I started reading voraciously during my sixth grade summer holidays and quickly realized that reading (while eating mangoes) was my favorite pastime. At first, it was The Famous Five, Nancy Drew, and the Hardy Boys. Since I was growing up in Mumbai, India, all these books did was introduce me to British and American food and filled me with a longing to visit that side of the world. At sixteen, however, I picked up a fat tome called the City of Joy by author Dominique Lapierre. The story was set in Kolkata, India, in a neighborhood called Anand Nagar. I was intrigued because I also lived in a neighborhood called Anand Nagar, or the city of joy but on the opposite side of the country.

The similarities started and ended with the name. The book the City of Joy was a stark reminder of the cruelty of living in abject poverty. The stories of the main characters Hasari Pal, a peasant turned human rickshaw puller who suffered from tuberculosis, and Stephen Kovalski, a Polish priest who lived and served in the slums of Kolkata, were harrowing. The stories of the secondary characters: the lepers who were ignored by the poor and the rich, the women who had to get coat-hanger abortions, and the man who was forced into being a eunuch or intersex person were heart-breaking and traumatizing. I could not read the book for more than a few pages each day as the stories bored into me like a worm. My sixteen-year-old brain could not fathom the extent of suffering humans underwent, and each evening I would go to bed deeply disturbed and on the verge of crying helplessly.

Yet, the City of Joy also showed me another universal side of humans regardless of social status. In Dominique Lapierre's Anand Nagar, there were weddings and birthday parties. Festivals, where people wore their best attire, were celebrated with panache, and there was a sense of community even during the bleakest moments, and they stayed with me for a long time.

This book forced me to question my privileged upbringing and place in society. It forced me to notice the maid who's children were given my old clothes and the man who picked up our trash even on bank holidays as people. Until then, I was living in my own bubble, and when the book blew through it, I was left feeling saddened and angry at the state of the world and my own country.

Because of this book, I chose a service-based career in Public Health, intending to help underserved populations. It wasn't a conscious decision, but the City of Joy fundamentally changed me. It would be prudent to say it re-wrote my DNA. Of course, I am still one person trying to do my best in a callous society. However, books do have the power to change us and mold us into becoming better people.

When I was a child, I visited my uncle and aunt during the summer holidays. The three of us, my younger sister, cousin and I spent our days building forts with bedsheets, playing miniature cricket with a ping-pong ball, watching cartoons on the black-white TV or eating juicy mangoes. I lived in Mumbai, but pretty far from the sea. My uncle’s home, on the other hand, was close to the beach and all the attractions. We would wait for my uncle and aunt to return from work and once they were energized on a cuppa hot, cardamom tea and samosas, we would create a ruckus until one of them agreed to take us to the beach. No matter how tired they were or the day they had had, they would be willing to take us there. We would pick up our beach toys and walk to Dadar Chowpatty. My uncle would spread a hand towel on the sand and settle down with another cup of tea and some roasted corn. The three of us children would run to the water, jumping and splashing around, getting entangled in the sea moss and other debris which would be inevitably floating around. We would watch the sunset and exchange notes on the colors we saw that day. We would then walk back to where my uncle sat and begin building sandcastles, still in wet clothes, the gentle summer breeze drying them faster than any machine. Of course, most of the time we would just throw sand at each other and try to bury one of us in there. The wet, heavy sand with the smell of the sea entrenched in every particle felt like a security blanket. There was a Ferris wheel with lights on it nearby but we didn’t care about it or any of the other jazzy attractions. Sometimes bubbles would drift out of nowhere. We never did find the source.

When it was time to go, we would make a quick stop at the local street food vendor and gobble up some Pani Pooris, puffs filled with chickpeas and soaked in a sweet and spicy sauce. We would then walk back home, brimming with joy, the taste of Pani Poori lingering on our tongues, not a worry in the world.

I have never felt more unfettered, untethered than I felt during those endless summer days. I wish I could experience that freedom, that joy of being carefree again.

That’s my desire, to be as free as a child. And if paradise exists, this would be my paradise.

This wedding annoucement was submitted to the newspaper I work at:

"We the parents of Imran Hussain and Desiree Chatham would like to inform you with great uneasiness that Imran and Desiree have decided to tie the knot on November 10th, even after repeated attempts by both families to break them apart. Their love remains steadfast and their decision making skills, poor.

The wedding will not be held at a religious place as etiquette suggests, but at some boho-hippie lounge. The dress code is casual, but both families implore the guests to dress in formal cocktail attire in order to sabotage this wedding. They don't want presents, but please bring many extravagant ones as the parents can take them home. Food will not be served. Eat at home losers.

See you then you shameless twats."

Eight-year-old Tariq opened the door to the deli and it jingled. Behind the counter, Mrs. Choi craned her neck and frowned.

“You again?” she said, “You better have...”

Tariq reached into his pocket, pulled out some crumpled dollar bills and showed them to her.

“Five dollars,” she said.

He nodded assent, counted out the dollars and handed them to Mrs. Choi. Along with the money, he handed her a thin strip of paper with specific numbers he had chosen. She clucked her tongue at the added effort but punched them in any way and rang him up for the lottery ticket.

He felt an uncanny excitement as he looked at each number. He spent his last dollar on four pieces of ginger candy and walked out of the deli, clutching the ticket in hand. Going straight back home, Tariq showed it to the stranger waiting in his room. The stranger looked much like Tariq with short-cropped curly hair and hazel eyes, but he wore glasses and had a beard. He examined the numbers closely, then handed it back to Tariq.

“Tomorrow, you will be rich. Take care of mom, just for tonight. Don’t let Sid anywhere near her. Lets keep her alive this time.”

He ordered Tariq to bolt the door and helped move the couch to block the entrance completely. He walked back to Taqriq’s room and entered the closet. Tariq waited for ten seconds and went to check the closet but the man was gone. He then went into the kitchen and scoured the cabinets for food. He prepared a bowl of cereal and milk and carried it over to his mom. He woke her up from a deep sleep, her hair unkempt, vomit crusted on the side of her mouth, reeking of piss and sweat. She ate the cereal hungrily.

Tariq heard a loud thump on the door as Sid tried to break it open. He jumped with every bang. He kept a baseball bat at the ready by the side of the bed. After a few minutes, the bangs stopped and there was dead silence. He picked up a blanket and covered both himself and his mom. They both laid down to sleep his frail body against hers. His belly rumbled but he ignored it.

“Tomorrow, I will be rich,” he muttered and fell asleep.

#timetravel #future #fiction #sciencefiction

I read an article today about burn-out and how to heal from it. It suggested seeking out the feeling of awe and wonder. Feeling awe is the salve to the wound of burnout.

When I get sad or feel weighed down by life’s burdens, I like to visit my happy spot. It involves mental time travel to a real place I have visited in the past. Whenever I “go” there, I feel calmer and I feel awe; profound, unadulterated awe.

Once, when I was sixteen I took a trip with my family. We went up north, to the Himalayas. We went to holy places like Varanasi, Haridwar, Mathura and Vrindavan. We went to picturesque little towns like Mussoorie, Almora and Ranikhet. I saw with my own two eyes, Mount Kailash looming, through a telescope and the Nanga parbat (naked mountain). That trip was breathtaking in every sense of the word. I saw snow for the first time and even kissed a boy for the first time. I ate juicy oranges to quench my thirst and scrumptiously warm dal-roti to satisfy my hunger. I realy admired and understood the beauty and wonderment that nature is.

But none of these spots are my happy spot. My happy spot was an unplanned halt in the town of Kausani we took because our car broke down and it was too late and cold to get a mechanic. We stayed at a little, rustic cottage with two rooms and a gigantic bathroom. It was the night of December 31st and our host took us to a special dance performance by the local Kumaon tribe. We stayed up late but somehow I woke up early in the morning, before sunrise. I stepped out on the verandah and the most stunning sunrise I have ever witnessed unfolded before me.

I was on a mountain. In front of me flourished a vast, verdant valley with little homes strewn all over. It was still dark in the valley, but I could see smoke rising from the embers of the previous night. Behind the valley stood a line of mountains. Even more mountains towered over the first mountain range and behind this second layer stood the snow-clad, expansive fold mountains called the Himalayas. Confetti of light spread through the sky and the first rays of the sun fell on the top-most peaks of the Himalayas. There was a riot of colors bouncing off the stark white snow; a disco ball of reds, yellows, greens and purples. Slowly, gently the light spread over the entire range and then the two mountain ranges below the Himalayas. A few minutes later, the light had glided to the valley and it was suddenly bright. People were up and went about their daily lives and I went back inside drenched in astonishment at the sight I had been allowed to observe.

That is my Happy Spot. I go there often.

What’s yours?

In June this year, Drew* and I got engaged. I am not close with my family whatsoever, but Drew is, so we drove down to Virginia to celebrate with them. His parents and grandparents live together in a big old house and have people coming and going at all times of the day. They are a jolly bunch and I had a great time with them until the last night before our departure.

We sat on the porch, intoxicated on beer and the summer breeze, three generations, and chatted away when Drew asked his grandfather Everett* to share the prison story. They all shared glances and Everett shrugged, “what the hell! Ellie* is family now, so she can hear this.”

I leaned forward in my chair. This just got good. He began.

“This was in 19138-39. I was a lad of 19, newly hitched to this beauty over here and needed a job bad. We were still in the Depression. My old man’s good friend got me a job at the federal penitentiary as a janitor. I worked the day shift and the pay was good, so I didn’t mind working at a prison. Many of the prisoners were Blacks, they weren’t the problem. It was the Whites who were entitled little shits. Left poo on the floor, other bodily juices, if you catch my drift. Every other day I cleaned the blood off the stalls or walls. Anywho, one time as I cleaned the hallway, the officers walked in with a man in shackles. His hands and legs both were bound and an officer held him on a leash. He was tall, muscular, well built. He had short hair, a crew-cut, and a gash that ran from the left ear down to his lip. There was something so evil about his eyes; I couldn’t look at his face. He smiled at everyone as he passed as if he had won an award. He stopped when he saw me and said in a gruff voice, ‘so innocent, I can devour you in one bite’ before he was yanked forward by the corrections officer. I later found out he was a notorious killer of young, pubescent boys of my age or younger and was going to be executed within a few months. I won’t lie, I was relieved he was in solitary and I didn’t have to see him or talk to him. He gave me the heebee-jeebees.

“So the day of the execution came. It was right before Thanksgiving we were short-staffed. The executioner called out sick and guess who got roped in? I am going about my business and the warden comes and asks me to be in the kill room in 20 minutes. I had never been in there, not even for cleaning and I am half excited-half nerves as I walk in. Its a naked room, white walls, white floors, dim lighting and a brown leather chair with straps attached to a machine of some sort. There are three other men in the room: the warden and a couple of COs. In walks Mr. Wallace, and as usual he is in chains and is smiling that evil grin. He is made to sit in the leather chair and we begin strapping him down. He seems unfazed by it all. This ain’t a party son. He is going to die and he just sits there comfortably, looking around as if he is on a joyride, with those foul, foul eyes. He even blew me a kiss and winked at me. So he is strapped in tight and I am breaking into a sweat. We step away from him and the warden asks if he wanted to say any last words or prayers. He scoffs and says ‘you should pray that I don’t return because I plan to and when I do, I will exterminate more faggots and cleanse this earth of pestilence.’ He is a religious fanatic, who would've thunk? Anywho, at this point, I press the button on the machine and he starts shaking. Trembling, quaking whatever you want to call it. He soils his pants and pukes everywhere. But he doesn’t die. He opens his eyes and starts laughing, so loudly we all take a step back. He changes, I can’t explain how but he becomes bigger, his eyes turn red and he breaks free of his straps. How the fuck he managed to get out, is beyond me. He has this superhuman strength, he uproots the chair, its bolted to the floor and throws it at the warden. He starts attacking whoever he can lay his filthy hands on, all the while growling, salivating like a beast, and I kid you not, he has fangs. He finds me and latches on my shoulder like a leech, sucking blood and sinew. I scream in agony but he won’t let go. Finally, one of the COs shoots ten rounds and he collapses to the floor and takes me with him. I am on top of him in an embrace. Before he goes he says something in my ear and it gives me nightmares to this day. He says, ‘Everett, you are a part of me and I am a part of you. Your heirs will do my work. They will have the mark and they will carry on.’

“Only the four us know what happened there. We didn’t report this to anyone. Officially he was electrocuted. One by one, we all quit that job. A few years later, I have children, Samuel and Bernard. And Samuel has Drew and Carrie. Bernie has Bernie Jr, Freddie, and Christy and they all have the mark.”

He showed me the teeth marks on his left shoulder, as did Samuel and Drew. They all had marks. They even showed me photos of all the children as new-borns and they all had them on their left shoulder, teeth marks from something not quite human.

At this point, I know the Wilson* family has a terrible secret and it will be passed on to my children until one of them finishes the task Wallace set out to do. Unless this was a sick joke, I was stuck with bearing children for a monster.

We drove back home in silence. What could I say or do at this point? I was stuck with this family forever. How could the women bear this secret and then bear children? I looked at Drew, his face scrunched from concentrating on driving and felt a tinge of annoyance. He should have told me before. Shouldn't he?

How could I marry him now?

*Names changed to protect identities.

#horror #fiction

This three letter, one syllable word is a noun.

A feline is called a cat.

This is a word we teach young children when they first start talking because it is so easy to say. Almost as easy as dog, but not quite.

Curiosity can kill a cat.

It is difficult to bell a cat.

A cat is independent.

Some people don’t like a cat, because she is mean.

Until I met my cat, I thought the same.

Then one night, I found an itty-bitty cat with an eye infection and took her in.

From that day, the meaning of the word cat changed.

Cat is fluffy.

Cat is grey with dark grey stripes.

Cat has a white underbelly.

Cat has multi-colored paws.

Cat has green eyes and a button nose.

Cat has sandpaper tongue.

Cat likes to sleep with her back touching mine.

Cat rubs her face on my face.

Cat jumps into my arms when I get home.

Cat likes cuddles.

Cat is warm.

Cat is love.

It was the weekend before Thanksgiving and I was a recent graduate, living and working in Philadelphia. I was new to experiencing life in the United States as a whole as I hailed from India.

I was walking back to my apartment with a handful of groceries, when I heard someone crying behind me. I wheeled around to see a guy in his early twenties sobbing on the phone. I was in a culture shock and was unsure if I should approach him; not knowing how people in the US reacted to displays of emotion.

He yelled, “Why do I care? Because you are my fucking brother. Now I will be alone for Thanksgiving.”

He was still on the phone, gasping for breath in between loud sobs, tears streaming down his ruddy face, comingled with the snot running from his nose. I had to do something, culture shock be damned.

As I approached him he screamed again, “Well fuck you. I just wanted to be with family.” He hurled the phone across the asphalt and it cracked open. The battery landed at my feet while the rest of the parts were strewn around.

I picked up the various parts and put his phone back together. The screen was cracked and it wouldn’t turn on. I handed it back to him as he continued to weep with his eyes closed. He looked so sad! He wasn’t keen on accepting the phone back so I placed it on the ledge he rested against.

“I hope it gets better for you.” I said.

He nodded his head and before I knew it I was hugging a complete stranger as he lay his head on mine and cried (he was at least a foot taller than me). We stayed like that for a minute or two and then he picked up his phone and walked away.

I walked back to my apartment with my groceries for one. I never saw him again. But every once in a while, I wonder about him. Did he ever reconcile with his brother? Does he have a family of his own?

I hope he found what he was looking for...

A roving eye at first,

It met mine for a moment.

The eye was too far away.

I couldn't reach out, touch it or talk to it.

I looked at the eye.

My own roving at first,

It rested on hers for a moment.

The eye told me everything.

It screamed in agony,

Filled with fear,

Confined in a cage until the end.

Today I saw death in the eye..