(Pre-reading disclaimer: I tried my best to have this accurate concerning the time period and country this is written in. If you notice any mistakes in writing concerning these two factors I apologize and please do let me know! Secondly, as you read please keep in mind this story is written as a fable/story-telling piece. Happy reading!)

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INDIA 1960

He pulled the faded navy sleeves back up to his elbows, only for them to fall back down again. The string, where the gold studded buttons used to live, was marred and tangled. Beneath the dusty black hat that sat on his mop of velvety black hair, bright coffee colored eyes observed the bustling streets about him. His mouth twisted to the left and whistled a happy tune.

Heads turned to stare at the little boy in an oversized suit and a gentleman’s hat as he wandered down the gritty roads.

A myriad of apples and oranges rolled past him… and an elderly lady chasing after them.

“My fruits!” She wailed.

Grubby hands then presented to her the runaway fruit.

“Why, thank you little boy! What is your name?”

A large grin lit up the little boy’s face.

“I am the boy who will save the world!” He would say.

He spent his days in the market place, walking about and singing a jig.

The other boys at his school would treat him with scorn, “Silly, silly Bakhshi! You will never save the world.”

The little girls would scowl at his suit. “You look like a clown, foolish Bakhshi!”

Yet every sunrise he would proudly don his suit, and he would help people in the market place. He sang lullabies for the neighbor’s baby who had trouble sleeping, he helped the women carry their groceries, he sat and played chess with the old men.

At every beck and call the little voice rose above the crowd, “At your service!”

When visitors would pass him, they always had the same reaction,

“Who is that little boy?”

“He is the boy that will save the world!”

“Bakhshi!”, his teacher cried one day, “Never wear that horrid cloth to school again!”

“But my teacher, I don’t think you understand. This-“

“I never want to see you in it again!”

Bakhshi carefully washed his faded possession, and hung it in his room. He loved his suit for reasons none else knew. But every time he would try to speak, they would always interject.

“Stop whistling that tune boy.”

“Take off that silly hat, it’s disrespectful to not look your elders in the eyes when speaking to them.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Go home, little boy.”

So home Bakhshi went. With a single bag in hand, he walked out the door.

“Say boy! Where are ye off to?” An old man cried.

“I am off to a new place. I am not wanted here.”

“But what of your family? Don’t they a-want ya?”

“I have no family, I am a mere orphan, kind Sir.”

In the bag lay the big, blue suit. The suit that belonged to his dead father, his last memoir of him.

“You see, dear old man, I am criticized and slandered, made fun of and told I’m silly. But no one cared to ask the motive behind my actions. I wear my suit that belonged to father, he had malaria and now he is in heaven. I whistle the tune my mother sang me to sleep to, before she found my father and never came back. I help people because people are sad, and I know what sadness is. Helping people brings to recognition that there is still good left in this world. I said I will save the world, and helping people saved my world. Now I am off to a new place, where I can save someone’s world. It doesn’t have to be the whole world, just one.”

Picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, Bakhshi tipped his floppy hat. The hat that belonged to his brother, who died in war.

Turning around, Bakhshi walked. He wore plain clothes, his mouth unmoving; singing no song. He looked like any average boy. That was what people wanted him to be anyways.

Moral: Do not criticize people for being different. The very reasons they are different may be what saves their world. Instead of setting fire to another’s world, pay attention to the flames that are covering yours.

One Month Later...

A little hand held out a shiny red apple.

“What is this?” Were the words of a gruff young man in an expensive tailored suit, his sharp eyes full of disgust.

“An apple.”

“Well yes. Why are you handing me this?”

“Because you look sad.”

The man’s eyes softened. They found the red fruit in his hand, and followed the little boy standing in front of him. He wore an ocean-of-a-suit and a shaggy black hat.

Kneeling beside him, his eyes misty, he asked, “Little boy, what is your name?”

“I am the boy that will save the world.” Came the reply, with a wise smile.

Room #969. Oh, why did he think this would help solve his problems... that’s the room number he gave me...before he disappeared, of course.

Scene 1

I bolted upright. My hair stuck to my face where my forehead beaded with sweat. I took shaky breaths, attempting to calm my skyrocketing heart rate.

“Remember that time I almost died?” The brunette murmured.

“Which time?”

“I was hanging off of a building, holding on for naught but dear life.”

“It was your grandmother’s garage.” The words spoken with an exasperated eye roll.

“One in the same!! That doesn’t change a thing!!”

“As long as I’m here, I’ll never let anything happen to you. If it comes to that, me before you. Okay?”

“Don’t be silly, Cal.” She spoke, before she fell asleep against his shoulder.

Scene 2

Room #969. I stood outside of the hotel room that housed Callum Holloway. I knew no one else who lived in a hotel, but then again, he was different than anyone else I’ve ever known. The handle turned quietly before opening the door before me. It shut with a click. I was left alone in a lightless room, looking around I realized I didn’t recognize the room I was in. It appeared as any ordinary hotel room on New York’s 5th avenue. Neat linens, plain drapes, a clean carpet.

“Bland” I thought. I noticed my arms subconsciously wrapping around myself, seeking warmth. It was chilly. The window was open. Odd. I walked up the steps to the balcony, hidden as they were, I had made the same journey countless times. I reached the little sitting ledge that was the only thing keeping me from plummeting into the freezing, open air of the humming streets of New York. I watched in silence as the traffic lights from cars and showy distractions of buildings and shops blurred together, appearing as if a three-year-old had stuck his fingers in a jar of paint and wiped them clean on a portrait. My head sank into my arms, and I fell asleep.

Two years later, and there was nothing there. The hotel room had become my haven. I was familiar with even crook and corner. I searched day in and day out, yet nothing brought me closer to him. I pursued the things that screamed his name, that upon sight, made me feel his presence. Some say to not know is a blessing in disguise, though knowledge itself yearns to pierce the unknown.

I searched my brain for pieces, loopholes, that I missed. Room #969. That was what he said. Wasn’t it?

I was full of inexplicable sadness. Is anger towards the world justified when it has taken a person I love away from me? Does nature issue a death penalty to the person who causes death? Or does it favor redemption, leaving the innocent to be lessons learned to the wicked? Even the flowers still bloom for their destroyers, yet why am I unsatisfied? It seems life is an unpredictable story, in which even the dead aren’t forgotten.

Holding up the tattered photograph to the single blinking lightbulb, I studied it. A girl is seen caught off-guard, with a surprised expression painted on her face. It was as if she wasn’t expecting the sudden flash of the camera. Behind her, a boy was found laughing, his laughter directed at her. A pencil was tucked firmly behind his ear. He was always writing something. I flipped the photograph around and in almost ineligible handwriting I read “September 6 2009”

It’s not the hotel. It’s the date. He wanted me to remember the date.

With trembling hands I studied the picture harder... “Where were we that day?” That’s right, we were at Binny’s Breakfast Diner. That place has been closed for years.

Breathing in the frigid air, I lifted my woolen scarf to cover my red tipped nose. I looked up at the once neon-glowing letters that stood at the head of the abandoned restaurant. I found my way to the back door that was providently unlocked… or was it coincidentally? The pink chairs that once seated numbers of different people daily stood at their places grimly. The air smelled of decay. Familiar. I stood amidst the exact place the photograph was taken. Taking steps back, I held up the picture. It fit perfectly with it’s larger life-picture. One table. Two chairs.

All of a sudden, I saw it. It made her heart stop cold, and then, I knew. It all made sense. It all makes sense.

Scene 1

Laying my covers aside, I walked down stairs, alert at every creak and groan of the aging wood. Pouring a cup of tea, I allowed the steam to reach my face.

“Me before you, Ricky Blythe.”

Head in my hands, I sat alone in my dark home. The fine lines of my face crinkling as I reminisced on his words, my silver hair gleaming in the moonlight.

I love him, but he is dead.