Blog Archives

We Bones are Here Waiting for Yours, by Sankar Chatterjee

27/6/2017

Tom Jones was on his way from Seville, Spain to Lisbon, Portugal in a cross-country bus-ride. His next-seat passenger, a Portuguese youth, would suggest that once the bus crossed the border Tom take a break in the journey for a day to visit the interesting town of Evora. He mentioned that not only the ruins of ancient Roman Pillars still stood tall inside the city, beautiful churches and relics from follow-up historic periods also adorned the city. Then with a mysterious smile, he told Tom not to miss out on a smaller chapel known to the locals as “Capela dos Ossos” without elaborating any further details of the place.

Tom followed his advice, taking a day’s break to visit Evora’s historic ruins, while learning that the term “Capela dos Ossos” translated into “Chapel of the Bones” and it was next to the Church of St. Francis.

Finishing his exploration of the city, Tom headed towards the parent church. At the end of his visit of there, he was directed to the attached smaller chapel whose entrance door bore the sign “Nós ossos que aqui estamos pelos vossos esperamos” that loosely translated to “We bones are here waiting for yours". On entrance, Tom realized that the entire inner hall was decorated with original human skulls and bones. Historically, the place was built by Franciscan monks in the 16th century preaching the essence of “Memento mori", metaphorically meaning “Remember you have to die”. Building this place, the monks wanted to inspire the followers into contemplating life’s transient nature. It has been said that about 5000 skeletons that were utilized in completing the interior decoration came from the graves of the nearby cemeteries. While walking inside the church towards its altar, he came across a poem attributed to Fr. António da Ascenção Teles (translated from its original language to English by Fr. Carlos A. Martins) placed on a display board. In the dim light, he was able to read only a section:

“Where are you going in such a hurry traveler?
Stop … do not proceed;
You have no greater concern,
Than this one: that on which you focus your sight.
Recall how many have passed from this world,
Reflect on your similar end,
There is good reason to reflect
If only all did the same.

The poem clearly delineated the purpose the monks had in mind of this chapel of serving as a place to meditate on the transience of material things in the undeniable presence of death, especially when Evora at the time was noted for its wealth.

Suddenly, Tom felt a touch on his shoulder. The bus driver was waking him up to alert that the bus had arrived in Evora. He realized that he had fallen asleep and already toured the “Capela dos Ossos” in his dream.

Next day, after visiting all other attractions of the city, Tom would spend the afternoon in a local bar watching the live telecast of a football match of European Championship.

Zulu Maid, by Tommy Tarkin

25/6/2017

“Cannibal King on a south sea isle making love to a a Zulu maid,
Til one night, in the south sea light, this to her he said...
I'll build a bamboo bungalow for you...big enough for two, my darling, big enough for you.
We'll be married, happy we'll be, under the bamboo, under the bamboo tree.”

“And you'll be M–I-N-E mine, I'll be T-H-I-N-E thine, and I'll L-O-V-E love you all the T-I-M-E time...”

Linda's crying, and so then am I, as the sun rises and smacks me in the face. Another day, another race.

The yard wasn't a big one then. But Linda was home. Maybe with Lassie, maybe in the VW bug. I was small then. I loved Linda, so of course I ran to her and wrapped her in my biggest boo bear hug. She swung me in a circle, tightly in her boo bear arms.

I can't count the days that I haven't missed my baby sister. From my earliest day's, all I wanted was for Linda to come home. Of course nothing has changed. The greatest challenge in missing my sister was everyone else was missing her too. Everyone.

Of course she wasn't my baby sister, she was the sister who caught me as I came into the world. And the only thing she ever did wrong was not putting me back, getting rid of me, or otherwise saving me from this. But I can't blame her, the game seemed worth playing at the time.

But this day, Mom was wresting in the hospital. I had driven down from the big city, a successful puff of hot air. I knew I wasn't anyone, but the thought still gave me a grift. Mom was dieing, but no one would admit it. She was in a hospital for mid-landers. Not here, not there.

Linda was there. Of course. And then so was I.

I remembered the love Mom and Dad shared, the times in the car singing, the joy we shared in the simple things, and I started singing a Cannibal King.

Mom was dieing of bladder cancer. Slowly, every day, bleeding out. And everyday they fixed her. Cauterizing her, stopping the bleeding. She was in the hospital with pneumonia, and bleeding. I remembered as they stuck the needle in her back to drain her lung. I remembered waiting to see how the procedures went as they burnt her bladder.

That day, I think she was low in blood. Her lunges were ok, I think. I started singing that song, and Mom joined in, weak but happy. She was my Zulu maid. Singing, she had a heart attack, but she never missed a beat. That was my Mom.

A few months later I kissed her good bye, but in my mind she'll always be singing that song.

If I'd asked for a better Mom, well, there just couldn't be.

A Conspiracy Theory, by Sankar Chatterjee

25/6/2017

On a gorgeous summer afternoon, Bill biked 25km from his residence to the National Park bordering his hometown. A decisive battle of country’s “Revolutionary War” was fought in a section of the park, thus the national repute. For some rest, he lied down on his back on the neatly-trimmed grass. A stunning view of the blue sky with cloud-clusters floating along in a gentle breeze appeared at distant. Soon his mind started to drift. He imagined, as if that fierce battle, led by a young general, was taking place nearby. After the victory, the general, instead of instituting a dictatorial regime, would become the President of the country via a democratic process, to guide the young nation forward. Soon, Bill’s mind swung like a pendulum in other direction. Recently, a dictatorial president has been attempting to take away several social benefits from the poor citizens to offer rich tax-benefits to his wealthy friends. And that’s when an old question that had been bothering him for all these years, resurfaced.

Almost three decades ago, Bill, a freshly-minted doctorate in biological sciences, met Dr. Robert Jones, a fellow scientist during a scientific conference. Dr. Jones, an entrepreneur had just resigned his corporate job. He then started a new company in order to find cures for several life-threatening diseases utilizing cutting-edge tools of then-nascent field of biotechnology. In the process, he assumed the role of the CEO of his organization. On Dr. Jones’s invitation, Bill would join him in the endeavor. For next several years, Bill, along with a group of scientists carried out ground-breaking research to put the company’s name on the scientific-map of the pharmaceutical research. During that period, Dr. Jones supported their efforts wholeheartedly.

Then came an offer from a small European laboratory. They had gotten regulatory clearance to sell a novel medicine that afflicted only a small number of population. They approached Dr. Jones to find a market for their new medicine in US. Being entrepreneurial in nature, Dr. Jones accepted the challenge. Based on European clinical data, the drug won the regulatory approval and found its way to the market. However, to their surprise, the prescribing physicians noticed that the medicine was also helping a far broader set of co-morbid patients from other disease-classes. They alerted Dr. Jones, but no new clinical trial was ever reported. However, during next few years, the profit from the sale of the medicine skyrocketed bringing the scrutiny of the government.

Finally, dropped the bombshell! In a wire-tapped sting operation of the federal agencies, top executives were caught red-handed promoting the medicine to the physicians for unauthorized off-label use. A staggering fine of half a billion dollar was levied to keep the executives out of prison.

Dr. Jones, the scientist-turned-businessman would suddenly expire at a young age, succumbing to a disease that he hoped to find a cure for. To date, the question that haunts Bill whether Dr. Jones himself was an active participant in the conspiracy or not!

Uncle Charlie, by Tommy Tarkin

24/6/2017

Uncle Charlie lived on the flats, a small, little four walled, drab, place. I don't know if Charlie wanted, had wanted a big place, with lights glowing and kids running gleefully from room to room. It was a long time ago, and the slats of wood mostly covered the walls, mostly kept the bugs out and the heat in. It wasn't an easy life, but then again I've yet to see one.

Charlie worked, as life suited, odd jobs. And he had his family. Closest to me, for many reasons, was Chuck, or Punky as we called him. One of Charlie's many. But I must say, Punky was the image of his father, though in life no different a man could walk.

Charlie played music. There was the circus, the street corners, the places people gathered to swill from the jug, chat and listen. Every penny counted, and I mean every penny. On good nights, when Charlie had the pennies, he'd stop for crabs, hot steamed Chesapeake Bay crabs to bring home for his family.

Inside, mud crept glacially up the floors as bugs gnawed at their shins, yet the little ones knew the specialness, there on the flats, as once again, that little place was transformed. If Charlie had wanted a big place, on these nights, he had it. And Charlie, in spirit, music and love made it just that one notch bigger. Gatsby himself would have been left wanting.

This was the place my Mom and Dad would come, before I was born. Dad had not yet made it, and the flats were not for him. But dad was comfortable in the flats, he was comfortable anywhere. The wonder of my dad was that he was headed for higher places, yet no matter the place, high or low, every person at worst was his equal, and more likely his better. Mom was right there along his side, loving just the chance to be part of anywhere they were .

A tight love between them, Charlie and Dad, and so too between Charlie and Mom, and with it, all the sacrifice that goes with love. Love is sacrifice, it means sacrifice, without end.

But this page was meant for one thing. The Mandolin.

Charlie came home one night, but no crabs, no giant house, no Gatsby lamenting. She sent him back out as love demands.

Hours later, mandolin in hand, one red rose, a balladeer of desire.

Harry had been drunk, and Charlie lifted the Mandolin from his inebriated hands. Charlie, the back up, could both play it, and enjoyed its transportability. The red rose he found, discarded...or maybe hanging over the whitewashed fence of Mrs. Pence.

But when he arrived home, to the flats, slats fighting the gnats, holding the heat, he placed the rose on her sleeping lap. Softly he strummed, singing a song I don't know what. Her eye's glimmered. Go to sleep, you silly old drunk. I love you.

And this was my Uncle Charlie.

A Good Samaritan, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

23/6/2017

His reputation as a sensitive and public-spirited administrative officer was majestic. Perhaps he was born with a philanthropic instinct. He would miss no opportunity to help those who approached him for succor. No eulogy of his god-like virtues ever puffed him. He remained as humble as a fruit-laden branch of a tree. That elevated him to the status of a messiah. He was often cited as an exemplary Good Samaritan. He could live without food, friends or fun but never without doing a good turn. He would often admit: “Any philanthropic act just fills me with extraordinary gratification.” But he could never know how it had become impossible for him to live without that gratification. In the course of time other officers and public representatives began to emulate him. The result was a fewer number of people around him appealing for help. It was disastrous for him. He grew increasingly restive and craved for suffering people. Then a freakish solution occurred to him. He began to create sufferings and problems for people. He got his gratification--by changing from a messiah to a monster!

A Drop of Early Summer, by Tommy Tarkin

22/6/2017

Two stark lines stretch across my sky. Some plane screamed by, but I failed to notice. I’m not sure why.

The day is deliciously warm. Summer has come, at least for today.

“Glasses and milk…” mom calls out. No time for showing things on the phone. “We’re also missing plates!”

It’s one of those skies, blue and nearly clear of clouds, stratus and not much else. And the red tail hawk darts across the sky.

It’s a small three footed stand. Bent metal, maybe a quarter inch thick, and dipped in black. Some parts are flaking, chipping off. But a white pot sits a foot, if just a bit off.

The white is newer than the lot, but the delicate flowers that flow from the pot, violets with fingers that prop, flow and drop. They are the perfected images of spring.

In the background, my sugar pumpkin riles off scales, preparing for her audition. And then song.

And the sky turns soft. The heat of day is lost, as the splendor of day washes over me. It holds me gently, in it’s arms. The trees rest slow, not moving, but slow.

A few small finches chipper and turn, complaining about something I don’t understand. And so the world goes, awash, and as always stranger. And the birds chatter.

And ABBA spills all over my brain.

Life's Unpredictability,by Sankar Chatterjee

20/6/2017

The youths were recruited from nearby villages; all seven of them. After a brief period of rudimentary training, they were sent underground in the coal mine to find a new cache of the black diamond to supply to the country’s growing need of energy. Carrying their axes, they proceeded through the narrow tunnels illuminated in the light from their own miner’s lamps attached to their hats. After taking a detour in a newly-dug tunnel, they would hit an end-wall. All of them took turn in chipping away a particular area of the wall. Soon a small hole formed and each one was able to slip through it to enter into what appeared to be an undisturbed and unexplored area of new resources. In their excitement, they failed to notice that the space was close-ended, no other opening from any direction. They started to chip away at their new discovery. The vibration from their hitting travelled all around to create a crack on a weaker portion of a wall at the distant. Through this crack, water from a neighboring flooded cave started entering rapidly and filling up their cave, thus slowly trapping and drowning all seven of them.

But, all these events took place two score years ago on a theatre stage in Calcutta in a political drama on the plight of poor coal-miners in India. Dr. Biswajit Mukherjee, a prominent immigrant scientist still remembers that last scene vividly from his youth. It was brought to life by the stage-lighting wizard Mr. Tapas Sen from that period. He had done it with a combination of light and shadow, creating that special effect to show the slow rise of the water-level in the cave. The effect was also augmented by the brilliant acting by the trapped miners in their desperate attempt to escape from the death.

On a recent evening, Dr. Mukherjee was watching a popular TV show. Suddenly, there was a “Breaking News” displaying the live footage from the collision of a modern warship, belonging to his current country of residence with a larger merchant ship of a smaller nation. Most damage was done to the warship, especially near the section of the sailors’ living quarters. Dr. Mukherjee’s heart sank. In his mind’s eyes, two frames appeared side by side. In the left, those miners being trapped in that flooded cave in that historical play, while in the right, the real-life sailors, trapped in their flooded quarters, had been attempting to escape the death. As he closed his both eyes, two frames started to juxtapose sending a shiver through his spine. Still, he held the hope that being trained in warfare, all the sailors would be able to rescue themselves.

Next morning, the headline in the local newspaper announced the tragedy. As he gleaned through the article, Dr. Mukherjee learned that majority of the sailors were found alive, except a few that perished. And that number was a total of seven!

The End and the Start, by Tommy Tarkin

18/6/2017

Bravo’s body lay, smatterings of gray brain matter spilled on the ground. Limp, splayed over the curb, there seemed to be a smile on his slightly startled face.

Next to him, leg broken and bent, Jason felt the coldness seeping in. The blood spilled from his aortic artery, filling his gut; and soon the feeling of coldness, and eventually the heart attack that always follows.

It was a beautiful sunny day, and the people walking just yards away made their way to work. They didn’t notice Bravo or Jason. Spring had come. Pollen had begun painting yellow, disgustingly on everything. It always came in an instant, in one day all the plants agreed, it’s time to let it go.

“How do the trees and plants do that?” I wondered to myself. I strolled down 50th Street, the carnage behind me.

Damn it. My foot stuck and resisted pulling up; some asshole's gum pulling both at the ground and my slightly bloodied shoe. It makes me so god damn angry when people spit their gum on the ground! Did they not have mothers?! What the hell!

I headed around the corner, scraping my shoe, looking forward to some cheap burnt coffee.

It was a beautiful Thursday morning, a beautiful start to the day.

If You Could Feel Like Me, by Tommy Tarkin

17/6/2017

If you could feel like me, and I mean feel, like me…how I feel, you’d see colors that no one else can see. And in the dark, laying quietly, shades of purple, and sometimes of blue, and you’d see greens too. If you could feel like I do.

If you felt the world overwhelm you, and the walls collide and fall into you, and you watched in horror as you couldn’t move, you’d feel me too.

And when tiny stars were smeared across the heavens above, in the frigid cold, when the world was completely dark, and the skies free of angels wings, you’d stand and be crushed by your tininess, and broken by the chance to be part of it. Then you know a part of what I feel.

Run! by Tommy Tarkin

16/6/2017

“Run!”

Snap.

The branch crunched, collapsed under his quick moving pace. Feet carried him on, barely keeping up with his body, keeping him upright. The brush scraped across his face, tearing deep into his cheeks. No maneuvering around the cutting brier, just straight through as the hounds hot breath and clenching teeth were close behind.

Behind the hounds, the horse carried the hunter, dress matched for cutting thorns. His quarry was close.

Hounds barked. The smell of their putrid breath…

He hadn’t done it. He hadn’t… as the first death hound clamped on.

Arrived the horseman… and shot him down.

Random Musings on a Train Ride, by Tommy Tarkin

16/6/2017

I’m on. The train has almost no smell, but the air whooshes. I remember when I rode, slavishly daily, with the morning crowd.

There is she, capturing a three by three, riding from New Canaan, because there is only one stop before mine.

There is also a he, but that bores me.

I’ve always been fond of the feminine side.

She is trim. Dark hair. Not sexy, yet beautiful. She looks like she has a purpose. It might be shopping, but she has the appearance of smart, so perhaps a business meeting.

But here is Stamford, so I must depart, to catch my transfer…

Now a different she is doing her makeup. Some foundation, eye liner I think. I’m guessing soon she’ll touch on her lips. Some red, scarlet, or perhaps something not shocking, or startling. But she is quite intent on looking just right.

It must be a lover, or maybe competitor she seeks out tonight.

Her intention on beauty, of primping, has captivated me. And now the brush! The one you use to put something on your cheeks. She has already brushed her hair. And I believe I said it’s dark and beautiful.

Another, next to me, her head is so cocked to the left. I wonder how she could sleep. She is slender, with sandals that cover barely any of her feet. She has tan khakis that fall gracefully over her legs. Gentle silver loops grace her ears. A blue and white plaid shirt form fit to match the rest of her body.

But her head no longer cocked, but cast up, mouth a gape as if waiting to taste the rain. I wonder why she is so tired.

Kids, work, drugs…or maybe just life.

Now the scene has changed. The seats are full, and my eye lids lay heavily. People of every walk burden the train. Some smile and others refrain.

The dark tunnel has just yet begun to run. Some small lights illuminate the drudgery, filth, and crime of time. White smatterings for unknown reason drool down the awkward shapes that hold up the underworld sky. Dark and foreboding…

And then the 59th Street light.

A young couple sit entangled in talk. The future is so bright.

And the ticket man comes to end my respite.

The Inquisition, by Laila Kasuri

15/6/2017

"Why did Haji do it?"

Amna tapped her fingers looking at the police officer indignantly. "Like I said," she said to the officer, "He did it to save us. He didn’t have a choice. Heaven or Hell." Heaven and Hell were old-fashioned words, but they didn't sound strange on Amna’s lips, not when referring to Haji’s actions.

Amna watched the officer put on gloves. Then, he reached into the brown envelope on the table and took out a gun. He examined it carefully, and then placed it on the table in front of Amna.

"He had a license for the gun," Amna explained apologetically.

"I didn’t ask you if he did or didn’t," The officer barked. Amna remained quiet.

"Why did he do it?” The officer continued, “Why didn’t he come to us if he was threatened?”

"He wanted to save my life,” Amna answered, then pointed at her belly, “And save hers." She was pregnant with Haji’s girl.

The officer looked at her for a moment, "Well, are you happy now?" the officer said, “He’s gone now, leaving you a widow and her, an orphan.” The officer stared at her belly.

Suddenly, Amna’s eyes welled up and she began to sob. Hiccups followed immediately.

The officer offered her water from the dispenser and then finally said, “Listen, we know it wasn’t him.”

Amna looked up, "Then, why am I here?”

“Because you saw the actual perpetrator.”

Silence.

Fear swelled in Amna’s heart as she signed, "The other man was tall, bald and had a gun. He thrust the belt onto Haji. Haji had no choice but to run far, far away. God knows where his body is now."

“Then, you don’t know about his body?” The officer asked. Amna nodded.

“We never found it.”

Amna stopped crying for a moment, as something hit her. It was hope, “Is he alive?”

The officer stayed quiet for a moment, and then finally said, “We think so.” He paused and then added, “Tell me everything. And I will make sure you get your husband back.”

Con Te Partiro, by Tommy Tarkin

15/6/2017

The first time takes me back to Las Vegas, the Bellagio, and the dancing waters in the pool. A Vegas pool is more properly a lake, with shimmering water, crystal clear. More perfect than water can be. In the middle of the desert. The contrast that is Las Vegas.

The sun was down as we walked past, just as the show began. People enveloped me. Honestly, I don't remember a single one of them. The moment engulfed me.

Pardon me, because this was not a Vegas show. Vegas shows are of an entirely different beast. When I say show in this case, I mean more like an advert by the casino to come on in and try your luck.

Vegas adverts are just a bit bigger, if you take my hint.

Everything in Vegas is bigger, so even the adverts have lakes, where the waters dance and the sirens sing, oceans bring forth pirate battles, and quarter scale Tour d'Eiffels beckon, and of course a slice of the Big Apple calls you to return.

There, in front of the lake, the water dancing, a feat of amazing technology, the music called me. As if in some enchanted forest, my feet glued to the sidewalk, I couldn't walk; I turned, or didn't, because it was the music that possessed me, not the sight. A song I had never heard, but I knew, like the insides of my heart, a thousand times over. I melted. I was a boy in my twenties, clueless, but I knew this meant something, or everything.

Con te partiro. Time to say goodbye. I knew, in the beauty, exactly what they were singing, expressing. Music can speak to us in so many ways.

It seems life is a continuous preview. We are given a look, some recognize, but most don't.

I was given a look that evening. It was humanity sharing something that was overwhelming, in that music, something that was inescapable, unavoidable, that every man and woman must face. I didn't know the words, but I knew the profoundness, the absoluteness. I just wasn't sure what 'that' was then.

I know now. I said goodbye. I say goodbye.

Youth is a wonderful gift, because it knows no goodbye. In youth, we don't see goodbye, or feel it. Life is screaming at the tops of our lungs, as we learn how to be, how to live, who we are, how we fit. Goodbye is drowned out, and for good reason. The young should never be dragged down by goodbyes, they have a life of hellos ahead of them. The newness of life propels humanity ahead, and thank god for that.

Twenty years later, I'd said goodbye to so many. The song echoed in my head. Mom and Dad, several friends, goodbye. I sat at my desk, watching, listening, crying, to the song, the good memories, and the complete understanding I always had of what those foreign words meant. The most profound of all things, that final goodbye.

Columbus Was Wrong, by Bruce Levine

13/6/2017

Whenever I’ve lived anywhere there was always an area that I truly liked and an area that I truly disliked. Let me give you an example. My wife and I lived on Long Island, NY for a while and we truly liked the north shore and truly disliked the south shore. It was so defined that our slogan was, like that during the westward expansion, go West young man - ours was go North young man…or woman.

On the very rare occasions that we were absolutely forced to go to the south shore we felt that we had to get special dispensation, our passports stamped, a visa and shots.

Our dividing point was the Long Island Expressway which ran west to east at approximately the middle of the island. It was our line of demarcation and we believed that if we crossed the LIE going south we’d fall off the face of the earth.

So my advice to all of you is that whenever you move someplace find the area that you like and the area that you don’t like and then find your line of demarcation because I might be right – Columbus was wrong.

Butter, Soft and Delicious, by Tommy Tarkin

13/6/2017

Butter, soft and delicious. On a plate from 1920, antique white, the glaze stained by time, and cracking with fine brown lines.

Behind, the Americas Cup. Flying over water…fierce strokes to trim the sail. A dip as the boat tacked, the starboard hull dropping in. And yet they fought desperately. Cruise ship beyond as the horizon hailed. Meticulously planned, each inch known well in advance.

The boat struck a hard pitch, but quickly jumped above, floating above the water on its underwater foils.

The men fly from side to side. Endlessly trying to keep stride. There are well defined targets, and the men know each and every one.

On the side, the men dragged in through the front door, they banter and talk, some business at hand, but none that matters. They laugh. It’s some manner to bond I think.

And the boat continues to sail, floating above the transom, the gunwales. They reconcile, and gather together, preparing for the next juncture.

And the men behind, they talk of numerically, but I doubt they could add two and three.

And yet the boats soar. High on hydrofoils, and somehow translating seven kilometers of wind into flight.

A small boy sits in the arms of Lily. On dialysis three times a week and on deaths door, alone, she relishes in his beautiful perfect young life. But he tires, and grows impatient, wanting mom, or maybe dad.

Today is dad’s day.

And yet the boats sail on. Ever vigilant, the crew has not lost sight of the target. They will yet best this.

John Denver comes over the stereo. I almost cry…Rocky Mountain High. A long way from Colorado, where I was born, now in Connecticut, where I reside. But it brings up the pure feelings of youth, a place we all long to return. A place we can never go. And so the tear in my eye.

And the boats continue to fly. And then they dive. How do they do it this long? I fear I’d have fallen by now. The intensity is so great.

A High Street Encounter, by Ian Fletcher

13/6/2017

Barry ambled along the high street, having finished work at noon. At 60 he could now travel free on the bus home to his detached house in the suburbs, so most days he wouldn’t bother driving his Toyota Corolla to the office.

He had gone part-time by choice, and was even considering retirement from the insurance firm, for he was reasonably prosperous, his kids grown up, with the mortgage paid off years ago.

After 35 years loyal service he was also entitled to his company pension, should he take early retirement, before the state pension kicked in at 66.

“Why not?” he thought, his mind ready to leisurely weigh up the pros and cons on the bus ride home.

“Got some spare change, sir?” said a gravelly, slurred voice, interrupting his musings.

“I’m afraid not,” said Barry curtly, looking down at the beggar on the sidewalk.

The man was obviously an alcoholic with the prematurely gray hair of his ilk. He looked old, but was probably only in his forties.

“He’ll never make it to my age,” thought Barry, finding it hard to veil his disgust at the purple-faced, toothless specimen beneath him.

“Well, fuck you!” rasped the beggar, sensing his contempt, as Barry walked on.

The trivial yet rancorous encounter had managed to rattle him, the beggar’s abusive response punctuating his equilibrium.

It had started to pepper with rain so, on a whim, Barry decided to pop into the Starbucks across the road.

He would have a latte there and browse the news on his iPad, while waiting for the rain to stop.

After all, he had all day.

Ensconced in a comfortable armchair, he looked outside.

The rain grew stronger, thoroughly soaking the forlorn beggar, who scrambled off looking for shelter.

Barry smiled, sipping his latte contentedly.

May The God Of Visa Be With You, by Sankar Chatterjee

9/6/2017

John Allen returned to India after an absence of forty years. Last time, he had visited the country in early 1970. Like many youths of his generation, he was enchanted with the eastern mysticism, mindfulness and concept of peace. Also, he wanted to stay away from the social turbulence that had engulfed his own country from involvement in a faraway unjust war. Then, there was the continuing injustice towards the African-American section of the citizenry. Even after their emancipation from slavery a century ago, the society still did not integrate them fully into mainstream.

In India, John joined the ashram of a guru, next to the temple of a revered Hindu god. He shaved his head, practiced meditation, chanted Sanskrit hymns and ate vegetarian meal, while spending several months listening to his guru’s words of wisdom and witnessing his non-materialistic way of life. On his return to US, he even walked bare-footed for several months.

But, modern India with its current population of billion people already shed its image of mysticism and mindfulness. Thanks to modern invention, globalization and easy access to cheap technology, even an old-fashioned rickshaw-puller in Calcutta nowadays checks the score of an international cricket match on his smartphone. Then, there has been the invasions of those glitzy western-type mega malls satisfying the materialistic needs of a vast population. John began to feel dejected by the shattering of his memory of old India. However, he was still looking forward to find that ashram in the same tranquility last time he was there.

He landed in the nearby town in a late night flight from New Delhi. Next morning, hailing a cab, he arrived at the complex of the ashram and the temple. While waiting for his old guru in the ashram, he noticed that there had already been a long queue of at least several hundreds of Indian youths, both males and females, each one holding what appeared to be an individual passport.

The explanation about the gathering of this new generation of devotees came from a member of the previous generation. With the new administration in US cracking down on immigration, there spread a fear through the local young IT professionals of not getting the required visa to enter into the county for a lucrative appointment. Then one day, one particular visa applicant (still unidentified) was able to request the head priest to pray with his passport in front of the deity. That very afternoon, his visa request was granted by the local US consulate. And a myth was born.

John felt a sense of relief. In some way, the mysticism has been still alive and well in India.

Standing On The Shoulders Of The Giants, by Sankar Chatterjee

6/6/2017

John Dodd, a young American scientist, was in the middle of his hike on a section of the ancient Inca Trail to arrive at the famous ruins of Machu Picchu in Peru. He came down along the ridge of a mountain to arrive at a fast-flowing stream, being formed from the water of a distant waterfall appearing as a bridal veil. John crossed the stream to go to the other side where trail continued up the next mountain to reach at the site known as Winaywayna, a historic habitat of the ancient Incas. However, the hike up was not on a regular mountain trail, instead climbing up multitude of smaller stone steps in the middle of the architecturally massive semi-circular terrace-based farming system of the Inca civilization. At different terraces, the Inca farmers grew different types of corns and vegetables. While climbing those strenuous steps John started to ponder how Inca civilization had gained the initial knowledge of their terrace-based farming system. He inquired to his trail-guide Nomita. Without elaborating, she suggested that John visit a place called Moray, near Cusco, the ancient capital of the Incas.

Before leaving the country, John made the trip to Moray to find no Inca temples or buildings, but various model-sized oval-shaped terraced pits sunk into the earth dotting the landscape with irrigation system underneath. In fact, the entire scenery from the top was reminiscent of something out of a sci-fi movie. John learned that the international scientists had studied the design, height and the orientation of each terrace system with respect to the sun’s location at different angles coupled with wind’s effect at various times of the year. This led to the observation that a temperature gradient of greater than 25°F could be achieved between the top and the bottom of a particular terrace system with variable temperature in between. This gave rise to the speculation that this significant temperature difference, coupled with the amount of sunshine as well as rain-fall, was used by the early Incas to optimize growing conditions of different crops. In other words, these were their miniature outdoor agricultural laboratories. The knowledge gained here were then disseminated throughout other locations. John took a walk down the steps of one such system to appreciate the development of this advanced agricultural knowledge of the past civilization while remembering Sir Isaac Newton’s famous quote “If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of the giants.”

Later, he journeyed to Lima, current capital of the country to catch a return flight. In the airport, he picked up an English-language international newspaper. The headline on the front-page announced his country’s pulling out of an international climate-control agreement due to the current dictatorial leader’s arrogance and ignorance. The leader and his henchmen termed the established scientific proofs of the rapid destructive changes in the environment from industrial pollutants as “Fake Science”.

John wondered whether the dictator had even known about Sir Newton, let alone his pronouncement!

Bon Voyage, by Diane de Anda

4/6/2017

The house was filled with three generations for Aunt Lucy's Bon Voyage party.

Aunt Lucy slipped on a gold bracelet covered with rows of diamonds. She walked over to the walk-in closet, slid the clothes to one side, and scooted her jewelry box into one of the hidden drawers.

Although Aunt Lucy never had children, her house had been filled with nieces and nephews, and later with their children. The children had free rein in the rambling old house and often took the secret passageway in the upstairs closets from the room at one end of the house in a dark journey to the master bedroom.

“If she can drop ten thousand on a cruise, she can lend me the cash to keep creditors off my back,” Jeremy snapped at his mother.

“It's not the appropriate time. This is the first time she's gotten out since your great uncle's death. Wait and talk to her when she comes back.”

They looked up and saw Aunt Lucy approaching.

“How long will you be gone, Auntie Lucy?” queried Margo, her eldest niece.

“Almost three weeks. Can you imagine? “ Aunt Lucy replied.

Margo looked at Aunt Lucy's wrist. “You're not wearing your expensive jewelry are you? We've heard some terrible tales....”

Aunt Lucy interrupted. “Don't worry.. I'm leaving my valuables tucked away in my closet. The alarm system will alert the neighbors if anyone breaks in.”

Jeremy smiled as he remembered that Aunt Lucy had a button she could push if she wanted to leave the house without triggering the alarm. As she mingled with the relatives, he slipped upstairs to the far room, traveling quickly down the passageway, stopping halfway to the master bedroom.

After everyone left, Aunt Lucy and a nephew went upstairs. She walked to the closet and slipped the bracelet into the drawer. “Please slide the door shut inside the closet,” she called.

With a yank, he slid the metal door into place.

“Turn the key and hand it to me,” instructed Aunt Lucy. She smiled at the click of the deadbolt. “Now please pick up my bags and follow me.”

“Please close and lock the door in this closet too,” she directed when they entered the room at the end of the hall.

“I don't remember these doors when we played in here as kids,” he remarked.

“Your uncle had the doors put in a couple of years ago. 'Just in case,' he said. I mostly leave them open, and you don't even notice them in the dark closet. But now that I'll be gone for so long, I thought it wouldn't hurt.”

The same nephew met Aunt Lucy at the dock two and a half weeks later. She chatted on about her trip, then asked the question he had been dreading, “What's been happening with the family while I've been gone?”

He decided to tell her simply and directly.

“Jeremy's missing. No one's seen or heard anything from him for almost three weeks.”

Home Left Behind, by Sankar Chatterjee

2/6/2017

“Don't be so serious,” Chastised my dear friend Sarit in the middle of our back and forth e-discussion between two old classmates about the outcome of recent US Presidential election. We had gone from primary through high schools together while growing up in Calcutta, India, but spent most of our adult lives here in US. A flashback jumped from mid-1960. We just walked along Cornwallis Street a couple of kilometers on a hot summer day from our school at College Street arriving in front of a locally-famous “Lassi Shop” right across from the entrance of the narrow street that would lead him to his house, while I would take a trolley for the rest of my journey to my home far in the north. We were looking forward to a glass of this place’s famous chilled mango lassi. Alas! He ran out of the mangoes for the day, but offered to make a pineapple one instead. No, stickler in me wanted the mango lassi, prompting Sarit’s same friendly rebuke. Then came the second flashback: fast forward to a few decades when I attempted to recreate that past walking along the same route, this time on my own. Like humans who inhabit them, cities also change as they age. I could not recognize any of the new stores that popped up while I was gone. Millennial youngsters with their smartphones and designer sneakers were more hip. But, for me, the extent of change was far deep. That lassi shop did not exist anymore to offer me my past glass of missing mango lassi. Instead, a modern café full of teenagers, eyes glued to i-phone screens, while ears plugged in for streaming music.

And I wondered, can one really ever go back to home he left behind!

Jam On A Cracker, by Michelle Bowdler

2/6/2017

I watched my dead mother eating jam on a cracker at Stonewall Kitchen. It was the turn of her shoulder, the tilt of her head. She tossed gobs of sweet jam in her mouth and went on her way in search of the next sample -- strawberry rhubarb, blueberry peach, champagne marmalade -- dolloped extravagantly onto a white thin crisp. When my breath returned, I walked towards my mother only to see a woman who was not her. The hair color was wrong, the face that of a stranger. Her high cheekbones were puffy and sagged. I am heading back to Stonewall Kitchen to look around for her, just in case. I’ll eat jam on a cracker while I wait.

We Bones are Here Waiting for Yours, by Sankar Chatterjee

Zulu Maid, by Tommy Tarkin

A Conspiracy Theory, by Sankar Chatterjee

Uncle Charlie, by Tommy Tarkin

A Good Samaritan, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

A Drop of Early Summer, by Tommy Tarkin

Life's Unpredictability,by Sankar Chatterjee

The End and the Start, by Tommy Tarkin

If You Could Feel Like Me, by Tommy Tarkin

Run! by Tommy Tarkin

Random Musings on a Train Ride, by Tommy Tarkin

The Inquisition, by Laila Kasuri

Con Te Partiro, by Tommy Tarkin

Columbus Was Wrong, by Bruce Levine

Butter, Soft and Delicious, by Tommy Tarkin

A High Street Encounter, by Ian Fletcher

May The God Of Visa Be With You, by Sankar Chatterjee

Standing On The Shoulders Of The Giants, by Sankar Chatterjee

Bon Voyage, by Diane de Anda

Home Left Behind, by Sankar Chatterjee

Jam On A Cracker, by Michelle Bowdler

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