Bouquet of Emotions
Abdul Punnayurkulam
Published by Abdul Punnayurkulam at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Abdul Punnayurkulam
All Rights Reserved
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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For information or more of this authors work:
Abdul Punnayurkulam moideen87@hotmail.com
List of Short Stories
Aminiya
The Ashes
Bearded Man In The Dream
Beloved Partner - Stella
Catching the Flying Bird
Catching THE DREAM
Dedication
The Italian Neighbor
The Surrogate scandal
Uncle Malice English
INTRODUCTION
Abdul Punnayurkulam is a decorated author in his native country, India, and well-known among Kerala community in USA. Earning several literary awards for his poetry and short fiction, including Federation of Malayalee Association of America Literary Award three times, the Akshara Literary Award in Kerala, and Kerala Panini Literary Award, and recently recognized by MILAN, Detroit (Michigan Literary Association of N. America) for his outstanding contribution to Malayalam literature in 2011. He has also successfully published his writings in English, and his mother tongue, Malayalam, where his strong use of imagery explores ocean-depths of emotion.
His works reveal the yearnings of the heart, ranging from longing for love lost and the cries of despair to the promise of hope in a forlorn world.
In this book of stories, Punnayurkulam draws upon his multicultural experiences, love of family, and insights from his professional encounters as a social worker to create literature that appeals to the truth within one’s soul. The themes in his writings are universal and compelling and these stories will undoubtedly stir empathy with the reader. - Sue Pauling
AMINIYA
It was in my second year of college when I met Shimon. He was in my statistics class. He was also my campus roommate and we became close friends.
One evening, after class we went for a walk and stopped at a bakery. It looked like an Italian bakery. A sweet aroma of pastries and cakes lingered in the air. The bakery was big and busy. A gorgeous sales lady stood behind the counter. Shimon introduced me to her, his sister’s best friend, Aminiya.
A week later, we visited the bakery again. Aminiya greeted us with a smile. We bought some doughnuts. As we were leaving, Aminiya said good-bye. Her pleasant voice was sweeter than the doughnut I had just eaten.
Two months later, Shimon invited me to his sister’s wedding. Shimon’s sister already invited Aminiya. It was the first time I had attended a Jewish wedding and witnessed a glass-breaking ceremony. The ceremony symbolizes Jewish tradition to remind us the relationships are as fragile as a glass and must always be treated with care, love, and respect.
Just about everyone was on the dance floor. As I watched the dance, Aminiya crossed the room and asked me to dance. When I revealed that I didn’t know how, she had a hard time to believing it. When she encouraged again, I danced with her. While we danced, our eyes exchanged their own signals.
After the dance, she expressed her heartfelt thanks for the dance.
Her warm smile and scent kept me company for the rest of the evening.
As time passed, Shimon and I often visited the bakery, and then I went alone.
One afternoon, Aminiya invited me to her house to meet her mother. It was difficult for me to find her house by bus from where I lived in Long Island to Bensonhurst, Brooklyn - New York.
When I reached Aminiya’s house, she introduced me to her mother and uncle, who happened to be visiting that day. They appeared to be close family and gave me faint smiles.
Aminiya said with half a smile, “I’m glad I had a chance to introduce you to my mom and uncle.” I didn’t respond; I had a gut feeling that my brown skin disappointed them. When Aminiya noticed my nervousness, she asked me to take a walk with her. I was relieved; she also excited to be with me.
September’s warm weather was comfortable. As we were walking, Aminiya introduced me her neighborhood. One side was Italian, the other side Jewish. She pointed to one side and said, “This area belongs to the rich Mafia.”
I said loudly, “Who cares about the Mafia?”
She raised her hand and tried to cover my mouth as she asked to lower my voice.
I liked her closeness.
After the walk, she thanked me for the wonderful evening.
After that meeting, we talked frequently. We met during my busy academic schedule. We went out for movies, and occasionally for a play on Broadway. We enjoyed each other’s company.
Six months after, I sensed that Aminiya yearned to be married. Her mother was against rushing into such an important commitment; she said Aminiya was only 25 years old and had plenty of time to get married. Her mother also encouraged her to wait for one of her former rich boyfriends or for the medical student she had once dated. Aminiya said if she waited for one of them to propose, there was no guarantee she would ever be married. And she was overly concerned about gaining weight. Although Aminiya was attractive, she had a feeling that she might lose me like she lost her other boyfriends.
It was my third year of college. Two more years of studies, I would be an engineer. Soon after, my dad expected me to return to India.
Aminiya called me one day and asked me to visit her new apartment. She was a little nervous and wanted me there with her. She hinted that she had a dispute with her mom.
My heart sank into the pit of my stomach as I remembered a pronouncement she once made to her mother: “If Sabu is not welcome in this house because of his color, then I won’t be living here, either!”
As soon as I arrived at her apartment, I heard the radio playing. She greeted me with joy, and threw her arms around me in a hug and rested her head on my shoulder with a sigh of relief. I noticed my presence eased her tension. She rubbed her red lips on my face affectionately and whispered, “I love you.” The radio’s love songs added to our romance.
As our relationship grew, she again expressed her desire to get married. I asked, “What about your former boyfriends?”
She didn’t answer. I probed, “Are they going to interfere with our marriage?”
She kept silent as if it were not a problem.
As I watched her shiny face fading, I held her hand and proposed, “You know, I’ll be very proud to have you as my wife. I’ll be so glad to put a wedding ring on your finger by next week.”
She was overjoyed. She had always wanted a luxurious wedding with plenty of guests and limousines. When she remembered that I was a student, she agreed to have a simple ceremony. But I promised her when we renewed our vows, she would have a fabulous reception.
When we shared the news with her mother she stood neutral.
Within a week we registered to be married at the City Hall.
Aminiya was extremely happy being married; I was pleased as well. Over the weekend, we spent our honeymoon in her new apartment. Soon after, I went back to college, and she reported to work. Within a week, I moved from my dormitory to Aminiya’s apartment.
We frequently visited her relatives and our friends, and sometimes we enjoyed the shows at Radio City Music Hall in Manhattan.
I wrote a letter to my mother back home in Kerala, about our wedding. She had a hard time accepting it. She reminded me, “Your father is not feeling well; he is waiting for your return as soon as you complete your degree.”
I was reluctant to write a reply.
I told Aminiya about my father’s wish, she said, “I’d love to meet your parents; someday we can visit them.”
The first year went by fast. When Aminiya found out she was pregnant, she jumped with joy. Her happiness gave me happiness too.
Aminiya gave birth to a beautiful girl. We named her Victoria, but called Vicky.
Aminiya returned to the bakery six weeks after the birth. Her mother visited Vicky often and always brought presents.
Before Vicky was born, I never skipped any of my classes, but now who would take care of Vicky? Hiring a babysitter would be costly, so I decided to babysit, but I couldn’t register for any classes.
I was delighted to spend time with Vicky. She crawled all over the apartment freely and happily. Whenever she picked up dirt or sharp objects she looked at me. If I said no or signaled a negative gesture, she put it down with a smile and crawled off in a different direction.
After I dropped out of college, I could feel my father’s discontent. He had been paying for my college in America, which was a lot more expensive than at home.
From time to time, I would tell Aminiya that we shouldn't have any more children before I completed college, but she gave me with passionate hugs and said, “Honey, let’s have more babies and make a big and beautiful family.” Her ardent expression of love was irresistible.
One night I had a horrible dream. A weary snake crawled on me, I kicked it really hard and the snake died instantly. Two days later, my father’s best friend called from Malaysia and informed me about the sudden death of my father. While father was waiting for a regular medical check-up at the clinic, he fell from his chair and suffered a massive heart attack. His doctor tried to save him, but his attack was severe, and there was nothing else that could be done.
The tragic news broke my heart.
Memories of my father wrapped around me like a mourning blanket. Perhaps it was my father who had approached me in the form of a snake to convey his wishes and grievances. Maybe he was trying to speak to me. I should never have kicked the snake with such force to kill it.
My conscious rationalized that if a reptile creeps on anyone, naturally they would kick it away. But my mind did not accept it, and concluded I should have prepared to see my dad in my dream. It didn’t matter that he appeared in the shape of a snake or anything.
When Vicky was one-and-half, Aminiya gave birth to Christina. Six weeks later, she returned to the bakery. When Christina was added to our family, Aminiya wanted to move to a two bedroom apartment. I reminded her about the high rent. As usual, she mentioned she would work overtime.
Within a month we moved to a bigger place. But the rent was a struggle to pay. After few months, I asked her if we could move to the vacant upstairs of her mother’s house to save money. She said, “Honey, I’m so happy right here with you, and I have a bad feeling about moving in with my mother.”
She rather liked in the apartment than moving in with her mother, yet surprisingly she agreed.
Aminiya’s mother assisted us in moving to her house, also helped to take care of Vicky and Christina, which meant now I had plenty of time to work. I searched for a job. Since I didn’t have a college degree, I had to accept an occupation as a security guard on the night shift. Aminiya preferred that I continue studying for engineering as my father had wished, but I lost interest in studying after father's death.
One day I was home on my day off when the phone rang. When I said, “Hello,” the caller hung up. The unknown caller continued to call frequently. When I mentioned this to Aminiya, she casually said it must have been a wrong number. Her lack of concern irritated me, “If they’re wrong numbers, why do they hang up on me when they hear my voice?”
She kept silent.
I was frustrated. “Are you still keeping in touch with your old friends?”
She didn’t reply.
“The next time when you talk to them, let them know you’re married; they can figure out the rest.”
Her continued silence aggravated me. “One thing is for sure, if you are not honest with me, it will be a problem.”
Once again she didn’t respond.
A few days later the same thing happened again.
I was getting agitated. “I don’t understand what kind of friendship you want from them. If you were open with me, you’d tell me what is happening, rather than giving me the silent treatment.”
There was no answer again! She had the blank look of a child.
My voice grew louder. “I think you’re unnecessarily defending your old dates instead of focusing on our marriage!” After a pause, I added, “Let me tell you one thing: you can’t have both relationships; it won’t work. I won’t be here to see your games!”
When she felt the threat was real, her face became pale.
The severity of our lack of understanding grew. Her consistent silence pushed me to the edge. Without thinking I said, “I can also get a women on top of me, I don’t have to be stuck with a fat one.” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I knew it was a cruel thing to say. I felt awful. While my mind was preparing for an apology, she lashed back, “I can also bring any handsome guy into my bedroom - you’ll see!”
I couldn't believe she was actually challenging me. I felt shocked and in terrible pain as if she had stabbed my chest.
A dead silence encircled us. It stung like sharp needles.
Two weeks passed. One day, I came home early from work and went straight to the bedroom. Aminiya was off that day. As I walked into the bedroom, I was shocked to see that there was a man lying in our bed! The sight was unimaginable and unbearable. I wanted to run away before she could stop me. I rushed to get out of the house. On the way, I managed to grab couple of my shirts.
Heading to the main street, I thought she had done as she had warned--she purposely brought a good-looking man into our bedroom.
After four or five blocks of walking fast, I reached an intersection. I didn’t know where to turn. I went to the store where I usually bought groceries. I told the Yemeni store owner that I wanted to relocate from Brooklyn to anywhere - right away!
He had some friends in Detroit; he introduced me to them over the phone. Before I boarded a Greyhound bus to Detroit, I called my working place and informed them I wouldn’t be able to continue my employment there anymore. When I reached Detroit, I had no difficulty finding the house in Hamtramck. The house was fairly big and had four working bachelors living there.
Within a month, I was able to find a job as a security guard.
Aminiya regularly sent me letters. She must have gotten my address from the store. I discarded them without reading them. Eventually, the letters stopped coming.” I was extremely outraged at her attitude for not giving up her previous boyfriends.
When the holidays came, the children were always on my mind. My false pride kept me from contacting them. To suppress my thoughts, I looked for women. But without a good job or a house of my own, I felt inferior. Gradually, I avoided women altogether.
The loneliness and boredom brought me a feeling of melancholy.
As time went on, there was no news from back home. It had been 16 years since my dad had passed away, and eight years later my mother also became a memory. When I thought of my mom, it was either that she was reading the newspaper to father or discussing politics or poetry with him. She always said, “Take a short trip to India with Aminiya and the children; I want to see you all before I die… Give up stubbornness towards Aminiya.” I paid no mind to her pleas.
I wondered how the children were doing. Did they make it to high school? What were their academic goals? Were they preparing for college? Were they dating or married? Were they listening to their mother? A lot of questions popped into my mind. Vicky would be 16 years old now, Christina was14. The last time I saw Vicky was when she was nine.
The children were always on my mind. I couldn’t resist my feelings any longer. At last, I decided to contact them. The only person who would know about them would be my old friend, Shimon. When I called him finally, he said he had no knowledge about Aminiya or the children, but he agreed to gather any information about them. He got back to me within a month with sad news.
Vicky and Christina had been expelled from high school when marihuana was found in their lockers. They were drug abusers. They roamed the streets with their friends’. Tragically, a teenage gang brutally raped Vicky, and dumped her body in a remote area. When the police found her, she barely had a pulse. She was hospitalized for a month and took a year to recover to her health.
I also found out the shocking news from Shimon that Aminiya had remarried four years ago, but they didn’t have any children together. The man she married had no interest in Vicky and Christina. Her mother had taken care of the children until she passed away three years ago.
Vicky and Christina stole petty items from the house to trade for marihuana or cocaine. When Aminiya’s husband noticed the thefts, he reluctantly let them into the house. To maintain their abuse, they would sell drugs, even sell their bodies!
I blamed myself for not providing the children with a fatherly love and guidance. After serious thought, I decided to make any sacrifice to live with them. I hesitated to call Aminiya after all these years. I was restless until I called her and expressed my desire to live with the children for the rest of my life. She was surprise to hear from me, and was silent for minutes… Fortunately, she didn’t refuse my request.
I returned to New York after giving up my job in Detroit. When I saw the children, I embraced them with happy tears. I was fortunate to see them. Vicky and Christina were more beautiful than I had ever imagined. I was so proud to have them. At the same time, I was ashamed too.
Aminiya allowed me to stay in her cluttered basement. Her husband had no problem with the arrangement as long as I paid rent.
I knew I had to get a job to help them pay the bills. I searched for work and I found a security guard job again.
Once my situation settled, I demanded the girls to stop smoking marihuana and encouraged them to go back to school. I tried to avoid being overly emotional. It seemed that their father’s returning had hardly any affect on them. They not only disregarded my advice but also displayed animosity towards me. They didn’t understand me or pay any attention to me. When I tried to explain right from wrong, they ignored me or disappeared.
It was then that I realized just how far their life was from reality. They were absolutely involved in smoking pot, drinking alcohol, peer pressure, cynicism, TV, music, computer, attitude and their own worldly matters.
In fact, neither of them felt that I was their father or thought I should have any power over them. Sometimes they looked at me as a stranger, as if asking, “Where the hell were you when we were growing up?”
When they kept rejecting me, my guilt feelings haunted me again. If I hadn’t run away like an immature coward, and had brought them up properly, they would have been excellent children by now. I should have identified the problem rather than being judgmental or over reactive.
I felt like a severely wounded animal crying from far away for help.
Aminiya had no influence on the children, either. She worked as usual, untiringly, taking care of her unemployed alcoholic husband like she took care of me. She always begged the girls to stay home and return to school. Whenever they did come home, they only stayed a couple of days.
Usually, when I return from work, I won’t go anywhere, except in the basement. Sometimes I could hear Aminiya’s husband quarreling with her when he got drunk, or heard the mattress’s squeaky noise echoed the entire house when they made love. At that time, I remembered my father’s dissatisfaction with me. I thought many times moving away from there, but something held me back.
Once in a great while, Vicky and Christina approached me with a hug or a kiss, “Hi Dad, how are you?” Or, “Have a nice day.” Their lovely voices perked up my mood for a while. Instantly, a sense of hope sprouted in me. However, in minutes I would hear, "Bye, Dad,” and they would disappear for many days, then I would miss their endearing voice.
I had been working for over a year, and hadn’t skipped a day. One day I felt exhausted and decided to take a day off. I slept for many hours and then took a walk in the evening. After a long walk, I entered a huge park and sat near a giant tree.
November’s chill brought a gloomy outlook. I looked over the trees around the park. Many were covered with golden leaves and some were leafless, while others were still green. Small birds chirped over my head; their sounds were so melodious. I listened. It seemed as if they were talking to me, as they were inviting me far away, somewhere… like heaven.
After a few hours in the park, I walked back to where there was a bench by the sidewalk near Aminiya’s house. Darkness spread all around; the street lights shined. I simply looked at the sky; vivid clouds moved like leisurely. Gradually, moonlight dimmed; the shiny clouds dramatically changed to gigantic snakes, and the dark clouds transformed again. Now they looked like an enormous black mountain. Abruptly, the mountain became a herd of wild elephants, and the elephants ran one after another and grabbed the shining moon with their mighty trunks!
Then the thick blackness all over the sky, and the sky disappeared.
I became disoriented. Few seconds later, I gained awareness and walked back to my basement. I lay on the bed. Sleepless hours. My thoughts are haunting me. I was losing my grip…
I criticized myself again for not being responsible for my children.
I thought, isn’t Aminiya liable for this, too? Why did she bring a strange man into our bedroom? Why did she conceal our marriage from her male friends? I slowly climbed upstairs and knocked on her door without even thinking about her husband.
She opened the door, and raised her eyebrows. For two years, I had been placing the rent checks in her mailbox. Whenever she saw me, she would say, “Hi.” And that was it. The look on her face revealed that she would burst at any moment without a shoulder to cry on.
I stood there not knowing what to say. She greeted me with a half smile, “Hi, honey, what's on your mind?” She still called me honey like in the good old days. I used to like it, but now? It didn't sound the same; it didn't feel right.
Anxious moments… I had wanted to ask her two questions for many years.
After few seconds, I growled, “I’m leaving…before I go, I want to know why you brought your boyfriends into our marriage?”
She seemed surprised this kind of approach, although she answered,
“It was my fault. My mom told me, ‘Don’t give up your friends for your man.’ And I listened to her. I wish I wouldn't have.”
I sighed and inquired again, “What about the guy you brought into our bedroom?”
She lowered her voice. “He was my cousin. Once in a while he visited my mom. While he was there, I asked him to fix the VCR. Remember, our VCR wasn’t working?” She paused a second, “Honey, I sent you several letters with the explanations. Didn’t you receive them?” When she finished, she was almost out of breath.
Yes. I had received them all, but I didn’t tell her I didn’t read them. As she explained herself, her face became red and her eyes filled with tears, “Honey, I could never hurt you and I never will.” When I saw her innocent face, I realized how inflexible I had been.
I looked at her eyes; they were filled with emotion. They were seeking something. I stepped forward, and she spontaneously embraced me. She rested her face on my shoulder, and started crying like a child, she said, “I loved you with all my heart; I’ll always love you.” Her words gave me a sense of hope as we came together again.
Standing there overwhelmed with repentance, I remembered our pleasant days. Once we were crossing a road, hand-in-hand, and I let her hand go to avoid an accident. She didn’t like that. Her facial expression changed and her eyes dampened. She bent her head toward my shoulder and whispered, “Honey, never let go of my hand again. Always hold it; we’ll always be together!” She tightened her hand softly around mine.
I wasn’t realized how much she truly loved me. Perhaps, I should have known her more. I should have trusted her more. I should have talked more. Maybe the man I saw, after repairing the VCR, might have been resting for a few minutes.
I shouldn’t have judged her over a single incident.
My guilty conscience barked at me like I didn’t value the relationship, and felt that I had gambled with our lives.
I don't know how long we stood like that. I could feel and hear her heart beating faster and louder. At any moment, I thought, she might have a heart attack. When her tears soaked my shirt, I gently stepped away. She said, “God bless you.”
As I moved away, a few tears fell from my eyes. She couldn’t see them, and I would never be able to tell her our unfinished stories that I had always wanted to tell her.
That night I strode the street, with no destination, cherishing her love, like a set of joyous lights flickering in me. From somewhere a cool breeze brushed my cheeks. I felt good. Was my misery disappearing? Was sunshine peeking again in the dark alley of my mind? Was my dream glittering… again?
Swiftly, the sight changed. Now, I could see her delighted face, and a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Next to them, a few drops of tears! The ranges of motion were spinning faster and faster… without a chance to stand still her appearance.
I yearned to be with her, and crawl into her heart. For a moment, when her sweet memories intensified, I could feel her pounding heart against mine. As I desperately reached out for her, I remembered her saying, “Honey, I’m a married woman.”
I was walking fast, I visualized beetles swarm around my neck like a garland, buzzing in my ears, “Once you ran away like a coward; now you are selfishly doing it again, deserting innocent kids once more, dying like an inglorious warrior, instead of being a hero to them!”
As I tried to ignore the beetles’ vibration, a collection of wasps quickly covered my face. While I pushed the creatures away angrily, they became tailed scorpions. The aggressive scorpions penetrated my head and injected their venom. An intense pain spread rapidly all over my body.
As I continued walking, the pain lessened. I imagined a cluster of humming-birds’ hummed encircling me and whispered as, “Your children need you. Your absence solves nothing but misery. To fulfill your beloved father’s wish, continue your education.” When I hear the birds’, I recalled my father’s last statement. “I’m sending you to the US for higher study, don’t be a loafer.”
My uncertainty persisted, the lovable birds murmured again with their mellow voice, “Move!” Moments later, I gently lifted my legs. When a gentle breeze caressed my face, I became aware of my surrounding; I stepped forward with firm decision to finally accomplish my father’s ambition.
The Ashes
Dad’s beloved friend, Appuvettan, came to my mother’s house where I lived since her divorce from Dad a decade ago. He informed me, “Son, your father has departed us forever. His cremation will take place today. We must reach the public crematorium before the party workers bring his body there. Let’s go.” I felt urgency in his voice.
Upon hearing the sad news, Mother silently stared at the floor. She was absorbed in herself and her eyes were locked on the floor.
As I followed Appuvettan to the crematorium, I thought about father. Two years ago he wrote a will bestowing his vast compound and ancestral house to me, his only son. The rest of the property he donated to his political party. Mother didn’t like that at all. Since then, Mother had begun to rage more bitterly against Dad.
He regularly came to see me at the gate of my house like a beggar, after their divorce. The servants would bring me out, and Father would find comfort in fondly stroking my thick black hair. Not long after he arrived, I would hear Mother loudly calling my name. I couldn’t satisfy my desire to be with him, or to savor enough the smell of his sweat.
Dad dedicated forty years of his life in the party office without concern for his health, offering hope and healing people in need.
After transferring his wealth to the political party, mother made it demand for him to visit with me frequently at Mother’s house. Instead, with his busy schedule, he came to see me at my high school.
Before my parents’ separation, when Dad would initiate conversation, Mother would change the subject and carried on with her fantasies. Sometimes Dad would remind her, “It’s nice to have daydreams, but we have to live in the real world.”
When he began to focus on his political career, Mother was infuriated and moved back to her parents’ house. When her parents compelled her return to Dad, she screamed, “I’m not going. He is wedded to his party, not me!” With tears streaming down her cheeks, she said, “If he is so crazy about politics, then he shouldn’t have married!”
Like a worm, I wriggled between Mothers’ lack of understanding and Dad’s inability to please her.
Two weeks before Dad‘s death, Appuvettan visited me at Mother‘s house and said, “Son, your father is in the hospital with a liver disorder; he wants to see you right away.” I could hear the seriousness in his tone.
Mother’s sharp tongue, which had usually lashed out at Dad, became suddenly still.
On the way to the hospital, my heart was pounding hard with anticipation. I hoped nothing would happen to my dad until I reach there. I could hardly wait to embrace him.
The hospital room was full of visitors. Dad had grown thin and hollow cheeked compared to when I saw him last. Also, the sparkle in his eyes had faded. When I left his room, both our eyes shed tears. He lifted his hand with great difficulty to say good-bye.
After the first visit with him, I had a tremendous desire to see him again, but I was hesitant to ask Mom. Though I was fifteen years old and a bright student, Mom thought of me as just a kid. A few months prior to Dads’ illness, Mom again angry at him via phone and threw away all his mementos, including his state awards, which he kept for me. I couldn’t do anything, except watch her bizarre actions. Her resentment became worse each day since he handed his estate to the politburo. When Appuvettan hinted Dad’s death was imminent, I was restless and nervous until I managed to see him over and over.
All too soon Dad passed away.
Many people, including Dad’s best friends and dozens of dignitaries had assembled at the crematorium to witness his last rites. Appuvettan introduced me to some of them. Everyone highly praised Dad. They were happy to see their comrade’s son. Colleagues and party workers carefully covered him with the party’s red silk flag. They respectfully set up wreaths around his casket. With tearful eyes and a shaking hand, I also placed his favorite scarlet rose at his side, and kissed my beloved father’s forehead to remember him forever.
It seemed as if it were just yesterday that we were sharing our thoughts together. I never dreamed at all that Dad, with his immense love for humanity would leave us soon. But when I recalled the ceaseless affection he poured on my temple and his gentle stroking over my head, I realized that he had known his time was approaching.
Appuvettan helped me light the pyre. As the flames leapt up, I felt severe anguish and despair. When the smoke began to rise, my nostrils spontaneously opened up to inhale the familiar sweet smell of Dad’s sweat.
When the fire completely burned down, Appuvettan gently reminded me, “Let’s go, we can come back later for the ashes.”
Following the ritual, five days later, we went to the crematorium to collect the ashes. Other cremations had taken place in the meantime. A crowd of people was in the crematorium. While folks rushed to get a glance to their loved ones, with lack of respect they trampled all over Dad’s cremated site, scattered his remains.
Upset and stunned at their behavior, Appuvettan, yelled for all to hear, “What a pity. Now-a- days, people have no compassion for anyone. The municipalities don’t even care their beloved ones ashes.”
Appuvettan raised his head and muttered, “The sun is also shining as usual, a great man who fought for social justice, and worked his entire life for the people made no damn difference at all to Mother Nature, either.”
As he continued to express his irritation, I gathered Dad’s ashes into an urn, a precious treasure to cherish my whole life.
On the way to my mother, one thing was in my mind, would Mom accept Dad…? My inner soul reassured me, this time she would welcome him.
The Bearded Man in the Dream
The man was sleeping upstairs. He woke up in the morning from deep sleep. He touched his hands, legs, eyes, and nose. Everything was in the right place. He wondered where these parts were last night. He recalled dreaming he was a patient in a leprosy hospital with shortened and deformed limbs.
He hurried downstairs to make a phone call to quit his second job. He then remembered his wife and immediately placed the phone back in its charger.
He wanted to tell his wife about the dream, but he couldn’t make up his mind. She might not agree with him; she usually disagreed with him, even in minor matters.
As he entered the kitchen, she was cooking breakfast for the children.
He gathered some courage and quickly summarized his dream for her as if he were swallowing bitter medicine.
She didn’t reply.
He sat on the sofa, and waited for her response.
After she prepared breakfast, she sat on the sofa across from him.
Grim silence grew between them,
She asked gently, “Are you giving up your job as the bearded man requested?”
He nodded.
The mildness in her voice disappeared, “How can you do that when you are buried in debt and responsibilities?”
Lowering his tone, “I gave my word to the bearded man.”
“What kind of promise did you give him? Are you out of your mind? How can we pay the mortgage, children‘s tuition, student loans, and other expenses!?”
He wanted to tell her that six days of work was too much for him and he needed the weekends off to rest, a few hours of volunteer work, and some fun, but he couldn’t utter a word.
While he aimlessly gazed at the ornate flower vase, he envisioned her cheeks turning red, and her curly hair stood up. Whenever she became irritated, her face flushed. He wanted to take a glimpse of her. Without taking his eyes off the flowers, he softly said, “The bearded man suggested that we should do a few hours of charity work on weekends.”
She raised her voice,“You’re an emotional creature! You had a wild dream, that doesn’t mean you have to give up your easy job, especially in these rotten economic times!”
He hesitated to respond.
A deep stillness lingered; its intensity crept on him like a python squeezing him tight. He felt a sharp chest pain. He recalled his doctor’s advice: it’s very important to reduce stress when you have heart problems and hypertension.
As he was trying to make a decision, his six-year-old daughter came to him. He held her closely and kissed her forehead. Her presence eased him.
While his thoughts were scattering like thinning clouds on a windy day, he realized he was late for work. As he rushed out the door, he wondered - what would happen if he quit his second job?
Stella
Professor Michael walked away from his house. After roaming awhile, he became tired and forgot the way back home. He became increasingly worried and panicked. When he noticed change in his pocket, he was relieved. He caught a bus going in the general direction of his home. As he boarded the bus, he breathed hard and stumbled. Right away he took the nearest seat. Sitting next to him was a well-dressed African-American woman. He smelled a pleasant fragrance coming from her.
Moments later, the woman next to him asked, “How are you?”
Without raising his head, he mumbled, “Okay.”
“Do you recognize me?”
He gently turned his face toward her.
She asked with a smile, “You’re Professor Michael, right?”
He nodded.
She introduced herself enthusiastically, “I’m Stella, your former student. I’m glad to see you again.”
He simply looked at her without recognition.
“Professor, I couldn’t express my sincere gratitude to you when I was in college for saving my son!”
He stared at her.
“Professor, do you remember? I was in a desperate situation trying to figure out if I should go to an abortion clinic or save my baby, and I came to you. You explained the importance of life, otherwise…”
Stella took a breath and said, “Today, he is the only one I have.”
As she talked, he remembered the incident.
“How old is your son now?”
“Seventeen.”
He didn’t ask further.
She glanced at him thoughtfully, “Do you remember Kathy, one of your former students?”
He couldn’t remember Kathy.
“Kathy and I work together. She often speaks about your timely intervention, which helped her kick her heroin addiction.”
He recalled assisting many of his students who were trapped in a vicious cycle of heroin and cocaine. He did his best to save them – that’s all. He could not retain of all those precious memories.
He gently asked, “Where are you heading?”
“To the mall.”
He continued silence.
“Professor, don’t you have a car now?”
“Yes, I couldn’t find the keys.”
She casually said, “It’ll be on the table, somewhere.”
He recalled checking the table top, on the wall, everywhere.
All of a sudden, he felt warmth and affection towards Stella. He wished to tell her that he had been searching for his key so that he could to inhale carbon monoxide from the car’s exhaust pipe to end his life! Instantly he changed his mind. If she asked why suicide, what should he say? That his wife’s premature death made him depressed? He depended on her; without her, it was very difficult to survive. Maybe Stella would ask questions about how long ago she died, how she died, and more…No!
Why should he reveal his personal misery?
When he remained silent, Stella asked, “Have you retired yet?”
He had worked at the City College for the past thirty years. One day the college head summoned him. “Michael, we are sincerely sorry to hear about the loss of your wife. With regards to your excellent services, the college recommends you retire a year early with full benefits.”
Did he want to tell Stella the truth? In reality, the College Board let him go because he was struggling to teach and forgetting essential assignments.
A few seconds later, he told her he had retired.
“Professor, how do you spend your free time these days?”
It crossed his mind that after his wife’s unexpected death, he lived a lonely life.
She inquired again,“How’s your family?”
He rapidly said, “No children; my wife passed away three years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Was your spouse ill before she passed away?"
“Everything happened so quickly. She was diagnosed with a brain tumor in its final stages. The doctor explained there was no way to save her; he then prescribed an intense chemotherapy treatment. After the initial heavy dose, she never opened her eyes. She couldn’t bear that much chemo; she was barely a hundred and ten pounds. If her doctor hadn’t directed a large dosage of chemo, she would have been with me a few more weeks or maybe even months."
At the end of his sentence, she heard a rattle in his voice.
Stella touched his hand, and again expressed her condolence. “I’m really sorry, Professor.”
He liked her character, but didn’t say anything.
When she noticed his melancholy mood, she changed the subject. “This winter, the weather seems a little chillier.”
When Stella mentioned the weather, his thoughts again slipped back to his sweetheart. The freezing winter had been frightening for him. When the temperature dropped, she’d always bundle him up.
Since he was diabetic, she never forgot to put some snacks in his pocket.
When the memories of his spouse became overwhelming for him, without saying goodbye to Stella, he hurriedly stood up to leave.
Stella understood his distress and said loudly, “Professor, don’t worry. I’m sure the key will be on the table.”
He paid no attention to her.
As he exited the bus, he touched his face and realized he hadn’t shaved. He also touched his head. He hadn’t combed his hair either, but he had ironed his pants meticulously and shined his shoes.
He was amazed at how he could miss some of his basic daily activities. It seemed his memory was slipping away into a strong whirlpool and dissolving quickly without having anything to hold on to.
He distressed about it. Was this sign of senility or depression?
When he arrived at his house, he looked for the keys on the table. He couldn’t find them. As Stella suggested, he checked among the newspapers and found them. She was right.
He thought about Stella. He finally remembered that she had taken two or three of his psychology classes.
One day he heard a gentle knock on the faculty door. “May I come in?” It was Stella. She entered the office with a half smile and softly said, “Professor, can I talk to you for a minute?” He nodded. “Let me tell you how much your class has helped to organize my thoughts. I was not certain whether I should continue my education or what to major in. Now I have decided to concentrate on psychology.”
A week later, Stella showed up again, “Professor, I’d like to talk to you about something very serious.” She spoke in a shaky voice. “It’s a delicate subject; I only feel comfortable speaking with you.” He let her go on... “I’m in the early stages of pregnancy, I mean - five months. My parents are concerned about how I can go to college while I’m pregnant. My parents are professionals and hold prestigious positions in society. They are obsessed with social status and stigmas.”