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Reading “The Alchemist” in Koh Tao, by Sankar Chatterjee

28/2/2020

Dr. John Varghese, an immigrant physicist in UK was attending a conference in the field of superconductors in New Delhi. At the end of the conference, Dr. Varghese flew to Bangkok. Previously, he was invited by a scientific collaborator from the city’s university to deliver a lecture there. In departing airport, he picked up a copy of the book “The Alchemist” written several years ago by the Brazilian author Paulo Coelho. Originally written in Portuguese, the book was later translated into more than eighty different languages enjoying worldwide acclaim for its mystic themes including “Personal Legend”, “Soul of the World”, and similar kinds.

After delivering the lecture, Dr. Varghese journeyed to Koh Tao, an island in the middle of Gulf of Thailand to spend a few leisure days before returning to UK. Over next few days, Dr. Varghese finished reading the book, while enjoying island’s tropical weather. The story revolved around a young Spanish shepherd who dreamed about a hidden treasure near the pyramids in Egypt. Subsequently, he would embark on a journey to unearth this treasure. Along the way, the Spaniard would encounter various interesting characters including an alchemist, learning life’s valuable lessons from them, while also surviving various frightening situations in the desert. In a sense, the story felt more like a parable with a surprising ending. Dr. Varghese looked back on his own life’s journey. He was born in a newly-independent country attempting to rebuild itself after two hundred years of colonial occupation. Like the protagonist of the book, he also dreamed about locating a treasure that would change his life. And he would find his “Personal Legend” in higher education, eventually earning his PhD from a prestigious UK university.

On his last evening, Dr. Varghese ventured into an upscale restaurant called “The Wind”. After being seated, a teenager approached to serve him. The friendly fellow, speaking fluent English, introduced himself as Bibi. Dr. Varghese learned Bibi was an undocumented migrant from neighboring Myanmar. He belonged to the persecuted Islamic Rohingya minority of that country. Bibi had escaped the country leaving behind his entire family behind barbed wires. But he carried with him a dream of finding success through his own education and hard work. Currently, he’d taken that menial job to support himself temporarily with the dream of attending the university in Bangkok. Dr. Varghese asked Bibi whether he’d ever read a book titled “The Alchemist”. He nodded negatively. Next day before leaving the island, Dr. Varghese handed over his copy of “The Alchemist” to Bibi.

Recently, Dr. Varghese was attending an international conference in Berlin. In one of the sessions on research by current PhD students, he observed a well-dressed and confident Bibi presenting from his ongoing research from the University of Bangkok. After his presentation, Dr. Varghese approached him. Bibi recognized him immediately. With tears rolling down, he whispered “I’ve been chasing my “Personal Legend” that you made me in believing.”

Three Bags Full, by Doug Bartlett

28/2/2020

Tom, a young, poor peasant ,woke up extra early by hunger pangs in his one room, thatched roof hut he called home. He slowly scanned the room to see his precious family still fast asleep. They consisted of his supportive wife and five wonderful children.
Tom was under a tremendous amount of financial pressure. Their small farm did not produce enough ro feed so many mouths. He discussed it with his wife the night before and she agreed. He would travel to the nearest village to see what he could find there. He wondered, “Would he find relief? a job? hope? Encouragement?”
Tom was a good guy. He would always stay true to his high morals no matter what circumstances he found himself in.
He began his journey on the path to the village. When he was about halfway there the summer sun had become unbearable and he decided to take a short break in the shade of a large oak tree.He began to lie down when he noticed a very large rock directly in the center of the parh. This was causing everyone to leave the path by going around the obstacle.
Tom tried to get fellow travelers to help him remove the rock from the path. They all had the same answer, “We’ve no time for that. Let someone else do it.”
Someone else did do it. You guessed it. It was Tom. It took him a while before he was finally able to push it aside. When he turned to look at where it had been he saw a letter lying on the ground where the rock had previously been. It read:
Dear citizen of the kingdom. Many people have passed this way. Not one of them has chosen to remove the obstacle which in turn would have improved the kingdom. Instead they chose to walk around it. This shows me they are more concerned about themselves then they are about others.
However, you have chosen to spend your time and energy to improve the kingdom and help others. Your reward is found in the the ground directly beneath where the letter had been.
Signed, the King. Tom dropped to his knees and began shoveling dirt with his bare hands as fast as he could. He unearthed three bags of gold. The largest smile swept across his face as he realized his family would now be taken care of.

Dog, by Jim Bartlett

28/2/2020

Giving his eyes a good rub, Raymond leans over and fiddles with the radio. Again. He’s been driving for eight hours straight and in the dark, the road ahead seems more fog than asphalt, while the dashed white lines have blurred together as one.

Only twenty more miles, he tells himself. Twenty more miles.

He takes a deep breath – really more of a yawn – and gives his head a shake, before reaching down for a coffee cup he knows is empty, hoping for one more sip. Tired, his finger instead thumps the cup’s side, sending it tumbling to the floor. As he leans trying to scoop it up, the blood-curdling call of an air horn and the screech of tires straightens him as if he were pulled by a rope, and he finds himself staring into the headlights of an oncoming semi.

He’s drifted across the road’s center.

In slow motion, or so it seems, he yanks the wheel, a vain effort to return to his lane. But the sickening smack of metal to metal, a sharp moment of pain, and then darkness, tell him he’s far too late.

He awakens with a start, the bright sun shining down upon him, a cool but welcoming breeze brushing across his face. He’s sitting on a bench in what appears to be a park of some sort, the soothing gurgle of a nearby stream playing in harmony to the rustle of the wind through the trees.

It was a dream. It was all a dream. Smiling, he stands, his attention drawn to a trail that leads toward a tall row of hedges just ahead. He follows the path, eventually coming to a point where the shrubs arch up, forming a wide, rounded opening. Stretched across it, a wrought-iron gate blocks his entrance. Just above, at the peak of the arch, large gold letters spell out, “DOG.”

He stops, his thoughts adrift, but can’t recall a dog park in his hometown.

A bit of movement pulls his gaze to a short lectern standing on one side of the opening, a golden retriever and a spotted dog with long, floppy ears peeking out from behind. The golden cocks her head then smiles, which strikes him as odd.

“Raymond Willows?” she asks.

“Uh...yes...”

“Wonderful.” Rising up to the lectern, she places her paw on a large book. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“You have? Where is this? And how is it that you’re talking? Am I still dreaming?”

The spotted dog steps closer to Raymond and shakes his head. “It’s normal to be confused, Ray. Transition is a hard thing.”

“Transition?”

“Remember the truck, Raymond?”

A shiver races down his spine. “Ugh...”

“You didn’t make it, Ray. But, the good news is—“ the dog points to the arch—“you made it to Heaven!”

Raymond looks up at the gold letters. “Dog?”

“Oh, yeah. That. Sorry. It seems that some of your ancestors had dyslexia. Where you’re from they have the spelling all twisted around."

Karma’s Full Circle, by Sankar Chatterjee

21/2/2020

Mr. Mihir Mukherjee an expatriate Indian scientist from US was visiting Calcutta, his birthplace and the city of his early education. While in the city, he learned about an ongoing photo exhibition taking place in the Academy of Fine Arts, city’s premier arts center in downtown area. The exhibition was displaying the works of current talented Indian photographers. One day, he made a trip to the venue and began enjoying the displayed photographs. And that’s when he fortuitously collided with his long lost friend Mr. Gautam Basu, now a management specialist and an amateur photographer. One of Mr. Basu’s shots of four cheetahs in the wild, rarely to be seen sitting together next to each other was selected for the exhibition, thus was his presence. While exploring the exhibition together, the duo pleasantly met with four other long lost friends: two bankers, another scientist, and a chartered accountant. Soon, this group of six childhood friends would decide to celebrate their sudden reunion and head towards a pub in nearby Park Street, crossing the Chowringhee Road, city’s famous main thoroughfare.

As the group began to cross the heavily trafficked road, one of the flaps from the old pair of leather sandals Mr. Mukherjee was wearing came undone. But he kept on walking even after crossing the road, somehow managing the damaged one. Soon his friends would take him to a nearby shoe store and buy him a new pair. But Mr. Mukherjee kept the old pair, instead of discarding. Soon he would locate a street-cobbler who was able to repair the damaged piece. For Mr. Mukherjee, this old pair of sandals represented his modest upbringing in past. He along with all his ex-comrades belonged to the first generation of India’s children of independence. They were all born in the first decade of India’s freedom from two hundred years of occupation by an imperial power. In their childhood, the country was still a poor third world nation attempting to rebuild itself, not a regional superpower of modern times. Their parents had brought them up with available meager means, en route to their later successes in life.

After saying good-bye to his friends that evening, Mr. Mukherjee embarked on a pre-planned trip through various countries in South-East Asia. Wearing his reconstructed old pair of sandals, he climbed the tallest temple in Angkor Wat, explored the killing fields of Phnom Penh from genocidal ex-dictator Pol Pot era, enjoyed a boat trip in the mystic Mekong River in Laos, and roamed around the Thai Royal Palace in Bangkok.

On his way back to US, Mr. Mukherjee needed to make an overnight stop in Calcutta for his airlines connection. He came out of the airport and headed towards the Chowringhee Road. His now enlightened pair of sandals needed to cross that road one more time to complete its karma's full circle.

The Final Exam, by Doug Bartlett

16/2/2020

Greg woke up anxious and extremely nervous. He barely got any sleep as he had spent the entire night and most of the early morning hours studying for his final exam.
He had been guaranteed a job upon graduation. He knew that job would turn into a lucrative career. That career would help him fulfill his lifetime desire of living the lifestyle he had dreamed about since he was a child.
He had many years of hard work and study behind him and one last course to pass before him.
Spring semester was drawing to a close and he had to pass this last course, entitled “Establishing and Developing Relationships”. It had the reputation of being the easiest course on campus.
That was fine with Greg as long as it met the requirement to fulfill his degree, which it did.
Today would be a monumental day. His only concern was that he pass his final exam. It was worth 55 percent of his overall grade which meant if he didn’t pass the final he wouldn’t pass the course. He figured the final would be just as easy as the regular course work.Although he had studied intensely for this final test ne could not escape this sense of uneasiness which was located deep down inside of him.
He scurried down the hallway, passing the janitor as he entered the classroom, as he had done so many times before.
He quickly sat down and awaited instructions from the professor. The professor was walking up and down the aisles handing out the examface down. Greg was surprised it was only one page and apparently single-sided. He thought not only was it going to be easy, it would be quick as well. He flipped the paper over and was astonished to see the entire Final exam consisted of a single question. It read:

You have come to this classroom three times a week for the last four and one-half months. Everytime you entered the classroom the same janitor was right outside the door. What is his first name?_____________.

James and The Spot, by Kim Favors

7/2/2020

The neon Coors sign flickered again. Same as the last time the tavern door got slammed this hard. Except now it was me who was leaving.

Glasses washed, bartop wiped, everything else could wait. I draped tomorrow’s clothes over the passenger seat and coughed the yellow VW bug into gear down the forest road.

I almost blew the turnoff. Lost in the coastal fog, drifting through memories. Why am I even going?

It was at the tavern, The Spot, that I met James back in the ’70s. He poured beer. I waited tables.

And we entertained the regulars with our raunchy repartee.

“You women’s libbers are all alike,” he’d snipe. “Yeah, dickhead,” I’d laugh. “You tell’em.”

The few tourists who wandered in would eye us warily. James, the beefy Don’t-F-With-Me ex-sergeant sparring with the skinny 20-something with a nose ring and half-shaved head.

Locals cheered our jestful jousting. With raised beers — and generous tips.

And our post-midnight exchange became the tavern’s traditional last call. As I grabbed my jacket or sweater, James would shout:

“Where you think you’re goin’ girl?”

“Home, James … back at ya.”

Eventually, we became the ‘70s version of frenemies. And our backroads dive bar became this mountain town’s favorite.

Then came the summer James’s niece Lauren died. It had been a secret abortion gone wrong. I was with her.

James blamed me. He quit The Spot and left town.

The tavern’s longtime congenial vibe began to sour. Wannabe James replacements found me unwilling to spar, my enthusiasm gone. And after an actual scuffle between pro-choice and anti-abortion drinkers, The Spot’s owner banned politics altogether. “Got an opinion? Take it outside.”

The regulars began going elsewhere. The Spot’s owner talked of closing. I lost the nose ring and started growing back my hair.

And now I was headed to L.A. for the funeral of a man whose last words to me were “I’ll never stop hating you.”

But he had, I would learn. James had spent his final years running a last-chance rescue, taking in dogs doomed as unadoptable. Jimmy’s Place. And he’d spoken kindly of me as his niece’s best friend.

It seems he’d found serenity and purpose in this world. Wished I could.

I came back with some of James’s photos, and an odd, warm glow within.

The Spot’s owner and I spent three boozy nights discussing the tavern’s future. Same name, updated dive bar furnishings, but the neon Coors sign was replaced with one that said Jimmy’s.

Behind the bar we hung photographs of James with his rescue dogs. There were earlier photos, too, with tavern customers — and Lauren. We started a tips jar specifically for Jimmy’s Place and its volunteers. We also put up humorous Jimmy’s Rules signs about keeping the barroom banter civil.

We had a grand reopening, for which I shaved half my head.

As locals wandered in to check us out, I just nodded, smiled and thought,

Home, James … back at ya.

Shalom, by Doug Bartlett

7/2/2020

The flames of the campfire gyrated furiously causing a shimmering light to glow on the faces of the crouched men who encircled it. The night was chilly but not unbearably so.
It was obvious who the leader was. He was the only one talking, while the others were listening intently. The leader, whom the men called the “Teacher”, was giving them another amazing lesson.
The men had been terribly curious how they could help achieve world peace. They thought peace would start within their inner circle, then spread throughout their small, middle eastern country and eventually infect the entire planet.
One man asked, “Teacher, what is the secret to peace?”
Another man bemoaned, “ We have six-hundred and thirteen laws on the books and still we have no peace.”
And yet another quizzed, “ How many more laws do we need in order to obtain this seemingly elusive peace?”
The teacher responded, “ You don't need additional laws. In fact, you only need two. Would you like to hear what they are?”
“Certainly,” the men responded in unison.
“The first is to love God with everything you’ve got, not withholding anything back. The second is to love your fellow human beings as much as you love yourself.”
The murmuring and grumbling immediately began within the small group of men.
“It’s difficult to love others when they have so many faults, “ one expressed.
“Yes.” agreed another, “ but then to love them as much as I love myself.”
“Then there’s another difficult issue of loving God with your entire being. There are people on this earth that believe in many different gods and some that don’t believe in God at all,” stated another man.
“It sounds like you guys have your work cut out for you,” the Teacher responded, “ You might want to get started right away.”

Nightmares, by Marjan Sierhuis

7/2/2020

A white hospital sheet covers Rachel’s unconscious body and belies the true extent of her injuries. Strands of wavy brown hair matted with blood peek from under a stained dressing wrapped around the skull. Long eyelashes rest on cheeks as white as snow. The scent of antiseptic from the hallway accompanies a cacophony of noise that streams unannounced through a partially open door.

The sounds from a mechanical ventilator pierce the air as the machine delivers a set amount of oxygen to Rachel's compromised lungs. Suddenly the ventilation cycle is interrupted when she takes a spontaneous breath. But it doesn’t deter the nurse who remains calm at the bedside as she adjusts the rate of a unit of packed cells that flows steadily into Rachel’s veins.

*
On the previous day, angry and shaking her head with confusion, Rachel pauses for a moment outside the investigator’s office clutching a handful of photos. After she stuffs them into an envelope, she climbs into the driver’s seat of her vehicle and immediately exits the parking lot. Minutes later, she presses her foot on the accelerator and pulls onto a nearby freeway. Suddenly a squeal of tires assaults her eardrums. The stink of burning rubber bombards her senses while the scrape of metal upon metal sends up a shower of sparks. The wail of sirens is soon heard as the ominous tones fill the countryside.

*
As Rachel’s body fights for a state of equilibrium, her episodic memories strive for a semblance of order as they slither like a snake through a quagmire of confusion. A bedside monitor displays her heart rate at one hundred and forty beats per minute while her blood pressure plummets to numbers requiring immediate attention.

*
Months later, Rachel lets out a bloodcurdling scream. Travis kisses her cheek once more and pulls her close. “Wake up, sweetheart,” he says. “You must have had another one of your nightmares.”

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