Confessions of an Honest Witness

How often do we think ourselves as honest and responsible citizens contributing something good to the society apart from vegetative existence? In daily newspapers, enough information on corrupt politicians who poorly govern the country, incendiaries who almost rage a fire to conflagration, or ill treatment to women or young children causes rancor disconcerting us, yet as though it were all a dream, seldom are we incited into taking action as a conscientious men. That is what is really disturbing. However, while easily reasoning that acts of good can benefit a society, there was this time when I had an opportunity to be civil, to be the nice guy, and return favor to the society.

It was during the summer of 2005 when we were evicted from our apartment, a villa we had always boasted to our friends and acquaintances. We were evicted not because we were thieves or mischief-makers but for the fact that they were converting the two bedroom apartments in the complex into condominiums. The apartment was what you can call a visitor’s delight and in most instances drew attention from visiting guests who simply became transfixed upon gaining entrance when they saw the fountain in the front lobby or the attractive receptionist at the concierge desk. The elevators sometimes added to their envy for they were a source of perennial knowledge and every day, they promptly displayed a new word, its meaning, and an interesting piece of trivia.

The expulsion was as good as a death sentence and as helpless as we were we began our apartment hunt that resulted in a quick find not far from our place, in the neighboring street, another towering apartment complex inferior to the current one, but keeping mind its central location and ease of access, we signed the lease with heavy a heart sacrificing richness for prudence. With regards to the move-in, we contacted “Liberty Movers,” who said they would bring their own truck, normally after hiring from U-Haul or Budget, and all we were required to do was pack our belongings in boxes so that the movers could lift them and transport them to the new apartment.

August 18^th, a Saturday wasn’t a very hot day as a few scattered cirrus clouds welcomed the sun barely filtering its rays while a heavy layer of trees guarding the perimeter of our parking lot covered the truck keeping the ambience cool and comfortable. A knock at our door brought one of my roommates running to receive the movers while the other and I were actively involved in a game of poker. Upon opening the door, there strode in silently 3 muscular men, two African- Americans while the third seemed like a person of Arabic decent. One black guy was like a basketball point guard not very tall and barely 5-8 while the Arabic guy with dark circles beneath his eyes seemed disheveled in appearance and bore such an expression that one would immediately call his character into question. Even though they both covered three quarters of the entrance the third mover was still not quite disguised, for what stood behind them was 7-feet giant of a man who in spite of being flabby and disproportionate could overturn a Chevy blazer single-handedly.

With a booming voice as though from the depths of a well the giant offered his palms that were like the ends of a shovel greeting us while the other two trotted behind my friend as he took them to the first bedroom stocked with piled boxes. The movers walked around the house until their eyes adjusted and the short black guy looked around and said in a crackling voice, “We ain’t moving anything that ain’t packed buddy,” as we expected. “By the way, I am Chris and he is Shawn,” indicating to the giant, while the third turned out to be Mustafa.

And they began performing their task heaving sofas, shelves, beds, and the stacked rows of boxes into a dolly they had with them emptying three fourths of the house within an hour. If anything, I will never forget the dimpled face and a satisfied smile exhibited by the giant when he swung the 31-inch television like a colossal pendulum in a single hoist thumping his way across the corridor almost resembling a prehistoric creature. Tired as I was, wondering what made our movers indefatigable, I sat, started staring at the ceiling lost in daydream when my friend picked up “Satanic Verses,” and quickly achieved concentration, reading it for the nth time with rapt attention, what I found quite tormenting to go beyond the initial few pages. A clang however disturbed our self-absorption when Chris had carelessly lifted a box marked fragile onto his shoulders drawing an immediate scowl from the other roommate who began reprimanding the mover for his callousness.

Soon, an emerging conversation between me and my friend on Rushdie, Satan, Prophet, and Gabriel drifted to Islam, our voice raising and drawing nervous stares from the busy movers. Suddenly, A third distinct yet inquisitive voice seeming inclined to join the conversation interrupted our argument when we stopped and stared at the giant Shawn who poetically echoed a few verse from the Satanic Verses. I was stunned, my friend enthralled, as we eagerly welcomed him to our discussion and Shawn, we soon figured, practiced Islam and himself read the Satanic Verses a number of times. How often did we come across an educated or a religious person who didn’t think low of his job?

The afternoon passed cheerfully as two movers whistled and sang amongst themselves while Shawn between his heaves and hoists spoke what you may say words of wisdom enlightening, illuminating, and encouraging us such that we were all very upbeat and didn’t suffer the hardships people faced while shifting apartments. In our sense of well being, we gladly treated the movers with pizza and beer before settling for the bill and specially thanked Shawn, once again being reverential to his knowledge of the orient.

Hardly had we moved-in and enjoyed the new ambience when anxieties of the present caused me to take a peek at my bank balance I normally avoided partly out of fear and partly out of laziness. It certainly wasn’t fear of insolvency as an irrational paranormal phobia that one day I would open my web browser and see a negative balance amounting to delusional figures where only slaving to eternity would emancipate me from a horrific debt. Evidently, it had been close to a month since I checked my figures and upon opening my checking account, the illusory unexplainable anxiety was alleviated when humanly explainable figures caught my eye. However, it was when I was examining the checks I had issued in the course of the previous few weeks that I actually panicked for there were several checks, each bearing a variant of my signature clearly indicating forgery, totaling to a sum of 1,500 $. The bearers were “Willie Graves,” “Carlson Suites,” “Papa Johns,” and a few sources some unto whom I had never endorsed the checks while the others their names I had never heard of until then. Panicking, I ran to examine my blank non-issued checks when a sinking feeling entered the pit of my stomach. A whole leaflet of checks was missing.

Grappling with the receiver and cursing under my breath, the coiled telephone cord requiring a mind tranquilized by penance for unraveling its million knots, I feverishly dialed my bank while making a list of the false checks that had suddenly brought chaos into my otherwise quiet and idyllic life. I frantically explained to the congenial customer service representative in staccato on what happened while she patiently wrote down the incorrectly cashed check numbers calming my nerves saying such events were routine and if the back could determine with ease the checks were forged then it wouldn’t take long for the refund to take effect. I reacted to the situation with mixed feelings and whether I should have been furious with the bank for careless inspection before cashing checks or with myself for not taking care of my personal belongs carefully, I wasn’t sure. The evening was far from pleasant as I anxiously called all my friends explaining the situation while they tried their best to placate me not quite exactly sure how the problem would be remedied.

Fortune favored me for the bank official called me the next day, explaining the signatures were clearly forged, and apologized to me on behalf of the bank indicating it would refund the money within three business days. Upon asking how I should file a case and press charges, hoping the larcener would be easily nabbed, the bank official exhibited callousness, as though the bank didn’t have time for trifles, but in deference to my concern he suggested I register a complaint with the local police who would be glad to assist in bringing me justice. Of course, my emotions for the next hour were of glee as I thanked all gods for holding on to their probity and slowly as the jubilation wore off I realized I wasn’t the kind to be satisfied so easily. I decided to file a case and incarcerate the moon-faced swindler, knowing today’s world, its iniquities and stubbornness, especially towards harboring evil men who commit crimes of passion.

Being an avid fan of Arthur Conan Doyle, lying supine on my recliner, I furrowed my brows, arched both palms towards each other forming a triangle such that the fingertips met, and closed my eyes trying to concentrate, what Holmes often did while deducing his logic in crime solving. What would a detective first ask? Where do you keep normally your checks? And where did I keep them? Definitely not hidden underneath a trap door or in a locked drawer for I did not live in a castle or a mansion but a regular two-bedroom apartment. In a white plastic 3-rowed cabinet with wheels you could easily drag across the room, on the top shelf, was where I kept my leaflet of checks, not completely concealed and safe from an interloper who could rifle my contents in the event he found access to my apartment during my absence. It was always fun to play detective, especially when we were younger, but not when it came to reality when the first set of suspects that I could envision were all close friends, and I couldn’t even think of them stealing my books or CDs, let alone bank checks, for they possess what I’d call class.

The apartment had been unvisited from maids so far, owing to my cleanliness and simplicity, the door always being locked when I went places, and the management sure hired respectable plumbers or electricians who wouldn’t dare rummage through people’s private spaces. I was in my bed tossing and turning exhausted by an over analysis when came the greatest opiate to my aggravated mind – sleep.

Next morning, neither was I exactly in my bathtub when an idea struck me nor was I naked running out to the streets screaming Eureka, decorum being a second reason after the sub zero temperature outside that could have frozen my nuts. I was actually shaving almost cutting myself. Simple, all I had to do was examine the date when the checks were en-cashed and perhaps I would get a lead. I hastily toweled, ran to the computer and carefully examined the date the first stolen check was encashed. I saw a date of August 11^th, the third day after I moved into the new apartment, so what could that mean? Clearly, the theft has occurred on the new apartment and Lo! I got it. It was either that my check leaflet dropped out of the Truck while my boxes were being transported, something highly unlikely, or it was stolen by the movers who could have easily helped themselves the checks while moving my drawers. Satisfied, I was more confident on filing my case as I picked up the phone and dialed the cops, this time my mind more secure and composed when I punched in the numbers.

“Hi! I would like to report a theft, what occurred sometime during the early days of August, so let me begin by,” I started but was abruptly stopped by the officer on the other line. “Hold on sir, let me take down your information.” Sigh, how better are they than an AOL customer service I felt and what was annoying was when he was finished, I was informed that the officer would call me within the next couple weeks as they were overbooked with unsolved cases. But as excited as I was from that day on, eager to share every iota of information with the cops, wouldn’t I make them seem mere puppets? Especially when I would have masterminded their operation of smoking the thieves out of their holes? Would I be given special permission to accompany their plainclothesmen? Would they give me an undisclosed location or encrypted phone number where I can secretly communicate with a detective? How often does one get such an opportunity in this fast-paced yet vegetative life? Clearly, the theft was a blessing when I get to experience intriguing joy in life real-time, what my peers could only vicariously.

Finally, after 3 restless weeks just when my spirits were beginning to get dampened, when I started to feel cold to what I thought of the detective forces, when I was on the verge of being thankful that it was the bank that was involved and not I, I got a call from an officer by name of, “John Black.” “Hello, thanks for giving your introductions, I’d like to set up an appointment with you on the 4^th of October, so do you have your calendar free then?” he said and I groaned. It was 2 more weeks. However, I still didn’t give up, and informed I would be there. So on the morning of 4^th, to meet the 9.00 a.m. appointment, I rose early, nattily dressed, wore my black long trench coat, and stepped out into the chilly parking lot tying my cream scarf wishing I had a hat to get a complete feeling that I worked for Scotland Yard. Driving to DC that morning would have seemed a lofty thought, as it wouldn’t have been the Fairfax Police department, Vienna, where I was driving to but to the Edgar Hoover building, normally bustling with activity by secret agents and intelligent men who worked for the FBI.

From the time I cleared security check to the time I rose in the elevator, I was thrilled to hear exciting phrases from officers, agents, detectives you normally came across in crime movies or murder mysteries; “He did deserve solitary confinement,” “I almost knocked out his teeth when he sang,” “We might soon need to involve the CIA.” Having waited for 5 painful weeks, being seated for 45 minutes before the appointment could have seemed an eternity but I was visually entertained by the voluptuous receptionist sitting not far from my angle of vision, clad in what you may call a vulgar outfit for a person who held a respectable federal post.

When detective Black walked out and offered his hand, I was heartened, he looked every bit like a detective with sharp features, broad forehead, and deep-reasoning eyes that promised justice would be served, but it was his deep throaty voice that would send stray criminals, who escaped detection, scampering back to their mothers. “Mr. Black,” I began and recounted the events prior to the discovery of my embezzlement, the case of the missing checks like a skilled raconteur and I couldn’t help but notice him smile in awe while he took notes. After all, how often did he come across an energetic, positive, and an enthusiastic customer who eagerly shared his complaints instead of grieving on his misadventure?

“Intelligence tells me Mr. Black that I would first contact the moving agency to enquire the background of the three movers, their phone numbers, for it doesn’t take the work of a skilled jewel thief to steal my checks from an unprotected location.” I said, vividly describing the short black, the giant, and the Arab-like mover, I had failed to elaborate while briefing him the situation sometime before.”

Mr. Black said, “Interesting, I think your analysis is fairly clear making me believe the first set of suspects on my sheet would be the movers. However, I am fairly overbooked for the present moment so I have no option but to time slice my hours in my fairness to accommodate your case. But, I must say your help has been invaluable so far and the police force wishes to thank your observations.” He tore a printed signed sheet informing me that I must get in touch with the bearers and disabuse myself as a defaulter from their records while also advising me to re-evaluate my credit history.

The detective was kind as he chatted with me for some more time despite his busy schedule as I eagerly questioned him on petty crimes, whether it took time for them to convict burglars, whether the criminals were native to the crime scene, and how often did it result in murder or gore. However, no matter how insistent I was in involving me with the case, he seemed to indirectly answer that my services may not be required in hunting down the criminal as after all this wasn’t an act that would make a criminal walk down the green mile to his electric chair. He stood up shaking my hands letting me know I’d be updated frequently as the case progressed. I returned slightly disappointed knowing I wouldn’t be involved in any action that may lead to the arrest of the interloper.

During the following days, under the grips of emotions my mental state was what you can call precarious, sometimes positive when I thought the thief was already nabbed and grilled awaiting a notice from court, while on other times negative when I felt he lay hidden somewhere in the canyons of the West VA, completely underground and disguised making Mr. Black appear as foolish as George Bush. Nonetheless, I received no phone calls, intimation, mails or whatsoever, informing me on the progress of the case that slightly unsettled me. However, during parties or social gatherings when word spread around about my impending case, inciting an interest to friends or acquaintances, I seldom hesitated to give an eager account on what happened and where I stood. Sometimes as though it were a speech, I would painted a rosy picture on what I thought of honest citizens, our potent police forces, and depraved individuals who were illusioned to believing they could get away with their crimes undetected.

My patience was finally rewarded in the middle of November, one chilly Friday evening, in the mailroom. I swore while removing my gloves and inserted the keys into the letterbox, steeped with work-related anxieties completely oblivious to the impending case. Having no sympathies for credit card and newspaper companies, all 0% credit card invitations, coupons for papa johns, and home insurance policies were treated with abject indifference before being slam dunked into the trashcan. A yellow paper slip almost went unnoticed but luckily its perforations caught my eye when I bemoaned thinking it was a parking ticket or traffic violation but upon taking a second glance I exulted. Guess what it was? It was a subpoena, revealing the suspect had been caught and perhaps jailed. Yes, a subpoena, so finally I would be given a chance to speak the truth in the court of law. However, I did feel insulted for not having been consulted or involved during the process of arresting the perpetrator even though I was fairly sure of this consequence.

In that night of bacchanalia, I toasted to honesty, civility, and justice, some of friends to my eccentric behavior, while others to what they felt of me as, “Show off, or exhibitionist.” The next morning, I called Mr. Black who picked up and answered, “Oh yah, I am sorry, we couldn’t reach you before, I guess we caught the culprit and indeed, it was your mover, “Willie Graves. But I haven’t personally seen him, as I wasn’t involved when he was arrested. Yes, please come to court on the date issued on your subpoena.”

With my expectations duly satisfied, during the next few days I watched again movies involving court scenes such as, “Rainmaker,” “The Runaway Jury,” “Primal Fear,” revisited the crime and mystery sections of the public library picking books written by John Grisham, cases solved by Poirot or Perry Mason, feeling illuminated in the science of Jurisprudence. As I lay on the bed, amicable yet energetic thoughts filled me. What would the judge appear like? Would there be a jury? Wouldn’t it be nice to hear again the trite statement repeatedly worded on books “Has the foreman reached his verdict?” At the same time, controvertible and disturbing voices influenced me to drop the case and move on with my life. What made sure those guys wouldn’t try getting even with me? Was there a bigger gang? It didn’t end there but aggrandized to, maybe I would need to ask the FBI for a witness protection program. Clearly, my wavering emotions continued to pound me agonize me and soon I figured, however excited I was, only a denouement in the court of law would yield me closure and lasting peace. And then came the greatest opiate for a mind under the grips of emotions and what was it? Sleep.

The court date was set for the 11^th of December, a cruel time of the year when inclement conditions exacerbate every positive effort taken to remain cheerful but over all, I must say as the days progressed, I was keener and upbeat with the prospect of this court business, looking forward to the courtroom, its array of seats, the Judge’s pulpit, the witness box, and scores of men sitting on the chairs to witness the arbitration of the crime I was going to testify. December 11^t was a Saturday and my time was 2.00 pm so I had planned on taking half a day off.

Two slices of bread inserted between with Jalapeno cheese, a glass of chocolate milk, and two bananas were all I had for lunch before I pulled my car and drove towards the Fairfax courthouse as wisps of fog screened my windshields lowering my visibility. Making a right off chain bridge road, the drive on the inner roads was sinewy as the topsy-turvyed lane kept slowing and slowing in its speed limited, eventually climbing to a giant parking lot I presumed was meant for witnesses and court officials. The moment I entered, I regretted having worn the giant trench coat I had to remove before passing through a series of security checks but what was embarrassing was an apple my distrait hands placed on the counter while emptying my pockets, the disgruntled security official casting a reproving look. I was glad to throw it into the trash bin.

Collecting my watch, cell phone, keys and wallet, I whistled to the escalator and followed the crowd assuming there was an official at a higher level whom you could ask for directions inside the courthouse. The moment I exited the moving stairs, a sudden flash of exuberance enveloped me, almost euphoric when I saw a scene I could only have imagined but not experienced in real life as businessmen with gold watches and attaché’ cases animatedly gesticulated to their lawyers perhaps encouraging them to end the case with a settlement, intelligent and bright faced graduates from Harvard or Yale and now lawyers patiently listening to their clients, a felon in an orange jump suit was chained and dragged by policemen as though he was a tamed but wild elephant. My head was turning 360 degrees surveying the scene relishing every moment while subconsciously my legs ambled towards the official in a kiosk located in the center of the building, what you may call a help desk.

Since whether I am in a drug store, book store, grocery store, or in a convention, instinctively as though navigated by a sixth sense I would know what to do next and never stand there looking nervous, confused, or restive ready to grab an onlooker or the secretary at a help desk and belabor them with a fusillade of unnecessary questions. As smart as I was, I figured a small wooden glass case framed to the wall onto my right where a white chart with typed names stood pinned, was the first place I must visit. Taking hardly a second to figure, I discovered the names sorted under different times, my case being at 2.00 pm, were the list of people present to attend or testify my case. With a lazy eye I hastily scanned the roster hoping to catch my name without having the need to read the whole list but missed on the first attempt. A few more attempts however proved futile. Consequently, I was forced to accept defeat and walk to the kiosk, a red-haired secretary sitting behind giving me a beaming smile as though expecting my presence and ready with answers. Her cheeks flabby and eyes sunken, she was doodling with her pencil and chewing something sizeable inside her mouth.

“Hi! I am here for the 2.00 pm case, the one on larceny. I was wondering why name is not on the roster at the glass shelf there?” I asked pointing to its direction underscoring that before turning to her succor, I had indeed stood there for a while trying to figure why my name wasn’t there. She made a grave face and asked, “May I ask for what has the court indicted you?”

“No, you’re mistaken, I am here to testify so why isn’t my name there?”

“Not unless you want it there. It lists the criminals whose case we represent today,” she said smiling, my cheeks turning red with discomposure.

“You’re not the first,” she tried reassuring me as I hastily pulled my subpoena to show her the name of the criminal with hopes of hastily defusing the embarrassing situation and when I spotted “Willie Graves” typed in poor ink I rebuffed as though, “Of course, I could have figured if you had given me one more minute,” and ran back to the glass case as she cast me an imploring look. I don’t wish to explain the condition of my nerves then when I failed to locate “Willie Graves,” during my returning visit to the glass shelf and with drooping shoulders I went back to the lady at the counter.

At the counter however, a transformation occurred favoring me, perhaps only emotionally but not pragmatically, when I learnt my case was postponed to the 26^th December, the Boxing Day, explaining why the defendant’s name was not in the roster. While the lady was apologetic that the court had not sent me the adjournment and grieved for causing me distress, I held a high air superciliously giving her the impression that it was she who was a fool but not I, before realizing, the delay not only meant visiting the court again but also that my vacation was going to be spoilt. I was grounded at VA and could not take off anywhere for Christmas Holidays. However, in situations where rectitude and uprightness are called forth, sacrifices cannot be evaded to achieve a meritorious feat, so what if I lose my holiday, as long as I don’t lose my honor, I could feel unshakable. But I wasn’t sure if I really felt honored or miserable that night.

It was a white Christmas that year and my company’s eccentric policies mandated that we either finished our vacation that year or squandered it for it resets with the advent of every New Year. I had 7 days, and those 7 golden days plus Christmas holidays was a complete waste that year to the eyes of a hedonist but I maintained my aplomb, spending Christmas day in the deserted mall accompanied by my friend who despite having nothing at hand to feel civil, was equally upbeat as I was, adding to my displeasure. By logic, shouldn’t he be upset? The sequence of events preceding my entry to the court repeated on the 26^th, the day being relentless in its sub zero conditions, the road icy, and traffic slow.

No sooner I entered than I made a beeline to the roster and spotted “Willie Graves,” in my first attempt and when my eyes endeavored to pick the red-haired lady at the kiosk, I saw a bearded bespectacled gentleman whose importance I didn’t really need. Bravely, I marched to the court room on the second floor, its corridor not as wide as what I saw in the movie “Devil’s Advocate,” when Keanu Reeves skids and runs through the stairs. Outside, the condition was what you could call a bedlam with a lady trying to soothe her crying infant, two kids fighting over what seemed a partially opened chocolate, a Spanish woman noisily dramatizing an incident to eager listeners. I shook my head and hoped for better conditions inside as I focused on what I would say when called for the witness box, for lying under oath is not only perjury but also blasphemy for a reverential man like me. I was sure the defendant’s judge would try to steer me away with subterfuge but I wasn’t to be led a way so easily after witnessing numerous trials, albeit vicariously. It started getting crowded and hot by quarter to 2.00.

When the doors finally opened, my initial reaction was awe as what caught my eye first was a pulpit behind which stood firm the United States flag, onto its right side was a statue of what I reckoned was Thomas Jefferson, while two old paintings of the civil war were framed behind where I presumed the Judge would sit. Then when my eyes focused better, I rather felt rather disillusioned, for the room wasn’t ask big as I had envisioned, perhaps something like court trials shown in old Alfred Hitchcock’s movies in small towns. The place started flooding with people and I dared not idling around but find a place to sit in what might be an important case for the county of Fairfax. Larceny wasn’t meant to be lightly taken. I smiled to satisfaction upon seeing so many people actively taking in part in the affairs of the government in its attempt to bring justice, but most importantly, it gratified me a lot as it was my case. I spotted detective Black animatedly talking to somebody in the front, perhaps the defendant’s lawyer, and when he turned and saw me, he gesticulated me to come down. Apparently, he did turn out to be the defendant’s lawyer who thanked me for coming, the tribunal protocols confusing me slightly as I returned to my seat. Why did he thank me, didn’t he want to win the case? That was weird.

Just as the court room started to quieten, I got a rude shock of my life, for standing in the front, with who I thought was his mother, along with the defendant’s lawyer, was smiling a man clad in a navy blue two piece suit, impeccably ironed white shirt, and red spotted tie, whose relative size in comparison to other mortals in the court room maybe termed behemoth. Unmistakably, he was one of my movers, Shawn, the person well versed in satanic verses who lifted my television single-handedly. Scared out of my wits and bewildered, I shrank back disappearing from his line of vision wishing I had remained undetected. What is a defendant doing here? Shouldn’t he be in a jump suit handcuffed? Was he granted a bail? But why dress in a suit when you’re a victim of a lowly crime? My impression of him as an intellectual, reverential, and illuminated personality all went down the drain but at that point I was more concerned on how to save my teeth from being bashed. Soon, I lost my mind and felt numbed as events were unfolding.

There was pin drop silence, myself deep in thought, when entered through a door to the side of the pulpit, a bespectacled scholarly man, with deep creases on his forehead, and smiling countenance who I could have easily guessed as a scientist, had his flowing black robes and domineering glace not betrayed the fact he was a judge. Where was his gavel? His assistant, I assumed the foreman, said, “The court shall come to order,” a relatively strange way to silence the courtroom I felt from what I knew of how the court used to tap the gavel and say “order” thrice. The judge called out to a lawyer whom he addressed as public prosecutor whose opening sentences was as good as, “Wassup man,” or “Mate,” when words of veneration, “May I speak your honor,” failed his mouth. Where was the jury, had they failed to show up or were they already dissolved?

During the following moments, after repeated events of public prosecutor introducing cases completely unknown to mine followed by different defendant lawyers, representing different defendants, giving their overtures, it dawned to me that I was a fool. What came to light, not as fast a flash of brilliance but slow as how the sun rises, was the illumination that there were several cases simultaneously being arbitrated, the different people present for their respective cases, while I realized I was the only one present for mine. How could I have been a fool illusioned to imagine a case on a petty theft would amount to something as large as the trial of Jack Ruby or O. Simpson, involving a grand jury?

In order to educate a confused reader, if any, I shall endeavor to explain how court cases are solved in petty courts. The public prosecutor handles cases of misdemeanor whom you may also call plaintiffs who back the police, detectives, or plainclothesmen, who arrest firebrands, interlopers, larceners, or drug traffickers in the name of law. Normally, cases against them are strong so a single public prosecutor can initiate multiple cases while for each defendant there is a separate lawyer, sometimes a lawyer could also handle two cases depending on its enormity.

Thus, with folded hands, I tried patiently watching lawyers being called along with their defendants who most easily confessed their crimes, some having resorted to recidivism, while others confessed their nefarious act of vandalism, hooliganism, or thefts. Who could have imagined a young girl, 16 years of age, bespectacled with the look of an innocent librarian, and accompanied by her lawyer could have shot her neighbor? Well, after enduring an hour of several unresolved cases, and in between a 30 min break given by the judge, I was approached by Mr. Black, and the defendant lawyer who called me aside, thanked me for coming, and said Shawn, the thief was ready to sign a confession upstairs and my presence wasn’t warranted unless I wished to stick on. I was glad to get the hell out of there. Mr. Black said my checks were issued by Shawn to other people who returned favor such that they all took a cut, not to mention their involvement in drugs.

Although, I was glad to get back and forget the episode as a long forgotten memory, I had unwittingly opened a can of worms. Our benevolent Shawn worked in a team, so as more arrests occurred, I was issued more subpoenas, in all coming to a sum of 5 more court visits. I was tired and if at all I despised anything, in all probability, it was the courtroom. It took some time for the nightmares where Shawn set fire to my car after chaining me, or clipped my balls with a pair of clippers, or fed me to a grizzly somewhere in the Dakotas, to disappear but I am proud to say I didn’t seek treatment but endured my suffering patiently. Neither was I cornered and clubbed with a baseball bat nor was I bashed in a derelict neighborhood so I presumed Shawn and his cronies were all safely locked up in the Alcatraz.

Approximately, a year after my tribulations, when my mind had finally grown healthy, who would have imagined I would be struck from behind by a crazy drunk on a sultry night while I was driving from Philadelphia to Exton surviving a near-fatal accident? I was unconscious for two days with no external wound apart from a broke jaw. The driver who escaped unhurt was the son of a rich industrialist and was below 18. Just as I was getting discharged from the hospital, a nurse escorted me a visitor who turned out to be the rich man. Pleasantries were exchanged and he enquired my condition. As I wondered what he was doing here, he started,

“You know, in my line of business, it is very essential I maintain a certain lifestyle so that I keep the deserving respect I have hard earned all these years, what one could dissipate within moments if not careless. People of unsavory reputation are sitting tight to get an opportunity and destroy my unsullied reputation.”

I retaliated, “I don’t understand where the thread of this conversation is leading to.”

“I shall come to the point. Knowing the extent of physical and mental agonies my son’s foolish teenage instincts has caused you, please accept my deepest apologies. Since he is not 18 years of age, you’re eligible to file a libel and sue me for damages.”

“So what is it you seek?” I asked.

“An out of court settlement.” He said

The Curious Incident of a Salesaman in the Day Time

Sometimes, you hate your job so much that you’ll wonder when you can quit, or retire, and go fishing in Maine. On any good day, stress is something you normally cannot perceive, how it might affect you, which on a bad day will make you wonder why on earth you never thought about it before and took precautions. It was during one of those frustrating weeks that I called my friend, my former roommate, and said I’ll be visiting him that weekend, on a small retreat to refresh myself, so that I could return and work with full enthusiasm.

In Downingtown PA, a suburb of Philadelphia, my friend was working as a consultant with IBM and was given to stay a giant mansion, owned by his boss’ company, so that his boss could save money on per diems and hotel expenses. His kitchen contained a deck overlooking a spectacular view that comprised of a canopy of Oak trees, Elm trees, and other needle shaped trees whose branches intertwined and permeated the surroundings forming a densely wooded region. A few feet down the road there was a lake, which offered a variety of recreational activities including wind surfing and kayaking. Considering he is a software engineer who earlier shared a single bedroom apartment with friends, this unexpected placement on his new project was undoubtedly a windfall.

“How was it this week?” My friend asked.

“It is the same trouble with sales people.”

The stress that I was experiencing was not because of an irate customer or an overweening boss. In some small companies, like mine, there was a very thin line separating marketing and sales division where one could easily mistake them to belong to the same department and in fact you could even consider customer service department as a part of the family. In most circumstance, they lacked foresight and could never get the correct specifications from customers. Worse, for some products, there was no such thing as “Marketing Research.” Engineering was constantly in battle with the sales-marketing-customer service department and while we blamed them for providing improper specification, they blamed us for failing to deliver products on time.

If I had the power, I would lay my finger right in the beginning at marketing when they submit the Marketing requirements document (MRD) and ask us to write the Engineering Specifications. It is after strictly adhering to the MRD, without a cerebral approach of challenging marketing and using intelligence in finding out what exact application the customers is, are products badly engineered. What was once conceived an orangutan at the time of its inception eventually turns out into a mongoose upon completion of the product. And you’re forced to reshape the mongoose into an orangutan in a matter of two weeks. No doubt god is the greatest engineer - He doesn’t have a salesman.

My friend had been patiently listening for the past few minutes. “Therefore, I conclude, a salesman becomes a salesman because he has tried everything else in his life and eventually becomes so after realizing his life is a failure.” I said vehemently.

My friend retaliated, “That conclusion might be a little lame. I don’t think bigger organizations allow the fundamental flaw you are witnessing – improper specifications. I have been in this project 3 months, already, and we still haven’t begun designing. We are still negotiating and will not budge until we have exactly nailed down the exact requirements.”

Emotionally drained, I slightly digressed, “You may not have the brightest education, you may not be exceptionally smart, and worse you may still have a tendency to slacken in your job. But all it takes to be a salesman is being highly articulate in delivering your sentences and the capacity to quickly flash all your teeth faster than an alligator.”

My friend chuckled, “I wonder what you’ll remark at a used-car salesman.”

“I’d be delighted to find an educated salesman, one who is honest with a good sense of work-ethic, whose consciousness is fixed on the success of a company and not on devising easy money making schemes”

My friend’s lackluster response evinced when he abruptly changed topics, “If you notice, I don’t have a washing machine and a dryer, so we need to go to home-depot the first thing tomorrow morning before we venture into any recreational activity,” he said in a stern tone.

We drove to home-depot the first thing next morning. Right from where you park your cars up to where you enter the Mall we could see constant activity and the place was thronged by all kinds of people. While a young lady in Honda Accord honked at a pedestrian who dropped her purse and stooped down to pick it up, another noisily dragged her cart stuffed with a couple dozen-tissue rolls and sweatshirts precariously dangling from the front end. A huge black guy spanked his daughter right in the middle of the driveway while a Mustang failed to stop at any of the “Stop Signs.”

A middle-aged gentleman was tottering as he tried balancing himself with enormous quantities of groceries in plastic bags, he hand-carried, that would have been charged with excess baggage had he been in the airport while his wife was marching ahead in the lead. It was a deplorable sight indeed. While his eyes were bloodshot, making me guess he had reveled at a late night party leading him to experience a lack of proper sleep, I could see anguish in them as he was being mercilessly tormented on a Saturday morning into doing chores by his wife. Aha! Get married and life becomes smooth, does it? I gloated. Despite the chaos that prevailed in our vision, our eyes eventually focused and we realized that the dense swarm we were seeing was actually pouring in and out of Sam’s Club, and not Home Depot, which seemed relatively desolate.

We marched into the giant doors of the grand Home Depot, which had an expansive interior, more like a warehouse, with aisles flanked by huge purchase items that would make Wal-Mart seem like a 7-eleven. Everywhere, surrounding us, were woodwork, interior decor, home appliances, garden tools, cleaning brushes, hammers, nails, refrigerators and while on the outside the store didn’t quite look crowded, the inside was fairly populated and we could see people everywhere.

“Hey man, step aside,” I heard a voice and I turned to see a trolley containing a couple ice makers that were being single-handedly dragged by a tall blonde man clad in jeans. His biceps were wider than my thighs. Directly in front of me was an Asian key-maker whose primary job was duplicating keys and his back was facing us as the thrust in the customer’s key into a machine, attempting to create a suitable duplicate. Rumbling sounds from hacksaws, high pitched shrieks from a drilling device, different vibrations resounding from mechanical devices, and the surrounding din, presented a cacophony of sounds which weren’t that unpleasant to the ears.

We turned left and walked as we saw lanes of people standing waiting to finish their purchases and get out of the store. A cute Latino whose pretty lips were making funny shapes as she spoke to a customer at the cashier’s counter invited my stares and my glance slowly shifted to her neck when a voice from a throat that seemed like it was treated with sulfuric acid shook my wits. Upon recollection, I recalled that it seemed like that of Dikembe Mutombo’s. Before we could get lost in the seemingly huge maze inside the store, I stopped short beside a customer service personnel and was about to ask, “Excuse me, where are the washers and dryers?” when I decided against, for his countenance displayed such annoyance that any question I asked would have drawn an immediate scowl.

We eventually located the place where they stocked washers and dryers and found a few on the display with price tags on plaques that displayed the manufacturer, model number, and the price. Looking around, we noticed a bald man sitting next to a computer with his back to us entering something on a pad he had on his hands and as we called him, he wheeled around and stood up to shake hands.

“I’ll join you momentarily, sir,” he said to my friend.

In the interim, we looked around for a few minutes and my friend quickly decided a washer and a drier. It was relatively easy – they were the cheapest ones in the store.

From behind the rows of stacked boxes, approached towards us an oriental salesman with spectacles that covered the majority of his face, his eyes seemingly huge through the convex lens. His temples were covered with graying hairs while his fatty cheeks were hairless and patched black in a few places. He had a slight paunch that was well hidden by his loose light blue Denim shirt. Were it not for the fact that he looked Chinese, I would never have guessed his age as somewhere in the sixties.

“Are you being helped?” He asked us in squeaky voice with a drawl but intelligible accent.

“Well, the bald gentleman in shorts was here a few minutes ago but now he has disappeared.”

“I’d be delighted to help you.”

“We just explained to him that we have selected a washer and dryer and would therefore like to complete the formalities and the billing.”

“I can help you,” he said and walked with us to examine our purchase.”

He took with him the plaque displaying the manufacturer, price, and model number of the washer and dryer and walked to his computer where he opened the billing software. Patiently, letter-by-letter he entered the model number and made sure there were no errors. I became a little frustrated and impatient as I was getting hungry and wanted to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. While the system identified the model number of the washing machine it could not recognize the dryer and as he continued in his attempt to successfully enter the values for the third time I was beginning to get seriously annoyed. What an idiot, I thought, the computer isn’t going to change its mind if you keep retyping the wrong number. If it doesn’t recognize, it doesn’t.

In the meantime, my friend was distracted and was going through the specification of another model and I really hoped he wouldn’t change his mind, especially with the seemingly not so sharp salesman taking hours to complete a simple transaction. I wondered how people at the cashier counter in the grocery store would treat him had he worked there. Soon, he asked me to summon my friend and told him that the dryer wasn’t listed in their system requesting him to consider the other model situated next to the one he had chosen and manufactured by G.E. My friend agreed since they were the same price – 299$. As he was about to enter the new number, he suddenly turned around and said,

“Now that you’ve chosen a G.E drier, why don’t you go for a G.E washer? Maybe buy them as a pair. So that you get better benefits with warranty.”

Although my initial reaction was that of exasperation, I reconciled with the fact that my friend wouldn’t take long to decide and in fact he immediately nodded to the salesman who went back to delete the first transaction and spent the next five minutes entering the second while I impatiently made circles with my foot unwilling to tie my shoe laces.

“Sir,” he meekly said.

“I have entered the purchases into the system and let me go them over with you one by one.”

God! We aren’t buying a Lexus RX-300 with customizations I thought almost throwing up my hands in despair, my stomach growling.

He pointed to the screen and said, “Up here you are currently viewing the model number and the price. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes.”

“Do you find the default one-year warranty desirable or would you take an additional two year warranty for 59.99$?”

I spoke for my friend and said, “no we just need the default warranty,” asking my friend how often he saw them being repaired.

“A power cord to connect your washer and drier to the A.C mains that are 15.00$ each.”

Before I could intervene, my friend said yes.

I thought that was instant robbery, it never costs that much. I had tons of them lying around in my work place and I would have gotten him a couple but before I could advise against my friend accepted and I was too tired to argue or worse, make the salesman reenter the data into his software. They must make it a rule for people to own PCs in their house so that they don’t make a mess of themselves outside and also waste people’s time. Or stores ought to spend some extra time training the salesman before they are on the job, I thought.

Finally, I was glad that he was going to click his mouse on “Calculate,” when he stopped and began reading the terms and regulations. Oh my god! This was worse than Sprint PCS customer service, I wailed. Another minute, I would have told my friend to wait in while I’d rush to the nearest Chinese take-out and order spicy tofu with fried rice and a large coke. At last the papers were being printed in his private printer, which was a totally waste I thought, and he turned back and smilingly addressed us, “Namaste.”

I couldn’t control myself and began laughing. Why would you greet someone at the end of a transaction and worse, he was a salesman, who definitely ought to know that by virtue of his occupation.

I replied, “Nee Howma!”

He laughed, “There you go, I guess we are familiar with our customs.”

At last the transaction was over and knowing we could leave shortly my anger eased when he requested my friend to replace the plaque onto top of the washer and dryer where they were present originally and while he rushed off, I asked him if he were from China – a redundant question.”

“I am from Hong Kong actually, but been here for many years.”

“Why on earth would you be in a small town rather than in a big city like New York where you had better opportunities?

“Well! My children went to school here,” he said.

“Oh Nice, was it Penn?” I asked recalling University of Pennsylvania wasn’t far from there.

“No Penn State, actually.”

“That is great. How many children do you have and did they all go to Penn State?”

“I have three. Yes, all went to Penn State. While my two sons obtained their degrees in Computer Science and Mechanical Engineering, my daughter received her’s in Aerospace.”

“Wow! That must make you proud, especially after emigrating from Hong Kong, if you could provide them with quality education.”

“Yes, they are bright too and studied with scholarships.”

No wonder he was able to afford their fees working in home depot I concluded.

“Actually, similar to your children even I am an Engineer, an Electrical Engineer, and currently work in the telecom industry.”

“Oh that’s good, that’s good, so you work for cellular phone companies, VOIP systems, or what exactly is your job?”

“Not really, I don’t design microelectronic circuits,” and gave a brief account of my job trying to best explain in layman terms, in salesmen language, so that he understood.

What about you? Have you been a salesman all throughout and have been in working in home depot? Or were you working elsewhere, in a different profession?” I asked. He took a minute before answering, probably not sure how to phrase his answer I reasoned and wondered if he was actually shy to explain his occupation.

“Well, I am actually an Electrical Engineer too and a professor in Penn State. I got my PhD in E.E during the year 1970,” he said and smiled.

I swayed for a second and almost fainted feeling as though he dropped an anchor in my mouth and I can’t describe the effect it when it landed in my stomach. I stood speechless and shaken when my friend returned.

“He isn’t just a salesman,” I replied weakly.

“He has a PhD in E.E”

“What?” He echoed but recovered quicker than I did and thought he was wise in discerning that due to a bad market this gentleman was perhaps laid-off.

“Is it due to a bad market, you’re working here?” He asked sympathetically.

He smiled, “Actually, I run my own company,” and he opened his wallet and flashed his business card. Printed in bold pink letters, was the name, “Dr. Woo,” and the name of his company.

That was when I badly felt ashamed. I had been stripped of all pride and felt worthless. The situation I was facing was beyond comprehension.

“I understand it is hard for you to believe as I don’t like discussing my private life while I work here.”

“But why do you work here? Earlier I thought you were a retired professor, but now since you say you have your own job, why would you work here?”

“I am an old man and my wife takes care of our grand kids and baby sits them over the weekend. It is my understanding over the years that happiness doesn’t come from who you are but from what you do. There are three other salesmen who work in the same store who all have their PhDs and there are two more doctors. I was told it enables them to get a good quote on insurance,” he said and chuckled.

I am now glad he taught me, rather warned me to be careful on how I judge people, or better, teaching me not to judge anyone.

“What is the nature of your research,” I asked as his humble testimony had piqued my curiosity.

“Well, my research broadly focuses on power systems – for example, modern day lap tops contain redundant power when you yank the cord and sustain themselves for a while. Why not do the same thing on refrigerators and microwaves?”

“Wow! You mean build some juice so that they last when there is loss of power? I enquired enthusiastically both out of interest and with hopes of disabusing my earlier behavior.

“Yes, in fact, I wrote a proposal recently to NSF to bring in some research grants and underscored the fact that the process will not be more expensive than modern day AC-DC converters and at worst, it’ll be the same cost.”

“Great,” my friend said.

“But, NSF thought otherwise and scuttled the idea. It is during such matters that they get political man. Which flourishing industry would let a new technology supplant theirs?”

I sympathized with him and said, “It is remarkable that you’re continuing research and I have great admiration for scholarly people,” I said.

“Well, when I was of your age, I used to admire professors and researchers who worked with zeal. But over the years, it is sad that the ones who are most admired are the ones who bring in most research grant and fund most students but not the ones who work passionately without expecting rewards.”

He further said how he had been an Assistant professor for many years and how he eventually turned into a professor and all along I couldn’t help praising his humility.

“I think that’s it, you don’t pay here, but at the cashier’s counter.” He said.

“Thank you Dr. Woo, I am glad that there are such humble people around.” I said.

We stumbled out of the store too shaken and didn’t begin a conversation for the next half hour being humbled

The contents of this story are true but slightly decorated, especially emotions, to make it more interesting to read –licensed embellishments, as authors claim.

The Never Ending Journey

One early summer evening, I got down from my uncle’s white Maruti Esteem and ran to the trunk to pull out my baggage with hopes of not getting drenched. The whole afternoon had been incessantly raining and visibility was still low. With a heave I quickly hoisted my brownish yellow nylon carry-on bag, with two extra side zips and a retractable handle, over my shoulder and curled my fingers around the handle of the large dark-green leather suitcase standing on the floor that was scratched all over owing to its past travel. As I waved my uncle farewell and ran in, I peered at the clock through the smog and discerned that it was 5.15 pm at the New Delhi railway station.

Inside, a pot-bellied grey-haired porter, with white stubs jutting from his unshaven face and hands that were roughened by his profession, ran towards to me, hurriedly buttoning his red shirt. He was also oscillating like a penguin due to his overweight. From his worried face, I could discern that he wanted to beat the others in closing a neat evening business deal that could probably fetch him dinner and a bottle of alcohol that night - his red-eyes and pot-belly was suggestive enough that he delighted himself frequently with alcohol. We settled for an amount not so much an extravagant indulging as a satisfactory expense – After all, I could have carried the luggage myself without help.

“Hang on, I am traveling from New-Delhi to Calcutta by Rajdhani Express. Let me see the platform number,” I told him and we halted besides the departure board.

“I know sahib, its on platform number three,” he replied knowing it by the top of his head, routinely being accustomed to dealing with passengers going to different locations.

There it was, Rajdhani Express - platform number 3, I thought. As we walked on, I inhaled the musty smell emanating from the dank walls that wafted with the breeze. Surrounding me were a number of passengers hurrying to find their compartment. As I gazed here and there, I was momentarily captured the fading image of a caged parrot entering a compartment but before I could identify its breed clearly, its master and the cage disappeared inside.

“How is business, I hope you find enough passengers daily.” I said

“No sahib, not really. With the economy doing well, many are affording airline travel and the number of porters in the station has risen. Further, growing older, I am no longer able to regulate and control the younger guys in order that everyone gets a fair share of passengers.”

Caught unawares, I was seized by a horrible stench when we had barely passed a basket of fish waiting to be loaded into the luggage van. I had nearly a mile to cover with 10 coaches ahead of me and began dreaming about my imminent visit to my aunt who was an exceptional cook and on whose back yard one could tirelessly play with her beagle Mercury. It was more than 5 years since I traveled by Indian Railways and all along I had longed for such a journey. When I was young I used to treat every train travel like a cruise, simply liking everything involved with train; the look of the diesel engine, the yard where tracks interweaved, and the food. I seldom ate what I carried and often gave them to a beggar and blessed him with some wholesome home-prepared food. My dreamy thoughts were interrupted when a lady ahead of me shrieked and jumped, when she narrowly escaped being run over by a trolley, carelessly driven by a railway official.

Coach A6 at last, I thought and scanned through the reservation chart pasted on the door in order to ensure I had a window seat. Until so far not having had the luxury of traveling by air- conditioned coaches, I was really excited this time and was looking forward to enjoying my journey in a fully air-conditioned Rajdhani express. Entering the compartment, I located my berth and pushed my luggage beneath the lower berth. When I tipped the porter, there was a smile on his countenance and after his exit I lazily stretched and noticed that I was amongst the first few to board the coach. Feeling stuffy, I turned on the fan and it wasn’t working. Whether coaches were air-conditioned or second class, I concluded fans most likely needed an extra push with a comb or a pen to move them from their state of inertia. Outside the window, a fat elderly woman single handedly dragged a huge trunk and yelled at her three children as they zipped past my compartment.

As I sat a middle-aged gentleman with trim moustache and lean frame pulled his small briefcase and shoved it beneath his berth, opposite mine. He wasn’t wearing spectacles as such and his outfit seemed to indicate he was from a city and I took a shot that he might be an engineer. While I continued studying him, he sat opposite me and smiled.

“Traveling light, huh?” I began

“Yah for a small business meeting and I’ll be returning the day after. By the way, my name is Ramlal. So…”

His voice was momentarily dampened when a porter in the adjacent compartment yelled a string of invectives to a pot-bellied passenger who I assumed was a peasant from the way he spoke and chewed tobacco.

“Such language,” Ramlal chuckled.

I introduced myself when a cute short girl with pigtails and braces walked into the compartment with her mom, who undid their luggage onto the side berth to the right of the aisle. Remotely resembling the character Margaret in Dennis the Menace, the kid pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose and settled with a book titled, “The Weary Potter,” while her mom dabbed beads of perspiration forming on her face. While the kid’s teeth were well aligned by her braces, her mom’s lacked symmetry - her protruding teeth that could carve a coconut.

“So Ramlal, how long have you lived in Delhi? I guess you must enjoy the luxuries of the capital city,” I said.

“Yes, been there my entire life.”

“What about you? Where are you traveling and what is the purpose of your trip?”

“I am an architect in Melbourne presently in India for a trade show and am using the weekend for a brief family visit.”

I stopped short. A stunningly attractive girl, roughly in her mid twenties I would say, walked in and flopped on the berth opposite me next to Ramlal while her porter gently placed her two suitcases beneath the lower berth. Her skin was the color of wheat and her bell-like earrings glittered in the dim light inside the ICF coach. She had fastened her hair into a ponytail and wore a gold ring on her left index finger. As she bent low, with her back to me, to fasten her luggage with chain, her T-shirt lifted slightly revealing her lower back and her narrow and slender hip that curved its way both upward and downward. So mesmerized were my eyes that her label “Express” in her jeans went unnoticed.”

Before my dropped jaw could recover its stature she graciously smiled and asked

“Is this yours,” she asked me pointing to the lower berth I was perched on.

“Yes.”

“I guess this one is mine then,” she said indicating to the berth opposite mine.

A rough portly guy, made way towards us and paused near our compartment. He was shabbily clad with torn grey woolen sweaters and brown frayed trousers. His front teeth appeared as though it had been knocked out and plugged in a dozen times while his breath reeked of stale bananas and alcohol. I wondered how he could afford a ticket on Rajdhani unless he was into crimes. Stabilizing himself, he took a good look at the seat number and asked me to get out of his berth

“Excuse me sir, wait a minute,” I added pulling my ticket.

I showed him seat number 33 and bingo! He showed his, 33.

Being relatively sure that the chances of computerized reservations going wrong were remote, I said I wouldn’t budge from my seat in decent language and patiently began explaining that apparently there had been some mistake and we‘d sort it. He started swearing at me starting 10 generations above me and went 20 down.

“Wait a minute,” the girl came to my aid and pointing to his ticket asked him to go to coach A5, ours being A6. The ink in his crumpled ticket was slightly smudged deceiving his eyes making him believe that it was I who had violated his allotted space. Good riddance I thought, at the same time felt glad that she had rescued me.

A man clad in brown khakis and white hat walked by with a huge vessel not so much a cauldron as a good-sized filter, it was steaming and emanating fumes that I discerned were from coffee, which lifted my spirits. Beckoning the coffee seller closer, I asked Ramlal and the girl if they wanted any. They gladly agreed, and no sooner I took my first sip than I heard a jingle in the vendor’s pocket as he placed his coins.

The compartment was now almost full with barely a few minutes left for the departure. While inside the AC coach thick windows dampened the noisy din from the busy platform, enabling us to enjoy the silence within, it precluded the evening breeze and the fresh aroma of sizzling eggs on the frying pan from reaching us. Therefore, it was quite evident that only the occurrence of a mild jerk indicated that we had departed the station. Glancing at my watch and observing the time as 5.00 p.m., I figured it was running slow by 15 minutes and had to adjust it. A network of rails interweaved as we passed the yard and the clangor made by the wheels, when they locked into the correct pair of rails, was audible yet muffled.

The compartment was getting noisy with a few travelers engaged in animated discussions while others gesticulated wildly throwing up their hands, apparently recounting their anecdotes and enjoying the evening. A few students were playing a pack of cards while a lady was trying to soothe her crying daughter. Amidst chaos that prevailed in the compartment, the only person experiencing inner peace was the kid on the side berth engrossed in her book. My eyes wandered and found its way back to the pretty girl sitting opposite me where she caught my eye and we introduced ourselves, her name Lavanya.

Ramlal looked at me and said, “So you were saying you are an architect.”

“Oh, yes, I work for a company “Waugh and Partner Architecture,” in southern Melbourne and the nature of the work I do involves designing the interior of warehouses for mid-sized to large scale industries.”

“Interesting, I am a trader and specialize in home décor myself.”

“Really? Wow! You should have been at trade show I was at last week for which my company sent me, investing a lot of money on my air-ticket and living expenses. It was appalling and a total waste as it never suited the work I do. Perhaps, the exhibits on vinyl, carpets and mahogany would have interested you. The only positive outcome is I got a free ticket to India… Lavanya, what about you? Do tell us about yourself”

“Well, I am a cardiologist and primarily a researcher at the All India Institute of Medical Science AIIMS. Interestingly, I was in Sydney for a convention a couple weeks back and was delighted with the place.”

“I hope you get a chance to watch the match at the S.C.G?”

“Unfortunately, tickets were sold out and I couldn’t go last Tuesday,” she said making a sour face.

Ramlal said, so how have you been enjoying your vacation, now that your business trip hasn’t very rewarding.”

“I’ve covered fair amount of ground already with the trade show in Lucknow and Bangalore. Then I visited Rajasthan and my uncle in Delhi. I guess I have been traveling a lot, pretty much every city, and at last Calcutta. I am taking my flight from there”

“Calcutta? Oh! You mean eventually?” She said and smiled.

Eventually? I guess she was referring to the frequent delays Rajdhani had been subjected to in the recent past, as I was told, and even last week, due to some derailment, it reached 7 hours late in Mumbai. It appeared that both were well read and with the doctor around, the conversation was indeed healthy. Ramlal knew the right sentences to speak and with the good positive attitude I guess he was a remarkable salesman or a businessman. Until now, I had never encountered anybody like Lavanya possessing a ravishing beauty with an acute mind. Life isn’t always fair is it? I wondered how many young hearts she broke if not fixed. It would be a suicide not to get her contacts when we reach I concluded.

Sharply at quarter past 8.00, the bearers arrived and a heavyset man with a slight paunch and hunching shoulders placed a huge tray containing foods packed in aluminum foil on the side berth next to the young kid. Each was served one packet and upon inspecting the contents, I figured we were given puris, rice, pickle curd, and a mixed vegetable sautéed curry. Hardly had Ramlal opened his food packet when we heard weird chewing noises by the little girl’s mom whose lips gyrated in a rhythmic circle as she attacked the food open-mouthed. Her huge nose-ring shone being moistened from her perspiring nose.

I said, “Wow this is delicious. Ramlal, travel has changed so much during the past few years. I am at awe with the improvement in the quality of food and I suspect it is no longer unhygienic.”

“Undoubtedly. The quality of food has remarkably improved and if you now notice you get water packets. You don’t need to hunt for functioning taps in stations anymore”

Lavanya joined the conversation. “They don’t let you smoke anymore and one can peacefully sleep during the nights without being disturbed by stale beedis.”

I said, “Well, there used to be a time when I was a kid while traveling by trains, especially during the night time when everyone closed the windows and shutters fearing dacoits and I seldom slept through being bathed in my own sweat. I guess dacoits in Gwalior are now extinct. In fact, Indian Railways is so organized now that I feel a lot safer to travel by trains,”

There was a momentary pause and we noticed the kid throwing tantrums as she was ordered to finish her food before she could touch the book. Soon, when she realized all eyes were upon her, she became docile in obeying her mom’s orders. She wiped her tears and took the water packet that was now handed to her by the bearer and we took our share too.

Ramlal said, “Speaking of water packets, once when I was young the train had arrived at Itarsi junction and being the oldest, I was sent to fill water in a quaint kerosene container that used to literally supply boiled water in the afternoon sun. Whistling, I noticed there wasn’t any taps around and walked two coaches back to the nearest tap and guess what! It was out of order. I tried a couple more taps and realized I had ventured quite far. Retracing my way, I wanted to get back into the compartment but imagined the caning I would receive from my uncle for returning his wishes unfulfilled. I was still two coaches way when I got this brainwave; I got into the compartment close to where I was, walked to the opposite door, and got down on the other side, where I had to cross the tracks to climb onto the opposite platform.

Fortunately, there was water in the closest tap, and relieved I was even though it was hot if not lukewarm, and I quickly filled my can. I turned around and got the fright of my life, the signal had turned green and my train sounded its horn. At the same time, another train was making way into the platform where I was. I prayed mine wouldn’t start until the other train stopped and luckily when the oncoming train halted, I wildly ran into the nearest coach, opened the compartment door and climbed down on the opposite side and quickly clambered onto my train. I have never been so scared.

We laughed and Lavanya shared her anecdote. “Well I often traveled from Chennai to New Delhi by Tamil Nadu express, and when it arrived Nagpur at 2.00 p.m., a similar New Delhi -Chennai Tamil Nadu express arrived on the adjacent platform quite similar to what Ramlal just described. It was so confusing that your head spins with all boards on the train showing “Chennai New Delhi” so it wasn’t uncommon that sometimes you accidentally get into the wrong train.”

“Speaking of Nagpur,” said Ramlal. “There was a time during the 80’s when a stall outside the station was famous for its chicken Biryani that passengers used to venture out to and grab a packet for lunch. I haven’t tried it but while we were on a student excursion to Mysore, our train had stopped at Nagpur and two students in our group ventured out to bring samples for the rest. I wonder what happened, we left without them.”

“Well, I once asked my co-passenger how far are we from Mughalsarai and when he said an hour, I thought I’ll catch some sleep and upon awaking, I asked him how far we were from Mughalsarai and he again said an hour. I was sure we hadn’t stopped due to a faulty engine or a red signal and when it figured that we had gone past Mughalsarai by an hour, I was alarmed.”

They both watched me in disbelief.

“Oops! That was a joke,” I said and laughed.

Ramlal said, “Yeah it can get scary sometimes when such mistakes happen and you feel like a fool. It is good to travel by Rajdhani, as there are so few stops that you reach your destination very quickly. Well, that was a good dinner. Good to have you guys as company. I guess we’ll have some dessert, ice cream or some sweet, when the train stops at Kota or if you aren’t that hungry, we could at Ratlam.

“Ratlam? Isn’t that in Rajasthan?” I replied, being confident about my geographical knowledge, especially when it was pertinent to train travel.

“I guess you mistook Ratlam for Kanpur,” I smiled, as the first station Rajdhani stopped was at Kanpur, wondering how one could make such obvious mistakes and they both exchanged glances.

A new voice in the compartment announced the arrival of a gentleman dressed in white trousers and red tie, his blue shirt with white stripes being partially covered with his navy blue sports jacket. He seemed an educated man with a college degree and carried a pad with a stack of papers. Only when I noticed that it carried names of passengers and their reservation did I realize that he was the ticket collector (T.C.)

The TC intervened while we had just finished talking and asked me. “Excuse me sir, can I look at your ticket?”

Knowing it was his routine job of examining our tickets and making sure nobody traveled ticket-less, especially in A/C compartment, I partially stood up removed my wallet and was about to retrieve the ticket when the corner of my eyes spotted the ruffian who had tried to throw me away from my compartment.

The TC said, “Sir, we have a problem here, the seat belongs to him,” pointing to the ruffian, “ and not you.”

“What do you mean, isn’t he in coach A5?” I asked with my brows raised.

“No, it appears as though his ticket is printed with A5, but after going through my documents I am concluding that it is indeed A6,” he finished.

A wave of nausea swept past my stomach. Drat! I knew it. I missed the date. On such a short vacation to India, if I were supposed to see all my relatives and family scattered all across the nation, I was bound to miss the date. Exasperated, I slowly examined my ticket. But wait, indeed it saw February 10^th - the correct date.

“Hey! I guess today is Feb. 10^th right?” said I looked at the TC.

“Yes sir, indeed today is Feb 10^th.’

“Then prove me wrong, how does the seat belong to him.” I thundered

“Indeed, the date and the coach number are both correct, but you have boarded the 2302 New Delhi-Mumbai Rajdhani express. Your ticket shows train number 2952 New Delhi-Calcutta Rajdhani express that would have left New Delhi at 5.15 pm, so please get down in Kota, the next station, and pay a fine of 2000 rupees.”

While the whole compartment echoed with laughter, I presented a dumb look to Ramlal and avoided making eye contact with Lavanya whom I guess was stifling laughter.

“Well, I guess that was mistake huh?” I grinned at Ramlal sheepishly.

With gleaming eyes, Ramlal greeted me, “Welcome to Mumbai, you can stay with me and we three can have dinner tomorrow night. Don’t worry about the T.C., we can pay him to get you through to Mumbai. I am privileged to be in your company.”

I guess I didn’t know what else I could do and decided to take a flight to Calcutta the day after tomorrow from Mumbai. I asked Lavanya the time and she replied 10.00 pm. so I began adjusting my watch that showed 9.45 p.m. I guess my watch had been correct all along. I was lucky enough to get her email address and was luckier when she said she would keep in touch and luckiest when told that I had better mail her frequently because she hates unanswered mails.

Excusing myself, I walked to the door, which upon opening let a full blast of air on my face and it was dark everywhere except for occasional flares from lamps used by people as we crossed cottages and level crossing. Ramlal was patiently talking to the TC. Quite a businessman he was I thought and smiled and gazed at the infinite stars in the sky wondering if any fool would try and count them.

“Trying to count the stars?”

Startled, I turned around to see Lavanya standing behind me near the door and ask me that question as though she read my mind. I moved aside beckoning her closer so that she could face outside and get her share of the winds and while I was barely inches away, I could smell her perfume. Her hair was now let down and it flew past her shoulders, its silkiness now glistening in the moonlight.

“Pleasant evening isn’t it? She asked.”

Sure, I thought sarcastically when Rajdhani lowered its speed. I told myself, Hey! It is all right, and chucked as I gawked at her eyelashes – Perhaps it is the beginning of a new journey. The lights in the horizon expanded in size as the train slowed down and far in the distance saw an approaching station. We heard voices of vendors and spotted the bevy of anxious passengers standing in the station as Rajdhani express pulled into platform number 1 at Kota junction.

“Let’s get some coffee,” I muttered.

Defense Against The Dark Lords

The sky was darkening and I could barely detect the sun behind the hills. I lay flat on the ground, the battlefield, wounded within and without. I was painfully aware of the outcome yet painless, blissfully unaware of the injuries. I patiently waited; my consciousness slowly receding as I saw vultures prowling above me, ravenous, waiting to strip me bare to the bones.

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Artemis, a Greek soldier solider and my birthright is protecting the King, then come the rest. I engage myself, rather am engaged, in fierce battles and no battle can be won with valor alone. Some say winning wars is a gamble and has no element of intelligence involved. Wise are the ones who realize that the name of the game is strategy.

The dark lords are our sworn enemies and I would do anything it takes, even giving up my life, to protect my king, Rex, who is fair in all respects. During the course of war, every move decides our fate and experience has taught, rather trained, us to face checkered changes in career. I believe in take single steps in defeating the opponent while there are others who can think ten ahead. The Dark Lords have conquered many kingdoms and our king was wise. Tactically using offense, he realized the only way of conquering them was to make the first move and take them off guard.

Soldiers formed the lowest base in the battalion and are skilled swordsmen. Talented, a soldier can sidestep and lash out the enemy to take his place. Next in the hierarchy were knights, marksmen who rode the horses. Mighty with their leap, knights can go over the opponents and overcome them. We were moments within the beginning of a great battle, one that could seal our future. Mate!! My fellow soldier Eris yelled and startled me. Scowling, I screamed, “You shall not use the forbidden word for we are not pirates. It signifies apocalypse.”

The battlefield seemed to lack color and was flat in terrain. I could see them lined up in the horizon. They seemed impenetrable, but soldiers were trained to be fearless. The conch shells blared and the king screamed as everyone became silent. “I am Rex Decimus, sworn enemy of the dark lords, and a loyal servant to the northern region. I shall have my vengeance, either in this life or the next.” He continued, “Attack and skin them alive.” The battlefield echoed with a tumultuous roar while the soldier ahead of the king initiated the gambit. With a rush of blood, holding my sword above, I ran with the intent of decimating their troops.

Step by step we advanced each other and it was anybody’s game, no one could predict the war’s outcome. Within moments, I confronted a dark soldier, my first quarry. “Prepare for death you lone warrior,” he echoed, his sword gleaming in the midday sun. “I serve King Rex, and my blood shall not be put to waste,” I said clenching my teeth. We circled each other and I thrusted my sword aimed at his navel. He brilliantly sidestepped and lashed hard, the sword barely missing me by nose, while my ears detected a whoosh. Thinking I was off balance he went for my heart, but I was well poised and ducked low going for his legs. He was quick and sensing his mistake he was immediately up on air and both were ready for the next move. Not striking and facing each other, both were aware of the situation, a deadpan had occurred and we couldn’t break it ourselves.

Whoosh!!! A knight flew over me and the opponent was headless as I gaped at him, “how did you manage it?” The knight, Kronos, radiantly smiled at me eying the opponents, ”who’s next?” while Eros stepped besides me. We changed the game plan and decided to advance together to give more freedom to the Kronos on covering ground. While Kronos decided to attack their soldier on the right, he had failed to detect the dark knight approaching him. Being caught unawares, it was unlikely that the Kronos could save himself. Eros, the soldier and my dear friend, darted across from his place and made a suicidal move to sacrifice himself.

I gritted my teeth as I looked back to see if the King was safe. Three soldiers and the bishop protected Rex. Under extreme circumstances, it wasn’t uncommon for Bishops to take part in the battle for protecting the king. Another bishop, Zeus, saw Eros’s downfall and raced towards me. The battle went for hours and half our soldiers were wiped. Their elephant gladiators were emerging strong and were partly responsible for our soldiers’ death. We had to do something.

Kronos hinted and I moved ahead and made myself obvious to their elephant gladiator. He fell for the decoy and positioned himself to attack me. Kronos, yet again, came from nowhere sailing over their soldier and the elephant gladiator fell. Amidst the confusion, I saw that their king was now unguarded and yelled, “Check king Vulcan Zeus.” I stood ahead of the king, Kronos moved to the side while Zeus was along the diagonal. “You’re doomed Vulcan, I thought,” When queen, Venus, slashed Kronos appearing from nowhere. She could travel ten times mightier than Vulcan I felt.

While rapidly advancing, our defense had weakened and I turned back. The other elephant gladiator placed himself on the corner aiming straight at Rex. Their knights were both on his two sides, the bishop again aiming him at an angle. Queen Venus moved and was in line of his sight. King Vulcan roared pulling his sword, “Rex, you’re corned my friend, and as I step forward there’ll be yet another heroic death.”

I looked at Erin’s slumped body and babbled, “Do you think Anand was better?” Erin holding his last breath muttered, “I still feel Karpov is the best with black – The perfect checkmate.”