‘If strangers confess their fears to you, if friends share their deepest sorrows, the ancient Turtle would say you’re not cursed with sadness - you’re chosen for it.’
A reflective narrative about a writer who specializes in sadness, reuniting with his childhood friend, the ancient Turtle, who reveals a profound truth: some souls are chosen to be “Prophets of Sadness” - those gifted with the ability to understand and carry others’ burdens. Through the Turtle’s wisdom, the protagonist learns that God kissed certain souls to give them the power to see beyond happiness’s seductive blindness and witness the pain that others overlook.
‘Do you know the problem with your writing?’ My filmmaker friend asked me.
He and I are old friends. He knows me well. I write, and sometimes he is kind enough to give life to my words.
‘Please enlighten me.’ I said, while smiling at him.
‘The world needs to be a happier place.’ His voice resonated with exasperation, ‘The world needs to hear happy words. People need to forget the dark side. They need a light at the end of their personal tunnels. But you, my friend, write only of heartbreak and sadness.’
‘Yeah! I guess you are right.’ I nodded. ‘But this is what I am. I can write of happiness and joy and laughter. But most of the time, I don’t want to.’
Yeah, you have guessed right. I am a writer. And yes, as my well-meaning friend mentioned, I mostly write about sadness and tragedies. In fact, I write when sadness resonates inside me and my eyes are filled with tears. Each tear gives birth to a sentence. Sometimes, the stories are about my own life. But mostly these are just figments of my imagination.
Writing enables me to wear the skin of my characters. I live the life they live, and I breathe the air they breathe. Their sorrows vibrate in my soul, and their tears cloud my eyes.
I see the smiling face of an old and poor woman. I am not fascinated by her smile. Instead, I walk along the deep lines creasing her skin. I peer into the cloudy pools of her eyes. I feel the roughness of her hands. I taste the bitterness of her broken heart, and I feel the tiredness of her exhausted soul.
I see a child playing in the park. I am not charmed by his excitement and joy. Instead, I see the burdensome life ahead of him. I feel the sting of thorns lining his path to adulthood, and I see the grey clouds of worry circling his head. I hear the thunder of disappointments, still distant and far away, and I fear for his sanity.
I see a couple romancing in the rain. I notice the magic of love, but I choose to ignore it. Instead, I see the fading colors of passion. I taste the sourness that comes with possessiveness. I sense the growing distance between the souls, and I hear the tinkling of breaking hearts.
‘Well, I guess my friend is right. Maybe the world does need to be happy. Maybe it does want to live in the light and deny the existence of darkness.’ I thought and walked into the open arms of the tired evening. The dipping sun is painting everything a pale-yellow shade of gold.
I looked around. Autumn was gently receding, making way for the blissful winters. I heard the crunch of dry brown leaves under my feet. And I felt the rustling of a dry breeze amongst the leafless branches of the old Banyan tree.
‘Hello? Who goes there?’ An old, raspy, and deep voice called out of the rose bushes.
‘Who is there?’ I asked and was surprised as the bushes were too small to hide anyone.
‘My! My! If it isn’t my old friend?’ The voice was warm and affectionate this time. ‘How have you been, son?’
I peered closely and there he was, my childhood friend, the ancient Turtle. For those of you not familiar with him, I had been friends with an ancient Turtle since I was very young, probably four or five. He lived in our backyard and had always acted as my mentor and an intimate friend.
‘Hey! You are still alive?’ I was amazed. I never knew turtles could live this long. He was at least a few hundred years old when I last met him. And I was just a four-year-old kid back then.
‘Yes, still alive and apparently in quite good shape.’ He winked at me with a warm smile and asked, ‘What about you, son? How have you been?’
‘I am fine. Just a little grownup, I guess.’ I answered.
‘Well, being grown-up doesn’t matter as long as you keep on believing in talking turtles. Eh?’ He cocked his gnarled head and inspected me in detail, ‘Fine, you say? You don’t look so good to me.’
‘I am just a bit sad, I guess.’ I smiled at him.
‘Oh! But, you will always be a bit sad.’ The Turtle chuckled softly and said, ‘You were sad when you were a child. You are sad now, and you will always be sad.’
‘Why do you say that?’ He always had a knack for saying the most shocking of things in the simplest of manners.
‘Please scratch my back a little. I have an itch that refuses to leave me in peace.’ Instead of answering my question, he requested me.
I just laughed, bent down, and started scratching his mottled grey-green back with a small twig.
‘Are you hungry? Can I bring you something? A carrot perhaps?’ I offered.
‘Nope. I have had my fill. The brown leaves tasted just fine this afternoon.’ He burped a little to confirm the fullness of his stomach.
Several minutes passed without either him or me saying anything. I just kept on scratching his back, while he closed his eyes in contentment. I looked at him closely. There was no change. He looked the same and smelt the same - the pleasant smell of dried up moss and ancient magic.
‘Why did you say that I have always been, and will always be sad?’ I asked him when he reopened his eyes.
‘Hmm! You see, son, when God created the souls, He first created a big shimmering blob of conscience.’ He said while shifting a little to catch the last rays of the dying sun. ‘Then He took that blob into His old, wise hands, and molded souls out of it. He sat back and took pleasure in what He had created. But something was wrong somewhere. God could feel it.’
‘Did He make a mistake?’ I asked the Turtle, unbelievingly.
‘No, not a mistake.’ The Turtle shook his wise head, ‘Once you can guess something is missing from your work, it is not a mistake. It just means you want your work to be perfect. And God is the ultimate perfectionist.’
‘And why have you stopped scratching?’ He asked annoyingly.
‘I apologize. I got lost in your words.’ I started scratching his mottled back again with a sheepish smile.
The sky had turned orange. There were a few stray clouds with purple edges. It was a beautiful evening - full of marvelous colors. The birds flew over my head - flying back to their hungry children and little warm nests. They looked down on us with amazement - a grown-up man and an ancient turtle - but had no time to stop and exchange gossip.
‘So, what was I saying?’ I was brought back to reality by the Turtle’s question.
‘You were saying that God thought something was missing in the souls He had created.’ I reminded him.
‘Yes, something was indeed missing.’ The turtle agreed with me while relaxing his body in pleasure. Apparently, my scratching was doing wonders for his itch. ‘God knew what was missing. He picked up a handful of souls and kissed them softly. With that kiss, His creation was complete.’
‘Why? Why did that last kiss matter?’ I said while looking at the Turtle in confusion.
‘You see, son, God being the creator of all, knew very well that life would bring sadness to the souls.’ The Turtle explained, ‘In fact, as life brings more sadness than joy, God wanted at least a few souls to understand the essence of sadness. This handful of souls, God made them the Prophets of Sadness.’
‘So the last kiss was the kiss of understanding?’ I was beginning to grasp what the old Turtle really meant.
‘Yes! The last kiss brought understanding and also a special power - the power to lighten the burden of sorrow and the power that could heal.’ The Turtle confirmed with a proud smile. ‘Happiness is a drug, which keeps you human beings sedated and oblivious. Joys make you unmindful of the sufferings around you. But pain and suffering live on, feeding on your blissful oblivion. There must be a few souls capable of rejecting the drug of happiness. These few souls are the Prophets of Sadness.’
‘So that is why some people come to me and confess their fears, and share their sadness?’ I asked the Turtle, while thinking of so many of my strange encounters.
I thought of the middle-aged friend of mine who held my hand and wept over a wasted life, and I thought of the old man who whispered of his fear of death in my ears.
I thought of a friend sharing his desperation for a love he was never going to find, and I thought of the woman who told me she was afraid nobody was ever going to love her.
I thought of the little girl who was sad because nobody liked to be her friend at school, and I thought of the little boy who was bitter about the bullies making fun of his short height.
I thought of all those familiar and vague faces, and I relived their pains, sorrows, and fears within a mere moment.
‘I listened to them. I felt their pain. I shared the burden of their sorrows. And I felt threatened by their fears. But I never healed them.’ I said while looking at the Turtle through the misty curtain of my disappointed tears.
‘No, my son. This is where you are wrong.’ The Turtle patted my hand reassuringly. ‘A tree never talks to the people resting under its shade. But still, it provides them with something they need. The tree provides them a place to shed off their tiredness and a place to rest awhile.
‘I would like to think I am a shady tree. But I am really not.’ I knew myself and my shortcomings far better than the old Turtle.
‘No? Not yet?’ He asked with a naughty smile. ‘Okay, no issues.’
But then, seeing my long face, he took pity and said, ‘Remember, son, ego is a poison that stunts the growth of the mightiest of shady trees. Ego climbs up their massive trunks and wraps itself around the delicate branches. It sucks the life force and keeps on sucking it until the tree dies. You get rid of your ego, and you will reach your true destiny. You will become the Prophet of Sadness.’
‘Baba! Baba! Where are you?’ We were interrupted by the voice of my young son.
I looked at my friend, and he was beginning to gradually fade away.
‘What are you doing here, sitting on your knees?’ My son asked, finding me kneeling beside the rose bushes.
‘Nothing, my love. Just chatting with an old friend.’ I stood up and held his tiny hand in mine.
‘Which old friend?’ He was surprised and looked here and there, but could not find anyone. The Turtle had long gone.
‘Don’t worry, he has already left.’ I smiled at him.
‘So tell me…had any troubles lately?’ I asked him as we started walking towards the house.
‘Why? What will you do with my troubles?’ He asked while looking at me strangely.
‘I will listen to your troubles and understand them. I will put them all in a small box and bury that box within my heart forever. Your troubles will trouble you no more.’ I said while drawing him close.
‘You know what, Baba?’ He smiled his peculiar smile, which was growing wider by the minute.
‘What?’ I asked while peering back into his mischievous, dark eyes.
‘You are becoming strange.’ He announced.
I stopped, looked back at the rose bushes, and took a deep breath. The Turtle had already left, but the air still smelled of moss and magic. ‘No, my love, I am not becoming strange. Rather, I am becoming a Prophet of Sadness.’
What happens when a six-year-old’s questions are too profound for anyone to answer, and his only hope of understanding is to meet God face-to-face?
A devastating narrative set in a small Swiss village about Åsa, a six-year-old boy cursed with extraordinary intelligence and synesthesia - he can see music as dancing colors and taste the hues of the sky. Unable to find answers to his profound existential questions and misunderstood by everyone around him, Åsa’s desperate quest to speak directly with God leads him down a tragic path.
Åsa was only six years old but very different from his age mates. He preferred his own company over that of his friends’. A conflict raged like a storm within him. Outside, he was all sunshine and flowers and butterflies, and inside, he was as dark as the heavy rain clouds.
Åsa was also highly intelligent but depressed. The bright flashes of intelligence lit the heavy clouds of depression at frequent intervals.
Åsa’s high intelligence led to an increased curiosity. He questioned everything and everybody and felt a unique and desperate need to understand the world surrounding him. The depression was the result of his inability to mix up and play with his age mates.
The depression also came in the form of frustration when his queries weren’t answered. Though his intelligence was welcomed by the adults around, his depression was not something they understood or accepted.
There was yet another reason behind Åsa’s dark, grey depression, which he had never shared with anyone except his parents. The first time he mentioned it to Sara, his mother, it was a Sunday night.
‘Mother, do you know when Uncle Luca plays the great pipe organ, I can see the music?’ Åsa said to his mother, his voice barely above a whisper.
‘What nonsense, Åsa?’ Sara stopped brushing her hair and looked at her son in the mirror. ‘What do you mean, you can see the music?’
‘It is not nonsense. I can really see music.’ He tried to explain. ‘The notes all become colorful and vibrating shapeless blobs, and start dancing around my head.’
‘It is just your imagination, Åsa.’ Sara shrugged and started brushing her hair again.
‘No. It is not my imagination.’ The little boy tried to convince his mother. ‘I can really see music. What does it mean?’
‘How do I know? Only God knows what this means, Åsa!’ She patted his shoulder and went to the kitchen.
Åsa went outside looking for his father. He found Gittan in the shed, milking the cows.
‘Father, I can see music.’ He hesitatingly announced to Gittan.
‘Huh?’ Gittan was startled. ‘What do you mean, you can see music?’
‘I mean, when I hear music, on the radio or in the church, I can see it.’ The boy tried to explain. ‘The sounds become colorful shapes, which dance around my head.’
‘Music is sound, my boy. You can hear the sound but cannot see it.’ Gittan chuckled. ‘I am sure someday, you are going to come up to me and tell me that you can hear sunlight.’
‘It is not funny, Father. I can really see music.’ Åsa’s eyes were glistening with a teary frustration. ‘Just tell me what it means.’
‘Only God knows what this means, Åsa. Only He, in his infinite wisdom, knows.’ He scooped up the little boy, wiped his tears with his thumbs, and sat him on his sturdy shoulders. ‘Let’s go inside. The dinner should be almost ready.’
Gittan and Sara lived in a small village in Switzerland. Gittan ran a small dairy farm. The couple had three kids, two girls and a boy, and Åsa was the oldest.
They lived in a village called Brindelwald, which was located right next to a glacial gorge. It was a place straight out of fairy tales. Small cottages with coloured rooftops dotted the green slopes in summer. And in winters, a glimmering white blanket of snow covered everything. The snow cover got so deep that it became almost impossible to see the village from a distance. Only the grey-white smoke rising from the chimneys denied its existence to the weary travellers.
Åsa had always been a sweet child, full of curiosity and wonder. Where the two girls constantly fought and badgered their parents over dolls and toys, Åsa remained quiet and did not ask for anything. He just wanted answers to his seemingly simple questions.
‘Why is the sky blue? What lies beyond the mountains? Where do the butterflies go in winter? What is God, and how big is He? What is heaven, and what is hell? Why do little children die? Why do people fight wars?’ And the list went on and on.
Åsa asked his parents these questions, but they were unable to satisfy him.
‘Åsa is not very normal, you know?’ The old doctor Gösta removed his thick glasses. He rubbed at them with his white handkerchief, examined them for spots, and looked up. He was a small and portly man who looked more like a friendly baker than a psychiatrist.
His sudden diagnosis made Gittan and Sara look at each other, confused.
‘Not normal? Not normal how?’ Gittan asked the old doctor with all the anxiousness of an overprotective father.
‘Yeah! Not normal how?’ Sara held Gittan’s hand for added strength, her anxious brow all pinched and creased.
Doctor Gösta pushed his chair back and got up. He walked to the open window of his small office. It was a dry winter morning, and the snow-covered Alps were sparkling in full glory. ‘What a wonderful day. I should be out walking. I shouldn’t be discussing complex psychological problems with worried parents.’ He thought tiredly and then turned to face the couple.
‘Please don’t take me wrong.’ Doctor Gösta scratched his nose, searching for appropriate words, ‘Åsa is a fine boy and he is growing up fine. But there is something wrong here.’ The old doctor tapped his temple with his right index finger.
‘Something wrong with his head?’ Sara’s crystal blue pupils dilated in alarm. ‘But he is just having bad dreams. More than other children of his age, but still….it is just nightmares. Surely, that doesn’t mean he is mad?’
Gittan did not say anything. He had the patience of an old tree, and he really wanted to understand what the old man was trying to say.
‘No! No! Not at all.’ Gösta smiled at Sara reassuringly, ‘Please do not think like that. Åsa is not mad, for sure. He is just confused.’
Gittan and Sara kept on watching the old Doctor silently.
‘You must understand, Åsa was not having nightmares. He just told you that because you both refused to understand or listen to him.’
‘Refused to listen to what?’ Gittan looked at Sara questioningly, but she was equally confused.
‘Did he tell you he was feeling cold inside?’ Doctor Gösta asked Sara. ‘Did he tell you he was feeling all empty inside?’
‘Yes, but…’ Sara was still confused. ‘It is cold. Winters are here. Everybody feels cold all the time, and emptiness? I fed him hot soup. He was alright.’
Gösta smiled at her kindly.
‘No! Åsa is experiencing a different kind of cold and emptiness. His cold originates from his head and seeps into his heart. Summers or winters do not matter at all. Similarly, there is a void inside him, which can’t be filled with food or love.’
‘Doctor Gösta, please! What is really wrong with our son?’ All this talk of inner cold and emptiness was beyond Gittan’s comprehension. He was a simple dairy farmer.
‘What is really wrong with Åsa is that he is depressed.’ The old doctor stated, while sighing with exasperation.
‘Nonsense!’ Sara suddenly stood up. ‘Little boys have no business getting depressed. Depression is for old people who have got nothing to look forward to.’ She looked fiercely at Gösta, ‘I am telling you, doctor, my son is not depressed.’
‘Sara, please!’ Gittan got hold of his wife’s wrist and pulled her down gently. ‘Let the good doctor explain what he is saying.’
‘Thank you Gittan!’ The old doctor looked at him with grateful eyes, ‘You both must understand that Åsa is a gifted child. He is highly intelligent, but his intelligence exceeds his limited understanding of things. This frustrates him, and the frustration manifests in headaches and depression.’
‘What should we do then?’ Gittan asked him desperately.
‘Just listen to what he says. Try to understand what he tells you. And also, try to answer his questions.’ Gösta sat down again behind his Oakwood desk. ‘It would be better if you take him to a good psychiatrist in Bern. I know one such person, an old colleague of mine and an expert at working with gifted children.’
When his parents failed to satisfy his curiosity, Åsa started visiting the small library of the village school. In the beginning, it was fine. There were books filled with the most wonderful pictures and words. There were stories of dragons and fairies and giants. There were stories of the old gods and their terrible might. There were stories of the new God and his everlasting light. The books fascinated him and enriched his imagination.
Old Lena watched Åsa with wonder, love, and an ever-growing sadness. Round and stout, she was the old widow who looked after the village school. Always dressed in a light, cream-coloured and heavily knitted woollen shawl and a brown, gnarled walking stick in hand, she looked exactly like the fairy godmother. Her silver, white hair was always tied neatly in a bun, and her translucent blue eyes kept on smiling behind thick pebbled glasses.
Her husband had died a long time ago during the Great War, and she had no children of her own. But instead of bitterness, her heart was filled with love and affection. She loved all her students and protected them like a mother hen. She sought happiness within their eyes, sparkling with mischief. Their tinkling laughter filled the lonely halls of her life.
Sara and Gittan left the Doctor’s office and started walking home. For some distance, neither of them spoke. Suddenly, Gittan felt something and looked sideways at Sara. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.
‘Hey! What’s the matter?’ Gittan asked her concernedly.
‘He is our only son, Gittan…..our only son!’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘And he is going mad.’
‘Come on! He is not going mad. He is just too inquisitive.’ Gittan tried to brush aside her fears.
‘No! There is something seriously wrong with Åsa and I know it.’ She grasped his hand. ‘It is not only the questions and depression. Did he tell you he could see music?’
‘Yes, he told me that.’ He said thoughtfully. ‘Most probably, it is just his imagination.’
‘It is not his imagination, Gittan.’ Sara insisted. ‘I believe he is cursed.’
‘Cursed?’ Gittan nervously laughed. ‘For God’s sake, woman! He is not cursed. He just asks difficult questions and has a rich imagination.’
‘The devil puts those questions in his mouth, Gittan. It is the Devil. Åsa is cursed.’ Sara started weeping uncontrollably.
Lina had a special place in her heart for Åsa. She appreciated his curiosity and understood his dilemma. She knew that he suffered greatly and chose to suffer along with him. To extend all possible help, she selected appropriate books for Åsa and marked the pages where she thought he could find the answers. She told him stories. She sang him songs. Her knowledge was quite limited - only mythology and religion. But still she did her best. She tried to answer all his questions.
‘I wish my husband were alive. He knew a lot of things.’ She used to tell Åsa.
‘Did he ask a lot of questions? Just like me?’ The little boy asked with wonder.
‘Yes, he did, at least when he was a child. But when he grew up, he used to provide answers to those who needed them.’ Lina smiled at some faraway and long-forgotten memory. ‘He used to tell your grandfather, the best way to get most of the milk was to be kind to the cows. He told the old baker the right temperature to bake the most delicious bread. He told Andre the ironsmith about the right tools to mould the metal.’
‘Did he know the answers to all the questions?’ Åsa asked.
‘No, he certainly did not. But I guess, now he has all the answers.’ Lina smiled at Åsa and ran her arthritic fingers through his blond hair.
‘How come he has all the answers now? Isn’t he dead?’ The boy wasn’t satisfied with the old woman’s answer.
‘He has all the answers because he is with God now.’ The old woman stared at her dead husband’s smiling photograph.
‘Does God have answers to all the questions?’ Åsa asked excitedly.
‘Yes, I guess He does.’ Lina looked up at the blue sky, and Åsa’s eyes followed her gaze.
‘Where does He live?’ He asked the old woman.
‘The God you mean?’ She looked at him and when he eagerly nodded, said, ‘He lives up in the sky, dear boy. Where else?’
The next Sunday afternoon, Åsa packed some sandwiches and climbed the Faulhorn, the high mountain peak near his village. He climbed for hours and ultimately reached a large platform near the top. He looked down and saw his village, looking tiny and far off. He ate his sandwiches, drank a little cider, and tried to identify his home and that of Lina’s.
He looked around. The blue sky and the billowing white clouds seemed so near. Suddenly, he laughed. He laughed because he could taste the blue sky and the white clouds. Both tasted like cotton candy. Yes, he could taste colours - yet another one of his odd traits, he hadn’t told anyone about.
He got up and climbed some more. The sweat running down his back in torrents, and the soreness in his limbs, told him it was enough. He looked up and screamed at the top of his voice.
‘God!……Goooooooooooooood!!!!!’ But nobody answered.
‘Maybe God is asleep.’ Åsa thought.
‘God! Are you there, God?’ Still, no godly voice boomed from behind the clouds in reply.
After many more fruitless tries, Åsa got tired and went back home. He repeated his visits to the top of Faulhorn a few more times, but God never answered.
When Åsa failed to talk to God on top of the Faulhorn, he went back to Lina. She was dusting the old books lining the shelves in the school library.
‘I think you are mistaken.’ He confidently informed the old woman.
‘Oh? Mistaken about what, child?’ She looked sweetly at the little boy’s innocent face.
‘God doesn’t live in the heavens. I climbed up the Faulhorn. I called Him, but He didn’t answer.’ Åsa sounded heartbroken.
‘We cannot talk to God that way.’ Lina said with a chuckle. ‘It is only when we die that we meet Him and His son. Only then, we can talk to Him all we want, and certainly not before that.’
‘But I want to talk to Him now. I want to ask Him many things.’ Åsa insisted.
‘I know that. But death is the barrier that separates Him from us.’ Lina understood his anguish.
‘There must be some other way. I really, really, need to meet Him.’ He was adamant.
‘I am sorry, Åsa. There is no way. God doesn’t speak to little boys or even old women, for that matter.’ She ruffled his hair lovingly. ‘But you may go down to the Church and ask Father Matteo. He is a man of God. If there is a way, I am sure he knows it.’
Old Father Matteo was tending to the rose bushes in the churchyard.
‘Good morning, Father Matteo.’ Åsa greeted him breathlessly.
‘Good morning, Åsa.’ The priest shaded his eyes from the bright sun and peered at him. ‘I do hope everything is well with Gittan and Sara?’
‘Oh yes, Father, they are perfectly fine. I just came to ask you something very important.’ The boy asked him shyly.
‘Oh?’ Father Matteo smiled at him kindly. ‘Yes, please, what is it?’
‘How can you talk to God?’ Åsa chose his words carefully. After all, he was talking to a representative of God. ‘I mean, I need to ask God some important things. So how do I talk to Him?’
‘It is actually very easy. You just need to pray.’ The priest answered while wiping his sweaty forehead. ‘But what do you want to ask Him?’
‘Many things. Like, for example, why does He allow people to kill each other?’ The little boy started counting his questions on his fingers. ‘Why does He make some people very poor and the others very rich? Where do we come from when we are born? Where do we go when we die? What is heaven like?’
‘Hmm! These are very difficult questions, indeed.’ Father Matteo scratched his head. ‘Why don’t you read the Bible? It is through His book that he talks to us. Read His book and maybe you will find answers to your questions.’
‘But I want to talk to Him directly. His son talked to Him. Why can’t I?’ Åsa shifted on his feet impatiently.
‘I don’t know, Åsa.’ Matteo said sadly. ‘I only know that we cannot talk to Him directly and ask Him things. If we could, it would have made our lives a lot easier.’
‘Will I be able to talk to Him, once I die?’ Åsa asked him, thoughtfully.
‘Oh yes! You will be able to ask Him. But you are still young, my boy. You have a long life ahead of you. Don’t talk about dying. Dying is for old men like me.’ Father Matteo patted his shoulder and sent him on his way.
‘I must talk to Gittan and Sara about Åsa.’ The Priest thought as he saw Åsa vanishing in the distance.
A full week later, Lina went to visit the Gittan family after school hours.
‘Where is Åsa today? Is he sick?’ She asked Sara after exchanging pleasantries.
‘What do you mean, Lina?’ Sara asked her alarmingly. ‘He was fine when I sent him to school this morning. A little bit quieter than usual but very much fine.’
‘He didn’t come to school today.’ Lina was alarmed, too.
The two women stood looking at each other for some time, and then Sara ran to the shed, shouting her husband’s name.
Åsa stood at the edge of the gorge. He peered into its white, fathomless depths. He knew that only death awaited him at the bottom. But he was also convinced that with death would come all the answers. He looked at the vast blue sky and the white billowing clouds for the very last time, tasted their sugary texture, and then jumped.
All questions had fallen silent. Åsa was no more. The curse had lifted.
The old man’s dragon-shaped pipe held a secret about why diamonds only appear in frozen lava - a story about the two last dragons on earth.
A haunting mythological tale told by a mysterious old man smoking a dragon-shaped pipe, revealing the origin of diamonds in frozen lava. The story follows Agonious, a powerful but lonely dragon who discovers he’s not the last of his kind - somewhere across seven seas lives Miria, a golden dragoness equally isolated in her suffering.
‘God is sad, my son! And He has created a world in His very image. It is a sad, sad world.’ The old man said, while slowly opening his eyes. His blue-grey eyes looked at me with an amused curiosity.
‘And why is God sad?’ I had failed to grasp the image of a sad omnipotent being.
‘Why is God sad?’ The old man repeated my question, sounding perplexed.
‘Well, He is the only powerful being. The only one who deserves to be proud and arrogant. The only being which can create, and which can destroy.’ He answered slowly and deliberately.
‘Well, that should make Him happy. Don’t you agree?’ I questioned the blue-grey mist of his deep eyes.
‘Hmm! You are forgetting something, my son.’ The old man said with a smile. ‘God is lonely. Despite all the power and all the might, He is lonely. No one to talk to and no one to share his laughter with. His is the eternal loneliness and the never-ending sadness.’
When I remained quiet, he placed his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Remember, son, the more powerful you grow, the lonelier you become. Loneliness is the price you pay for power.’
I saw the white smoke rings billowing out of the old man’s nose and mouth. They floated up and drifted outside the cave. Then they rose until they joined the white, billowing summer clouds scattered across the blue sky.
I looked at him closely. He had a head full of silvery hair, which fell in cascades over his bent shoulders. His complexion was fair, and a broad forehead topped a square and intricately lined face. The eyes were deep and rarely opened to their actual width. In fact, I always saw them as amused slits, bordered by an ever-spreading network of fine lines. An almost deformed, wide nose sat in the exact centre of the face and was underlined by heavy, sensual lips. He was a wise man indeed, but unlike all the wise men I had ever come across, he did not have a beard.
There were other odd dissimilarities, too. There was a silver earring dangling from one of his earlobes. He wore a velvety, maroon-colored robe, bedecked with golden dragons. The dragons were surrounded by forgotten scripts and ancient symbols, and yes, he smoked a most wonderful pipe.
The pipe, gripped in his yellowing teeth and dangling out of the corner of his mouth, fascinated me the most. It was most probably carved out of some ancient mahogany root and was lovingly polished and curiously shaped like a dragon. The dragon’s mouth opened up wide to form the bowl, while the tail ended up between the old man’s lips. The exquisitely designed and gold, metallic work defined the scales on the dragon’s body.
‘It was once called Agonious, the Fire-starter, the last of all the majestic dragons.’ The old man said, noticing my interest in his pipe.
‘I have never heard of him.’ I expressed my ignorance.
‘That is indeed understandable.’ He nodded his head. ‘But surely, you have heard of diamonds in the frozen lava pits?’
‘No.’ I again shook my head.
‘Do you know why diamonds are only found in the old and frozen lava pits?’ He asked again, refusing to get irritated with my ignorance.
‘No, I don’t. I never knew diamonds were only found in old and frozen lava pits.’ I answered while peering beyond the fragrant smoke, into his misty eyes.
‘Then let me tell you the story of Agonious and Miria. Agonious was a big and powerful dragon. He could throw fire over tens and hundreds of feet. When he flew, the earth darkened under the spread of his dark, majestic wings. He was so powerful that none of the dragon slayers could kill him. They came from all over the world, desperate to claim the head of Agonious. They fought well, but Agonious was too powerful and too big to be defeated by their inflated egos.’
‘Agonious could kill them from afar, but he knew the human thirst for self-respect. He gave them a good fight. He even tolerated a few sword wounds — mere pin pricks to him but enough to quench the blood lust of the dragon slayers. Agonious had a heart made of pure fire, but it was a magnanimous heart. He therefore never killed any of the dragon slayers and instead, let them leave in peace.’
The old man stopped to refill the pipe. He picked up an old leather pouch, embroidered with gold. Loosening the binding string, he started filling up his pipe one pinch at a time. I loved the smell of his tobacco. The warm fragrance turned the cave into a cocoon — a womb of safety. It took me back to times when I thought I was happy.
‘A magnanimous dragon that let his enemies leave in peace?’ I smiled at the old man. ‘I am a fan of dragon lore myself, but I have never come across the myth of a kind dragon.’
‘You haven’t? Eh?’ the old man chuckled softly, his tobacco ritual completed.
‘Agonious was really a kind dragon. He never hurt the villagers and, sometimes, brought them gifts of wild goats and fruit. He also helped them mow the hard land. He built dams for the poor and lit their fires on cold winter nights.
His kindness made him popular. Children called him Papa Agonious, and the villagers called him Agonious, the Kind. But despite all the popularity and love, Agonious was a very sad dragon. Can you guess why?’ The old man peered at me inquisitively.
‘Yes!’ By then, I had become quite familiar with the old man’s line of thought. ‘He was sad because he was lonely.’
‘Aha!’ The old man flashed a satisfied smile. ‘Exactly!’
‘Despite all his power and all his might, Agonious was lonely. He believed he was the last of his kind, swimming across the river of sadness, which we call life. Until one day, a sparrow told him of Miria. She was a beautiful golden dragoness, living across the seven seas. She had wings made of silver and had the most wonderful grey eyes. When she spat flames, they were the loveliest shade of emerald.’
‘But like Agoneous, Miria was sad too. She was sad because she thought she was the last of all dragons.’
‘Hearing of Miria, Agonious laughed and danced and wept with joy. He begged the sparrow to make haste, fly to Miria, and tell her of Agonious’ existence.’
‘Soon after the sparrow left, Agonious collected the most precious of gems and the most brilliant of diamonds in all the land. He begged leave of all the villagers and the children. They all cried and requested him not to leave. But loneliness is a more powerful drive than kindness. So one day, when all preparations were in place, Agonious spread his powerful wings and left for Miria’s land.’
With these words, the old man fell into a deep reverie.
‘The sparrow never reached Miria. Wasn’t it so?’ I asked the old man hesitatingly. I knew his stories always had a dark ending.
‘Yes,’ the old man slowly raised his head. ‘The sparrow couldn’t make it. She was killed by an arrow and was slowly roasted over a hunter’s fire. But Agonious did not know that and kept on flying east — towards Miria and a lifetime of happiness.’
‘The sun dipped beyond the horizon and rose again many times in a row. But Agonious did not stop. His large dark wings kept beating the wind hard.
The moon observed the flight of this dark knight on a love quest, and shone more brightly to facilitate his passage.
The eastern wind sensed the anxiousness of the Agonious’ lonely heart and changed its direction to give a boost to the flying dragon.
The ancient dragon spirits made the stars and the constellations twinkle more brightly to guide the weary dragon.
But Agonious was oblivious to all help. The load of diamonds he carried for Miria was heavy, but he just flew on and on towards his destiny.’
‘One day, when the morning sun rose, Agonious could see land in the far distance. His heart trembling with excitement, Agonious flew all over the land and looked for Miria. He searched in the mountain caves and he searched in the forest glens. He searched the blistering hot deserts, and he searched the snowy mountain peaks. But he couldn’t find Miria.’
‘Everywhere, people talked of a beautiful dragoness with silver wings. All the birds whispered of her mysterious beauty. But Agonious couldn’t find Miria, no matter how hard he tried.’ The old man fell quiet again and got up to prod the dying embers.
I looked out of the cave. The sun was going down. Suddenly, a shadow flitted across the pale sunlit sky.
‘Agoneous?’ I suddenly jerked my head and then smiled at my own stupidity. It was just a wandering cloud. The old man was weaving a wonderful tale, and I was beginning to fall under its spell.
‘What happened then? Where was Miria?’ I couldn’t stay quiet for long.
‘Hmm! Where was Miria? That is indeed an important question.’ The old man smiled at my impatience.
‘This is the question that the dragon asked everybody, but was unable to find the answer. But then one day, he came across a unicorn drinking from a crystal-clear stream. Now unicorns and dragons are close. They both share a common ancestry — the ancestry of myth and magic.’
‘O! the noblest of all creatures, please help me, for I am weary in my quest.’ Agonious begged the unicorn.
‘You are looking for Miria. Aren’t you?’ The unicorn slowly raised its graceful head and asked him.
‘Yes…yes….Miria. I am looking for Miria. I have flown for months to reach her, but now that I am here, she is nowhere to be found.’ Agonious answered while anxiously rubbing his veiny wings together.
The unicorn grew sad and bent its noble head in silence.
‘Why don’t you say something? Why don’t you tell me? Where is Miria?’ Agonious asked furiously.
‘Come, follow me.’ The unicorn guided Agonious towards a long, winding path climbing up the mountains. They climbed on for hours and finally reached the rim of a smoking volcano.
‘What is this? Where is Miria?’ Agonious looked around.
‘Miria is dead.’ The unicorn told him sadly. ‘She grew tired of her eternal loneliness. She was heartbroken. So one day she just flew up, kissed the clouds for the last time and then dived into this volcano.’
‘No!’ Agonious cried in anguish and disbelief. ‘But, I sent the sparrow to tell her I was coming.’ The unicorn just shook his head in sadness and walked away. Agonious kept on peering inside the volcano, looking for Miria. Then he flew up, kissed the clouds one last time, and dived into the volcano along with the treasure he carried for Miria. The lava burnt him to ashes in seconds and engulfed his treasure. Since that day, whenever the volcano gets frustrated and spews out lava and ash, it rains diamonds.’
They fled Taliban Afghanistan for American freedom, but extremism followed through their son, who murdered his sister for ‘honor’ until his other sister taught him that honor cuts both ways.
A devastating narrative set in California about an Afghan refugee family torn apart by conflicting concepts of honor.
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Dawood’s home was a place of sorrow.
He was an old man, sitting on a couch in his living room. Deep lines of experience mapped his sun-beaten, brown, and haggard face. He had thick, grey hair cascading down on his shoulders, and his blue-grey eyes were clouded with age. But right then, his eyes could be seen brimming with confused tears, which were visible behind thick, pebbled glasses.
The room was wrapped in a thick blanket of dark gloom. The red and black, striped curtain covering the window, was drawn aside, letting some California sun in. But the dull rays of the early evening sun failed to lift off the gloom.
A few mediocre, monochrome photographs could be observed hung neatly on the pale walls. On closer scrutiny, most of the prints could be identified as from some mountainous Asian country, most probably the border regions of either Iran or Afghanistan.
Most of the photos showed tribesmen in baggy clothes, with automatic weapons held triumphantly across their chests, and heavy belts of ammunition hanging from their shoulders. Some stood in groups in front of burnt tanks, while the others stood either alone or in pairs. But the eyes of all subjects could be seen marked with a silently burning ferocity.
There were two floor lamps, one in each corner of the room. They were alight and throwing intersecting circles of light. The door to the small kitchen was half open, and the counter was visible. The ceiling fan was rotating slowly, throwing shadows across the ceiling.
A large LCD was nestled within the center of a large book cabinet. It was surrounded by thick, leather-bound volumes with their titles mostly in Persian or Arabic.
The floor was made of dark wood, polished and buffed to perfection, and a large, cream-colored, Persian rug marked its exact center. It was originally woven in beautiful, lustrous colors, but was now slowly darkening and caked with drying blood.
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There were two bodies on the floor, of a young man and a woman. They were in their early and late twenties, respectively. The girl was sprawled on her right side with dirty blond hair covering her face. Her wound was not visible, but blood soaked the rug under her stomach. She was dressed in a half-cut, white tank top and faded blue jeans. There was a black high-heeled shoe on her right foot, while the left was bare.
The boy was dressed in dark trousers and a blue shirt and was lying face down. A white skull cap half-covered his head, and was partially dyed with blood. His shoulder-length dark brown hair was also drenched in blood, and a gaping wound was visible right above his neck.
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Dawood turned his face and looked at Marjan. She was a beautiful and delicately built girl with dark eyes and dark hair, and was in her early twenties. Her face was passive, while she sat with her tightly clasped hands in her lap, and blankly stared at an invisible spot in the air. A blue-black and gleaming pistol could be seen nestled against her thigh. But she didn’t look like a murderer.
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There was a small ornamental table placed alongside the sofa. It was dark mahogany in color with intricate golden patterns. Dawood absentmindedly toyed with the few small picture frames placed on the table. He picked one at random and looked at it closely. The complete family was there - happy and smiling. Dawood, Guljaan, Parizeh, and Salman, with a young Marjaan smiling in the middle.
Dawood delicately caressed the image of his long-dead wife with his thumb, trying to extract some warmth and reassurance. He looked at the frozen faces of Parizeh and Salman, both in their teens and standing on each side of their parents, their eyes filled with mischief and fun. Dawood looked at their bodies on the floor, lifeless and ugly in death. Parizeh seemed to be sleeping calmly with one hand folded under the cheek, and the other spread outwards. Salman had both his arms spread outwards like he was diving down from a great height.
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Dawood picked up another frame and thought of a day in the distant past. It was Kabul, and the white pomegranate flowers were in full bloom. He was dressed in black and looked handsome in an embroidered black cap. Guljaan looked like a princess in a flowing, white dress. They were happy to be in love and lived in a small cottage on a hillock, on the outskirts of Kabul. Kabul was just a ghost of its former grandeur, but still beautiful after the Russians had left. Life seemed like a never-ending fairy story.
Soon after marriage, the young couple was gifted with children each year. First, Salman was born, and then Parizeh. Dawood and Guljaan looked at the two smiling angels and thanked God. Their lives were perfect.
Then their small piece of heaven turned into hell, and the pomegranate flowers went red with blood. The Taliban rose to power in Afghanistan, and all hell broke loose.
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Dawood was a prime target for the Taliban because of his moderate and liberal views. He did not want religion to further complicate the lives of the poor Afghans. He just wanted love, understanding, and tolerance. When the Taliban destroyed the Buddha statues in Bamiyan, Dawood vented his anger in full force. It was the wrong move, and the Taliban acted swiftly. With ten, publicly delivered lashes, Dawood went one step closer to realization.
The second blow came when the Taliban caught Guljaan walking in the bazaar without pardah. She also received ten lashes in the city square.
Dawood and Guljaan purchased truth at the price of twenty lashes. The truth was that Afghanistan was no more a place to live. It had turned into hell, and especially Kabul had truly become the city of Kane. The Taliban had brought religion and expelled God.
It took the last of Dawood’s considerable savings to get him and Guljaan out of the war-torn Afghanistan. They reached a refugee camp in Pakistan, and then Dawood used his contacts to immigrate to the USA - the land of dreams and opportunities, and a land far away from extremism and intolerance. It was a land where they could finally be free of oppression and the enforcement of a violent brand of their once peaceful religion.
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Dawood looked down at Salman’s body. He thought it strange how his son grew up to be his exact opposite. He was a decent kid and a teenager - a lively boy with a healthy interest in girls and sports. But then he fell under the spell of Laiba, a Moroccan girl with extremist beliefs.
Dawood always knew that Laiba was not the kind who married men and made their lives happier. Laiba was deranged and psychologically unstable. She had love in her heart, no doubt, but that love was for a God, terrible in His fury and anger. Laiba was not a lover. She was a recruiter, and she recruited Salman.
When Salman joined forces with religion, he lost his happiness and interest in all worldly things and activities. The country that had given him freedom and refuge and opportunities, became to him the country of heathens.
Salman became everything Dawood had ever stood against. When Laiba finally left for Afghanistan, Salman wanted to follow. It took the last ounces of strength in Guljaan to stop him. She was already sick - cancer was wreaking havoc through her body. Seeing his mother in pain, Salman did not leave.
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Parizeh was the exact opposite of Salman. She was shy and reserved as a child. But she grew into a fierce and independent girl. She had no interest in religion, and specifically its extremist version. She laughed at Salman when he grew a beard and laughed even more when he chose to wear a white skull cap at all times.
She deliberately brought her male friends home just to infuriate her brother. There were embarrassing incidents. Salman could not control his anger. It was a matter of male Muslim honor for him. He fought Parizeh every step of the way. Their relationship was characterized by black seething hatred.
Personality-wise, Marjaan was a moderate and reasonable girl. She was independent like Parizeh, but lacked her abnormal interest in sensual pleasure. She had an interest in religion like Salman, but lacked his passion for extremism. She believed in a religion of peace, love, and understanding. She viewed religion as an individual choice and not as an instrument of subjugation. Her approach brought her closer to Dawood. She was his prized child.
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Then one day Guljaan died - a silent end to her long suffering. Cancer took her away. But Dawood knew it was not cancer. It was her constant longing for the white pomegranate flowers and home, which finally killed her.
Following her death, the household disintegrated. Guljaan was the force holding the fabric of sanity together. She exercised a moderating influence upon both Salman and Parizeh and was the bonding agent between the two formidable forces. When she died, the bonding force departed with her. Dawood could only sit and watch while the world that he loved disintegrated into chaos and hatred.
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Dawood again looked at Marjaan. She had come a long way and was no longer the smiling child in the picture. She had grown into a young woman, and her cold, impassive face did not betray the calamity of the moment. It was the day when Dawood’s family ended up being a family.
Dawood looked at Marjaan and then at the two dead bodies, trying to make sense of what had happened. He remembered Salman coming home in a fury and confronting Parizeh.
‘You are a complete disgrace to this family. You have brought shame upon us.’ Salman shouted at Parizeh.
‘What have I done now?’ She asked indifferently, while calmly polishing her nails.
‘You……you have done this.’ Salman said and threw a magazine in front of her.
Parizeh glanced at the magazine out of the corner of her eyes but said nothing, choosing to focus again on her nails.
‘What’s the matter? Why are you fighting with Parizeh?’ Dawood opened up his eyes slowly and asked.
‘Just look at this, father.’ Salman picked up the magazine and shoved it in Dawood’s hands. ‘Rather don’t look at it. You can’t. Parizeh is all naked in there.’
‘I am not naked. I am wearing a swimming costume.’ Parizeh explained and laughed.
‘You look like a shameless whore.’ Salman shouted at her hoarsely. ‘May God’s curse be upon you.’
‘God’s curse be upon you.’ Parizeh mimicked her brother. ‘I don’t care about your God and his curses.’
Salman stood silently, raging for a moment, and then just left the room. Dawood closed his eyes again, praying that the matter ended right there and then. But only a few moments had passed when Parizeh’s screams jolted his eyes open. She was lying on the carpet, screaming with pain, and Salman stood over her with a cutting knife dripping with blood.
‘Oh God! What have you done? Dawood asked and tried to get up, but he could not. He watched helplessly while Parizeh breathed her last.
‘I have done what you should have done a long time ago.’ Salman shouted and seemed almost possessed by his inner demons. ‘She was a threat to this family’s honor. She was a threat to our religion’s honor, and she was a threat to my honor. Today I have removed this threat forever.’
Dawood saw Marjaan, silently approaching Salman with Dawood’s gleaming Colt in her hand. But before he could warn Salman, Marjaan raised the pistol and shot Salman in the neck, point-blank.
‘What have you done, Marjaan? He was your brother.’ Dawood stood up slowly. ‘Salman was mad. He had misconceived notions of his male and religious honor. But why did you kill him, child?’
‘I killed him for honor, too, Father.’ Marjaan said and slowly sat down on the sofa, and placed the pistol in her lap.
‘Honor? Whose honor?’ Dawood thought he had misheard her.
The grandfather clock ticked in the corner where three generations had died or gone mad, and Wiley realized his ‘quest’ to save his son from Alzheimer’s had only one possible ending.
Content Warning: This story contains infanticide and deals with severe mental illness, caregiver trauma, and the psychological deterioration caused by dementia. The ending is deeply disturbing and may be triggering for readers who have experienced loss of loved ones to Alzheimer’s or other degenerative diseases.
‘Tic toc…tic toc….tick toc!’ In a dark, lonely corner, the old grandfather clock was ticking its decades-old, sad mantra.
It was pouring outside, heavy drops streaking down the thick, plate-glass windows. The raindrops left twisting, abstract patterns on the glass, whose pearly contours seemed frozen in the random lightning flashes. Outside, the urban landscape was silhouetted against a dark purple sky - dark giants morbidly sparring with lightning.
Wylie stood at the window, watching the slowly moving lights of the late-night traffic below. He listened to the muffled bass of thunder and the unending symphony of the weeping skies. But inside, his heart was beating in perfect synchronization with the clock, aware of each passing second.
The sound of muffled snickering disturbed his reverie. He turned around and smelt the pungent stink of piss.
‘Shit! I forgot to change his diaper again.’ He silently cursed himself and looked at his dying father.
Aaron was secure within the cosy comfort of his bed and was lost in his own sad world. He was oblivious to the warm, wet pool between his legs and was looking through Wylie with rheumy eyes, while smiling at some amusing but rapidly fading memory.
Wylie stared back and was momentarily startled to see a small spark glowing in the depths of his father’s eyes. But then he sighed in hopelessness. There was no spark, and there was no light. The hotline connecting his father’s eyes with his grey matter was broken forever.
Over the last ten years or so, Wiley’s empathy for his father had gone rather stale. His gaze shifted from the pitiful figure in the bed to the gold, gleaming saxophone. It stood in the corner, almost graceful in its sad silence. To him, both his father and the saxophone belonged to the same era - once dazzlingly remarkable, but now dying and forgotten.
Pending the cleaning ritual for another five minutes, Wiley looked out again at the heavy storm clouds. Their ugly bellies were pregnant with rain. He thought of a similar evening in the far-off past. It was raining and his father always loved rain. Rains somehow inspired the musician hidden inside the heart of a common accountant.
‘Wiley, can you please bring her over here?’ By her, Aaron of course meant his saxophone.
‘Every beautiful thing is a woman to father,’ Wiley silently chuckled to himself.
He delicately picked up the saxophone and cradled it in his arms as small boys do when they are sometimes entrusted with a prized possession. He carefully brought the gleaming instrument to his father, who lovingly ruffled his hair and held the saxophone like a lovely waltz partner. Wiley still remembered the gleam in his father’s eyes. They were alight with the secret dreams of a yet undiscovered maestro.
Aaron cleaned the mouthpiece with a silk handkerchief and then started playing. His lips blew magic into the polished brass, and he became one with the instrument. The rain and music made love, while the clouds clapped thunder to the beat.
Wiley loved to think of those evenings and those magical moments from the past. He remembered very well his father’s immaculately pressed, black tuxedo, and the carefully brushed-back and gleaming, gelled hair. The dark aroma of Cuban cigars hung about his person like a warm and comforting aura. That was Aaron - a loving and caring father and a brilliant jazz musician. That was Aaron - enjoying the end of the age of sanity.
Then came Alzheimer’s. It was like Wiley’s father got possessed by some ancient evil spirit, who demanded more from its unwilling host with each passing moment. Slowly and gradually, the demonic spirit fed on the soul and body alike, draining them of each speck of intelligent awareness.
A fresh clap of thunder ended Wiley’s sojourn into the past. He flexed his tired shoulders and went to the cupboard to get a fresh diaper. He dipped the corner of a clean towel into warm water and lovingly cleaned up his father like a mother cleans a baby. Their roles had reversed. His father had become his child.
The warmth of the wet towel brought a kind smile to his father’s face. But Wiley knew it was his subconscious playing games. His father was an empty house playing host to a dark void. He no longer felt any emotion, yet his mind was alive. It was a playground of tired and disjointed pieces of memories. It was a puzzle that could never again be completed. Aaron, the accountant and the brilliant jazz musician, had left the house a long time ago.
Wiley gathered the wasted skeleton in his arms and carried him carefully to the rocking chair in the corner. While adjusting the blankets around his father’s frail shoulders, he sensed a movement and turned around. There stood John, his nine-year-old son, leaning against the doorway.
John was a beautiful boy with black, shining eyes, an almost perfect milk chocolate complexion, and a head full of the densest black fur. But his eyes were not shining as he silently looked at his grandfather. Instead, they were two deep pools of growing awareness. Looking into John’s eyes, Wiley felt the jarring onset of an unsettling déjà vu.
It was a hot and humid August afternoon. Wiley had just come back home from a baseball game - all sweaty and soiled. Ignoring his mom’s pleas for a quick shower, he bounded up the stairs, eager to tell his father about his home run. Passing his grandfather’s room, he heard his father singing softly. The door was slightly ajar, so Wiley managed to slip inside unnoticed. His father was wiping the sweat off the old man’s brow and softly singing his favourite lullaby:
‘The land is dark, the land is sleepy,
no time to be happy, no time to be weepy
Close your eyes and go to sleep,
beware of the shadows, dark and creepy’
Aaron murmured the last sentence with almost a sad acceptance and rearranged his father’s head on the pillow.
‘It is sad.’ Wiley couldn’t keep his mouth shut for long.
‘Yeah, indeed, it is sad, my boy.’ Aaron said while slowly turning his head. ‘Come here and give a kiss to your grandfather.’
Wiley hesitatingly stepped forward and planted a quick peck on his grandpa’s wasted cheek. He never liked the old man, who always stank and kept on staring blankly in space. His disgust changed to hatred one day when the old man knocked him down for touching his saxophone. Wiley ran crying to his father, expecting a quick retribution. But his father did nothing. He just wiped his tears and his bloody nose and said, ‘Look, Wiley, your grandpa is a very sick man and he deserves your sympathy. Just avoid going into his room more often. And please don’t touch his things.’
It was Wiley’s first meeting with the Alzheimer’s.
Shrugging off the bitter and unhappy memory, Wiley just gave a kind and tired smile to his son. He checked on Aaron one final time and then joined his wife and son at the dining table.
‘What’s up, John?’ Wiley asked the little boy, who was trying to avoid looking directly at him.
‘You again forgot to come to my game, Dad.’ John muttered angrily, and Wiley jolted with realization.
‘I forgot to put on the old man’s diaper, and I forgot to attend John’s game. Is this what I think it is?’ Wiley thought resignedly.
Cloe got up from her chair and stood behind John. ‘What’s wrong, little one?’ she asked while massaging his tiny shoulders.
‘No big deal.’ John shrugged in annoyance and ran to his room.
Cloe looked at Wiley concernedly.
‘Wiley baby, what’s happening to you? Yesterday, you forgot to pick up groceries, and last week you just skipped the old man’s appointment with the doctor.’
It was at that moment that Cloe saw fear jump into Wiley’s eyes. The fear reached out and its dark tentacles slithered out to grip her own heart.
‘Oh merciful God in heavens, not him please…..not my Wiley.’ She thought and ran into the solace of her husband’s arms.
‘Wiley, is it…..?’ She whispered against his strong chest, almost afraid to speak the name of the disease.
‘No, godammit no, I am ok, Cloe. I am really fine.’ But Wiley knew the reality. Alzheimer’s had come visiting again.
He tenderly caressed his wife’s head.
‘You love me now, darling, but wait for the time when I cease to be Wiley and then, you will turn as bitter as gall.’ Wiley thought sadly of his own dead mother.
It was 1978. Wiley had just returned from school and walked straight into a mom-dad confrontation.
‘For Christ’s sake! Why don’t you go to the doctor? You are forgetting things. You forgot our anniversary. You forgot Wiley’s birthday, and today you just forgot how to bang your own wife.’ Wiley’s mother went on with her frustrated bantering, but Aaron just kept on looking out the window.
‘Are you listening to me?’ She screamed.
‘Yes, I am,’ he answered while turning his head. ‘Nothing is wrong with me, baby. It’s just middle age creeping in.’
Wiley’s mother just stood there. She grabbed the back of the dining chair for much-needed support, her knuckles turning white with silent rage. Then she breathed deeply, walked to her husband, hugged him tightly, and cried.
Wiley loved both of them and wished with all the intensity of his six-year-old heart for his father to get better. But no matter how many times his mom cried, no matter how many times he prayed to God, Wiley’s father kept stepping away into oblivion. He kept walking towards a dark void and the impending doom.
Aaron was an accountant at the local bank. He was a brilliant accountant and not a single blemish marked his twenty-year-long record. People respected him. His colleagues did. The neighbours did. Even Mr. Patel, the Gujarati owner of the corner grocery store, who never respected his own father, respected Aaron. The people who knew him esteemed his honesty during the day and, when the sun went down, admired his talent with the saxophone.
The world seemed to be a perfectly happy place when a beaming Aaron entered the tiny apartment with his weekly paycheck in hand. They weren’t wealthy but respectably comfortable. The apartment was not luxurious but nice, clean, and comfy at all times. Wiley’s mom ensured it. To top it all, there were evenings in the jazz club across the street with Aaron in the spotlight.
Wiley loved the jazz club. He loved the red smoky atmosphere and the waves of beautiful and magical music. He intently watched his father performing on the stage, smiling at everybody, and especially his wife and Wiley. In those enchanted moments, Aaron’s sweaty face and the gleaming saxophone formed the centre of Wiley’s universe.
It was almost natural that Wiley was seduced by the saxophone. The instrument felt really smooth in his hands - almost an extension of his own body. After observing his father for a decade or so, the playing came naturally. He blew into the mouthpiece, and his fingers danced on the keys with an invisible life of their own. Aaron just silently watched Wiley, his heart brimming with pride. The legacy had been transferred.
On Wiley’s twelfth birthday, Aaron took a loan from the bank and presented him with a Yanagisawa King Super 20 - a most serious saxophone in sterling silver. It was the most beautiful thing Wiley had ever seen, but his heart still resided in his father’s old brass saxophone.
A day came when the father and the son played on the stage together for the first time. The loyal audience at the jazz club gave them a standing ovation. Wiley and Aaron looked at each other with eyes filled with tears. In their blissful ignorance, they believed that the good times would go on forever.
A month had passed since Wiley found his parents arguing in the kitchen. One day, when he came back from school, there was a police car parked in front of the apartment building.
‘Maybe there has been a burglary again.’ Wiley smilingly thought of the prospect. A burglary was an excuse for excitement in the otherwise drab and dreary daily routine.
The old elevator was out of order as usual. He bounded up the stairs, two at a time, heart thumping wildly, and almost crashed into his father at the last landing. Aaron was standing between two burly policemen, his hands cuffed at the back.
‘What happened? Where are you taking my father?’ Wiley’s desperate cries were falling on deaf ears. The policemen pushed his father into the back seat of their dark sedan and drove off.
Wiley ran back to the apartment. His mom was sobbing quietly at the kitchen counter. The unthinkable had happened. Aaron had been caught skimming off money at the bank. When confronted by the shocked Mr. Jefferson, the kindly and old bank manager, Aaron simply denied the accusation. The bank had no alternative but to hand him over to the police.
Those were some bad times. All the meagre savings went to the lawyer. Wiley’s mom even had to pawn his new silver saxophone. Food was more important than music.
Then one day, Aaron came back home. The manager had found the missing money. It was always there, hidden under the cashier’s drawers. Aaron had never touched a single dime. He just forgot to enter the amount in the proper register. The bank quietly retired his father with a small pension.
Wiley’s mother died a decade later. The diagnosis was of delayed, spotted lung cancer, but Wiley knew the truth. Her heart just got too tired and too broken to go on. She was in love with a man who was a pillar of strength and was energetic and bursting with enthusiasm to take life head-on. She had always admired Aaron’s resilience in the face of all odds. Aaron just had to smile at her, and poof, all her petty troubles vanished into thin air.
But Alzheimer’s changed all that. Her once towering and strong husband started to dissolve right in front of her eyes. The change was gradual and slow. Aaron still loved her, but didn’t know how to love her anymore. He still cared for her, but the disease made him selfish. This change was what killed his wife.
Wiley could still vividly recall that cruel, December evening, when his mother breathed her last in the hospital. Aaron was there too. He had brought white lilies to his dying wife. He sat with her for a long time, holding her pale, wasted hands in his big, brown ones and peering into her clouded eyes. Then Aaron kissed her forehead and asked her who she was. She just caressed his hand, sadly smiling at her long departed husband, and died. Wiley buried his mom and took his father home.
Those were dark days indeed - filled with sorrow and helplessness. Though his feeble mind was no longer rational, Aaron was still aware of the depth of his loss and searched for his dead wife all day long. Soon after the funeral, he started wandering off at will, visiting all the spots where he once took his wife. Fearing the worst, Wiley went to the police for help. It worked a few times, but then the overburdened policemen started to ignore him. So when Aaron got lost thereafter, Wiley roamed the city streets, checking each homeless man sleeping under a cardboard sheet.
Once, Wiley found Aaron all messed up and dead drunk with a bloody nose. He was lying amongst a pile of disused garbage cans, while stray cats were licking his face. Wiley took him home, cleaned and dressed up his wounds, and then just wept.
The disappearances increased in frequency, and Wiley had to collar his father like a dog. He wrote Aaron’s name and address on a laminated piece of cardboard and tied it around his neck. Thankfully, the strategy worked. Aaron never tried to remove it and always managed to get home, courtesy of some concerned citizen or the police.
Then the second stage of Alzheimer’s commenced and brought along hallucinations. Aaron started talking to his dead wife, like she was sitting on the rocking chair in the corner of his bedroom. It was so fucking realistic, it creeped Wiley out. Each time his father chose to address his long departed mother, he literally had to force himself not to look towards the empty chair. To top it all, Aaron not only chatted with his dead wife, but he shouted at her, sang to her, and even talked dirty to her. Wiley was going mad amidst the violent erotic fantasies of his father.
The worst came when Aaron started treating Wiley like an enemy. He abused him, degraded him, and constantly fought off his son’s attempts to clean his excrement. He reacted to each shower like water was burning, hot acid. Wiley was forced to wet sponge his thick stink away, while Aaron slept under the dense fog of sedatives.
Sometimes, Aaron just refused to be fed. Willy had to tie his hands and push porridge down his frail throat. This did almost no good. Aaron vomited on the clean bed sheets and then tried to lick back the foul contents of his stomach. He liked to pee on the bedroom floor and loved playing with his own shit. The apartment stank like a public toilet most of the time.
One day, Aaron mustered every ounce of strength in his emaciated body and kicked Wiley in the balls, while howling with devilish laughter. Wiley had to really stop himself from knocking down his own father and kicking the shit out of his skeletal excuse of a body. That day, Willy wished his father was dead, and then he cried at his own selfishness.
Wiley and his father were both saved by Cloe. Wiley met her at the hospital where he took his father for regular check-ups. She was a sweet little thing - all smiles and caring eyes, showering kindness and attention on everybody. Wiley fell in love the first time he saw her.
They started dating. He avoided bringing her home the first few times, but then Cloe guessed the real reason. She just laughed at Wiley. Having just buried a schizophrenic mom and being a nurse at a mental health facility, she was no stranger to Alzheimer’s.
Wiley and Cloe got married, and she smoothly slipped into the spot left vacant by Wiley’s mom. She was a good and strong woman and managed to calm down Wiley’s father. Aaron became her personal pet, waiting for her kind gestures and cooing voice to be soothed. The situation at home dramatically improved.
Two days after Wiley missed John’s game, Aaron died. His lungs were filled with mucus. He died because he couldn’t remember how to cough anymore. He suffocated in sleep.
Wiley played the saxophone at his father’s funeral, trying to remember the times when Aaron was kind and loving and warm. He started playing his father’s favourite piece, but could not go on after the first ten seconds or so. It was like he knew the composition but couldn’t somehow play the exact tune. Tears of helplessness and angry frustration clouded his vision.
Finally, he just threw the saxophone away, sat on the podium, his head in his hands, and cried. People thought the son was grieving his dead father, but only Cloe could understand what was really happening. Wiping her own misty eyes, she went to her husband and helped him back to his seat.
Wiley buried Aaron beside his mother, under the old oak. He looked at the vacant spot in the family plot and felt mutiny rising like bile in his throat.
‘No, I will not fall prey to this deadly disease. I will fight. I will fight for John’s sake and for Cloe’s sake.’ Wiley silently promised himself.
His personal quest had started - a quest for freedom from Alzheimer’s deadly clutches.
Soon, Wiley’s bedroom became the mission control centre. There were diet charts pinned to the walls, mental exercise regimens displayed on a makeshift notice board, and a glowing computer monitor in a corner.
Wiley read about the relationship between high cholesterol levels and Alzheimer’s and went on a crash diet programme. He found out about the possible advantages of brain stimulation and started doing crosswords and Sudoku every day, for hours at end. He surfed the internet all through the night, thanks to an Alzheimer-induced insomnia, looking for miraculous drugs and herbal cures.
Wiley got conned, he got robbed, and he even got sick because of the herbal trash he ordered online. He read a study linking coffee with a considerable reduction in the risk of dementia in late life, and increased his coffee intake to twenty or so cups a day. He was a possessed man, determined to fight a war which was probably already lost.
Wiley also started getting into trouble a lot. First, it was just altercations with the supermarket staff over the levels of nitrates in tinned food. Then he fought with his doctor as he thought the drugs weren’t having the requisite results. He also fought the assistant manager at his bank when he refused him a loan. Wiley badly needed this loan to order some medicinal herbs from India.
One day, when Cloe fought off his attempts to eat the gold fish in the living room aquarium, Wiley accused her of wishing him dead.
Wiley felt sanity dripping out of him, one drop at a time. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t plug the leakage. He knew he was getting paranoid. The insanity and paranoia made him listen in on Cloe’s telephonic conversations with the doctors and her friends. He perfectly understood the demons of the disease, but submitted to their dark power nevertheless.
Things took a turn from bad to worse when Wiley made John an equal partner in his quest. He knew the increased hereditary risk of Alzheimer’s for African Americans and hence wanted to shield John at all costs. But John was just a kid, fond of fried chicken and pizza. He just couldn’t come to terms with an all-vegetable diet and herbal concoctions. Once Wiley enforced this diet, John started falling sick frequently.
Cloe watched it all. She knew Wiley was going to die one day soon. But she wasn’t ready to accept him taking along John. They started having fights. They tried counselling and had to abandon it when Wiley tried to strangle the therapist for calling him sick. They tried to discuss the issue, but reasoning became arguments, and the arguments got violent. Soon her colleagues at the hospital started talking about her blackened and swollen eyes.
Thus passed five very long years. Wiley had entered the fifth stage of the disease. He started suffering from severe cognitive dysfunction. Once in the middle of a sentence, he forgot Cloe’s name. After repeatedly failing to recall it, he just placed his head in her lap and wept. But no matter how much his mental health declined, he still carried on with his quest.
Wiley still tried to walk a lot but had frequent falls and ultimately got his hip fractured. After recovery, he tried to enrol in an experimental drug trial but was rejected due to the advanced progression of the disease. He fought with the hospital staff where the trial was taking place. He also attacked a physician with his walking stick. The hospital authorities turned him in, and the Atlanta justice system took a long time turning him free. But the last blow was yet to come.
A few days after Wiley’s release from prison, Cloe got back from the hospital after a tiring night shift. She unlocked the apartment door and suddenly smelt something oddly familiar. It was a smell from the past, from her college days. Then realization suddenly dawned upon her.
‘Oh my God! Who is smoking weed in my house?’
She stormed into their bedroom, where Wiley sat on the bed, smoking weed. He looked up at her through the fumes, with an almost stupid smile on his wretched face. She looked around for John and then found him mercifully alive, but lying unconscious amidst a large pool of vomit.
‘Why Wiley….why? He is your son, and you were making him smoke this shit?’ Her voice got hoarse with pent-up emotions.
‘Just try to understand. Marijuana can help prevent Alzheimer’s.’ Wiley offered weakly.
That day, for the sake of their only son, Cloe decided to commit Wiley to a psychiatric institution. She just couldn’t go on. She just couldn’t take it anymore.
It was a rainy July afternoon. Cloe was away at the hospital finalizing arrangements for Wiley’s admission. He was alone at home with John, but Cloe trusted the sedatives.
It was probably thunder that woke up Wiley. After a few moments of disorientation, he got up and went to John’s room. The little boy was napping in the bed in which Aaron had died, while the old grandfather clock silently ticked away in the corner, ‘Tic toc…tic toc….tick toc!’
Wiley walked to the window. It was pouring outside. He watched the raindrops slithering down the glass panes. He tried to find meaning in their zigzag patterns but failed.
A sudden flash of lightning and the delayed drum roll of thunder broke Wiley’s trance. He looked back at John through the purple fog and smiled. He had found the way to end the vicious cycle of Alzheimer’s in his family and felt intoxicated with the power of realization.
He silently stepped forward and picked up a soft white pillow. He looked down at the sleeping child with gentle, fatherly love. Then he placed the pillow carefully but firmly over John’s face. The child struggled for a few minutes and then ceased moving. It was all quiet and peaceful. The quest was finally over.
Shehryar khawar 