27

It was the time of year when a movie

By Chris Nolan couldn’t last forever.

As expected, my iPod died after an hour,

The Mac chose a grave beside his buddy.

No music, no movie, it was Economy

Class. Boredom caught on like a fever.

The pilot droned as the airplane quivered.

Holding an empty cup, I lifted my wrist to see

The time. I rolled my eyes. This was agony!

It was a frigid winter, but it would be warmer.

I would fight and argue, but hey it’s my brother.

The food would be Indian, not the Fresh Food Café.

I would sleep and sleep thirteen hours a day,

My home: Singapore… sigh, just 27 hours away.

Little People

Like little people, these little rats,

They scurry hurriedly on the quads and steps.

These hapless chasers carry estranged smiles.

Their puffy cheeks of paper or of flesh,

Hands stained of ink or of blood, these little people,

Like rats, they lay hidden underground.

They breed, they brood a disease so vile,

In the house of the underground dead. Amongst

Piles of untouched, dead paper and letters, these

Little people, little rats, on tables and chairs,

They feed on each other, deep into the night.

Like the time of kindergarten, these little people,

Are obsessed with A,B,C. These little rats, their bitter

Bile courses like ichor. This black disease of putrid

Plague and dirty alphabets, plusses and minuses

They spread! They spread! Oh please spare me!

To escape, to fly, I seek to their lair.

I seek to these underground shelves of untouched

Corpses. They reek of decay for they died decades ago.

“Let go! You dirty rats!” I scream and I fight.

But their teeth sink and their venom flows.

I kick my legs and try to punch them away,

But the day has come, the day has come.

Like little people, we little rats:

“Where is my 4.0? Oh darn it, drats!”

Binary Relationship

Tonight, he looks at me, I look at him

On the wooden table, hot and burning

I sit here, clean and blank. And I’m the board,

He’s the chalk. He stretches his back and cracks

His knuckles—now ready. He squints his eye,

There is barely some light to see. He takes

His pen and makes some notes. This thoughtful guy,

He’s prodding me, he’s poking me. I’m numb

To him, or so he thinks. He thinks! He’s good

At that. I’m not for that. For I obey.

He’s scratching, prodding, nibbling. Yes, I see him.

Like painting colors, red or blue or green,

He’s making me with thought. With logic, loops,

Or functions. I’m his art, his masterpiece.

He enters, enters, making codes of me. This dance

Of thought, its elegance in math. The spotlight

Is on, its time to dance. He made me, tests me,

Holds me. Though this dance is not to last.

“You’re full of bugs! Can you please work? Please work!”

Trapped inside your screen, I’m trapped, I’m trapped.

You put me in a straightjacket and left me

Lonely, helpless, numb and dead. I thought

You made me. When you look at me, you look

At you. A mirror you are looking through.

“You’re full of bugs! Can you please work? Please work!”

For it is you who pressed those morbid keys.

I work I work, I still have bugs. And who was

The one who erred? You put the bugs in me!

How’s it fair for you to blame? I’m numb, but

That does not make me as blind as you.

Didn’t you install Windows just for me?

Motherland

In the nascence of dawn, women wait, drenched in sweat,

With fish-filled baskets made of bamboo on their heads.

Men wearing oversized shirts and dhobi[1]-washed pants,

Are hurriedly reading crumpled newspapers of the ancient tongue.

They wait, like runners on their marks, by the filthy platform.

Large rats that infest the tracks race away as the monstrous train

Rumbles to view – stained duly of bright red paan[2], rust and age.

Like gravel spilling from a sack cut open, people in thousands flock to the doors.

Breathless and tired they smile to unknown faces. As the train departs,

The Sun arrives, it’s hot and it’s humid, but it’s warm and lovely.

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[1] Washerman who washes clothes with his hands

[2] Paan is an Indian and South East Asian tradition of chewing betel leaf with areca nut and slaked lime paste.

The Gambit

Dr. Huygens shook hands with his elderly opponent who just beat him in his favorite board game. “I have never seen anyone use the Reti Gambit so well against me,” the professor feigned a nervous laugh as they walked out the door, “Are you from here? I haven’t seen you at the chess club before.”

“I’ve only been here a week and thought I’d check out this club,” the old man explained.

“Care for some coffee, Mr. Chapman? I live just there,” Huygens pointed two houses away.

***

The two men sat on comfortable futons in his porch with steaming cups of freshly-brewed coffee in hand. Unmarried, Huygens had little company much of his life. Only occasionally had he any visitors. But when he did, he really loved it.

Curious about the queer English accent, Huygens asked enthusiastically, “So where are you from Mr. Chapman? Netherfield? Nuthall?”

“I am from far away, sir,” his voice grew raspy as he looked into the bright morning sky, “You are a man of physics, no? You fashion astronomy? I think you will understand.”

“Yes, I’ve been with the University of Nottingham for over twenty years now. Particle cosmology?” Huygens paused, Chapman nodded, “Yea, so I know a fair bit about the stars.” Huygens began proudly on his department, which proudly displays the blackboard used by Einstein.

***

“Interesting, Dr. Huygens,” Chapman said finally, “Are you a religious man?”

“No, not exactly. More than in fortune, I trust in causality. You know causality?” the professor asked. The old man urged him to continue. “All events in time occur as a result… as a reaction to the event that has happened before it. They occur for that purpose defined by that one most magnificent moment –” he paused, “The Big Bang” Chapman interrupted. Huygens smiled.

“If all events have purpose, couldn’t the Big Bang have been designed by a Creator, good sir?” Chapman asked innocently.

“Maybe,” Huygens shrugged, making it clear that the proposition wasn’t science.

“Then what of us, Dr. Huygens? What purpose have we evolved for?” the old man pursued. The professor understood that the conversation had grown deeper than what he had expected.

“We don’t know of that purpose yet. Possibly, our purpose, through society” he pondered “is that we find the purpose itself. Circular? No?”

“We live in a time where we don’t see where we are going,” Chapman shook his head somberly, “We see men working without purpose. Our world is not what it used to be. How long more can this planet sustain?”

“It’s not in our hands, Chapman. We are not society. Changes of ideology take years – decades! The society will understand, eventually.”

“What if it’s too late, Dr. Huygens?” Chapman asked sharply. “The heart of the problem is in the realization,” Chapman spoke with emphasis, “How did we get here? Who made humans?”

“If you read Dawkins, you know? Self replicating structures… evolving complexes… this and that…” Huygens chuckled, “A lot of stuff happened in the primordial soup and boom, life was born out of sheer circumstance… a one in a trillion circumstance. Our existence is an absolute miracle, I agree. But the cosmos is so huge that this was almost bound to happen.”

“I think, Dr. Huygens, that this planet is nearing a tipping point. We are abusing this miracle. This is chaos! Our attempts at recovering Earth from the crisis have far outweighed its costs. I feel that our actions are unjustified in our quest for a purpose.”

“You aren’t suggesting that we eradicate the human species now, are you Chapman?” Huygens asked jokingly, and the old man’s grave silence was not reassuring. “When the time comes, Chapman, I am sure this species will be able to respond and even change itself,” Huygens said. “Humans are a special species. We might even be the only one of our kind in the universe.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Chapman said looking at his now empty cup, “There are only a handful of planets in the cosmos that are capable of supporting complex life.” Chapman sounded nearly metallic. Huygens slowly began to realize what he had implied.

“Wait a sec,” Huygens’ mouth agape, he asked, “How would you know that?”

“I am afraid your species has gone too far,” it said, “This planet cannot be allowed to perish.”

The Illusionist

It was a big stage. Probably the biggest that Borden had ever performed in. Bagging this deal with such a prestigious theater was one, but pleasing the opulent Englishmen meant nearly everything that night. It was a giant step from his performances in the streets. This was different from the rings in the bottles and the card stuff…

“Ladies and Gentlemen my first trick of the evening is one that involves considerable risk,” Borden began. “Anyone in the audience who'd be irrevocably damaged to see a man drown should leave now,” he explained slowly, eagerly watching out for the raised eyebrows, “for the young lady who taught me this trick, died performing it.” Taking a step back he lifted his wooden staff up into the air. “Let’s begin,” he tapped it twice on the stage and the bright red curtain behind him rose slowly and grandly. It revealed a massive glass box filled with water. At the very top there hung a large ominous lock on the clunky, heavy-looking lid. Beside the box stood a Borden’s crewman, Yuddy, with ropes, chains and a handcuff.

The water was frigid. But he couldn’t feel it. He complained a few times when he performed in Bolton or Ipswich, but this was different. He held his breath and patiently yet swiftly worked on the chains. The keys in his socks, the locks in the chains and handcuffs, the twist and the turn that loosened the ropes; he had rehearsed them so many times but in his anxiousness he felt himself losing control. The elevator, on which the glass box was in, began its descent. There were twenty seconds. But this time it felt like an eternity.

He couldn’t get his six-year-old daughter’s face off his mind: Those beautiful blue eyes, her dark hair tied up in a formal bun, her innocent smile, her cute little fingers that played with her nose. Yuddy had bought her pack of popcorn for the special occasion to only be oblivious that the bag was spilling over her skirt. Her eyes wide open, she saw her helpless father take the plunge, tied up in chains and ropes as Yuddy assisted in locking the glass box resoundingly shut. Immediately, the red drapes fell over the box as it traced out its every contour. Only the crewmen and Borden knew that it was made to appear that way through the careful construction of wires on the inside that held them in place that way.a

Fifteen seconds – the elevator inched closer to the stage deck below. Borden had barely managed to get his fingers into his socks to pull the keys out. If only they fell to the floor, the cue was for the box to be shattered open with the axe, which was in Petrov’s strong hands. Borden held on to the keys tightly, as if they were his life – They were his life. If the act were stopped abruptly, it would be a disaster. He didn’t care as much to drown, but if the audience was not pleased, his life and most importantly Trudy’s life would be ruined.

Just two days ago, Borden remembered, there wasn’t as much as a loaf of bread left for lunch. He hadn’t eaten in a day and his acts in Ipswich were not paying off. He had already borrowed so much from Yuddy that he hadn’t been paid for over a month. Although famished, he passed his slice of bread with margarine to Trudy, “Oh, you growing girl. You need your grub now, don’t you?” he ran his fingers through her hair. “Finish your bread, drink your milk and go to sleep. Ok dearest?” he wrapped his arms around her warmly. His shabby apartment was barely any shelter from the cold winter outside. “I promise you that next week we will go out for some Italian,” he looked at her eagerly. “Really daddy?” Trudy asked in a faint voice.

He had got the ropes that kept his feet together – that was easy. He kicked himself up for a gasp of air, came back down and continued his struggle to get the handcuffs off. This was the trickiest part of the escape and he knew that he held his life in between his fingers, in those keys. But what was harder was to fight the dread that threatened to haunt him. He fought hard to keep her out of his mind.

He remembered the day of his wife’s death all too clearly. The keys had slipped past her fingers as she struggled desperately to catch it back. He hurried the axe, hurling it at the glass box. He remembered how the axe bounced back with a muted ominous “Thud”. With all his might, he tried again and again. His blows left cracks on the box, but before the water came spilling out, Borden knew that it was too late. His wife in his arms, he tried hard to bring her back. But he was no magician.

The key pushing against the tumblers of his handcuffs was a sonorous relief. He removed the handcuffs as the elevator reached the bottom of the dark stage deck. Petrov was quick to unlock the box as soon as it was clear of the stage. Borden kicked himself up and caught hold of the edge of the box, the ordeal nearly over. With a final push, he heaved himself out of the glass box and threw himself over the edge. Petrov lowered the axe, “Von’t be needing this eh today, Borden sir?” The elevator began its ascent, as Borden became busy positioning himself in the narrow platform with barely any room to stand. Hugging the box that had held him captive, he braced behind the glass box away from the audience. Anxious and scared, he knew that the scene that awaited him outside of those impending drapes was all that stood before him and salvaging his life.

Often, by his rivals and even by his friends, Borden was mocked for his cheap tricks. He had planned for a year and bagging this deal with such a prestigious theater was by itself a great achievement. But impressing the opulent English crowd at Alswych proved pivotal to boosting his career and saving Trudy from the vicious cycle of his poverty. His heart was racing as he prayed quietly to his wife. He looked above, as the square-shaped mouth in the stage loomed ever closer. He could see the soft red glow from the drapes and hear the murmurs of the crowd as they anticipated the prestige. Borden knew that the verdict passed in the next few seconds could mean his and his daughter’s future.

He hugged the box ever so tightly as the back of his soaking wet tux brushed past the mouth as the platform ascended back into the drapes which were held in position by wire in the shape of the glass box. As soon as the platform silently slipped back in position, he hurled himself out of the drapes onto the stage and looked up cautiously toward the audience. The drapes came off swiftly revealing the intact glass box locked shut. Their mouth agape, the audience erupted in an uproar. Borden stood up slowly, took his bow, with his eye only on Trudy the whole time.

The Miracle Maker

More of smog than of stars[1],

The race was a passionate love

For the art of power,

The dance of the drivers

And the music of the engines. I waited helplessly.

My sweaty fingers twined together, crossing them

So tightly. It hurt. My lips chanted his name - “Fernando[2]”,

With silent prayer for this horse of a broken leg,

He never won, but today was special.

We would conquer this airless summit

For I was there to witness. Not on a television,

But of perceptible form, he rode his yellow Renault

In front of my moist eyes, he climbed up the order.

But more than a mere idol, more than inspiration,

He was breath itself – life.

Like water, like a mirror, he was me

And he was here for me.

I am one amongst the thousands, but I was different.

Like a black pin on a cork-board of white.

I promised that he will win; it was tangible

Like smelling this sweet, pungent concoction of a miracle

I knew about this, they didn’t.

The golden trophy, the divine podium, I saw myself in them.

He had won, and had waited naively

To do so in my witness

It was of a joy unfelt, unprecedented, and yet it hurt

This vicissitude of a million, I made it happen

But he is blind to even my existence.

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[1] The first Formula 1 night race was held in Singapore.

[2] Fernando Alonso is a Formula 1 driver