Short Story #009: On Cloud Nine

 

On Cloud Nine

I’d like to think that I’ve beaten depression once and for all. Let’s hope for the best, as my therapist likes to say.

The victory isn’t at all my doing. I think God helped.  

He was the one who helped me to figure out all my burning questions, like, why are we put on this earth? (Answer: to worship Him), what am I supposed to do with my life (Answer: Do everything for the glory of God), and what happens after I die (Answer: There will be eternal life for those who believe in Christ Jesus).

I think about all the twists and turns this journey of life has taken me on and I’m humbled that I made it through so much and lived to tell the tale. It is only the grace of God which has sustained me so far. Glory be to God Our Father in Christ Jesus!

I first began my battle with depression as an eight year old child. It started with me hearing voices.

I can clearly remember the day it all began. My mother and sister were teasing me about something and being a hyper-sensitive little tyke I locked myself in the bathroom and cried. That’s when I heard a soft, sweet voice say to me—“I’ll be your friend” and I assumed it was the voice of Jesus. Soon I began to have merry conversations with this voice.

Turns out, the voice didn’t belong to Jesus, but it took me eighteen long years to figure that one out.

This is my first time writing about this particular incident. It may sound super funny in the present but just think about the seriousness of it. I shared my life with a disembodied voice for eighteen long years under the impression that I was talking to God. That’s how lonely, isolated, and deluded I was.

The depression began soon after this incident.

Even as a child I was very private kid, and till this day I am still wonderfully withdrawn as a person. With a sullen gloomy expression, I look as if I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders (I’m a bit sociable now because I’m done answering most of my burning questions). I seldom shared things with even my closest friends. I have no one to blame except myself and my need to be super secretive about all things.

My motto was—the less people know about you the less they can ruin. It ultimately led to my degradation because the less people knew about me, meant they knew next to nothing about me, and it became a problem because they filled in the blanks however they liked.

*

I’ll tell you what depression is really like.

It’s nothing.

And by that I mean you feel absolutely nothing—no joy, no sorrow, no grief, no ecstasy, no throes, no highs, no lows, nothing. It’s a flat line at zero. And that’s the scary part. It’s like staring into the pitch black unable to feel your way out of the abyss you’ve fallen into.

It gets worse on some days, and on some days it gets better. But don’t let that fool you. When it goes, it comes back with a vengeance and that’s the stupidity of believing one sunny day means the cloudy days are over. So do the cloudy days go? Yes, they go. Once you’ve felt your way through all the questions that are bothering you, and there will be some questions that are bothering you, the cloud just lifts and shifts. That’s the root of depression: unanswered questions and secret sorrows.

There is usually a whole host of reasons: long standing social wounds, childhood grievances, loneliness, worries about the future, plain old angst, just to name a few.

But I call depression a blessing in disguise. I and my fellow sufferers are mentally much stronger than those who don’t go through depression. We question life from the bottom up. We rip everything we know down to its most basic entity and then try to make sense of it before we put them back together. Personally, it led to me discovering a lot of answers about God and the world in general, and about what I’m meant to do with my life.

In a world which is fast losing its raison d’etre, it’s important to take time out to understand where you are heading as a person. 

*

You’d be surprised by how thin the line between giving in to depression and fighting it off is.

I was struck by how powerful I really was. A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ was all it took to either spend the day doing something productive or simply lying in bed. I was that much in control of my life and I really felt the burden of my free will. I was free to mope or not, lie in bed or not, cry or not, and I didn’t like being in so much control.

That’s what left me stumped, and I’m still a bit stumped till today. You’re so free you just don’t realise how much of a weight that freedom is on your shoulders. For some it may sound like I’m crazy to be complaining about being completely free to do whatever I like, but that’s what I felt. What was I supposed to do?

Was I supposed to A) write a book, B) get a Master’s degree C) get a job?

There were so many options to choose from and I was confused. At times like this you really wish your future self would come to the present and give you advice. There’s no way of knowing which road leads to success.  

The scary thing about life is that you make mistakes as you go and they cost you heavily in terms of years and money. No wonder people go to fortune tellers.

Having a perfectly functioning free will without the necessary manual on how to use it, is a recipe for disaster. So Jesus says—“the yoke I put on you is light.”—all we need is that yoke on our free will, if we’re meant to do something productive with our lives. And it’s important we go to God to find out what his will for us is.  

*

Middle of this year, I started fighting back. I told myself enough was enough. I would regain lost territory. I started plaguing my family with questions about life and God and what would happen once we died. They weren’t always able to help me but the answers did come.

They came through my own working out of the problems. Through trial and error I managed to make sense of the world.

The world is created for the good pleasure and sole benefit of God. Everything with Him at the centre makes sense and has meaning otherwise human life is no different from dumb animal life.

During this time I understood the importance of worship. For those who worship, the spirit of heaviness flees before them. Joy fills their soul, the joy of the Lord which ultimately becomes their strength.

Getting out of depression was hard.

You’ll need someone to throw you a rope to pull you out of the mire. There’s got to be something to live for. Something worth striving for. Something you can look at on the dark days and think—“I’ve got You, You’re all that matters.” You need to find this golden Snitch then the game of Life is over and won.

What’s your raison d’etre? Ever thought about that?

If you suddenly find yourself struggling to find meaning in anything, that’s a problem. I went through a phase where nothing—and I can’t stress this enough—absolutely nothing, held any meaning for me. What was the point of living? It appeared to me to be sheer banality.

Why do we draw, paint, write, cook, eat, educate? There’s no need to. Sure we do it because we like to, but it doesn’t serve any purpose in and of itself. Everything is so transitory it isn’t worth the effort, or so I thought. I got educated to work at a career. I worked at a career to make money. I needed the money so I could survive. When I refused to survive that’s when my house of cards came crashing down.

What do you do with a person who refuses to survive?

I don’t know. You let them wither away and die, I guess.

But I do know why I behaved so defiantly. I thought I was getting back at God for putting me through some tough times. It was my way of “showing” Him who was boss. ‘You can’t make me live,’ I screamed on the inside. You can’t put me through a whole host of things and expect I’ll be willing to go on. It’s just not fair!

My argument is an argument that defeats the grace of God. I don’t know what God felt about what I did. I don’t think He was too pleased.

*

The mistake I made was in giving in. I gave in to the capital D when I ought to have fought it off.

Now, it’s time I made a little confession.

There were times when I enjoyed giving in. I gave in for the sheer heck of it. I wanted to cry, I wanted to mope, I wanted to lie in bed all day and not do a thing. There were a lot of things I hadn’t cried about when it was the time to weep, so now I cried with a vengeance. It was a very angst-ridden phase of my life. My frame of mind was such that I wanted to show God I didn’t care two hoots about life and I was just going to waste my time on Earth. I was angry at him because I believed He didn’t take care of me at the time when He should’ve.

One day I went out to lunch with a school friend of mine.

I believe God sent her in to my life at the right time to tell me something very important about the wrong attitude I held.

We met at a restaurant.  Over lunch I told her about my theory of “boycotting” life because I’d been wronged. That’s what I had decided to do. I’d decided (and it really sounds crazy in hindsight) I was going to stay locked up in a room and never live again. 

My friend heard me out and made a comment which left me gobsmacked.

“You’re daring God to send you to Hell!” she said, “Bad things happen to everyone. And there’s nothing that’s happened to you that you can’t overcome.”

I stared at her and regretfully realised that she was right.

I went through some rough years but nothing had happened to me which I couldn’t overcome. I was just stubbornly refusing to get over those incidents.

“That’s not true,” I replied in a little whine, miffed as I was.

There wasn’t much weight behind my response. It was like God had trapped me at my own game.

*

Post recovery I can’t say I’m on cloud nine all the time, but on most days I am jovial and eager to meet the day. I got a job as a content writer. It’s something I enjoy doing. I know I have good friends. I have a great, supportive family. It’s all you need really. You need to surround yourself with loving people if you want a fighting chance out of this mess.

I believe I’ve triumphed. I no longer feel that gaping emptiness I used to feel. I communicate better. I don’t lie about what I feel. I don’t prevaricate or obfuscate. I live according to sound principles I’ve found in the Bible. I know why I’m here and what I’m doing with my time. I’m not selfishly living for myself. I have never wanted to.

I wrote this piece in the hope that anybody reading it and going through the same ordeal knows and finds the right way out. Let me be very clear here, there is a right way out, let me leave you with no doubt about that. Jesus is that way.

Even though I went through depression after I was born again, I believe it was for a purpose. It led me to a closer relationship with my family from whom I was very estranged. It also helped me to speak up about all the hurts I went through in the past.

I can genuinely only thank Christ Jesus for my recovery.

Amen.

Short Story #008: The Laodicean

The Laodicean

“Write this to the angel of the Church in Laodicea: …I know what you do, that you are not hot or cold. I wish that you were hot or cold!”

Revelations 3:14,15

Once upon a time in the secluded village of Rela there lived a very strange young girl.

While children of her age went through a myriad of feelings or ups and down as it is called, the temperature of this young lady’s mental make-up reached the half way mark at all times. She was neither too happy nor too sad nor too disappointed nor too overjoyed. At all times she presented to the world a face of calm indifference as though too much emotion was a waste of feeling.

All her friends went through the throes of growing up while she watched with the aloofness of one who has seen all there is to life and can no longer be amused by it.

Beulah, this was the girl’s name, was the youngest of three daughters and doted upon by her family. When her older sisters had married and left the family home her parents overcome by a deep sense of loneliness vowed never to let their youngest make a match and leave to live apart from them.

This decision the young girl met with perfect indifference. To be married or not, either way she was content. This was what was so very queer about this young girl. She looked upon the world with the indifference of a Stoic, never allowing herself to be carried away by any strong passion or feeling. As a consequence she lived very half-heartedly, as though never really sure if she was happy to be alive or not.

Time passed, and one day both the parents of this strange creature passed away.

News of their death reached the surrounding villages and neighbouring folk came to comfort her for her double bereavement.

They found the young woman, for she was now very grown up, taking the news with the equanimity of one who has seen it all and is not surprised. Not a tear fell from her cold eyes.

“My dear,” said a friend of her mother’s, “Are you not the slightest bit aggrieved at your beloved mother’s passing?”

“No,” said the young woman, “I expected it to come. Though I did not expect father to go as well, it’s a small consolation that they went together.”

Her mother’s friend looked at her wide-eyed. “Upon my word, you are a strange thing to bear up with your loss so bravely!”

“There isn’t any point in getting carried away,” murmured the young woman, “What has happened has happened.”

The musicians struck up a mournful dirge and all the mourners followed behind the two caskets to make the trip to the graveyard. The young woman led the procession but she did not mourn. Her sisters were riven with grief but she stoically bore her loss.

For a month after the funeral she was the talk of the town. Everybody remarked on her poise and calm at the funeral and her general lack of interest in the demise of her parents. They spoke in wonder at her reactions and openly condemned such unnaturalness in a young person.

Youth is full of the mistakes of hot blood, but youth was wasted on Beulah.

After the passing of her parents, the young woman lived in seclusion. She was suitably wealthy and needed nothing for her family had been owners over acres of the surrounding farming land, all of which she was now mistress over.

Slowly but surely the village folk let her be and rumours of her strangeness spread around the neighbouring places. Everyone agreed that her behaviour at the funeral had been oddly discomforting.

One day there was a wedding feast held in one of the neighbouring villages and the young woman, a friend of the bride’s, had been invited.

She went to the wedding as though it were just another ordinary day. She neither dressed in special clothes nor wore expensive jewels nor decked her hair with flowers. Her vesture was her everyday clothing and her adornment was nothing. She carried on her person a small golden ring as a present for her friend the bride.

All her servants were appalled at this lack of interest in the wedding, but they knew better than to say anything.

At the wedding feast she neither sang nor danced nor did she congratulate her friend on her good fortune. She merely sat among the others guests and was the topic of village gossip.

“How can she be so disinterested? All her friends have entered into the spirit of things and are dancing and singing with gusto, yet she has merely graced us with her presence and does not so much as partake in the festivities.” Words such as these were spoken by everyone present.

The musicians at the feast picked up a merry tune and soon all the invited began to sing and dance. Wine flowed smoothly.

Very soon all the good wine was consumed and the bridegroom looked about him in panic. A friend of his mother’s was near him and he said to her, “Aunt, the master of ceremonies just signalled to me that the wine has run out. Isn’t there anything you can do to help?”

The lady at once went to the side of her young son and said something to him. The young man gave some instructions to the servants and out they went.

The bridegroom waited nervously. All of his family who knew about it also looked worriedly at each other. It would be a great insult to them if they failed to serve their guests well.

After some time a jubilant servant came out with a bowl and gave it to the master of ceremonies. Drinking from it the master of ceremonies looked at the bridegroom in amazement. “Why have you kept the good wine until now?” he asked, and gave orders for the wine to be served.

When the guests had tasted this new wine they too were filled with amazement at the bridegroom.

“Everybody serves the best wine first and when the guests are drunk brings out the new wine but you have kept the best wine till the end.”

All of the bridegroom’s friends and guests were amazed at the taste of this rich new wine. It flowed like never-ending good news.

Everybody rejoiced.

All, except the young lady, who overheard from a neighbour that Mary’s son had caused water to turn to wine, and was not amazed. She looked upon the happening as commonplace and displayed no curiosity.

A man had just turned water into wine but she would not join in with the others to call it a miracle.

*

Two years passed and Beulah continued her solitary existence. She seldom mixed with the people of her village nor did she participate in any of their festivities or daily activities. Her few childhood friends had all been married and gone, only she remained, alone, distant and reclusive in her large house.

One day news came to Beulah’s household that Mary’s son Jesus was passing that way with his disciples.

This young man who was of Beulah’s age had since His miracle at the wedding feast become a great Healer and Teacher in the country. He was full of the Spirit of God. It was reported that even the demons obeyed Him and fled. The whole region of Galilee was in an uproar because of Him for they believed Him to be the Messiah come to deliver them from the Roman rule.

The news reached the doors of Beulah’s house. All of the servants in Beulah’s house asked her permission to go and hear the good man preach, they begged her also to accompany them.

“Never before since Elijah has a prophet such as this arisen in our country, come let us all go and know what is to be done to inherit eternal life.”

Beulah herself was disinterested. She languidly gave the servants leave to go for they seemed determined to take the day off without waiting for her say-so.

She declined their persistent imploring but on persuasion agreed that she might sometime go and listen to Him speak. She retired to her room to think.

As a young child Beulah had been a great thinker. She thought because she needed to know what she was doing on the good earth. Her thinking had led her to conclude that there will always be sorrow and suffering no matter how hard one tried to escape it so the best course of action was to keep one’s chin up and endure, for both sorrow and joy are fleeting.

What new thing could that man from Galilee probably preach? He preached eternal life. He preached repentance. All these things she knew. And as for signs and wonders, she was not convinced that the power of God was behind it, having been acquainted with a great many magicians.

Beulah did not go to see Mary’s son, but her servants went and when they returned they told her stories of the number of people the young man Jesus had healed.

“The blind can see, the lame walk and the deaf can hear!” cried her maid, “You would not believe even if we told you. You had to be there to see it.”

“I see,” said Beulah woodenly.

“And everyone was rejoicing and praising God!”

This was something Beulah had never done.

“How fortunate we are to see the young Galilean perform His miracles!”

“Why Miss Beulah He will be staying here for some days. Why don’t you invite Him to the house?”

“No,” she said. She was not in the least bit curious. It didn’t matter to her but worse still she didn’t care.

*

That night Beulah could not sleep. She tossed and turned in bed and at last decided to go out walking. It was her habit to do this whenever she felt a bit restless at night.

The thoughts of the Galilean teacher bothered her. Her whole household had been in an uproar over Him and she wondered if she had not missed anything great. Languidly she told herself that He could not be as spectacular as the magician from Phoenicia she had seen only last month.  

While she walked on her lands in the moonlight with a servant by her side she was overcome with a deep longing to speak with the Galilean teacher. She could not explain why she felt this way at all but quietly matched step with the maid at her side and walked into the woods.

Then she came to a little clearing in the woods where she saw a young man kneeling on the cold dew covered ground and calling out with all His might to God.

She and the maid were struck dumb by the sight. “Madam,” cried the maid, “It is the Galilean teacher!”

Beulah was arrested by His presence, for the man prayed unlike anyone she had heard pray before. He made loud groans and sighs, tears coursed down His face as though He was in inconceivable pain.

“Why does He cry out to God like this?”

“It is because He loves passionately all those who are dear to Him. It is for their sake that He spends the night crying out to God in hope that they might not sin.”

Beulah had never heard such passionate utterances before. She was astounded and she stepped close to watch Him.

“Does He call out to God or to His Father?” she asked for she was surprised to hear the young man call out ‘Abba’ from time to time.

Who was this young man really speaking to?

“It is said,” whispered the maid for she was now ashamed to be eavesdropping on the young man’s prayers, “that He is the Son of God.”

Now Beulah was greatly surprised. “The Son of God?” she murmured.

“Leave!” she ordered the maid, “I must speak to Him alone.”

The maid was very glad to be sent back, but gladder still was she to know that the curiosity of her mistress had been aroused.

Beulah watched the young man for a while more then decided to intervene.

“Sir,” she called out and the young man turned and saw her. He left off praying.

Beulah came closer.

“Beulah!” He said.

“How do you know me?” she cried incredulously as the young man wiped the tears from His face.

“I know you,” He exclaimed. “You were at the wedding feast at Cana.”

“Oh I see,” she said and nodded in amazement that He should know her by name though they had never been formally introduced. Still, she knew that He was Mary’s son so what was there to wonder that He knew her? Someone at the feast might’ve told Him her name.

“Why are you crying?”

“I am weeping because of the pain I am in.”

“Oh,” she said, “who has caused you pain that you should weep with so much fervour?”

The young man did not answer her at once instead after gazing at her for a while He said, “I dearly wish to sleep tonight but I cannot because my heart is heavy. Will you please help me to rest?”

“How can I help?” she asked for she was surprised to find that He suffered that night from the same malady as hers.

“I am in so much pain I cannot sleep, I long to fall asleep as if I do not care about anyone or anything at all. And I know you don’t care about anyone at all. Your heart is indifferent to the world.”

The look in His eyes seemed to pierce through her soul.

“I know what you are like,” He continued, “You care for nothing and for no one. You are aloof and distant. The sorrow of people does not move you neither does their joy overwhelm you. What I wouldn’t give to be like you for one night so I could rest in peace! I have the cares of the world laden upon me. Tell me young maiden will you exchange hearts with me so that I may sleep the peaceful slumber of indifference for one night only?”

Beulah did not know what to do. She was moved, for the first time in her life, by deep compassion for the young man’s earnest request.

“Gladly,” she responded, “but how shall we exchange hearts?”

“Oh I shall do that,” He said, and reaching out into her body He pulled out her indifferent heart and exchanged it with His own weary heart. Soon He was overcome by sleep and He slept.

But for the Beulah the exchange proved painful. When His heart entered her body she felt everything He had ever felt.

Suddenly she felt the weight of the world come upon her. Love for the world as deep as a well filled her soul. And the object of her love was people.

How she was filled with love for them! They were like little children to the man, children He had made and created to live with and yet how those children treated Him! Painful memories of rejection the Galilean had suffered Beulah now vicariously felt. How badly people had rebuffed His advances! He had gone everywhere in the earnest hope that everyone might repent and come to know God as a Father, but the terrible things they had said of Him! They had said He had a demon in Him, a man whom God had anointed by His Spirit!

Beulah felt the turmoil within her heart too great for her to bear. How frustrating it was to watch the people see the miracles yet not understand what was expected of them! She felt as dejected as the young man might have felt.

Yet how He continued to love them! He loved His friends and disciples so dearly it would be harder to imagine anyone who could love them more. How He desired that none of them should perish, but that all should live!

Then suddenly she perceived some new feeling in the young man’s heart.

There was a woman this young man loved with all his heart. Beulah could see the woman in her mind’s eye. She was a very cold, aloof, and passionless young lady. She was a woman who did not care about life, a woman who lived half-heartedly, as if she could not make up her mind whether to participate fully in life or not.  

This woman did not care one jot for the young man, yet the young man hoped for her love.

He had travelled a great way to visit her country in hope of winning her heart but she had not deigned to even let Him enter her house. He was crushed.

The woman had rejected Him at every attempt He made to tell her that He loved her and Beulah began to feel sorry for the young man.

He was tired out with trying. She perceived that even His haters had not hurt Him as much as this woman who did not care had hurt Him.

She shook the young man awake.

“Who is the woman whom you love so dearly but who does not care about you?”

“It’s you Beulah,” he replied half-asleep in a whisper.

*

Puzzled and confused Beulah sat down to think. The stories she had heard of this young man had seldom interested her. She had never been to hear Him talk nor had she gone to see Him teach the people. She had killed Him with her indifference.

The next morning He woke up and looked tenderly at her.

“Thank you for your kindness, I shall never forget it. You allowed me to sleep one night indifferent to the cares of this world, while you were burdened with everything that burdened me. I cannot thank you enough.”

“I-I do not know what to say to you sir,” she stammered, “except that I perceive that you love me and that troubles me deeply.”

“Why should that trouble you Beulah?” He replied, “When you do not care?”

His words cut deep into her heart and she continued to stare into His deep brown eyes.

“Live with all your heart. Drink deep from everything life has to offer. Don’t be so half-hearted in anything you do. There is nothing more painful to me than someone who lives a half-life the way you do.”

Stung by His sharp rebuke Beulah looked at Him wide-eyed. The dawn was rising in the east and the young man returned to Beulah her indifferent heart and left with His heavy laden heart.

Beulah went home and remained in deep wonderment and thought. What could He mean by live with all your heart? It was true that she did not. Hitherto her response to life had been lukewarm. What was she to do?

A week later she heard from her servants that Mary’s son had gone up to Jerusalem and had been crucified by the people there.

Overcome by grief Beulah cried as she had never cried for anyone before.

Her servants were surprised at this show of emotion. She neither ate nor drank nor bathed. The signs of her grief were visible to everyone around.

“What has come over her?” her people asked one another.

But no one knew of the interview Beulah had had with the Galilean. His words kept haunting her.

From then on she lived as though a secret fire burned within her soul.

 

Short Story #007 : One Day in the Life of an Office Worker

One Day in the Life of an Office Worker

 

Early Morning

I landed my first job at the start of two thousand and twenty. That’s four years after I graduated college.

Right after college I took time off to finish writing a novel. Strange choice to make you may wonder but it was a life or death thing. I asked myself a question. What would I regret not doing the most if I chanced to die tomorrow? The answer that bubbled up from the depths of my soul was straightforward. It was this: I would regret never having written a novel.

The novel took three years to write and remains unpublished as of today, which is bit of a waste of three years’ labour but c’est la vie.

Three months ago I met with an accident on Amherst Street. I was hit by a car and thrown off ten feet. In hospital till a couple of weeks ago with a few broken bones it’s taken me a while to recover.  

Today is my first day back to work.

I’m excited to get back. Without meaningful work the mind rots and I was experiencing this mental decay firsthand.

I take the bus to work. To get to the nearest bus stop I must take an auto rickshaw. But before that I must do a whole host of things. I’ll catch you up.

I wake up around six thirty. The first thing I do as soon as I get out of bed is make lunch. Lunch is a rice dish with two sides added on. It takes me about an hour to make. Aftermaking lunch I bathe, make and consume breakfast, dress, get ready, grab the keys and leave the house.

The first few minutes of my day aren’t spent in serenity. I envy those who have the luxury of waking up to a slow-paced lifestyle.

While I’m in the auto rickshaw to the bus stop I leave my mind completely blank. I think of nothing and try not to mull. It is the only moment of the day I get to leave my mind vacant and I relish it. I do this because I know the rest of the day involves strenuous work. It’s vital to make some scheduled time for zoning out.

When I reach the last stop I get out and pay the fare. The fare has been hiked because of social distancing, which is, strangely something I like because there are fewer people outside.

I quite like this year except for the morbid death toll. It’s the Universe’s way of reminding us of the really important things in life.

It takes me about fifteen minutes of waiting before I get on the right bus. Once on the bus I have the usual niggling worries. Have I got enough change on me? Did I hear the conductor right? Is this really the right bus? All these are useless obsessive little thoughts, each of them the product of a fretful mind, and I go through them reflexively.

When I’ve paid my fare I can relax with the full assurance that the bus will go where it says it will go and I have on me the exact change.

I plug my earphones into my phone and put the speakers in my ear. Now isn’t the time to think. Now is the time to listen to music, my closest companion on days like this. Nobody on the bus speaks to anybody else. We’re all strangers here. And I like things to be that way. I’m not complaining.

The bus drops me off at my destination and a ten minute walk will lead me to the building my office is housed in. I turn off my music and begin to walk. The day is bright and sunny. Few rainclouds spot the horizon. Google predicts an afternoon downpour. This is good news. Give me anything but rain in the morning.

The guard at the gate checks my ID and allows me to pass. Another security guard takes my temperature on the thermal thermometer and sprays sanitizer on my hands. I am now qualified to enter.

I enter the imposing building through the automatic glass gates. Now I must wait at a line before I’m allowed to board one of the elevators. Only six people at a time are allowed on. These are troubled times, still we must work.

I board the elevator.

I wait in the elevator along with five others till the number counter turns seven. That’s my destination.

I’ve reached work twenty minutes before scheduled time.

Coffee Break

Send texts to everybody at home saying I’ve reached.

I sign into office through the biometric, go to my desk and settle in. I turn on the computer, log in, fill my bottle of water and visit the loo.

Now I’m ready to begin work.

I haven’t told you what I do. I’m a content writer. I write copy for websites. Not my dream job but given my paltry qualifications this is the best I can hope for. Got to work. Bye.

I work till eleven then I take a break for coffee.

I’ve got to finish writing three thousand words in a day. That’s my quota. I take my coffee in the office cafeteria. Lata takes her coffee break with me. She’s my closest friend here.

I make two instant coffees using milk powder and hot water.

“Are you better now?” Lata asks.

“Yes,” I say, “How’s work been?”

“The usual,” she says, “Look here.”

She shows me her a picture of her dog on her cellphone. He’s the cutest Labrador puppy you’ve ever met.

We spend some time cooing over him.

Ten minutes are up. Back to the grind.

Lunch Break

Lunch break is at 1:30. I eat my packed meal in the cafeteria with Lata. We’re joined by the others and everyone enquiries after my health.

I make polite responses. Be friendly but don’t make too many friends—that’s my motto. It’s spared me the latest office gossip and meaningless conversations.

After lunch Lata goes downstairs for a smoke and I waste the minutes looking out of the cafeteria window. My office overlooks a large lake. The lake is owned by the state fisheries department and makes for a pleasant view.

It’s raining outside. Gust after gust of wind drives the monsoon rain over the lake. Little waves break out on the surface. Coconut and date trees sway in the wind and I enjoy the beautiful setting.

It looks almost like the backwaters of Kerala.

The best things in life are for free. I can assure you that.

It may cost to go to the beach but the sea breeze is for free. Gritty sand on your toes. Sand through your fingers. Salty wind in the air. Tiny seashells on the beach. I remember my first trip to Kanyakumari. I was enthralled. The waves on the lake outside remind me of the ocean. I am transported to and fro at the blink of an eyelid.

There’s twenty five minutes to go before my allotted time runs out. I call my sister. We talk about the usual things. Did you eat? What did you eat? What did you do all morning? Did you talk to Mom?

She says she’s got to get back to work so I disconnect the call.

Both of us hate eating our lunch alone. That’s why we make it a point to call each other during lunch.

I get carried away by my memories of ocean breeze and frothy sea water. What I wouldn’t give to live by the sea! It takes money to fulfill my dream. That’s why I have a job. But that isn’t even the first of the many dreams I have.

Dreams. They won’t let you sleep once they’ve got a hold on you and once they’ve been achieved the high you get doesn’t really last for long. Before long that old hankering to be doing something catches up with you again and you can’t rest in peace.

I have few dreams. I want to own and build a garden. I want to own and sail my own yacht. I want a house on top of a hill. I want to enjoy Nature every day of my life.

Why did I say the best things in life are free? I spoke without thinking.

I look down from my seventh floor eyrie. I can see couples and groups of friends enjoying their lunch break. I envy them. I envy those who possess the talent of making friends easily. I have a rough time socializing, and yet I dream of finding love and having a group of friends to share life’s conundrums with.

As a kid I used to think a lot. I still do, only now I know the answers. Man was created to worship God. And those who worship him find that this life isn’t the end, there is everlasting life promised for those who believe in Him.

I wonder what it’s like to live forever. Strangely I’d have to die to find out.

Tea Break

4:30 pm is tea break. I’m done with today’s quota of work. Just got to kill time till it is time to leave. Lata asks me a deep question. Why do I believe the worship of God is all there is to life?

I respond slowly. The question given has two sub questions concealed in it. One, what is worship? Two, is that all there is to life?

Worship, to my thinking is more than singing songs of praise or the uttering of praises in tongues.

Worship is an agreement to live.

Wouldn’t it be a strange world if we, the created, refused to live? What if we refused God’s commandment to be fruitful and multiply? What if we refused to subdue the Earth? What if we, collectively as a race, refused to propagate? By living, by being fruitful and multiplying, and by subduing the earth we’re carrying out our part of the agreement. And by blessing our efforts at life God is carrying out his side of the agreement.

It would be a strange world if everyone refused to live. It would be a world without activity, without song, music, or dance, a world where everyone simply stayed put and never gave in to their passions. It would be a terrible act of defiance.

Life is a contract sheet written out by God to man. And man’s agreement to live is his signature on the dotted line.

Is that all there is to life?

Yes.

That is life.

Worship is the state of living well.

On the Road Back Home

I watch movie trailers on the way back home. I haven’t got the time to watch movies so I stick to watching the trailers.

I rub my neck and think of what it means to be alive.

I had a friend who committed suicide. In her suicide note she wrote that she couldn’t see the point of carrying on anymore because Life held no apparent meaning for her.

She wasn’t angry at anyone, or jilted in love, or anything. She just used to think a lot and she came to the conclusion that Life made no sense in and of itself. She blamed the inherent meaninglessness of Life as the root cause of her long battle with depression.

I was one of the last people she called before she died. She gave me no clue into her state of mind and at that time I hadn’t thought out my theory of worship, so our conversation had been of no use to her.

It shameful but it took a story like hers to get me seriously thinking about the importance of Life. We aren’t here to simply eat, drink, and be merry.

I put my friend out of my thoughts.

My stop is almost here.  

I pay the bus fare and get off. The day has been an uneventful one. It’s the kind of day I like. 

I retrace my way back home.

Short Story #006: Sol

Sol

I set out for Kodaikanal on Friday. The morning was a hot bright one.

The drive over the plains was tiring and when the Western Ghats drew near I felt a deep sense of release. It would be over soon.

The trip had to be made. To become the owner of my father’s sea-facing Mumbai apartment I had to endure the two hour journey up hill and back.

The apartment belonged to my late father. The old geezer had, in his will, made it out in Lizzie’s name and died without bothering to change it. It just so happened that I was lucky that Lizzie had graciously relinquished her rights to the apartment. So that’s what made the trip necessary. I was going to Kodaikanal to get the necessary documents in order.

Lizzie is my ex-wife.

I haven’t seen Lizzie in about three years. We divorced in twenty seventeen after a marriage of nearly five and a half years. Our marriage had been a disaster from the start. Both of us regretted jumping the gun and it was Lizzie who filed for divorce first.

In all these three years I have never once stopped loving my ex-wife and I hoped that our impending meeting might get her to see our relationship in a new light.

Lizzie had moved to K. to teach music at a school there.

On the way up I admired the dark forests surrounding the winding road. The sun was pouring down on the valley and the emerald green forest cover sparkled in the morning mist.

A shaft of sunlight broke through the grey cover of clouds. Arrested by its boldness in piercing through the thick swathe, a vision I’d had months ago came to my mind.

My vision had a similar display of light. A brazen ray of sunlight broke through storm clouds to strike the crown of the wisest man in the world.

The man was Solomon, my namesake and favourite philosopher. He had just hit upon his conclusion that everything in the world was meaningless and I caught his gloomy gaze. He looked up from his contemplation and laughed a bitter hollow laugh. It was a moment of solidarity.

Warm sunlight was pouring down a boulevard in his grand palace…

I saw Solomon, last king over a united Israel, sitting on his kingly throne. He was a tall, dark-haired, and handsome young man. Dressed in purple robes with a golden crown on his head, he got up and walked down a long colonnade.

At the end of the colonnade there were steps leading to a pool. Then Solomon, King of Israel, stepped into the pool.

Feet went in first, legs, torso, shoulders, chin and face followed, until the crown of his head was submerged.

When he came up for air I heard him whisper, “All is vanity…”

Then I, Sol echoed him. “Meaningless meaningless…”

*

The only book in the Bible I’ve read with any relish is Solomon’s Ecclesiastes. The book answers a profound question everyone eventually asks in their lifetime: what are we all doing here on this planet?

The wisest man who ever lived, King Solomon, came to the conclusion that it was all meaningless. Hard work, effort, striving, marrying, begetting, all came to the same sad dismal end—Death. There was no escaping Death, and that made the sum of human existence meaningless.

At the end of it all if man is turned to dust, what good is it for him to have laboured through life?

While still at college I too had come to the same conclusion. I saw the world as inherently meaningless, yet I lived hoping to snatch some moments of significance that might reverse my conclusion.

I drove up the Old Observatory Road to Lizzie’s school. She said she would be waiting for me at the gate.

I put my thoughts aside for a while, I was excited to meet Lizzie again and i wanted my first glimpse of her after a gap of three years to be untampered by serious thinking.

When I reached, I spotted her right away in her yellow summer frock. She waved at me and came near. I rolled down the car window.

“Hi,” she said and immediately her familiar scent washed over me.

“It’s lovely to see you,” I replied truthfully.

Lizzie had lost none of her old charm. Her face has stayed exactly the same as if it had been carved into a rock. She had cut her hair in a new style which looked very fetching.

“How have you been, Sol? It’s so nice to see you!” she beamed at me.

“Hop in,” I said.

“All right.” And she opened the car door and got in.

”Is school over?” I asked when she is seated comfortably next to me.

“Yes,” she said, “let’s go to my house and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

I agreed to her suggestion. Lizzie happily directed me to her house cheerily supplying me with information of what she’d been up to since our last meeting. I felt she was happy to see me as one would be happy to see an old friend or acquaintance. The thought that once we were lovers was as far back in her mind as it was foremost in mine.

“I’m sorry your father forgot to change his will,” she said, “It puts you in a bother to come all this way, doesn’t it?”

“Oh the old man didn’t forget,” I hastened to correct, “He positively did it on purpose. To teach me a lesson, I think, on letting a girl like you get away.”

Lizzie threw her head back and laughed. I remember this laugh. There is the slightest hint of mockery mingled in with the mirth. She seems to agree with my father that I’m an idiot to have let her go.

“You’re very considerate to let me have it, Lizzie.”

“Oh well,” she said with a sigh as if to say why should she be holding onto something that isn’t even legitimately hers? I take that to mean that Lizzie has well and truly purged me from her system. It’s with a dash of strong pain that I can face her again.

We reached her house and I parked my car outside.

Her house was a small two room affair. Everything was arranged in a way that suggested that this was a home for one and the single person was very keen to keep it that way.

I waited at the dining table while Lizzie prepared tea at the kitchenette.

“Aren’t you lonesome here?” I asked. Kodaikanal is a small town. It survives mainly off the tourists. What I really wanted to know is if Lizzie is seeing someone.  

“Not really. I have a set of friends and the children from the school keep me occupied. Some kids come to learn the piano and guitar, otherwise I’m mostly free. On my days off I help out with the music at church. I go walking. There are a lot of pleasant views to be had here. What about you?”

I’ve been very lonely without Lizzie but I don’t tell her that.

“I get along. Have some friends from work. Don’t have much time to kill, not with my job.”

She nodded. It was one of her complaints during our time of marriage.

“Where are the papers?” she asked abruptly, “I’ll sign them for you.”  

I gave her the folder and she went through the papers while I sipped her warm tea. She’s made it the way she likes—with less sugar.

“Done,” she said when she was finished with the signing and I’m surprised that it hasn’t even taken her five minutes.

“Already?”

“Yes, already. You’re not in a hurry to get back are you? Do you want to take a walk down to Bryant Park? It’s all the attraction we’ve got here.”

This was an invitation and I looked into Lizzie’s eyes. I am disappointed to find that there is nothing but an offer of honest friendship in them.

“No,” I said, “I’m not in a hurry to get back.”

So after tea Lizzie and I walked down to Bryant Park.

I told her about my vision of Solomon and asked for her input.

“You mean life has no meaning and all of this struggling to live is in vain? What a Godless thought! It might lead you to lose respect for yourself. It will cause you to disvalue everything in life. And the irony is you found this Godless thought elaborated in the Bible,” she said. Then later she added, “I know an intellectual like you would love to jump on the absurdist bandwagon and write off any meaning artists like me try to find, but really Sol, I thought you’d have better sense.”

Better sense? My ex-wife held an opinion different from mine. I wonder how it is that she could be so intellectually naïve.

“I haven’t jumped on the bandwagon, Lizzie,” I said quite seriously. “Life really is meaningless and all intellectual inquiry no matter how superior will result in a dead end, because there’s no escaping Death with a capital D. There is no implicit meaning hidden in life! Do you know what it is? What is it? Tell me!”

Lizzie smiled at me. Her eyebrows arched in a manner I associate with a mother telling off her naughty little child. “And yet we breed, eat, struggle, strive, persevere, hope, push on as if it’s but our second nature, rejoice at all the little things, even though we die? We marry out of our free wills and create new life. What will you say—Life is a capitalist scheme initiated by Death, since Death is, according to you, the biggest gainer?”

I couldn’t help but laugh at the allusion of Death as a podgy capitalist. “No. Life can be hardly called a capitalist scheme initiated by Death…”

“Sol,” said Lizzie gently, “Lovers don’t look for meaning.”

I was struck dumb by this seemingly innocuous observation.

“They are the meaning. What meaning can lovers find except in simply being?”

It took a while for the hue of her words to colour my understanding.

When we were younger and I used to get burdened by my thoughts, Lizzie was the one I used to go see to find some relief and as soon as my eyes clapped on her, all my questions evaporated as quickly as they had come. Lizzie was the light. Her face, her laugh, her thoughts, her look of welcome, they were enough to dispel the gloom which inevitably came over me. Being with her made so much sense, I forgot to question it.

But then even Lizzie’s love let me down. That’s when I stopped believing in the curative power of Love.

“How come it never worked out for us, Lizzie?”

She sighed and shrugged. “We were unlucky. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. It probably exists for you with someone else, just as it exists for me with someone else.”

“You can’t disbelieve the power of Love just because you haven’t found it,” she mumbled, and I could tell that Lizzie too felt let down by the hope ‘true love’ offers this world.

We reached Bryant Park.

*

“Rather than the Ecclesiastes, why not look to the Song of Songs?” Lizzie asked.

 “The Song of Songs?”

“You should’ve progressed further in your reading of Solomon and read the Song of Songs. It describes the fulfilment the Lover finds with his Beloved. You can find that kind of fulfilment. It’s all the hope we have.”

I’d forgotten Solomon ever wrote that little gem of a love poem concealed in the Bible.

“A Lover who asks no questions because simply being with His beloved is His goal…?”

“It happens to be my favourite book in the Bible, why not convert to my opinion?”

I laughed. I’d been outsmarted by Lizzie. The poem describes Solomon and a Shulamite woman in love. It’s surprising that the same man who wrote the bleak analysis of Ecclesiastes also wrote the vivid pulsating love poem of the Songs of Songs. Lizzie has opened my eyes to a whole new way of thinking.

“Lizzie,” I asked, “why can’t we get back together?”

“Sol,” she said and paused, “I’m sorry.”

I looked in those lovely eyes for a while. The whole of spring and summer seemed to shine through them. How could someone so beautiful and tender strike such a crushing blow?

“I know that,” I said truthfully. Lizzie is the kind of soul who loathes causing hurt but when the disagreeable thing needs to be said, she doesn’t shy away from it.

“What am I supposed to do Lizzie? You offer me the solution yet you won’t be part of the answer.”

My ex-wife stopped walking to answer me.

“It isn’t love if it breaks up. We haven’t got that between us, the love of Solomon and his Shulamite, ours is a broken down fence, a tower that has crumbled. Why do you want to go about rebuilding it when the foundation can’t hold it up?”

“I’m lonely without you Lizzie. And I’m afraid of being lonely much longer.”

She looked at me and said, “Your father was right about you. You only look out for yourself.”

*

On the drive back home I pondered over my ex-wife’s words. Her words cut to my very soul. Was I selfish to want Lizzie simply to cover up this gaping hole of loneliness?

Yes, I admit I was.

I think back to the joy Solomon and the Shulamite woman experienced in each other. They were united by bonds of mutual love, a love so beautiful it made redundant all the questions of the world. And that is what I’ve found is at the foundation of the world—the love of a man for a woman and the reciprocal love of a woman for a man.

The setting sun lights up for a moment the sky in shades of pink.

I have another vision.

This time it is of another king.

Heavenly light pours down on Him at His baptism. The dove lands on His head and God speaks. He has come to find His Bride and love her with an everlasting love. A love which will never end in meaningless frenzy.