Daddy's Day In

Image Courtesy: Morguefile

How on earth does she do it? Fool that I am, I questioned her capability in managing the household and keeping the brats in line. How could I have known it was going to be like this?


I manage the sharks at work, face the barrage of deadlines that keep beating down on me, and I thought mine was the most difficult job of all.

Now I see it. By the time I would return from work at the hour when the primetime serials on TV had begun to wrap up for the day, the boys would be sleeping, I would tiptoe into their room, watch their angelic faces deep in the throes of sleep, their chests gently heaving up and down in a rhythmic motion. And I would shush her up when she tried to tell me about how hard her day had been, how she’d spent all day cleaning their mess, when she wasn’t shouting at them to clean up themselves, how she feared them more when they were quiet because then it meant that they were cooking up another hare-brained scheme designed to frazzle their mother.

And then one day when the whining got to me, I yelled back at her. I told her she was incompetent. That’s what she was. She ought to see the kind of challenges I countered at work on a daily basis. Her voice dipped low and she reminded me that she had been tackling those very challenges at the same office where we had met and that she had given up her job five years ago and stayed home to look after the boys.

I hadn’t seen it as a sacrifice back then, and I told her so. One thing led to another and before I knew it, I had signed up to look after the kids for just ONE day.

When I woke up, breakfast was on the stovetop and there was a note too. “It’s Showtime. I’ll be at Mum’s.”

The house was silent, and fool that I am (but that you already know), I rubbed my hands with glee and told myself, this was going to be fun. The boys and I were in for some serious male bonding. They’d realize how much more fun their Dad was compared to their nagging Mom.

I heard the boys talking and rushed to their room. I opened the door and felt something soft and mushy hit me in the face. I heard laughter and all plans for a fun time vanished. I chased them to the bathroom, and fell hard on the soapy floor.

The day went by in a mad whirl. With me at the receiving end mostly.

They asked me where Mom was. She had a better grip on things, they said.

Mercifully, lunch was in the oven.

I sat at the kitchen table, eyes covered, the phone nestled between my head and neck. I needed her soon. Or else I’d burst.

“Come home, honey, I’m sorry.”

This post has been written for the Write Tribe prompt.

It's raining Sevens

I've always been drawn to the number Seven.

I am not surprised, when I read about the importance of Seven in cultures around the world.

As a Christian, I try to follow Jesus' teachings that I must forgive Seventy times Seven. In truth, that means you forgive as often as someone hurts you, since you can't really go through life keeping a memoranda of how many times someone has hurt you -- in word or deed, consciously or unconsciously.

Motivational gurus advise us: Fall Seven times, Stand up Eight.

There are Seven days in the week.

There are Seven wonders of the world, although a child can count far more.

Snow White had Seven dwarves.

There were Seven brides for Seven brothers.

Highly effective people supposedly have Seven habits in common.

There are Seven colours in the rainbow.

Do Re Mi Fa So Lah Ti are the Seven notes in the Western musical scale. Just as Sa Re Ga Ma Paa Dha Ni are the Seven notes in the Hindustani and Carnatic musical scales.

There are Seven deadly sins. 

Enid Blyton had the Secret Seven.

James Bond answers to 007.

And to cap it all, I got married on the Seventh day of the Seventh month of the Seventh year of this millennium.

And so when Corinne Rodrigues of The Write Tribe announced this prompt, 7x7x7x7, in which we were supposed to pick the Seventh book out of our bookshelf, then go to the Seventh page, pick the Seventh line on that page, and write Seven lines of poetry or prose on that line, I just had to go for it.

So here is the Seventh book on my bookshelf. Father Brown Stories by GK Chesterton.

The Seventh line is "There is in life an element of elfin coincidence which people reckoning on the prosaic may perpetually miss."

And here is my response to the prompt:

There is in life an element of elfin coincidence which people reckoning on the prosaic may perpetually miss.

Our jaded sight may fail to heed the marvels of the world. To see something anew, you must see with brand new eyes.

At every moment, something comes alive and something dies.

Miracles in plain sight, and yet somehow in disguise.

Life times drift by, we gaze too long at the lies.

And all along dead-ends lead to new paths, and even as you groan about answers blown miles away and gone amiss.

They show up on your doorstep, ah! The bliss.

You're Only Loony Once

“YOLO,” the young man yelled, waking his fellow-students sleeping in the hostel, before plunging the syringe into the fleshy folds of his upper arm. He didn’t know that the word was his last.

“YOLO,” the dean stretched the word around his tongue the way his students chewed gum. But he couldn’t abide the taste and spat it out in disgust.

“It means You Only Live Once,” the young professor of psychology volunteered. The most popular faculty member, he felt duty-bound to express the students’ view.

“I know what it means,” the dean snarled. “It means living life fully, using every ounce of talent God has given you, making a difference, striving for your dreams, so that death arrives to find you without regret. These fools have let it degenerate into an excuse for trying anything that their idle minds come up with. For them, it's You're Only Loony Once, and then it's the end. No more chances.”

“That’s true,” said the professor of mathematics. “This is the third YOLO death in four months. The students are quick to declare their dead classmate a martyr, inspiring others to do equally foolish things. Drinking, doing drugs, sleeping around, fast driving in the name of YOLO.”

The dean nodded. “I’ve always hated acronyms for this reason. Where is the beauty embedded in that truth, You only live once? Where is the call to action? The very phrase has been twisted into candy drops that can be swallowed without thinking.”

“That’s how these kids are,” said the professor of sociology, who prided himself on understanding student behaviour. “They are always in a hurry, and they like to save time by making an acronym out of everything.”

“Don’t call them kids,” snorted the professor of philosophy. “They are old enough to vote, marry and drive. Why aren’t they old enough to think responsibly for themselves?”

“That’s right,” said the dean. “We need to take the grotesque YOLO out of their vocabulary, and remind them that they only live once, and that youth is transient. They must do something worthwhile with their lives, use their college years fruitfully so that decades hence, they can look back on this time with satisfaction.”

“Shall we ban the use of YOLO?” The popular professor was keen to redeem himself in the eyes of the dean. The idea was met with silence. Snubbed, the professor shut up.

“If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” said the professor of English Literature. “Make YOLO and others of its kind part of our own vocabularies. The lure of these phrases lies in the fact that they are frowned upon by the faculty and administration, fuelling the students’ illusions that they are anti-Establishment rebels. If we appear to adopt these mantras, they will need no more inducement to abandon them.”

Soon the faculty adopted YOLO as if it gave meaning to their life. Before the month was up, the students lost interest in YOLO. It wasn’t cool anymore. How could it be if the fuddy-duddies raved about it?

And that is how YOLO lost its hold over the students.

 

This story was written for the Write Tribe - Prompt 3.

The Marked Man



Image Courtesy: Fotolia

I looked up and down the street, and swore. Every house looked exactly alike. The same blue lintel flanked the sides of the same brown doors with the same black latticework. Except for that cactus plant outside this door, which might have been a great marker if only this were the house Ali Baba lived in.


The Sardar had been livid ever since we’d returned to the cave to find some of the jewels missing and a wimp of a man, scared out of his wits, cowering behind one of the casks. The Sardar wasted no time in getting his story and Cassim was quick to blab about his brother, Ali Baba, in exchange for his life.

But the Sardar was not in a forgiving mood. Security had been breached. I smirked inwardly, resisting the temptation to say, I told you so, to the Sardar. I had told him last year that passwords, even oral ones, must be alphanumeric and at least 30-odd characters long, but no. He had his heart set on “Open Sesame” and “Close Sesame.”

The Sardar slashed Cassim’s throat in one swoop. As the man fell, the emeralds and rubies that he had stuffed into the pockets of his tunic rolled out. But it was too soon to exhale with relief.

The Sardar sent five of us to the surrounding villages to find out if someone had suddenly become rich overnight. To my bad luck, it was the village assigned to me that yielded Ali Baba. I say bad luck because in our kind of work, safety lies in numbers. You are safe when you work as part of a team. On your own, the slightest mistake could cost you not only your job but also your life. We are the forty thieves but not the same forty thieves.

Ali Baba’s house is two doors to the left of this one. I considered marking it with a chalk, but I can’t risk any kids drawing the same mark on other houses. It would be a tactical error.

What to do? Whatever it is must be done fast. The man is marked. If only it were as easy to mark his house.

It is noon now and everyone is indoors. But any movement, someone coming out to see if the clothes on the line have dried, or someone going to fetch water, could get me into serious trouble. Should I pick up that cactus and place it near the door of Ali Baba? But what if the rightful owner finds it and takes it back to his home between now and tonight? I cannot afford to make mistakes.

And then it came to me.

The Sardar would likely do this job alone, with me to guide him. He would not risk the sound of forty horses’ hooves trampling through the cobbled streets. What if I led him but not to Ali Baba’s house? Of course, “thirty-nine thieves” does not have the same ring to it, but what the heck? Ali Baba can meet his Maker later.

It’s time for a coronation.

This story was written for the Write Tribe - Prompt 2.

The Do-gooder



Picture courtesy: Morguefile

I stood in the lobby of the Emergency ward of the hospital. Just a few moments ago there was a wild commotion about this place. Now there was a stillness. Did that mean it was all over? My heart beat in trepidation.

A nurse looked out through the door. Her uniform was crumpled, and there was a tired look in her eyes. “You brought the hit-and-run patient in? He’s responded well to surgery, but the danger is not yet over. Let’s hope for the best.”

I smiled my thanks. She didn’t need to tell me to hope for the best. I’d been agonising over the outcome all day. Ever since I had lifted his bleeding body and put it in the backseat of my truck. He had been cruising a little below the speed limit and someone had knocked him from behind. His car turned turtle, once or twice, I don’t know. It threshed and shuddered and then fell silent, like a huge balloon suddenly deflated. All around cars were honking madly and in the ensuing confusion, the disciplined four-lane traffic went haywire. Some cars sped away, skipping nimbly out of the mess in the nick of time.

I could have gone too, but I didn’t. There was so much confusion. No one was thinking straight. I volunteered to drive him to the hospital.

He was losing blood. I tried not to think of the upholstery. I could tell he was sinking.

Fortunately it was a good hospital, and the attendants were ready when I charged into the driveway. Someone must have called to let them know we were coming. He was wheeled in. I waited, trying to calm the storm within me.

The hours passed. The clock on the wall behind the reception desk kept time. The 14-inch TV was turned on mute. I gave up trying to decipher the happenings onscreen. By this time, the police must have found his papers in the glove compartment of the mangled car. They’d know his identity – if the papers were genuine. I doubted it. He didn’t look like he owned the car. A stolen one maybe. But the blood that was spilled was his for sure.

The telephone on the reception desk let out a shrill cry. Answering the phone, the elderly receptionist looked at me. I strained my ears to hear what she was saying. She put the phone down, and slowly turned to me, clearly relishing the fact that I was waiting with bated breath. Some people are clearly starved for real-life drama.

She said, “The patient you brought in has succumbed to his injuries.” She added, “I’m sorry,” matter-of-factly, which meant she wasn’t sorry in the least.

That was fine with me. I wasn’t about to grieve either.

The phone in my pocket rang, showing an unknown caller. “You’re a sorry excuse for a hit-man. The deal’s off.” the voice barked.

“No, it’s not,” I smiled. “He’s dead now.”

 

(This story was written for the Write Tribe - Prompt 1)