Put him to Sleep

Dali, our pet dog, has been quiet for the past two days, as if he has understood that the day has finally come. Dali is grandpa's favourite.

Grandpa spends his early mornings sitting in the lawn, throwing Dali a stick or a ball to fetch, wincing a little every time, until he could throw no more.

We are out of dog food, coincidentally.

Time sucks. It sucks away the energy, happiness and strength out of our lives and leaves us behind with the burden of the memories of all the jumping and running around without a worry in the world.

Today's the day.

We get onto the car. I take the seat beside mom in the front while Dali and grandpa are slowly settling down on the back. Mom planned it so that grandpa gets to spend more time with Dali. Nobody says a word during the entire 120 minutes drive along the coast. Neither the chirping birds from the park nor the cheerful beach-goers bring us any joy today.

We're here. It's time to say the final good bye.

Dali, the cleverest, and dearest to grandpa walks to him resting his head on his lap and avoiding to look at his face. Grandpa gently strokes his head while finishing off the formalities and signing a few papers. Once the formalities are done, grandpa gets up and hugs Dali. He hugs him so tight that we feared his ribs might crack. They know that it's the last hug and they both don't mind the pain or discomfort.

The doctors assure us that the process will be painless. And we left him in their hands and walk back to the car.

Though our hearts are troubled by the loss, we are glad that at least we put him out of misery. In the car, I turn around to look at the empty seat and let a drop of tear slide down my cheek bothering not to stop it or wipe it.

Mum stops at the supermarket to get us some supplies; essentials; soft drinks; and a new flavoured food for Dali and some new toys.

Dali will have to get used to playing with us from now.

Forest story

This forest is under the protection of the government, meaning, only they could destroy it and they’ll beat all competition hands-down. ‘Reserved Forest’, says a label over a green patch on the map that has been shrinking over centuries, at a pace faster than before, every time the government changes.

Within this forest lies a mystery that remains hidden from a time before civilisation. A mystery, that, if had eyes, would have seen how, its present threat, the humans, evolved from a single cell amidst arguing against it all through centuries. A mystery, that, if had ears, would have heard the loud roar of the dinosaurs and the shrieks when their world was burnt down, when they ran panicked, stampeding the unfortunate ones trying to escape the devastating doom.

A gigantic tree, with roots visible and floating above the ground, would have been an obvious discovery. Luckily it wasn’t that obvious. And that’s why, no human, savage, slave or saint ever knew of its existence.

The Devil Tree, we’ll call it a tree, though it may have only less than a hundred leaves and its stem is not thicker than a slender, light-green, silky drumstick, has lived beyond ages, unnoticed, not forgotten, for nobody knew about it in the first place.

On the first day, the new forest officer, in a bamboo hut, a few kilometres away from the centre of the forest, drinking the forest’s fresh water to quench his thirst, signed away the approval papers for a non-existing company, whose ghost proprietor has promised to quench his financial thirst.

And so began the destruction of yet another forest. Slowly but surely the green patch started to shrink again. After few weeks of felling, thanks to the modern equipments that helped to achieve many months’ labour in just a few weeks, they reached the centre of the forest.

As the fellers started advancing to the centre of the forest, unlike any other forest they’ve worked on in their lives, the noise of the birds and hints of the animals started to dwindle away. Presuming this strange behaviour to be due to the change in climate that corporations and college students debate about, they resumed their work, cursing this discomfort and working their lives through, feeling no remorse for their actions, which, of course, is not personal but just to follow orders that reaches them after passing through at least four levels of order-takers, not that they have been tree-huggers before they chose this job.

When they finally came, when the chain-saw started whirring furiously, the sky darkened, obscuring the sun by mid-day threatening to pour any second now. The blade of the chainsaw, singing a metallic hum, started to cut through the strong barks of another huge and ancient tree, at least a hundred or two hundred years old, like a sharpened butcher’s knife slicing through the boneless meat of a tender pork. 

Along with the century old tree, the Devil Tree was cut down. Without any resistance, the thin branches, gave in, not standing a chance against the blade’s jagged teeth running at an unimaginable speed, biting through it with the effect of a thousand blows from a sharpened axe delivered in less than half a second.

Before the severed branch fell to the ground, the earth shook and started to vibrate as if tens of thousands of angry Rhinos were rushing up, thundering their heavy hooves, rising from under the very feet of the fellers. Confused and astonished by this unexplainable quake they stood there frozen in fear, while the blades of their saws never stopped where the chainsaws were dropped. At that instant, a mystical darkness fell over the forest, blanketing not just the light of the sun but also the sounds of the forest, for, otherwise, the sound came after that would have deafened every living thing within a circle of a hundred kilometres.  In that silence, there arose trillions of birds, of countless species,  brilliant and bland coloured, tiny and monstrous, pretty and beast-like, birds, that not one living soul has seen or heard of, flying out from a hole where the Devil Tree stood before. From the roots of the Devil Tree, which was a mysterious network that housed all the birds that die above the earth and go to rest away from the cruelties of the rotting world, they were driven off, forced to find another sanctuary, above the clouds, beyond the moon, and a million galaxies away, away from the hunters, away from the predators, away from humans.

Moon Story

Sitting alone on the beach he was trying to calm down the wild waves that beat up inside him. Knowing that he will not succeed in his first attempt he was prepared to try the whole night if need be. Allowing the sound of the Ocean's waves collide against the noise of those of his inner self and pacify them, he was making a slow progress. 'Alone' aids him in this effort. But what you desire is not what you always get. Up came a villain. With an angelic glow, quietly the moon sneaked up, throwing feather soft darts of light all over the beach. A few landed on him. He may not have liked it much. In that soft light his emotions were not visible, he was not popular for exhibiting his true emotions anyways.

Pulling out a balloon from his pocket he started blowing it up. When it reached the size that he can't hold with his one hand he tied a knot around its opening and let it go. Up and up went the balloon. Black and dimly lit by the moonlight, we may say it would be hardly visible even for him. But he knew it. He knew exactly where it was at that moment. He didn't even have to look at it to know its current spot and where it would have been at any point in time. Soaring up silently, in just a few minutes it reached where he wanted it to be.

Any romantic couple promising to seize the moon and present it to their darlings at that moment would have been puzzled, surprised, even heartbroken, for, the moon was not to be seen anymore. Growing in size even as it was soaring up the balloon reached the size greater than the moon before it reached its planned altitude. Acting as a black body that absorbs all the light that falls on it and reflects none, it stole the moon away. With his device in place and the moon shut off, he was happy to let the conversation of the monster waves resume undisturbed by any intruder.

Lake story

Nobody knows when it started. But there is a legend, according to some, a myth, according to some other, which is now called the lake story.

Have they not been told, these white hatted tourists may not be watching them pass by, like floating coconuts as they wade through the lake on a slow boat. Even now, once in a while, there is a lady or a gentleman that faints, shrieks or at the least gasps at the sight of the scene.

Floating heads is not a thing our world has come to believe to exist. Even if they try to, they cannot do so without attributing it to some dark magic or sorcery. What makes it more interesting is that their faces. All the heads have the same face. It's an unsettling feeling to see such a sight.

The locals, no more try to rest on the lakefront after a tiring day, wishing to enjoy the pleasant view their ancestors used to enjoy a few centuries ago.

Things have changed since the lake story.

Today, it exists in multiple versions that people don't know which one is true or simply don't care of its origin or authenticity. That's what happens when something is passed on for centuries through word of mouth. It branches into multiple versions, each  branch containing a taste of its narrator's creative juice, gets polluted with exaggerations, omissions, inventions and pure magic without which the younger minds would readily object and then dissect every word of it to prove it all a fantasy tale.

The lake that sees and is seen by at least a hundred tourists today, once had a single log floating on it. It was said to have been washed in by a flood that has suspiciously not revisited this land for more than nearly seven hundred years now. The flood, that replaced the land, lives and everything on this patch of Earth and thus became a lake. Here, on the log was the body of a woman, still having enough life and will to breathe but not move. The bump of belly was not hidden as was her whole self. Was she wearing leaves or was she wearing clothes woven with cotton, no clue could suggest. Nothing would have been so imperishable as her to withstand such strong force of nature.

On this very lake, the log and the pregnant woman were afloat with no direction to follow, no word to utter, no land to reach, no friend or foe come looking for; absolutely forgotten by land and all the lives on it.

A week from that day was seen the first head.

That of a new born child.

There was no body, no sign of mutilation, no wound or aperture of any kind but a perfectly round ending neck. One cannot say it was severed from a body. White, rough skin was covering the bottom of the neck as any human's feet, like it was how a human child would naturally have been born, with only the head and a round feet in place of the neck, with no toes.

Within days, there were about five heads, all alike.

Nobody dared to touch them, till today.

As days passed on, the faces start to change.

It started to grow. Grow older, and older every month. But, all the faces that were seen at any time were alike. Vacant and expressionless like a mannequin but as real as yours and mine.

Every month the faces started to age, by one year and every fifth year, they all start to decay. For a month the whole city is abandoned to escape the stench that's said to have killed a whole village in the past. A month following that, anyone looking at this lake would find it no different from any other on Earth. It looks more ordinary than any lake, until the head of another baby slowly floats to the surface, wobbling this way and that.

Tourists dare themselves to come and witness this gruesome phenomenon while the local population is slowly dwindling away.

Such is the story of the lake, as I've heard.

Bounding

I had a hint of a headache, but that was okay.

I felt light, lighter than the little pigeon's feather that keeps floating for hours before landing on the road to be found and picked up with joy, like a treasure, by some kid by the side of the street.

Was it the weather? It was a blindingly bright day with the sun straight over the head and yet it was pleasant. I wondered if the giant icebergs have finally arrived in the city carving up their way, splitting open the annoyingly busy roads, toppling the cars and buses all the way. I was smiling for no reason.

But that was only the least of the strangest things that was happening around today.

The angry guy at the tea shop wasn't his usual self. He didn't pour the skin-burning, boiling water on me but continued to talk merrily with those guys, laughing so loud that filled their hearts and overflowed on their faces. Such a happy, magical sound, it was! I think I was happy for him.

Bounding and bounding around, I went off to explore those quiet streets. Oh! how I had always wanted to go around with no fear of entering any gate or sleeping in any cool shadow without being startled to wake up by some by-stander who enjoys throwing stones at me. I never understood their cackles when they hit the target and see me run amok, yelping in pain, fearing that the sky was falling on my head. Oh, the slight headache was still bothering me.

I thought I noticed that the people in this city are really pretty when they were talking to each other and wearing a happy face all the while. May be that's what was filling me up with energy that I didn't feel a bit tired.

I've been on these straights for years but I had never been allowed to come closer those kids playing by the side of the street. They are adorable and very different from the grown-ones. One minute they will be jumping and singing and the next they'll be fighting and howling but within another minute they would be back to singing and dancing together. Would these adults have been kinder to me if they were also able to forget their anger and despair and celebrate life like these kids do? May be, as they get old and wise their hearts becomes cold and less nice.

*Yaaaawn!!!*

How I would have liked to sleep then! Though I was not tired, I loved to enjoy a really good and peaceful nap.

Why did I feel so free today? Is this freedom? How did I find it? Or, did it find me?

Oh, wait! what did I see over there?

Why was that one sleeping in the middle of the road, unafraid of the cars?

What a sheer coincidence! That one's tail was also all brown, with a few open patches showing the skin where the hair has fallen off!

I went closer to see how could anyone sleep so calmly in the middle of a busy road.

Oh, well, that explained my headache.

When your head has been smashed, headache is nothing to complain about.

Is this freedom?

Bounding around the streets with no fear. Sleeping anywhere with no worries in the world. Standing in the middle of a circle of kids singing and dancing and going round and around, without them running away or me getting chased away.

I asked again, is this freedom?

And then I started to ask why it didn't come sooner? Why have I been living a prolonged life that delayed the sweetness of this freedom?

Would I have enjoyed this freedom if I had not lived a life that has denied me that throughout?

Not wanting to find answers to my own questions, I thank the shiny car for granting me this freedom. The car, as red as my blood that's drying on the dirt of these streets. The car, that never stopped. The car, that never showed a hint of regret or remorse. The car that was on its way to free a few more miserable creatures.