoke, I thought disdainfully. The habits people pick up when they go abroad... That's when it happened. I wish now, that I'd picked a T-shirt sooner. Perhaps then we'd have left Kennet Lane sooner. Instead, I turned around as I heard a loud crash, and frantic yelling outside.

"What happened?" I asked Siddharth as I stepped out of the shop. He pointed a finger silently. A few yards away, lay a motorcycle with it's front wheel twisted at an odd angle. And next to it was a motionless body, slightly bloodied. I watched as Giselle sat dazed behind the wheel of the car, shocked by what had just happened. The Santro's front bumper was damaged, and the road began with blood. As a crowd began gathering, the driving instructor got out of the Santro, swearing to himself in disbelief. "Madam, get out of the car!" the instructor yelled. "Get out, it is big trouble now!" "Is he - is he dead?" Giselle asked. "Yes! He's dead! Now get out!" The twenty three year old college graduate looked overwhelmed. With her hands gripping the steering wheel, she took a deep breath, trying to make sense of what had happened. And then, inexplicably, she broke out in tears. From where I was standing, I could see tears stream down her fair cheeks, turning her nose red, and her eyes swollen. "Poor lady, eh?" a man standing next to us commented, looking slightly sympathetic. "She's in for a lot of trouble." "Why?' I asked innocently. "Who'd you think the dead guy is? That's Aravind Balasubramanium. His lawyers will make that girl's life hell." "And the car's not even registered," another remarked. That's when I noticed the Santro wasnt from a driving school. The licence plate was for a private car. And from the look on Giselle's face, I knew who it was registered to. Suddenly, Siddharth, who'd been silent, started forward. Before I could ask, he reached out for the Santro's front door and looked at Giselle. "Get out," he said, rather bluntly. "What?" she asked, in between sobs. He grabbed her hand, and forced her out of the car. "Get away, now! Go!" he insited. And just like that, he got in, shut the door, and locked the car. It finally hit me. Why Siddharth was doing it. Springing forward, I banged on the car's window. "What on earth are you doing?"

Without looking at me, Siddharth gripped the wheel with both his hands. Just then the sound of sirens grew louder, and the crowd began to part as police constables came forward. *** Over the next three weeks, I repeatedly asked Siddharth why he'd willingly taken the blame. The Faleiro family, stunned as they were by his actions, willingly fabricated a story. Siddharth Mehra, Ms. Giselle Faleiro's 'boyfriend', had borrowed the family car. Aravind Balasubramanium's lawyers willingly bought the story. In any case, rash, reckless young man was a better sell. Charged with accidental manslaughter and reckless driving, Siddharth was sentenced to one year in prison. Without a word being said, I saw my brother march into the police van. Our parents were distraught. But I...I was puzzled. *** "Why?" I asked again. I didnt expect an answer. Not after 18 fruitless meetigns. "Just as I decided to end the talk, though, he spoke. His voice had become soft and weak. Prison could do that to you. "I didnt want her to cry anymore. Not after I saw her. She...she doesnt look pretty...when her nose turns red!" He burst out in laughter. Pure, joyful laughter. As though he was recollecting a fond memory of college. "You're crazy, you know that?" I said bitterly. "What did you think? She'd fall for you if you sacrifised youself? Really, is that how you get a date abroad?" He stopped laughing, and watched me as I got up. Grabbing my backpack, I kicked off the seat and left. No goodbyes. Siddharth had never been a romantic. He'd never had a crush, or a mushy love affair. I guess that's why he fell so hard for the girl. Such a waste... As I stepped out into the hall, the guard motioned to a girl sitting nearby. "You have 15 minutes, madam," he said. I looked up, and saw Giselle Faleiro walk past me. For some reason, I felt suspicious. Why was she here, I thought. *** I later came to know that Giselle's visit was not a one off. She visited him everyday, and the guard assured me that they exchanged letters. Siddharth never told me anything about it, but it felt as though he looked happier everytime I visited him.

Though his weight dropped and his eyes sunk in, there was a definite cheerfulness in his spirits. He smiled and laughed more. Sometimes I wondered if he any longer realised that he was living in a prison cell. And tow days after getting released from jail, he told me, almost casually. "I'm going to propose to her." "Who?" I spluttered. "Giselle," he replied, before switching on the T.V. For the next hour he watched C.S.I as I sat there, baffled. Seven days later, I opened the door at 6 P.M. and welcomed Giselle inside. She looked beautiful in a green gown, complete with elegant earrings and make - up. "Have a seat," I said curtly, before leaving the room. Making up an excuse for finding a bottle of wine, I entered the storage room. The father away I was from the dove - eyed couple, the better. Rifling through the storage room, I spotted a disused carton that looked oddly out of place. Picking it up, I tore away the plastic covering and pored inside. There were countless papers - maps, photographs, letters. Assuming it was Siddharth's office work, I was about to leave, when a photo caught my eye. It was a face that looked familiar. Aravind Balasubramanium. Dropping the contents of the box onto the floor, I began reading the letters. "...the job must be completed by June 8th, at the latest. Make sure it is an accident.." "..Driving School located nearby. Find all the required details..." "...Monday, between 8 and 8:30 A.M. at Kennet Lane..." 8th June, Kennet Lane. Siddharth and I were there that day. At 8 in the morning. Still unable to make sense, I scrambled through the pages. A blown up map of Kennet Lane had markings all over it. Red arrow marks showed the driving school car. In bold letters it was written, MR. SHARMA. Next to the arrow was the symbol of a TRUCK. And weaving its way through the side of the truck was an arrow with the words TARGET. I could feel my head reeling in confusion. None of it made any sense. Unless it all pointed to a single possibility. As though to confirm my theory, I read a letter from John Matthews, Siddharth's boss. "...upon completing the job successfully, you are assured of 300,000 dollars, as well as the oppurtunity to work with us in future..."

Grabbing the letter, I stormed out of the storage room, and into the dining hall. Giselle was in tears, and Siddharth sprung up to hug me. "She accepted!" he whispered in excitement. "Congratulations," I said curtly. Then pulling myself away, I looked at him pointedly and asked. "Why did you do it?" "Do what?" he asked, his smile fading. He saw the letter in my hand. "Because I needed the money. And because I didnt want her to take the blame for it. And because....maybe because I'd already fallen in love with her." "Well, then I hope you're quitting your job," I said, feeling enraged. "We are," he replied quickly. "We?" "Yes, Giselle and I. It took me 6 months to know, but turns out, we both work for the same boss!" In Memory Of... "Excuse me sir, would you like to see ..." "Madam, I am sure that you are interested in this..." "Young man, have you heard about the new..." "Young ladies, may I have the pleasure to interest you..." Unfortunately, he didn't have the fortune. Everyone passed by him in the mall, as though he was invisible, or they were deaf. Either way, Vikram Chopra was a miserable man. With his tie strangling him, and sweat drenching his shirt, Vikram was in a desperate state. Being the salesman of Akon furniture shop, Vikram had to sell for at least 5,000 dollars in a month. Twenty-nine days had elapsed. It was almost impossible that he could salvage his job within just one day. Throwing his tie into the bin, Vikram walked home. In the dim light of the orange bulb, the dingy room was illuminated. There wasn't much in the house, except for a bed, a wardrobe, and a few chairs. The bed almost touched the floor, unable to bear the weight of the depressed man sitting on it. Vikram wanted to get rid of it all. He wanted to get rid of his ridiculous job, his one room apartment ... his life, too. In his hand were a few papers all weighing heavily on his already stretched wallet. The landlord was waiting to chuck him out the next day. Besides, the electricity department would hound him, for the three months of overdues he had to pay. Life was miserable. Vikram looked up, and saw the table in front of him. In the dim light, the faint silhouette of a bottle was visible. And with strained eyes, he saw the six letters written on it. P-O-I-S-O-N.

Something that would end it all, quickly and silently. Vikram had joked about it a month ago. With every passing day, the joke became more and more real. It seemed as though life was playing with him, toying with his mind. He was drowning in debt, and had about an ounce of self esteem left. No prospective future, no ambition. It was horrible to see that everything that he was doing at the moment was useless. Vikram's life was almost mechanical. He spent 2/3 of his life in the mall, trying to get at least a single customer. His bank account had almost gotten depleted, since he hadn't deposited or withdrawn anything. The reason was simple: The account was empty and he was broke. But, even when he was contemplating the thought of a possible suicide, Vikram felt a deep urge to make a statement. Something that would make him famous. Something that would find himself a place in the newspaper. He looked up and saw the fan. No, not the tried and tested fan method. It was so dull and unexciting ... then, with a sudden jolt, Vikram got up and looked at the thing in front of him. His eyes shone as he saw his way out. Using that simple apparatus, he could make sure that he had a solution, a final solution to all problems. The next day, everyone moved around in the mall as usual. There was a large crowd, moving around looking for something that would appease them. Slowly though, it seemed as if a large crowd was gathering. It was not apparent at first. But, at about 10.30am there was enough people surrounding the Akon furniture shop, to make the boss come out. "What is the matter here?" he asked, secretly wondering if they wanted to pull down the shop. "Sir," asked a young lady, with tears in her eyes. "Is this poster true?" The boss looked at the poster. "Oh yes, we got the information this morning. thought this could be the last respects..." His voice trailed away as the crowd stood motionless. On the window was a large poster, with a large face pasted on it. Vikram's eyes peered at the mall goers, oblivious to what was going on. Under the photo was a notice: In Memory Of... We regret to inform you that our beloved salesman, Mr Vikram Chopra passed away due to massive heart failure. We offer our condolences to his grieving family. Akon Furniture will also be accepting donations in the form of sales, to pay for Mr Vikram's funeral. He is survived by two handicapped parents and an unmarried sister. The notice had a magical effect on the audience. Everyone looked down, silently grieving the loss of this salesman. The boss went into his room, grumbling that he didn't get the opportunity to fire Vikram. Besides, he had tried to ask the man who called, how exactly Vikram had died. Heart failure for a young healthy man like Vikram seemed highly unlikely. Something suspicious was going on. Not only was something suspicious going on, but also, there was something unbelievable happening in the Akon furniture shop. Two hours later, the assistant banged on the boss's door, asking him the most ridiculous question: "What do we do when our furniture stock is over?" The boss chided him at first, but then, dropped his jaws, literally, in shock and surprise. In front of him was the largest crowd that he had seen in his life, at least inside his shop. People were moving around, looking for small useful furniture. There was no one to tell them the price, or the quality. Instead, they took the small handmade

pieces to the cashier and demanded to see the manager. "Dear Sir," said an old lady in a croaky voice, "Please make sure that you give the commission for this furniture to Mr Vigam Chopra." "Vikram Chopra, Ma'am?" "Right. Give it to Mr Vigam, please." "And, mine too," the rest of the crowd chimed in chorus. The boss looked baffled. "But, he is dead ? I mean he has passed away!" "That doesn't mean that his family can't take his money, does it?" Someone asked. The tone of his voice was dangerous. The eyes of the crowd were bulging. The boss meekly nodded his head, and agreed. In front of their eyes, he zipped 45 credit cards and transferred 12.5 per cent to Vikram Chopra's account. After the crowd left, the boss sat in his chair, and said to his assistant. "Oh, during his 29 days here, he couldn't sell a single piece. Now, he just emptied the shop. It is a pity he isn't there with us today. God knows how far above he has reached?" ******** "Excuse me sir, would you like to see..." "Madam, I am sure that you are interested in this..." "Young man, have you heard about the new..." "Young ladies, may I have the pleasure to interest you?" "Young man, would like to?-" "Hey, mister!" A teenager snapped. "Why don't you understand? We don't want to buy your furniture, we don't! I wish you would drop dead!" The salesman smiled. Your wish just might come true. He walked into his boss's office, and said: Sir, tomorrow is the 30th day of my job. Please, make sure that you send all the commission to my bank account! The boss gave him a spiteful look. Rahul Varma had hardly sold a piece of furniture. "I don't think I will be sending anything to your account!" The salesman smiled. Well, that's exactly what my previous boss said, and then I died, and he sent me 6, 991 dollars. I am sure that you'll do the same! Vikram Chopra, the deceased salesman, also known as Rahul Varma, walked out of the mall ... ?Mohammed Musthafa Azeez, 14, Grade 9, Al Khor International School-Indian stream, Doha, Qatar The winners of the Young Times Short Story Contest 2006 are: I Prize ? Mohammed Musthafa Azeez, 14, Grade 9, Al Khor International School-Indian stream, Doha, Qatar II Prize ? Roshini Srinivas, 14, Grade 9, The Asian School, Bahrain III Prize ? Husseina Ibrahim, 16, Grade 10, Dubai Carmel School Congratulations!!!

The Last Caller
And with that, we come to our last caller for the night, said Tony. Adjusting his headset, he added, Thank God. It had been a horrible show. None of the callers had been remotely interesting, and Tony would ve been worried about the ratings, if he didn t have more pressing matters on his mind. Alright guys, Tony continued, checking the switch board for any more callers. Just one. Pathetic. Let s see who our next caller is, shall we? Just as he was about to connect the call, Matt Gruer got up and left the recording booth. Tony had never liked his co-host. The man was too annoying. The fact that he d turned up at the station half an hour earlier than asked, still pricked Tony. He had to stop whatever work he had, just to listen to the fellow s half baked jokes. Hello caller, you re on air. Could you tell us your name please? It had all started out with abundant enthusiasm. Tony Liston was an upcoming RJ, freshly taking up the 7 P.M. prime time slot at Radio 4. Two years later, he was being bumped down to the 11 P.M. slot. Where the only calls were from snooty kids or drunk slobs. The job hardly gave him any satisfaction, but Tony stuck to it, five days a week, for the whole year. And with a cohost like Matt, life couldn t get any worse. Hello? Hello, can you hear me? a female voice asked hesitantly. Yes, we can hear you, young lady. What s your name? You have to help me. Please. I m I m in a lot of trouble. I think I m going to die. Tony paused for a moment, more out of reluctance than alarm. He d had his fair share of prank calls. And sometimes the drunks could really sound work up a scene. But the girl didn t sound drunk. Excuse me, lady. But could you tell me what s the problem? Tony asked, as though enquiring about her grocery list. The voice that echoed from the speakers around the room was tense, wavering. I don t know I can t know. It s all so mixed please help me I I don t know what s happening. Leaning forward, Tony rested his head against the cold metallic table. He remembered how just seven months ago he d fallen for a fake call. Some drunkard claimed to be about to attempt a suicide. Working himself into a frenzy, Tony tried his best to coax the man out of it. For four weeks, his compassionate monologues were played at the Radio station. Ratings had slightly bumped up for a while. Just as he was about to reply, Tony noticed the empty chair next to him. It seemed like Matt was taking an awful long time at the rest room. Figuring out what was happening, he smiled softly and pressed the talk button. Yes, I can understand. But please, let us take it slow. I m sure we can solve your problem. Tell us, what s the

matter? There was silence for a moment. Sharp breathing filled the speakers; the lady was trying to calm herself forceful. It was masterful acting. For a moment, Tony contemplated the possibility that maybe it wasn t a prank. What if the girl actually did have a problem? More to satisfy his conscience than anything else, he seized his phone from the table and called Matt. Calling waiting. The user is in another call. Just wait, Matt. You re gonna get your hands burned for this. All I can remember is that that I was kidnapped. It happened so quick, I cant even remember it. But someone just kidnapped me after work. Oh god, it s so horrible. I I don t know what to do. My head pains. I cant see anything right now. Please, please you have to help me. You say you ve been kidnapped. Really? And what, the friendly chap just let you make a call and get your favourite dedication on air? Tony sniggered at his own joke. God, how he wished he was back on Prime Time. Sir, sir, please, you don t understand. I I cant explain -But please, do go on. We still have five minutes to wrap up the show. I m sure your callers would love to hear why you ve called us. That s it. Corner her. Turn the tables around. God, this will be epic. Matt is going to The door opened, and Matt walked in with a cup of coffee and his mobile in the other hand. Sorry, he mouthed as he quietly sat down. Girl friend, he continued, pointing towards his mobile with an annoyed expression. He couldn t understand why Tony looked so shocked. The RJ stared at him for a moment, and then looked at the panel board in front of him. The call was still blinking. Sir, you have to help me, the voice resumed, this time again sounding hallowed. I ve been kidnapped, and I don t know where I am. I don t know anything. My mobile is partly damaged and the keys don t work. Sir, I don t I don t have any balance to call my parents. Please The girl broke down into tears. Tony could see the expression on Matt s face slowly change from indifference to alarm. Is this real? he mouthed. Tony shrugged his shoulder. But he was almost sure of the answer. He just needed to be certain. And and why did you call us? he asked, sounding pale for the first time. He just wanted to make sure he wasn t being pranked. Please, not again.

I I didn t know what to do. Your station number is the only toll free number I have. I tried calling the police, but the keys don t work. Oh sir, the keys the police I don t know what s happening! His face almost contorted with fright, Tony stood up, and looked at Matt. Call the police, he mouthed. Ma am, just stay calm. We ll try to help you. Just as Matt left the booth, the transmission ended. Looking at his watch, Tony realised it was 12. Broadcasts ended at 12. The call was lost. Matt called the police and informed them of the call. They agreed to look into it, and open a case if possible. After bidding him goodbye, Tony closed the door and walked into his office. He unlocked the closest door and put on a mask. Walking in, he snatched the young lady s until then concealed mobile and snarled. You bloody bitch! You almost got me caught tonight!

Colourless Snow
He stood still for a moment, silently surveying the vast expanse of snow all around. The dazzling whiteness seemed to calm him; slowly he walked down the rocky terrain, his army boots trudging through the thick layer of snow. Lieutenant Aditya Mehra had spent the past six years trudging through the snowy hill top, following the same routine almost religiously. Posted as a Border Patrol officer, he was in charge of manning the Indian Check post that lay 400 metres in front of him. The rickety wooden construction had been his only shelter during the harsh snow storms that drowned the surroundings almost every day. He held a special attachment towards it. Climbing up the side ladder, he pulled himself into the cramped room that functioned as his outpost. The wooden walls were decorated with photos of his parents, letters from his wife and drawings of his two little girls. Glancing at them like he always did every morning, a smile formed on Aditya s face. A smile that d fuel him for the rest of the day. Taking off the automatic that was slung across his shoulder, Aditya non chalantly placed it next to the sniper rifle that lay on the floor, near the window. Army protocol demanded that the sniper rifle must be mounted at all times, assuming a threat arises. There were a lot of things Army protocol demanded. Two minutes later, Aditya was trudging through the snow again, towards a large, almost dome shaped rock formation. As he approached closer, the sound of an ice pick scraping against the rock, became louder. Saab was early, thought Aditya. Sure enough, there he was, squatting on a small rock, diligently using his worn out ice pick to scrape away small chunks of ice that had frozen against the massive granite blocks. Without looking up, he smiled and asked, So, Adiji, still having trouble with motions? Aditya chuckled, unable to keep a straight face. I think it s getting better now, Saab. Two more days and I ll be fine,

he said, pulling out his own ice pick and sitting down on a nearby rock. For the next half hour, Lieutenant Aditya Mehra and his Pakistani counterpart, Lieutenant Malik Hussain, chatted joyfully as they scraped bits of ice off the granite rocks. Which was definetly not part of Army protocol. It had begin innocently enough. The first three nights of Aditya s posting were the worst. He lay in the cramped room, on a thin mattress, holding the photo of his wife and baby daughter againt the glow of his cigarette lighter. It was too cold to sleep, and the only way he ever closed his eyes was when exhaustion overpowered his body s icy temperature. For almost two months, Aditya had diligently stuck to his check post. His instructions had been clear. He was to man the post, and report on any activity in the surrounding area. Five hundred metres away from the post lay the border between two of the most fierce rival nations in the world. And the duty of protecting that border, lay on the partly frost bitten shoulder of Aditya Mehra. Of course, there was more to it than meets the eye. For starters, the border crossing hardly posed any problem to either country, thanks to the extremely rocky terrain and subsequent forests on either side. Which meant defending that particular border strip, meant more in terms of pride, than tactical advantage. Half way through his third month, though, things began changing for Aditya. His supply truck, which was supposed to drop by with necessary food and water, got delayed due to the snow storm. Though he had enough food to survive for the next few weeks, he d run out of water. Realising that he d have to search for water on his own, Aditya ventured out into the surrounding rocky terrain, foolishly hoping to find a stream running through the snow clad earth. Just as he d given up his search, the sound of ice being scrapped streamed across the silent terrain. Realising that it came from the large rock formation nearby, he cautiously treaded forward. He stopped abruptly, when he spotted a man, dressed in military gear, stooping down next to the rocks. Aditya felt a rush of fear. It was a Pakistani. Gripping his rifle tightly, he pondered as to what had to be done. Obviously he couldn t fire at the soldier. What then? It took the young man almost ten minutes to finally make a decision. With one arm resting on his rifle, he walked forward slowly, making sure that the enemy soldier spotted him first. The soldier didn t seem alarmed in the least. As he neared, Aditya understood what the man had been doing. Tiny droplets of water had frozen onto the granite rocks, forming small ice particles. Scraping them into a bucket, the Pakistani was probably trying to get enough water to drink. Over the years, both of them forgot how their friendship had begun. They talked about it once in a while, trying to trace back to the initial years. You took three months to even ask me my name, Malik commented, as he casually chipped away at the ice. What did you expect me to do? Invite you for lunch at my check post? Aditya retorted immediately. Malik laughed. He had a open, large hearted way of laughing. It was something Aditya admired. The man s ease and

calm. Malik Hussain was almost 38 years old. He d served in the Army for over 15 years, without much success, he added, as he scraped more ice. But he was not a man to complain. It was too much of a waste of time, he said. Instead, he regaled Aditya with stories of his life in Pakistan. They were quaint, warm hearted stories, told in short episodes of thirty minutes, over the span of six long years. Aditya remembered almost all of them : the goat Humzah that was almost like family, his two sisters who were now married and settled in the States, his grandmother who was surprisingly still alive. So, saab, is that enough colourless snow for you? Malik asked as he stopped scraping. Inspecting his bucket, Aditya nodded his head. He d once asked Malik why he referred to ice as colourless snow. Malik merely grinned and replied : Green for me, Saffron for you, colourless for snow, no? And since then, that s what they called it : colourless snow. Aditya walked back towards his post. Gathering enough fuel and wood, he started a small fire and began melting the ice. Carefully, and quickly enough, he transferred the water into a bottle, and climbed back into his room. Three hours later, his radio crackled loudly. It was a short, sharp message, delivered with military-type precision. India and Pakistan were on the verge of declaring war. All border areas were to be on high alert. Aditya felt a sharp prick in his stomach. Realising what the order meant, he got onto his knees, and began mounting the sniper rifle. The thought of having to use it, sickened him. The next few hours passed by in deadly silence. Aditya watched quietly as the sun sunk into the horizon, and the familiar noises of the night took over. At around 12, just as the Lieutenant began feeling exhausted, the radio crackled to life again.

A Boy Named Chris
The five year old boy, dressed smartly in a red t-shirt and small, black baggy pants, ran around the Business Class lounge, smiling happily. Victor Fabiansky smiled. A few minutes later, he was talking to the same boy. "What's your name, little fella?" he asked. "My name is Chris, and I'm 5 years old," the boy replied animatedly. He had fair skin, puffy cheeks, floppy hair. Half the ladies in the lounge were watching him with adoring eyes. "What's your name?" he asked. "My name is Victor Fabiansky." The boy ran back towards his mother, crying out excitedly. "Mother, mother, I made a new friend named Victor

Fabiansky!". The mother smiled politely, trying to hide her embarrasement. He came back a moment later. "What do you do, Mr. Fabinsky?" Chris asked, unable to pronounce his name properly. Victor Fabiansky hesitated for a moment, looking into the 5 year old boy's innocent eyes. For a single, impulsive moment, he thought of telling the truth. Instead, he smiled again and said, "I'm a Fireman." Chris's mouth opened wide. "Wow, you're a real Fireman?" He asked excitedly. He looked at Victor's large suitcase admiringly. The truth was, the suitcase concealed eight separate metallic pieces, which when assembled within half a minute, produced one of the deadliest pistol in the world. The Night Hawk .50 Calibre. Victor Fabiansky had a reputation for being one of the deadliest assasins in the world. He could fire six shots into a little girl's head at point blank range. Without blinking an eye. And he had a penchant for wearing Italian Suits.

"Where you going?" Chris asked inquisitvely. Victor smiled as he replied. "To Hawai." He needed to take a vacation. Especially after his last job. Suddenly, he was reminded of it all again. Eight weeks ago, at around 11 P.M. on a cold, dry night, Victor Fabiansky had slipped into his friend's house using the spare key he always kept. Without making a sound, he went upstairs, and made sure the wife and kid were sound asleep. Seeing their faint outlines on the bed was enough. Then, he slowly made his way downstairs, and into the basement. Victor Fabiansky had a reputation for speed. It was once said that he could kill six men in a duel, before anyone else could even fire a single shot. That kind of skill was excatly the reason he could handle Thomas Bergman so easily. Before Thomas could even realise that there was someone in his basement, Victor had drawn his gun, standing mere inches away from the man. "Last wish," Thomas had whispered before Victor could pull the trigger. Raising his gun slightly, Victor looked at his friend coldly. "What is it?" he hissed. "Spare me from a quick death. Shoot me in the gut. Please," Thomas added. "Why?" "Because I want to see my wife and kid before I die. Poison me if you want. You can be sure I'll die. But please let me see my wife and kid...one last time." There were tears in the dying man's eyes. Victor Fabiansky was said to have lost his heart after killing six children in a nursery. But for some reason, he lowered his gun and fired at Thomas Bergman's stomach. Without blinking an eye. Three shots. Just to be sure. Just as he was about to leave, Victor saw a photo frame on the table. He picked it up and dropped it next to Thomas.

"In case they don't wake up in time," Victor said. "Mr. Fabiansky?" Chris said for the fifth time. "Are you alright?" "Oh yes," Victor said quickly, shaking away his thoughts. "Is it tough to be a Fireman?" Chris asked curiously. Victor looked at him with a sad smile. "Yes," he said. "Sometimes it's very hard." As he saw the boy play around the lounge, Victor felt a curious sense of disappointment. Eight years of cold blooded murders had hardened his heart, or so he thought. But for the first time, he felt a sense of remorse. A feeling of loss. "Mr. Fabinsky?" Chris asked again. "Yes?" "Would you like a milkshake?" Chris asked, offering him a large plastic cup of milkshake. Victor couldnt help but feel a sense of comfort with the five year old. His cute, innocent looking face looked familar for some reason. As though he'd seen the boy before. He gladly accepted the drink, and took a sip. "Where's your daddy?" Victor asked Chris. The boy shook his head slowly and said. "I don't have a daddy."

Victor felt sorry for the kid. And he immediately wished he'd never asked the question. Chris stared at his feet, looking lost for a moment.

"I'm, I'm sorry to hear that, Chris," Victor said apologetically. He wasn't good at consoling. He was a hit man after all.

"He went to heaven," Chris said softly, looking down, probably to hide his tears. "And before he went, he told me that one day, I'd make him proud. That's the last thing he told me. To make him proud." Tears began streaming down the boy's face, as he thought of his father. "I'm sure you will," Victor said softly. Suddenly, he felt his throat become dry. His eyes began to water, and he was sweating profusely. Before he could say anything, it felt as though someone ripped out his stomach. Writhing in muted agony, he slouched in his seat, his legs sliding forwards towards Chris. Victor Fabiansky looked at the boy in front of him for one last time. Suddenly, he realised why his face was so familiar. "What's your-- What's your...father's...name?" Victor said. "Thomas Bergman." Chris said. "And I think I've made my dad proud. Yes, I think I've made him proud," he muttered, as he walked away towards his mother, who was waiting at the entrance of the lounge...

Shoot on sight.
It was true, then. His worst fear had come true. It had happened, what they d always assumed would happen someday. Maybe today, maybe next week, maybe ten years from now The words of Malik seemed oddly prophetic now. Gripping his sniper rifle, Aditya, for the first time in six years, took his position. He slowly surveyed the surrounding terrain, checking for the slightest signs of life. Finally, his cross hair rested onto the check post that stood about 800 metres away. Malik Hussain s check post. As his finger slowly gripped the trigger, he wondered what he was supposed to do. Was he supposed to kill the enemy soldier that was almost surely residing in that post? Or should he spare the life of his friend? Before he could decide, the top of a helmet came into sight. A sudden chill ran through Aditya. He knew it was possible. Two shots and the enemy soldier would be mortally wounded. Two shots and he d have nothing to worry about. The last thing that crossed Aditya s mind before he decided to pull the trigger, was the thought of Humzah. An image of Humzah trotting through the courtyard, with an arrogance found only in goats, filled his mind. His grip on the trigger slackened. The night continued in silence. The next thing Aditya remembered was waking up suddenly, his arm still wrapped around the sniper rifle. Realising that he d fallen asleep, Aditya frantically looked around. It was about 7 in the morning, and almost everything seemed normal. Until he peered at the opposite check post. Malik Hussain wasn t there. Something was wrong. As his heart began beating faster, Aditya tried to think what to do next. He knew that Malik Hussain was supposed to stay in his outpost. Conditions were hostile between the two nations. Enemy soldiers were to be killed on sight. And then he realised what was happening. Wild with fear, he grabbed his automatic rifle, and decided to face Malik Hussain head on. Slowly climbing down the side railing, Aditya surveyed the area, looking out for any signs of the enemy soldier. It was completely quiet. I should have killed him when I had the chance. Aditya felt sick with regret. As he carefully trudged through the snow, gripping his rifle, Aditya knew how precarious his situation was. A shot could ring out from anywhere, one shot to kill him. Just as he finished climbing up the terrain, Aditya heard the familiar sound of ice being scraped. Cautiously, he moved towards the rocks, until Malik Hussain came into sight. The Pakistani soldier, squatting on a rock, continued scrapping ice into a bucket. Without looking up, he smiled and asked, So, Adi-ji, still having trouble with motions? .

Aditya s grip on the rifle immediately slackened. His face broke into an embarresed smile. Looking at Malik to make sure he wasn t being watched, Aditya quickly took off his rifle and placed it against the rocks, away from sight. Nothing like that, Saab. Just woke up late, he said, as he sat down on a nearby rock. Malik Hussain chuckled lightly, but did not say anything else. Aditya wondered if the man knew the truth. As though to cover up his guilt, Aditya asked Malik to recount some anecdotes about Hamzah, the family goat. For the next half hour, the two men committed treason as they together scrapped ice off granite rocks, while their nations decided whether or not to wage a war...

A Train Ride
It was seven o? clock in the morning. There was a light shower, which seemed to cleanse Dallas Railway Station, leaving the passengers feeling fresh. Near the platform, in a local pharmacy, a young teenager was looking at a bottle, which he was clutching. The lad seemed to be about to make a crucial decision. After looking at the bottle for a while, he finally paid the shopkeeper. He quietly slipped the bottle into his knapsack just as a train was floating into the station. The passengers clamored to get into the train, and the youngster managed to wriggle his way into an empty compartment. He threw his knapsack on a seat and sat next to the window. He was staring out of the window, when the compartment door opened and a man along with his son, got in. The youngster eyed the man with suspicion. The newcomer was rather short, looking typical in plain shirt and pants, stroking his beard with delight. His son was about 6 or 7 years, the youngster judged, and seemed rather a bit old to be playing with toy cars. The train began to move out of the station and it was a full minute before the man began the conversation. ?What?s your good name, my son?? he asked. ?Norman? the youngster answered coldly. ?I am Ahmed, and this, is my very own Ali!? Ahmed beamed with happiness and pride. Norman looked at the boy and then stared out of the window. He wasn?t in the mood for conversation. Norman was a rather unusual boy. He was never moody and quite like this before. But all of a sudden, he was lost in thought, contemplating something. Ahmed restarted the conversation ?You know Ali is now in 2nd standard. Yes, he passed the 1st standard. How much did you get Ali?? Ali stopped playing for a moment and answered, ?I got 58%?. ?Yes, 58%! The teachers were very proud of him. He did much better than they expected!?. Norman, who was trying to keep the conversation at a minimum, couldn?t help but wonder why Ahmed was so delighted. According to him, 58% was horrible for a 1st grader, even by a failure?s standards. ?I?m sorry, but didn?t you say that Ali was in 2nd standard?? The smile on Ahmed?s face vanished. He looked sad and depressed all of a sudden. ?Ali, could you go out and play

with your new friend, Vickie? I am sure that his mother will allow you two to play,? he asked. Ali stopped playing and said proudly, ?Vickie is my new best friend!? There was an innocent gleam in his eyes. ?Well, you must be wondering why I am on cloud nine when Ali passed 1st grade. To explain the reason, I have to give you a bit of history. You see, seven years ago, Ali?s mother gave birth to him. But, something went wrong in the delivery room, and the doctor told me that some severe damage had been done to Ali?s brains. According to him, this would severely impair his I.Q. Well, at that time, that wasn?t the worst thing. My wife, Fatima, died during the delivery. I never clearly understood the reason why. It was the greatest tragedy of my life. My wife had passed away, and my son was retarded. For a while, I was too shocked to do anything. Then, God Almighty blessed me with courage and faith. I raised him, and enrolled him in the local nursery. It was tough to teach him. He understood things four times slower than others did. When he reached 1st grade, it was horrible. He spent the whole day at school, and the whole night at home, studying. I would sit and teach him, while his friends would enjoy cricket outside.? Ahmed?s voice began to quaver. ?I remember a time when I was teaching him the alphabets. It was 10 in the night, and I fell asleep on the table. The next day, I heard him say the alphabets perfectly. He had spent the whole night, learning just 26 alphabets?without sleep?I?I...? Suddenly, Ahmed?s eyes swelled with tears, and he was no more able to control the tears. He burst out crying. ?He, he could not understand what his teachers were saying. Yet he spent six hours every day, studying without an ounce of entertainment. He never grudged it, nor did he complain. He only studied and said his prayers. For him, school was the only thing in life. Poor Soul!? Norman looked dazed as he stared out of the window. He couldn?t think of anything to Ahmed, nothing to console him about. Norman felt lost in his emotions. ??. (Sob)? (Sob)?you know, sometimes I think that Ali is blessed. Whenever I read the news or see the papers?.I really feel that Ali is lucky!? Ahmed said. Norman could not understand what Mubarak was saying all of a sudden. ?What do you mean sir?? he asked respectfully. ?Oh, I?ll tell you. Don?t you read the papers? How many children are wasting their lives because of their exam results? Suicides committed in the millions due to 3-hour exams. Souls are wasted! And when I read all this, I feel that Ali is blessed. Do you know why? Because God was kind enough to make him a retard. I tell you that was God?s way of protecting Ali from committing suicide. Every time I see Ali puzzling over something, I praise God for not allowing my only son to tie ropes and buy poisons. He is truly blessed. Norman was quite and tears were streaming down his face. He quickly wiped them and stood up. It was his stop. He grabbed his bag, and after saying a quick word of farewell to the weeping Ahmed, walked out of the train station. Just as he was getting down, he saw Ali playing with Vickie. Ali was trying to fit three pieces of a simple jigsaw puzzle together. Something that Vickie had completed ages ago, and was now looking bored. But Ali was stumbling over what to do. He repeatedly tried to fit the three pieces together. ?He will never stop,? Norman thought, ?He will keep at it till he gets it!? Norman came out of the station and was standing near the road. The train hadn?t started moving yet. He put his hand into his knapsack and pulled out a bottle. Without even having a second thought, he tossed it into the drains nearby. As he walked, a paper fluttered out of his knapsack. Anyone passing nearby would have managed to see it. On it was written:

Name: Norman Mueller Marks (total): 162.5 Remarks: FAILED, NOT PROMOTED. In the drains, the bottle lay, pushed forward by gushing water. On its label was the title:POTASSIUM CYNADIE POISON FOR ELEPHANTS DO NOT TOUCH FATAL IF CONSUMED Then lastly, it was written: FROM WALTERS PHARMACY, NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION, WILL RESULT IN DEATH! Norman was now walking with a reassuring smile. He no longer had that plan in mind. He was thankful that he had met his angel. In the train station, just as the bottle of poison was broken open by the gushing water, and all its contents destroyed, the train began to pick speed. Inside the train, Ahmed was smiling with joy as he saw the last glimpses of a troubled soul, walking with a knapsack. And besides him, was an angel. Ali had finally managed to put the three pieces together. There was a triumphant smile on his face!

Forgiven But Not Forgotten...
On the morning of 12th January, 2008, a man named Joseph Peccard went up to the terrace of his building, and stood next the ledge, threathening to jump. As could be expected, within ten minutes, a huge crowd formed at the foot of the 35 storey building, crying out to the deranged man. "Dont jump, please dont jump Mr. Peccard!" a janitor who knew Joseph cried out. "It isnt worth it. Sir, please move away from the ledge. Do you hear me? Move away from the ledge!" Another man shouted. Five minutes passed before the police arrived, and when they did, Detective Martin Spencer was at the scene. "Who is that guy?" He asked, straining his eyes to see the man. Someone handed him a binoculars. "His name is Joseph Peccard. He's a Senior Accounts Analyst at J.P. Morgan & Sons. Has two children, both of them married. His wife is a well known socialite. He lives at 56 Vermont Avenue, in a large villa. Owns another house in Illinois. Financially well off. Seems like a perfectly normal guy." Detective Thomas said, closing the file in his hands. "Yah. Except that he's threathening to jump of the roof. Something must be odd," Martin said sarcastically. The routine procedure in such an event was simple enough. The police would create a soft landing pad at the foot of the building, which would require at least ten minutes time. Until then, Joseph Peccard would need to be distracted. "Where is the psychiatrist?" Martin asked. In such situations, a police psychiatrist would be the one who talked to the person, trying to calm him down and

make sure nothing rash happened. This time, however, the nearest psychiatrist was stuck in traffic. "Great! Well, then, I guess I'll talk to him myself," Martin growled angrily. He was in a particularly anti-social mood. He reached the terrace of the building, and found Joseph, standing next to the ledge. "Hey Joseph," Martin said casually. "What, no, stay back. Stay back I tell you. Or else I'll jump. I swear I'll jump. Dont come any closer!" Joseph bellowed. Martin didnt flinch. In his life as a homicide detective, he'd heard worse threats. Nothing could bother him after 8 years in the police force. "Alright, alright. I'm just going to sit down here. And then we'll talk. Alright?" It took about ten minutes, but Joseph finally mellowed down. He sat next to the ledge, with Martin sitting several metres away. Tears were streaming down Joseph's face. "You must think I'm a nutcase, right?" Joseph asked softly. Martin wasnt a very diplomatic officer. Which was why he was better that killing murderers than dealing with mad men. "I think you're a moron. A big, useless piece of shit! Why do you ask?" Joseph was surprised by the answer. But he smiled after a while. "You're right about one thing. I'm a useless piece of shit. Atleast I became." "Look, I know you're wife must've left you, or you got kicked out of your job. That doesnt mean you jump off the roof. For god sakes man, get a life! Or atleast stop throwing yours away!" Martin snapped. He knew this was the wrong way to go about things. But he couldnt care. He was having a horrible week, and there was nothing comforting he could think of. Joseph laughed. A long, hysterical laugh. "My wife isnt going to leave me. We're supposed to celebrate our 30th anniversary tomorrow. And about my job? Within six months I'll be the Chief Financial Officer of the firm. So that's not my worry, buddy." "Then what the hell is your problem?" "The problem? A cake." Martin had half a mind to get up and pound the useless buffoon in front of him. But something told him the man wasnt mad. There was a look in Joseph's eyes. It wasnt the look of delusion. It was the look of....disillusionment? "You see, my wife Mary makes the best cake in the world. I mean it. In fact, she made the cake herself for our wedding. Man, I'm telling you, I'll never forget the taste of that cake. We've had it ever since, every year on 13th January. It's always been the same. We'd break a bottle of champagne, the kids would bring out the cake, and we'd have a wonderful evening together. Not this time, though. "Yesterday, I had to work till 8 in the night. So I called Mary and told her I'd be coming home late. So she decided to take the help of our kids, Marshall and Lily, to make the cake. They went out to buy some stuff from the grocery, and

were on their way back, when -" Joseph stopped, choking on his tears. "When what?" Martin asked softly. "When some drunk driver almost ran into their car on the freeway. Marshall swearved the car in order to avoid a collision. The road was wet or something, he lost control of the car. It slammed into the side railings of the road, and flipped over. Again, and again." Joseph's face was filled with bitterness. "Again, and again," he repeated. He suddenly stopped talking, and looked up towards the sky. "The last thing Marshall said to the nurse was 'Sorry'. Sorry for what, I asked myself today morning. Sorry for driving a car past a drunkard? Sorry for leaving me alone? Sorry for what?" Martin didnt know what to say. His face had lost the look of authority and command. Instead, there was a paleness in his cheeks. "So Officer, dont tell me to get a life. I just lost mine. I lost my wife who I loved for 30 long years. I lost both my children. Every evening I should return from work to an empty house. Every morning I should wake up, feeling the empty space in the bed next to me. Every single frickking day. Every single day..." Joseph began weeping. He wept until his body slouched forward, and he rolled onto the ground. Martin knew what he had to do. In a quick motion, he placed a pair of cuffs onto Joseph's arms, and lifted him up slowly. "Take the fellow to a hospital. And find out which Freeway his family was driving in last night," Martin said to Thomas, as he placed Joseph in the back of the police car. "Do you know what drove me over the edge, officer?" Joseph asked, his voice dry and feeble. "Last night, I came home, and saw the kitchen was in a mess. The cake was half made, placed on top of the oven. There was no sugar left in the house. I guess that's why they went out to buy some. I'll never forget how my wife used to make those cakes, officer. I'll never forget..." Joseph Peccard was admitted to the hospital. One week later, he returned to his work, apparently cured of his suicidal thoughts. As he entered his office, he found a note on the table. "To Joseph Peccard, I was the drunk driver who caused the deaths of your family members. I hope you will find peace and the will to forgive me. Because I cannot forgive myself. Sorry, Martin Spencer." Three hours later, there was a large crowd outside the building. Someone had jumped off the roof. The fall had immediately killed the man. The paramedics carried away the body of Detective Martin Spencer. Some deeds can be forgiven. Some, unfortunately, cannot be forgotten....

The Airport Story
This story is very dear to me, since this was the first story of mine that was ever published (in a regional magazine called Young Times). The reason I'm called a budding author today, is because of this story. Not great in literary merit, I agree, butirreplaceable in emotional value. Let me know what you think about it.... ?Excuse me sir. Would you like anything to drink?? asked the airhostess. I was sleeping and in a sleepy mood shook my head to indicate no. However, the man who was sitting next to me asked for the orange juice. I turned my head a little to see who it was, but the whole airplane was dark. Every one was sleeping, except for us. I was flying from Paris to Los Angeles. It was a seven-hour journey with two stops, one at Amsterdam (half an hour) and another one at New York (Three Hours). The man started talking to me. Although I pretended to be asleep, I soon found out that the man was keen on talking. ?Cant he go and talk to the air hostess?? I thought. Nevertheless, I listened. The conversation quickly became about Baseball. Although I was a businessperson, I had a liking for The NEW York Yankees. The man asked me who would win in the match between New York Yankees and Boston Red Socks. I told him that for sure New York Yankees would win. He started to dispute that, and within minutes asked if I dared to bet. Although I was offended, I betted him, 50 dollars. He raised it to 100. I then went to sleep. The man, however, got up and walked towards the toilet? Half an hour later, the man and I ate our dinner. While eating, I was wondering about the baseball match when the man again engaged me in conversation. ?Now, what bet does he want? I thought, slightly annoyed. He talked about the market condition and finally ended by saying that the Day would end with the NASDAQ losing 6 percent. I could not resist challenging him. I told him that due to Hurricane Katrina, NASDAQ would go down by 10 percent. ?Any common man would know that? I thought. The man challenged me and once again, I bet 200 dollars that NASDAQ would go down by 10 percent. I put on my headphone and waited for the in-flight movie to start. The man got up moved towards the toilet. ?The fellow has grown attached to the toilet,? I thought. For the next two hours, I did not see the man. After the movie finished, he came back. I was bewildered and asked him if he had spent two hours in the toilet. He laughed and said ?No, of course not. I just talked to a few of my friends who are on this flight. I asked if I should exchange my seat for his friend?s (so that the fellow would leave me in peace) but before long, the conversation was about Movies. ?You know, Brad Pitt must be sad that he hasn?t got a movie to act in? he said. I sensed another bet coming up, and after informing him that Brad Pitt had not one, but three movies in the making, boldly said that I would challenge him 300 dollars for a bet. He agreed, and I felt mischievously happy. I had a friend who had a friend whose cousin was the Agent of Brad Pitt, and he assured me that Pitt was working on three movies. I felt that I needed a few hundred dollars from this fellow and happily listened to some music. The man however, went to talk to some of his friends. Soon, the plane landed in Amsterdam, and the man came back from his chatting, looking excited. When I asked what he was so excited about, he said that the latest addition of TIME, WALL STREET JOURNAL, and SPORT STAR was to be gotten from Amsterdam. He went up to the front of the plane and took the magazines and came back (he had by now made it a habit to walk around the plane as though it was his own house) He opened SPORT STAR, and I lost 100 dollars. The New York Yankees had lost, the magazine said, badly. Then he opened WALL STREET JOURNAL and again I was surprised to know that NASDAQ had only gone down by 5 percent. Grudgingly I flung the 200 dollars at him. Then he opened TIME magazine, and I was so surprised that I let out a gasp. Brad Pitt had not gotten any part in a movie. Still shocked, I took out the last few dollars from my wallet and handed it to the man. He happily put it into his pocket and got up. For the next hour, I bitterly cursed my luck. ?Why did

every thing happen to me?? I thought. I had lost 600 dollars. When the plane was about to land at New York (Where every one would have to go to the Transit section to wait for the next flight) the man came back. I was bewildered when I saw him counting hundreds of dollars. I tried to ask him where he had gotten it from, but he merely smiled. The plane landed, and the man raced to be the first to reach the airport. I was walking towards the Transit area when I noticed a few magazines. Suddenly I stopped. Something had just caught my eye. I quickly grabbed TIME, WALL STREET JOURNAL, and SPORT STAR and did not pay (I did not have any cash with me). I quickly read the main news: INTERVIEW WITH THE YANKEES, WINNERS OF THE 2005 BASEBALL CHAMPIONSHIP, ECONOMY UPSET AS NASDAQ FALLS 20 PERCENT, BRAD ENJOYS THREE MOVIES. I could not understand what was going on. The magazine, which the man had, said that none of these were true (and as a result, I had to pay 600 dollars). I quickly walked towards the transit area to find the man. After searching the transit area, I still could not find the man. I asked an airhostess if she had seen him. She replied that the man had left the airport. I then asked if there were any more magazines of TIME, WALL STREET JOURNAL, and SPORT STAR in the airplane. The airhostess looked surprised and said, ?We only have the old issues of these magazines. Our planes don?t stock them when we are on a transit flight sir? I sat down on a chair in the transit area. My head was about to burst. I did not know what was going on. The Yankees had won, NASDAQ had gone down (not that he was happy about it) and Pitt had gotten three roles. Then why did the magazines in the flight write false news? In addition, there actually were not any magazines in the flight (except for the old ones) that could only mean one thing? My thoughts were interrupted. Men were fighting. Some were saying, ?Yankees won? while others argued ?Boston?s won?. As I had a reputation for solving problems, I asked them what the matter was. One of them said, ?Look, a guy asked us if we wanted to bet who would win the Yankee-Socks match. We betted and the guy took down our names-??How many were there?? I asked, not feeling easy. ?Well, about twelve. The guy took the betting from almost every one in the plane. About hundred of them? I was shocked. ?Well then, the guy brought magazines and proved to us that Yankees lost, and collected money. Lots of money. But we find out that the Yankees did win?the man was interrupted by another man who said,? No the Boston?s won? and so the fight started again. I interrupted them and said,? You are not going to like it, but that guy cheated you. The magazine he showed you was a fake. He made duplicate copies of the magazines, and then betted. And how much did he get?? A man said,? He took about hundred from each of us? That night, as I lay in my bed in my apartment in Los Angeles, I thought over all that had happened. The man (whose name I do not know) had cheated every one of 100 dollars. It all added up. He never introduced himself, and got away with Ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars. The flight only cost 5000 dollars... The man must make a couple of hundreds every month.? I remembered that I had not informed any one about this cheat. Not even the Airport Police or my friends. My worry changed into joy as I thought, ?The man took 600 dollars from. Let him take 600 dollars from another man.? With that happy thought, I went to sleep.

The Story of Rajeev and Faisal
It was that time of the year when every school in the city was busy hosting farewell parties for its outgoing batch. Our school was no different. In fact, the hype surrounding the farewell party was immense. It was all because of the Student Awards. The Student Awards were a set of Awards given by the management of the school, as a token of appreciation to certain students. There was the "Best Outgoing Student Award", "Most Popular Student" award, and so on. But the most loved award, was the "Best Duo Award". And this year, the winners were a sure fire bet. Rajeev and Faisal. Rajeev and Faisal were the epitome of best friends. It wasnt surprising, considering their backgrounds. Since 9th Grade, the two of them had trusted each other deeply. And they were surprisingly popular. Rajeev was the cuter, more stylish of the two. He was an amazing dancer, friendly, excellent in academics as well as sports. Faisal on the other hand, was the more creative one. Not as good looking, but certainly loveable. He shone in oratory and writing. Together, the two formed a formidable pair. They were the ones who knew everyone. They were everyone's friend. They dealt with others problems, offered help, hung out. If there was a party, it was only a party if these two were there. And so, when the Vice Principal took to the stage, everyone was waiting to hear what they knew was obvious. "The winner of this year's Best Duo Award is...Rajeev and Faisal!" There was loud cheering and wild applause. It was predictable, but that didnt stop it from being good news. From the audience, the two of them rose and reached the stage. When the applause died down, Faisal leaned forward and said something to the Vice Principal. He and Rajeev then turned around to face the audience. "Dear parents, teachers and our good friends, this award cannot be accepted by Rajeev and I. For the simple reason being, the two of us are not friends anymore." There was sudden silence, broken quickly by someone who yelled, "Ya right dude, we believe you!" The audience laughed. Surely it was a joke. But Faisal continued. "It's true. And you maybe wondering why we decided to declare it now. Well, it's because this award really goes to someone else. It goes to Vasanth and Riyaz." Vasanth and Riyaz. Hardly a handful in the audience recognised the names. Vasanth and Riyaz were relatively low on the Popularity meter. In fact, hardly anyone in the school knew about them. "Of course, the question can be asked, why? Why should Vasanth and Riyaz be declared the best duo? Well, because they have something the two of us never did. Rajeev and I have known each other for the past four years. And in these four years, never once have I had a complaint about him. Vice versa as well, you could say. After all, why would we? We were the two best guys in our batch. We were the perfect companions. And there lay our problem. Perfection. It's a misguiding word. Perfection. Most of us choose our friends, depending upon how perfect they are. We like those people who are nearly flawless in their behaviour, in the way they treat us. But does that last?

There's a quote from a movie called Good Will Hunting, where Robin Williams character tells Matt Damon(regarding him and his girl friend): "Let me tell you something sport. You're not perfect. And let me save you the suspense. This girl you love, well, she's not perfect either. The question is....are you two perfect for each other?" Two weeks back, Rajeev and I had a misunderstanding. A huge one. Caused due to a fault of mine. As a result, we could no longer remain good friends. And it was only then, that I realised the value of friendship. I learnt it from Vasanth and Riyaz. For those of you who dont know them, Vasanth and Riyaz aren't the most fun loving people you'll find. In fact, to be really blunt, one of them has a nagging tendency to be talkative, while the other sulks a bit too much. They could find a hundred faults with each other. Yet, this is the point that amazed me. For the past three years, they've remained great friends. Sure, they've fought and swore at each other. They even vowed to never talk to each other again. But at the end of the day, they've accepted each other for who they really are. Within a few weeks, all of us are going to part. And we may never meet again, despite exchanging email ids and mobile numbers. Well, in that case, here's what I would like to say: Love your friends, for who they are. For the good, as well as the bad in them. No one's perfect. There's always, always someone better than the person your friends with. Anyone can pick the perfect guy to be a friend. But only a true friend can accept you, for your imperfections. Forgive, forget. Life is too short to waste upon misunderstandings. This, I've learnt, the hard way..." With that, Faisal walked off the stage. The dumbstruck silence was pierced by a clap. Followed by another. Soon, the hall was filled with the sound of applause...