L.M. Valiram's Blog

This short story first appeared in the anthology The Lockdown Chronicles – 19 Malaysian Voices

“Who?” I howled.

“I am not deaf yet, why are you screaming?”, Mother scolded over the phone. “Sorry,” I said with more civility.

“Arrey, you met her at Amol’s wedding.”

“That was years ago, and I was pregnant with no patience for three hundred distant

relatives. You made me go to that wedding, remember?”

“Yes, yes and what a good time you had.”

I rolled my eyes. Curls of impatience unfurled from my nose. A good thing she could not see me. “ Anyway, who is this woman that you have invited on my behalf?” “I am only being helpful.”

If there were an award for good Samaritans, Mother would win it every single year. “She is sister Kunti’s mother in law’s sister. Aunty Shanti to you.

She is going to Kuala Lumpur because she won a free ticket at the Brussels Diwali Ball.”

Why do old Indian women win all the free tickets? The last time I won anything was fifth prize in the 6th Grade Christmas play, where I played the donkey in Joseph’s farm with apparent finesse.

Mother went on, “So, of course, I told her she could stay with you. I know you will look after her well. After all, family is family.”

I hated the idea of a house guest. She was not family; she was as related to me as Mahatma Gandhi.

“But…”

“You don’t want to help?”, Mother’s voice dipped with disappointment.

Gosh, I couldn’t disappoint her any more than I already have. My mind flew back to the oceans of disappointments. The time I got expelled from school. That was a tsunami in itself. Or the time I lost my temper and swore to her face in front of the entire Sindhi community that I’d never see her again. I couldn’t even bear to think about the drunken sixteenth birthday.

“Of course, I will help. Like you said, family is family,” I said weakly with commitment I did not feel.

As soon as I hung up the phone, it was like Aunty Shanti had already arrived. I couldn’t shake the thought of a stranger in my space, and it niggled at me like a sneaky little worm. I tried to call off the deal in a hundred different ways. I even stooped as low as to bring up the mysterious flu from China.

“People say it is going to become a global pandemic. She’s old. She’s high risk!”, I messaged Mother, attaching a number of videos to support my claim. Videos with questionable blurry footage and bold captions alleging the Chinese were dropping like flies from strokes and heart attacks and whatnot. All from one mysterious virus.

But Mother has the stubbornness of a mule and the unwavering focus of a horse with blinkers and was not to be deterred so easily. She was the kind of woman who ventured out for morning walks despite the wails of typhoon signals, who volunteered to cook for a hundred out of a hundred square foot kitchen, and fought off men, women and children at the local supermarket for that last pint of yoghurt. She was my heroine and nemesis, in one.

With one fell swoop, she shot down all my excuses. “Shanti is seventy-eight; you can hardly call that old.”

The arrival hall of KLIA was packed as usual. I waited, hands nervously clasped, in a quiet yet desperate, last-ditch prayer that Aunty Shanti had boarded the wrong plane/missed her flight/gotten deported/any or all of the above. My hopes were dashed when my Whatsapp messages to her revealed two blue ticks. I zoomed in on her profile picture. Great. It was a black and white photo from at least a hundred years ago. It was no use me trying to identify her from the steady stream of tired home-comers and curious tourists that flooded through the hall. Then, quite suddenly, the world went black, and I found myself enveloped in a cloud of fabric and the cloying scent of rose, garam masala and sour yoghurt.

“Radhika!” the woman exclaimed as she released me from her clutches.

I gasped for air and managed a smile, “Aunty Shanti! Welcome to Kuala Lumpur!”

I am not sure why, but I had expected to receive someone who looked like the Queen of England, a handbag-wielding, beret-topped granny; but Aunty was nothing like that. For a woman her age, she was in good shape; her body lean, her stride swift and her posture upright. Her hair was thick and rolled up in a bun. Her sari, a youthful shade of sea blue. Her eyes twinkled amidst her crow’s feet and her nose was bulbous, sticking out like a little squidgy, shiny potato. She had only one ridiculously large suitcase. I hauled it into the back of my sturdy Honda, while she hopped in with the ease of a teenager.

The ride was pure hell. I had to hear about her two sons and three daughters, their assorted histories and geographies. The long drive home from Kuala Lumpur International Airport was greatly magnified and I cursed the distance. Finally, when we were a few minutes from home, I managed to get a word in, “You must be hungry,” I said.

“Actually, I am,” she replied quite eagerly. “They served eggplant on the last leg of the flight and I have an allergy, you know. As soon as I eat it, I break out in hives and my pulse starts racing and…”

Jeez, I stepped on the accelerator a little harder. I pulled up into the driveway and heaved her monstrous suitcase out of the boot. “It is not very heavy,” she offered, without helping. I felt dark angry blood pool in my brain and my fingers go numb.

I showed her to the guest room. “It is lovely,” she said, looking around. “Beds should always face northeast. Maybe we can move it later.”

I forced a smile, “We don’t really believe in Feng Shui and all.”

“I also don’t believe in Feng Shui,” she announced, “why follow Feng Shui when we have our very own Indian science of Vaastu Shastra?”

“You’re right,” I conceded.

That night, I hit the bed defeated . It was going to be a long two weeks.

Mohit asked, You don’t like her, do you?”

“Is it that obvious?” I whined, my chest constricting at the thought of Mother hearing any such thing.

“No, not at all. I can see it because I know you so well,”

“Oh, honey. I can’t stand her.

She wants to poke her nose in EVERYTHING. Do you know she wants us to consider relocating our front door? And, she wants me to wake up early to learn yoga from her. She asked me why I don’t put coconut oil in Anushka’s hair. Honey, have you ever smelled coconut oil?”

Mohit couldn’t help but laugh and that drove me crazy.

“It’s not funny. What if she gets stuck here? This dumb flu thing is getting worse by the day. I heard they are thinking of closing the schools.”

“We have less than a hundred cases. It’s not like Europe.”

“She is from Europe!” I bellowed, “What if they close the borders there?”

“You’re overthinking it. Two weeks are going to fly by and then she will be gone. Do it for your Mother. You always say how you miss her and how you wish you could do more for her. Well, here is your chance,”

He was right. He always is. Unfortunately.

In the days that followed, Aunty Shanti tested my patience like no other ever had. She was in my kitchen, in my refrigerator, in my cupboards, she was everywhere I was. By day five I decided I couldn’t carry on like this so I started going out with friends in the mornings, eating lunch on the go and leaving Aunty Shanti to her own devices at home. Every time I came back she was right there, sitting on the sofa with the television turned up so high I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. I am not proud of myself, but I have to admit that one night I cooked eggplant for dinner on purpose. She had to contend rice with pickles. Of course, I felt bad after, but also a strange sense of victory.

In the bedroom, Mohit suggested, “Shall we take her out to dinner tomorrow? She’s cooped up at home all day.”

I got defensive, “Why are you making it sound like it’s my fault? What am I supposed to do with her all day? I am not a tour guide. Besides, do you know she is trying to take over our house?”

“Come here, you,” Mohit took me in his arms and I sobbed into his chest. “Honey, you feel warm. Are you running a fever?”

“I am fine,” I said, feeling sick and tired. And frustrated. And helpless. And mean. And stupid.

The next afternoon, at a press conference, the prime minster announced a Movement Control Order. No work, no school, no nothing. The borders would be closed, nobody in, nobody out.

I was screwed.

Our Movement Control Order was a thinly veiled lockdown. Mohit, because he is a banker, still went to work every day. Me, the kids and good ole Aunty Shanti from Brussels were stuck at home like caged animals. I did get to go out every now and then to the supermarket and pharmacy, but I had to be gloved, masked and sanitized. And I was stopped at least twice at two police checkpoints manned by the army. Seriously, we need the army for this? And if the army was out here on Jalan Bangsar, who was out there protecting the borders? “They are not the army. They are riot control police,” Mohit laughed when I brought it up. Okay but still, these fellows had MACHINE GUNS to catch people violating the MCO. Why would you need a gun? We are trying to stop coronavirus not hunt down El Chapo!

Oh, and somewhere in the middle of all this the World Health Organization renamed the disease. They called it Covid-19. Nobody had any idea why. I think they picked an unknown word and stuck a number next to it just to make it sound serious and freak us all out. They were really playing this up, I tell you. I mean, why close schools? Can’t they see that children at home are far more fatal to the general population than a dumb flu?

Mohit took the matter more seriously than I did and before I knew it, we had boxes of masks and antibacterial wipes all over the house. He even ordered a digital thermometer and made us all record our daily temperature. “They have you right where they want you,” I said to him one day as he beeped my forehead.

“Who’s they?”

“The Illuminati,”

“You’ve been reading the Daily Mail Online again, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I mean, no. But it is true. It makes perfect sense. This is just a ploy to plant a chip in our brains in the form of a vaccine so they can control us. It’s a master plan. Don’t you see it?”

Mohit’s face tensed. He was bunching his eyebrows at the reading on the thermometer. “What I do see is a number I don’t like. Let’s try again,”

He beeped me once more and it still read a hundred and two. “Let me call Siva.” Mohit said.

Dr Siva was Mohit’s drinking buddy and also our family doctor. His tentacles spread deep and wide in the medical fraternity and if anyone could organize a Covid-19 test without getting the government involved, it was him.

Mohit worked from home the next day. He slept with the kids while I was alone in our bedroom. Aunty Shanti remained in the guest room that now looked like it was in someone else’s house, because the sofa was where the bed used to be, and the bed was where the study used to be. I tried not to think about what she was up to while I was isolated in my room. On the contrary, I was actually beginning to feel grateful she was here because she was cooking for us all and looking after the kids. And I hate to admit it but her dhal was way better than mine.

Dr Siva set up a home test within forty-eight hours and I grudgingly permitted them to swab my nose, which of course I instantly regretted for I was sure they brushed my eyeballs. It was awful. The next morning my throat itched like a fuzzy tree and my limbs started to ache. I dreaded the results and prayed to the mother goddess fervently. Amma I will come to India and walk to your temple barefoot. And before I get to India I will locally go and climb the Batu Caves temple every day. And I will bring bananas even though there is the risk of being attacked by monkeys. I will drag the kids also to your doorstep, Amma. And Mohit. And the neighbours. And I will fast, Amma. Every day I will fast. Please don’t let me have this stupid disease.

But by day four I knew something dreadful had taken over my body. The mother of all headaches lasted three days. My insides felt like they were clobbered in a wrestling match and my chest heaved heavily against an invisible weight. And the cough, if you could even call it that. It was dry and deep and painful, rattling every bone in my body. I was all wrong about this Covid-19 thing. It wasn’t a dumb flu. It was a nuclear bomb waiting to explode inside my body.

Mohit got the call on the morning of day five. He looked at me with sadness. “What about the rest of you?” I asked, my heart sinking at the thought that I may have infected my family and maybe they were asymptomatic.

“Negative. All of us. Including Aunty Shanti.”

I could hear the sirens from afar. I peeped out the window and saw my inquisitive neighbours in their driveways craning their necks to get a good look at the health workers in their full body suits, masks, goggles and gloves. It was like a scene from the movies. I pinched myself. This couldn’t be happening, but it was. A fresh burst of pain pierced through my head and the inside of my throat felt like it was being cut open by knives.

There was a knock and I opened the door, but only a little. A plastic-covered arm appeared through the crack. I took the bag from the gloved hand and shut the door. It was hard not to cry as I put on the gear. There was a very thin line between life and death, and I was standing at the edge of it. I tried to tell myself that all would be well; I would be able to hug my children again, watch them graduate, dance at their weddings. I would be able to feel Mohit’s strong arms around me again, and grow old with the love of my life. But the truth was that every breath was belaboured and everything from then on became a blur. I couldn’t even focus on sliding my arm through the sleeve of the PPE. The room swirled like a whirlpool. My head started to disintegrate. My legs grew heavy. I remember voices, far away, muffled, as though travelling through water. I remember sirens and the whoosh of an oxygen tank. I remember the tightness of a mask around me, the elastic band cutting into my cheeks. My last memory was surrendering to the dark abyss, safe in the knowledge that Aunty Shanti was at home to look after my family.

“Mummy, it isn’t proper,” Anushka complained as I tried for the third time to get her braid right.

“Shall I call Aunty?” I finally asked.

“It is alright, child. I am right here. Come, let me do it.” Aunty was right behind me. Aunty Shanti sat down on the sofa and began to undo my messy attempt at hair art.

Anushka was seated cross-legged on the floor, still sipping her way through her hot Milo. “Are you sure you can’t stay another week?” I asked, the lump in my throat

threatening to make its way to my eyes in the form of tears. “Just one more week?” Anushka chimed in.

“I was only supposed to come for two weeks and I have stayed for three months,” she said, her fingers deftly plaiting three bundles of Anushka’s thick hair.

I looked around the house. The side tables had been rearranged, the flower vase had been moved to the entrance of the corridor, the table lamp was no longer in the living room. Nothing looked the same. Nothing felt the same. I had to admit, everything looked better. Everything felt better. I made a mental note to read up on Vaastu Shastra.

“I will never be able to thank you enough for what you have done for us,” I said.

Aunty Shanti reached out and wiped a tear from my cheek, “No need for thank you. We are family.”

Zainudin, Shireen & Krishnamoorthy, Viji (2020) The Lockdown Chronicles – 19 Malaysian Voices Malaysia: Media Master Publishing

More than half the global population uses the internet, most of them are on at least one social media platform. While previously, we had to take great pains to go to a library to research a subject, now with little effort we can google anything and get an abundance of information. Communication has become quicker; no need for letters, envelopes and stamps. Many families are able to enjoy video calls with their loved ones at almost no cost. Businesses and trade move faster as contracts, reports and analysis are blasted out as attachments on email. Technology affords us many privileges and comforts simplifying cumbersome, time consuming processes. 

As technology continues to evolve and becomes more sophisticated, more and more people join the bandwagon. In the last twelve months alone, more than a million people started using social media at least once a day, which equates to almost twelve new users per second. People are connected like never before. 

But there are a number of concerning patterns emerging out of humankind’s technological revolution. The use of the internet and social media have begun to pose problems that may be hard to fix if not addressed quickly. 

In recent years, research has shown a strong link between online social networking and several psychiatric disorders, including depressive symptoms, suicidal thoughts, insomnia, anxiety, and low self-esteem. The addictive nature of applications like Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, Instagram and many others only further complicates the problem and a vast majority of young users are falling prey. As early as 2013, a study found that the higher the engagement adolescents and youth had on social media, the lower their rate of general well-being was. 

Why is this? People draw incorrect conclusions from a stimulated reality and see others as physically more attractive, more intelligent, happier or popular. This leads to young people undermining their own self-worth and doubting their own “perfection”.

On the other hand, some studies show an increase in narcissistic behavior among social media users. People who post extensively about their seemingly perfect travels, perfect meals, perfect lives, begin to believe in their own augmented stories. As their likes and followers increase, they carry that sense of achievement into their real lives and begin to display narcissistic traits.  

Should we be worried? Most definitely. 

The average amount of time spent online has more than doubled, increasing from 9.9 hours a week in 2005 to 20.5 hours; the average person checks their phone around 50 times a day. On the flip side, our attention span has dropped from roughly 12 seconds to just about eight, just below that of a goldfish. This is not good news. A short attention span means we are losing our ability to focus and perform at optimum levels. It means we are, or will soon be having trouble finishing a book, completing a painting, writing a paper. People with short attention spans battle their wandering mind, they have trouble sitting through meetings and communicating in their relationships. 

We can see this clearly in our own families. Most of us, myself included, take our phones to the dinner table. As a family, we sit for a meal and all is well at the very beginning till the first phone vibrates. As the notifications come flowing in on our phones, all hope for meaningful conversation fades. Critics say that is exactly what social media is designed to do; behavior modification. We are being manipulated to keep going back, keep unlocking our screens, keep checking our apps. 

Sean Parker, the first Head of Facebook said, “We need to sort of give you a little dopamine hit every once in a while, because someone liked or commented on a photo or a post or whatever. It’s a social-validation feedback loop, exactly the kind of thing that a hacker like myself would come up with, because you’re exploiting a vulnerability in human psychology.”

But there is a bigger question here; if the adverse effects of social media are so profound on an individual, what are the effects on a larger community, on a country and on the world as a whole? 

The answers aren’t favorable. 

Because of their reach and algorithms, social media platforms are a perfect gateway to the minds of billions. Political parties use these platforms to propagate their ideology, to mobilize public opinion and to set agendas. The lack of regulation and accountability of these platforms mean that politicians are free to spread fake news, fear and polarization in order to win votes. The ability of mass messaging and micro targeting mean that parties are able to reach their desired audience with the desired message easily even the remotest of geographies. They are able to mold public opinion at a scale like never before.

In 2016, Barack Obama, the then President of the United States of America said to the New Yorker, “the capacity to disseminate misinformation, wild conspiracy theories, to paint the opposition in wildly negative light without any rebuttal—that has accelerated in ways that much more sharply polarize the electorate and make it very difficult to have a common conversation.”

Security and privacy are another aspect of modern technology that we need to be aware of. How safe is our data and of what value is it to Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and other companies? Who has access to our most intimate chats, our pictures and our emails?

According to a 2019 Forbes article, “Compared to previous eras, nearly everything today is recorded and stored for posterity. Computer science academics at Northeastern University conducted research with 17,000 of the most popular apps on Android and as Gizmodo reported, apps were found to be recording the phone’s screen and sending that information out to third parties. There are plenty of ways for algorithms and artificial intelligence to “listen” to you — and then use that data to target ads to you. While we’re aware of popular audio triggers like “Hey Siri” or “Alexa”, these sites and apps may also have hundreds or thousands of their own triggers used to store data points when you say what you like and where you go.”

But all is not lost. Luckily, there are measures we can take to protect ourselves and our loved ones from the negative effects of social media. Here is a list of things you can do right away to ensure you are getting all the benefits from your smartphone without all the risks:

1. Limit your screen time.

Most smartphones let you see your daily and weekly time spent on screen. Monitoring your screen time will make aware of how many hours a day you spend on your phone. 

2. Clear out the clutter.

Over time, we have all downloaded many apps for this or that. Delete the ones that consume too much of your time and lack productivity. Also, no sense in having a busy home screen; remove the apps you don’t use anymore. A clutter-free phone equals a clutter-free mind.

3. Remove push notifications from all your apps. 

This means that you won’t be disturbed mid-meeting, mid-conversation or mid-sleep by your phone only to learn that someone liked your photo, posted a new story or shared a joke. 

4. Go gray.

Once in a while, setting your screen to grayscale means your user experience will be less attractive and you may find that you are only using your phone when you really need to. 

5. Turn off your microphone.

Disabling the microphone button on voice enabled apps like Siri or Alexa will make sure your phone is not listening in on your conversations. If you’re worried about the data on your phone, try installing Glasswire which will show you which of your other apps are downloading your data. 

6. Establish rules. 

Every individual and every family is unique. If tech is ruining family time, you could decide to ban phones at the dinner table. If your phone is disrupting your sleep, you could leave it in another room at night. Find what works for you and don’t be afraid to try new ways of doing things.

7. Keep it real.

The real world has a lot to offer; nature, friendships, love, joy, connection, knowledge. Instead of chatting online, meet that friend for lunch. Instead of scrolling and seeing the lives of others, enjoy your own; go for a walk, pick up a hobby, read a book. Remember when we were kids? Things were simpler and yet most of us can say that we were happier.

There is no doubt that the internet and social media have brought meaningful, systemic changes in the way we live our lives. Social media platforms connect people from different geographies. Many have found love on the internet. Health apps help you track disease and help you live an optimum life. Education has become possible for millions of people who may not have the means for a full-fledged university degree. We can talk to and see our families and friends from across the world. 

We must remember though that a knife in the hands of a surgeon can save a life while the same knife in the hands of a thief can take a life. We must find an equilibrium within ourselves and build guardrails to make sure we are using technology, rather than it is using us.

References:

Lanier, Jaron (2018) Ten Arguments For Deleting Your Social Media Accounts Right Now. New York.: Henry Holt and Co.

O’Dea, S. Smartphone users worldwide 2016-2021. Available at: https://www.statista.com/statistics/330695/number-of-smartphone-users-worldwide/ (Accessed October 2020)

Kemp, Simon Digital 2020: July Global Statshot. Available at: https://www.statista.com/statistics/330695/number-of-smartphone-users-worldwide/ (Accessed September 2020)

Quinlan, Ailin How technology and social media is undermining family relationships. Available at: https://www.irishtimes.com/life-and-style/health-family/parenting/how-technology-and-social-media-is-undermining-family-relationships-1.3568291 (Accessed September 2020)

Pantic, Igor Online Social Networking and Mental Health. Available at: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4183915/ (Accessed October 2020)

Anonymous How social media has left us with a lower attention span than a goldfish. Available at: https://www.fq.co.nz/culture/whats-on/how-social-media-has-left-us-with-a-lower-attention-span-than-a-goldfish (Accessed October 2020)

Boxell, Levi.  Gentzkow, Matthew.  Shapiro, Jesse M. Is The Internet Causing Political Polarization? Evidence From Demographics. Available at:https://www.nber.org/papers/w23258.pdf (Accessed October 2020)

Pettijohn, Nathan Of Course Your Phone Is Listening To You. Available at: https://www.forbes.com/sites/nathanpettijohn/2019/09/03/of-course-your-phone-is-listening-to-you/#56a535806a3f (Accessed October 2020)

The problem with losing my mother was that I did not know where to find her. Even though I was a grown man of twenty-one, it felt as though Indra’sthunderbolt had sped through the heavens, torn through the clouds, pierced my chest and blown a big, burning hole inside me that would smolder through the rest of my body till there was nothing left.

Yes, that describes it perfectly.

I had no brother to share my load with, no sister to pamper. I must have been three or four when I lost my father. There are some hazy memories of him; me looking up at a thickly-mustachioed man, someone throwing me up in the air, chasing me around the barn.

The only thing I truly had was Amma, but we had to burn her. I watched as the body that carried me for nine months melted into the flames. With it went the hands that rolled my rotis, the arms that held me tight as a boy when I had nightmares, the eyes that looked at me with kindness. We burned the wrinkles and the silvery hair and the yellowed teeth and the crooked smile. We burned all of her.

The priest who performed her final rites said, “Son, we are not the body. We are the soul. Your mother has left her body, but she continues to live.”

But where did souls go after they left their bodies?

I remembered Amma consoling me when I was seven years old. We had lost one of our cows that morning and I was the first one to discover her laying there motionless when I had gone to change the water in the shed.

“Don’t cry, little one. Everything must die.”

“Why Amma? Why must everything die? Why did my father die?”

“This is samsara– where change is the only constant.  Everything is moving, morphing, growing or withering. Things come, and things go. It is all an illusion; nothing truly dies. The seed becomes the sapling, the sapling becomes a tree, the trees bear flowers and the flowers become fruit, the fruit becomes the seed and the cycle continues. Do not worry about death, think about life.”

Did Amma become something else then?

For the fifth night in a row, I barely slept and by the time morning came there was in my heart a firm conviction that no matter what, I would find my mother. I went about my daily chores as usual; I fetched water from the well, ploughed the fields, cut and bound the corn into sheaves. I did as much as I could and when the sun began to set, I washed my face with cold water and headed in the direction of the temple.

Ours was a small temple, the only one in the village. It had clay-mud walls and a little door that was shorter than me. Inside it could seat fifty,which was more than enough for our village of about a hundred because hardly anyone went on regular days for the morning and evening invocations. The temple only overflowed on special days like the birth of Krishna, full moon or the harvest festival. On those occasions there was song, dance, merriment and free food. Amma was a regular at the temple and she attended prayers at least five times a week. She often tried to get me to go, but I always made excuses. As far as I was concerned, the only God I would celebrate was one that I could see and touch and a God that had actually done something for me-a God like Amma.

But I had lost my God and so there I was, walking up the narrow path lined with sparse and skeletal trees on either side. As I came close, I could see the evening prayers had concluded and a few worshippers were exiting. I waited at a distance and out of sight. When the last of them had left I approached the entrance, took off my sandals at the steps and went inside. There he was, the blue God with his mocking smile and the fake peacock feather in his fake hair. Stone-lipped, and stone-hearted in all his frozen glory.

The priest was nowhere to be seen. I sat down in front of the idol and stared at the flickering flame of the oil lamp. What was the point of all this faith and prayer? People came here, sang songs and offered sweets and flowers. They lit lamps and shed tears like beggars in front of this God. He could do nothing. He was helpless; even more helpless than the rest of us for he can’t even lift a finger.

“How are you keeping, son?” The priest appeared out of nowhere.

I stood up and bowed to him. “I want to find Amma. I need to see her. I need to know if she is all right, if she knows her way around wherever she’s gone, if she is fed and clothed.”

The priest anointed my forehead with the customary vermillion powder. His eyes shone brightly. “She is in another realm. You need not worry about her.” He turned to the idol, smiled and then turned back to face me. “Krishna is looking after her.”

“That is what you say- but how am I to believe it to be true?”

“Not belief. Faith. Have faith that it is true.”

“But there is no basis to this faith. Is there any way that I can find out for myself? Surely there must be a way to find her if she still exists.”

“There is no if. She exists. But not in a way that you can understand or know. It is complicated, my child. Pray for peace in your heart. It is your sorrow that is speaking.”

“But Punditji…”

“She is all right. Trust me. Krishna is looking after her.”

How could a God who needed a mortal to look after his temple look after my Amma? I held my tongue, for I respected the old man. He was trying to help me in the only way he knew how. He had his beliefs, but I had mine. I was in the wrong place. I got up and bowed respectfully. He gave me his blessing and I left.

Dejected and disappointed, I walked for what must have been at least an hour without any regard for where I was headed. When the sky turned dangerously dark and the nocturnal creatures began their skittling, screeching and hooting, my feet hastened. An unease grew inside of me and I recognized it as fear. Which way was home?

The leaves scrunched beneath my feet and the branches scratched my arms as I tried to find my way out of the dense maze of trees. Just then, I heard a distant, rhythmic chant. I could not clearly decipher the language, but it was a strong and throaty male voice that cracked here and there. I hurried towards it. Any human company was welcome.

I found him in a clearing, sitting with a bonfire blazing before him. In his hand he held a stick and at the end of it was a small animal, a rat or a squirrel of some kind. He was roasting it on the fire and I could smell the flesh cook. The vagrant was dirty, unkept and dressed in tattered black robes. His hair was long and clumpy. His beard was scraggly and unevenly grey. On his forehead there was a smearing of ash and around his neck hung at least five long strands of wooden beads.

Slowly, I approached the stranger. Still chanting, he looked up. His face shone in the ochre light of the flames. He flashed a devilish smile at me and gestured me for me to sit. I did as asked. He picked up a chunk of raw pink flesh, stabbed a branch into it and offered it to me. I took it and held it above the fire. Then he began to sing in a dialect that was slightly different from my own, but close enough that I could make out the gist of his words.

“The curtains have closed, the dance is done,

Who is to know what new life has begun.

Like day to night and lip to sip,

Is the distance between breath and death.”

I wondered whether he was one of those mystical ascetics that could glimpse into the minds of others and see what was inside. Maybe he was a practitioner of black magic. The kind that believed in human sacrifice. My tongue went dry.

“How sad is the plight of man. Pivoting between life and death, he can never be sure if the next breath is his last and he can never know what awaits him beyond.”

“What lies beyond?” I asked.

“Isn’t that the burning question in every sorry soul? Isn’t that the reason we make up our Gods? So that we can palm this unsolvable quandary off to some power higher than ourselves?”

“Indeed. But has no man the answer to this question?”

The wanderer blew at his meat and bit into it hungrily. I watched the shimmering droplets of saliva seep out of the corner of his mouth.

“Most men are content to wallow in helplessness and fester in the pus of ignorance. Spineless!”

He pulled the animal off the stick and ate the rest of the meat, sucking at every last bone.

“You are not hungry?” he asked as the end of my stick started to give off a burnt smell.

“No,” I said. I handed him my cooked meat and he bit into it.

“I can help you,” he said, between bites. “You are seeking to know what cannot be known by mortals. I say to you, there is such a thing as immortality.”

There was a clap of thunder from the skies. “Do not protest! Your secrets are safe in the hands of those who understand their sanctity,” the wanderer said, looking up, and smiling defiantly at the heavens. He turned his gaze back at me. “Nature doesn’t like us humans to interfere.” He laughed loudly, and it echoed through the woodlands. After some moments, when he had regained his composure, he said, “The only way to know what lies beyond is to go beyond. But the obstacle has always been that those who go beyond never come back to tell. What if one could go, see, and then return?”

“Die and come back?”

“Precisely.”

“That is impossible!”

“Impossible is a matter of opinion.” He put his food down on the ground and reached into his bag. He took out a small, brown bottle no bigger than my thumb. “Inside this is a potion that will bring back a dead man. It has to be administered the moment one breathes his last.” He screwed open the cap and let me have a sniff. It smelled of herbs and something else, something putrid. “All you have to do is pour it in the dead man’s mouth as soon as he takes his last breath. In the time it takes for a bird to fly from one tree to the next, the man will return to life.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. How could something like this exist? Maybe he had supernatural powers. I had heard stories before of people like him who meddled in the occult. My friend Bikram once told me he knew a man who could detach his arm and then attach it back again just by chanting some sort of mantra. There were other stories that went around, too. Legends of men who held their breath for hours, who fasted on nothing but water for years, who teleported themselves from village to village and who had the ability to control weather.

Was this man a genuine shaman or he was just a delusional wanderer? I didn’t know but what I did know was that in that moment, I believed in him more than I believed in God. So, I took the bottle in my hands. “What do you want in return?” I asked him.

He started to laugh again, this time even louder. “There is nothing you have that would be of any value to me. I don’t expect anything in return.”

How would I use this potion? How would I find someone who was about to die so that I could administer this to them just as they took their last breath?

“You will have to kill someone and then bring them back,” the wanderer said, reading my mind again.

“How?”

“It is not difficult. You could shoot them in the heart with an arrow, or poison their food, or hit them over the head with a rock. But in all these instances you cannot be sure that they will die at the first attempt. There is always a chance that you may need to inflict some suffering before the belligerent bastards are ready to separate from their body.”

My heart started to race. I couldn’t kill someone. I couldn’t see myself doing any of those things to anyone, even if I knew I was going to bring them back to life. I wouldn’t do it. “Is there no other way?”

His voice rose, “You asked to carry a mountain and I gave you a way. Now you ask to carry it on your fingertips.”

Worried that he would rescind his offer, I tried to pacify him.“It is just that I don’t think I could kill a man.”

“Oh universe, is there no limit to your ability of bestowing us cowards?” The wanderer began to pack up his belongings. He snatched the bottle from my hand.

“Wait!” I protested, refusing to let go. “Please, this is the most important thing in my life. I need to find her. I need to know she is all right.”

He let go of the bottle, dropped his bag and bent close to my ear.“There is one other way,” he whispered. “I could administer the potion to you. You can then see for yourself.”

A million questions swam through my mind, all at once. The stranger had offered to kill me and bring me back to life. Was I ready to die? How would he kill me? Would I experience pain? Would I see Amma? Would I finally be reunited with her? And what if his potion did not work?

A few minutes passed. Neither of us spoke.

Then he said softly, “Coward.”

It was worth it. The chance to see Amma again, no matter how small, was worth it. I would leap into the unknown, make it the known and then I would come right back. I would be the only man who could claim to have seen what is beyond death. Reassured and at peace, I would get married and start a family of my own. Everything would be fine and life would go on as it should.

He seemed happy that I decided to go ahead with the plan and disappeared into the forest while I waited by the fire. I thought about my whole life, my friend Bikram, Amma, the cattle in my shed, the farm, the priest at the temple. I thought about Krishna. And for the first time in my life, I prayed. Fervently.

The stranger returned some time later holding a king cobra. It slithered in his hands. Its steel gray eyes were angry, its slim, bluish tongue flicked in and out and it hissed threateningly. “Do not worry. He is a friend. He follows me around, always in the bushes wherever I go. The venom will work fast. There will be no pain. Lay down.”

I did as I was told, even though every cell in my being resisted. The fire crackled behind me, bones of the just-eaten animals were strewn around me, the stranger’s delirious face hovered above.

The world went dark.

Amma. My mother. My everything. No price is too much, no mountain too high, no sacrifice too big. When I was little, I used to lay in her lap and she would run her fingers through my hair. She’d tell me stories about Emperor Akbar and his witty advisor, Birbal. She would sing me songs and recite poetry. Amma was my favorite place in the world and I cannot tell you how good it feels to be back with her. Here there are no fields to plough, no cattle to feed, no wells to draw water from. There is no back breaking work and food is aplenty. We have servants who clean our home, cook our food and press our feet.  We live like kings. The sheets are made from silk, the floors are lined with rose petals. We have no need for sleep because we never grow tired. I lie in Amma’s lap as much as I want, and she tells me stories from morning to night.

The blue god Krishna visits on some days.

I never believed in magic until I met a man named Khatri last November.

It happened while I was in London visiting my grandson, Max, who is at boarding school in Kent. One evening I was in the club lounge of the Kensington Crest Hotel where I usually put up. I was by myself on a corner sofa, sipping complimentary champagne, nibbling on complimentary hors-d’oeuvres and thoroughly relishing a borrowed copy of The Talented Mr. Ripley.

“Madam, may I join you?” a polite, thickly accented male voice asked.

I looked up to find a well-dressed stranger in a charcoal-colored woolen suit, black lace-up leather shoes, and a smart Fedora hat. His greying mustache was dense and thick and his skin was rich like my own – the color of my morning chai back home.

The lounge was full with hotel guests and no seats were vacant except the two chairs in front of me. I gestured to the empty chairs and granted him permission to sit. He slipped off his jacket and took off his hat, put them down and disappeared toward the buffet station. He returned moments later with a glass of red wine in one hand and a plate of cheese and crackers in the other. Although I had planned to finish the novel that evening, I found myself interested in talking to this stranger. I suspect it was because I was certain that, like me, he was an immigrant from India settled in some corner of the world.

He must come from money, I decided. After all, he had access to the club lounge which meant he could afford four hundred pounds a night for his room. As these curious thoughts floated through my mind, I feigned indifference and flipped the pages of my book, trying to concentrate on Mr. Ripley and his maze of deceit.

“Nice to meet you. My name is Khatri. Aren’t we lucky to be warm and toasty in here?” He had an affable smile, the kind that ensured a high probability of friendship. He rolled his r’s – in his name, in aren’t, in November– like most Indians do. But his speech was gentler than the Indian men I knew, who often spoke as though they were issuing a command or as though they deserved to be heard.

“Seema Malik,” I offered. “Yes, it is chilly isn’t it? I suspect it will rain.”

“Oh, I am almost certain it will. I have a dinner engagement so I will need to face Mother Nature in an hour or so. You stay at this hotel often? I am here twice a year and have never seen you before.”

“Only in the last two years. I live in the Middle East. Bahrain. My grandson goes to boarding school here.”

“Ah, yes. Max, a convenient, anglicized abbreviation for his Indian name – Mahesh. He’s in Kent, isn’t he?”

I choked on the champagne.

“Please, Mrs. Malik. Don’t be alarmed. I am a clairvoyant and I can read people. I try not to unless they ask, but sometimes it just happens as I speak to them. I hope I didn’t scare you.”

He did scare me. As a matter of fact, I was terrified. Had this man been following me for the last few days? Had he overheard my conversation with my friend Bella in the lobby of the hotel? Had he tapped my phone?

“When you said the word grandson, you had a lot of emotion attached to it. Max must be your only grandchild.”

“He is,” I muttered.

“Your affection for him is strong. I couldn’t help picking it up, I felt the boy through you. I don’t know much else about you, I assure you. Well not right now, anyway.”

I consider myself a logical, educated, scientific woman, unlike my mother who believed in any and everything. Blind faith, superstition, and irrational beliefs were typical in her generation of Indian women. She sought out long-bearded fortune tellers on the temple steps, she summoned up invisible heavenly sages that roamed the skies showering blessings on mortals, she expounded at length the power of destiny and bad luck and karma. I believed in none of those things. Strangely, I now found myself teetering between belief and skepticism.

“I can read palms and foreheads. I would not mind reading yours. I can tell you about your past, present and future.”

I agreed. Khatri took my hand in his and began telling me events and facts about my life that he couldn’t possibly have known. He told me the name of my first love and the names of my children. He knew I had a mole on my left thigh and that I had had an abortion before marriage. He knew I had lost my mother to cancer.

He told me he could see that my husband had a penchant for young women. I felt my breath catch in my throat. I had known for a long time of Amit’s infidelities. I even knew who the women were at various stages of our marriage. But when he started taking the names of Amit’s lovers, tears trickled down my cheeks. One of them was younger than my daughter.

Khatri began to console me.“I did not mean to upset you. I have something that will help you.”

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small wooden box. It was the size of a matchbox and gold in color. He placed it on the table. “Open it,” he said.

Hands shaking, I picked up the box and tried in vain to open it.

“Slide it open, exactly like a matchbox.”

I did. Inside was a small, round, glowing object. It was bright blue and it seemed to be floating in the tiny space.

“It is a drop from the fountain of youth,” he said, with a glint in his eye. “Place it on your tongue and it will reverse your appearance by thirty years. It is like cosmetic surgery, only better, because it is real. It changes everything on the inside too; your lungs, liver, kidneys and everything else. Any diseases you may have as a result of age or wear and tear are reversed. You will be young and healthy again.”

The guests in the lounge had mostly left, the complimentary cocktail bar had closed for the evening and the buffet had been cleared. Khatri looked at his watch. “I need to leave for my dinner appointment. I hope my little gift will bring back your husband’s heart. I am truly sorry to have made you cry.”

When I returned to my room, I placed the box in the hotel safe. I lay awake most of the night thinking about Amit and his infidelities, about Khatri and why he would give me such a gift. I spent a lot of time deciding whether or not this “drop” was magical. How could something like this be possible in the world of logic and science?

It was almost morning when sleep came and I woke up with a throbbing headache. I enjoyed the weekend because Max came to stay with me at the hotel and we went shopping. I bought him a pair of limited edition football shoes and a thick coat for the rest of the winter. Max took the afternoon train back to his school on Sunday and I went to the club lounge in search of Khatri. I waited there for three hours, alone. There was no sign of him.

The next morning I was due to fly home and I spent hours deciding how to pack the box. I did not want to check it in, in case my suitcase went missing en route. I decided to carry it on my person and worried obsessively all the way to the airport about customs and any issues that may arise. How would I explain a floating, luminous object? My heart raced as my handbag traveled through the security belt at Heathrow. Luckily, no alarms went off and I boarded without incident.

I arrived in Manama, Bahrain late at night and switched on my phone. There were messages from all three of my children and one from Max saying he missed me.

Farid, my chauffeur was waiting for me at the airport. I got home around midnight. My cook Halima had set the table and laid out dinner. I was too tired to eat, so I put the dishes away in the refrigerator. Amit was asleep but stirred as I came out of the shower.

“How is Max?” he mumbled.

“He is well. He has his exams in three weeks.”

Amit drifted back to sleep while I lay awake and thought about the box. I had hidden it away behind the shoe rack in my closet and sooner or later I would have to decide what to do with it. I contemplated getting out of bed and consuming its contents. Would I awake youthful? Wouldn’t that shock Amit? And what would happen when the children visited? How would I explain to them what had happened to me?

A part of me was acutely aware of how ludicrous my thoughts were. Surely there was no such thing as a fountain of youth.

I fell asleep and dreamed of Khatri. He was dressed in scrubs, hovering above me as I lay semi-conscious on an operating table. He held a scalpel in one hand and he rolled the glowing drop between the fingers of his other hand. He cut through my flesh and performed surgery on my insides.

Amit was up early the next morning, drawing open the curtains and letting the sun in a lot sooner than I would have appreciated. I rung the kitchen for my chai, but Halima didn’t pick up the phone.

“Did she say she wasn’t coming in today?” I called out to Amit as he went into the bathroom.

“She’s coming, but a little late. Said she had a doctor’s appointment.”

I went into the kitchen and made a cup of chai for myself as well as one for Amit. When I returned to the bedroom, he was in a pair of beige slacks. A long-sleeved polo shirt lay on the bed. Clearly, he wasn’t going to the office.

He thanked me as he took the cup from my hand.

I went out into the patio, sipped my tea and enjoyed the spring-like December weather of the Middle East. Amit came outside and sat beside me. We made small talk. He asked me about London, how my flight was if I’d shopped, if I’d picked up the single malt he’d asked for from the duty-free shops.

“I am off to Doha,” he said, casually. “Golf. Just for three days. Back before the weekend.”

I nodded as he left. From my patio, I had a view of the circular driveway. Farid opened the booth and placed Amit’s suitcase in it.  I went into my closet and reached for the box. I opened it and the drop was still there in all its beaming glory. It was worth a shot.

I held it between my fingers. It was cold as ice. I lifted it toward my mouth, but before I could place it on my tongue, there was a knock at my door. I hid the box and opened the door. It was my cook, Halima. The moment she saw me she started to cry. I sat her down on my bed and tried to get her to tell me what the matter was, but she was so distraught she could barely speak.

Finally, after half an hour she said, “Madam, I have cancer.”

I got up, went into my closet, retrieved the box and gave it to her.

She calls herself fat all the time. Always complaining about her stomach not being flat, her hips being too wide and her thighs being too thick. I told her just the other day. I said, “Darling, your body is sexy. There is enough to hold and love in all the right places.”

I even explained to her that some women have a good body but their face is rubbish. Other women have a pretty face but they’re too short or too tall or too thin with no breasts. She doesn’t really listen because she follows all these singers and famous social media people from her phone. She likes all their photos and she’s always trying to be like them, trying to wear what they wear, diet how they diet, say what they say. She pinches the screen of her phone, zooms into their faces and carefully observes every iota of their appearance. They seem like they live perfect lives with perfect friends and perfect bodies but I have my suspicions about the honesty of these people – they can’t really be how they seem.

Now they’ve all claimed her.

Two weeks ago Donna told me she needed to get a nose job. I looked at her and said more forcefully than I had intended to, “There is nothing wrong with your nose.”

Donna started pinching and pointing and showing me how it needed to be smaller. I told her again, “Darling, your nose is perfect. You’re perfect.”

She didn’t believe me. But it is true. For me, Donna is perfect.

Wait, sorry. I have been saying this the wrong way. Takes getting used to. Was, Donna was perfect.

I am looking at her now and I am trying to look as deep and hard as I can. I am afraid to blink because I don’t want to lose time. They’re waiting in their solemn suits. They are going to ask me any moment now to step away so they can close the coffin and wheel her out of here to the back where they will bury my Donna.

I hear sniffles. From her mother who I think, blames me. From her brother who is looking at me with stone eyes. And from her friends who haven’t stopped crying.

I haven’t cried yet. My brother Jarrod says it will come later. He has been telling people I am still in shock. Jarrod is a dumb fuck most of the time but this time around he is on point. I can feel the river gather momentum inside my chest and I think the dam will break when they take her away from me.

People are whispering. Twenty-eight. Too young. And so suddenly.

It was sudden. I should have never agreed. Or I should have done some sort of a check on the doctor. I just handed her over like she wasn’t the most important thing in my life.

I don’t like her new nose. She can’t even breathe through it.

Jay Jones waited at Carla’s doorstep. One dozen red roses in hand, one carat ring in his blazer pocket and one question on his nervous mind.

“Coming!” Carla called from the inside.

He scraped the soles of his leather Oxfords on the doormat, rolled back his shoulders and let out his breath. It’s not like they had never talked about a future together. Two years was a long time to be madly in love with someone. Oh, come on, get a hold of yourself. She is going to say yes. Why wouldn’t she? You’re doing the right thing. Now calm down and turn on the charm.

The door handle clicked and Jay’s heart all but leapt out of his chest. March 13th, 2018. This is it, today is the day.

She stood in front of him and just seeing her in her frayed denim shorts and her casual tank T-shirt eased his nerves. Her coffee-brown hair was pulled up in a messy ponytail. Little ringlets fell on the sides of her face. She didn’t wear any make-up onbut she didn’t need any. If tonight went the way Jay hoped it would, he would soon be the luckiest man in the world.

“How was the trip? Miss me?” he asked with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

But she didn’t smile. Her gaze fell on the bouquet of flowers and her face softened, but only a little. She invited him in.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked, as she closed the door behind him.

“What, no kiss?” They hadn’t seen each other in a week. “What’s the matter,baby?”

“Nothing.” Her suitcase lay open on the sofa. She pretended to busy herself picking out clothes from it, folding and unfolding.

Jay had been with enough women in his life to know that when a woman says nothing it usually meant it was one big bastard of a thing.  But Carla wasn’t like the rest of them. Carla had no drama, no tantrums AND she was beautiful. This behaviour baffled him.

“Hey, what’s all this about?”

“Nothing,” she repeated.

He’d have to go in carefully now. He’d have to find out what was eating her. He couldn’t think of anything he had said or done that warranted this coldness. He pulled her toward him by her arm, gently, and he offered her the bouquet. “These are for you.”

She took them from him and replied with forced etiquette, “Thanks. They’re beautiful.”

He kissed her and she responded only as much as was necessary.

“Are you going to tell me what is wrong?” he finally asked.

She reached for her phone on the dining table, fiddled with it and handed it to him.

“Stupid Facebook,” he muttered. “Honey, it was Rick’s birthday. Anna is dating his brother. I almost gave him my condolences.”

Jay had strayed only once in their two-year relationship. And it was with Anna. To this day he could not understand why he would do a thing like that. But he had, and it almost cost him the only woman he truly loved. Carla forgave him and he was utterly grateful for it.

She crossed her arms, waiting.

“I swear I didn’t know she was going to be there.” He pulled her close. “Come on now, don’t tell me you don’t know how into you I am. You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed you. She is history. It was dumb and it is over. You let it go, remember?” He started to kiss her again, this time with urgency.

Carla broke away and let out a sigh. “It’s not like I don’t trust you, Jay. I wish you’d told me she was there.”

“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning. I love you. Only you.” He meant it. She was the one.

She uncrossed her arms and looked a little more at ease.

Jay brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. “You want to get dressed for dinner?”

“Did we make plans for dinner?” She looked around the messy flat, clothes strewn everywhere.

“No, we didn’t, but I thought we would go out. Please say yes. Promise it will be special. After dinner I’ll come over and help you clean all this up. I will even do your laundry.”

She managed a laugh. Jay was the worst at laundry. He was always either losing socks, leaving money in his pockets or buying new white shirts to replace the ones he’d ruined.

“Okay, I guess. There’s nothing to eat here. I haven’t stocked up yet. Where are we going?”

“I told you. It’s a surprise.”

She was ready in minutes and she looked sensational in that short, red silk dress. They jumped into his Honda Civic and on the way up to Maple Ridge Tavern she kept asking Jay about the place and what this surprise was all about. But Jay wanted her to see it for herself. A vegan colleague had told him about Maple Ridge some days ago and that very same evening he’d taken a drive and checked it out. It was perfect for the occasion. Nestled in the clouds at the very top of Grove Hill, the fine-dining restaurant was an hour’s drive up a steep and winding road that cut through the green mountains. The view was spectacular and Jay reserved the best table. He even put together a special menu and requested that the chocolate torte be made in the shape of a heart.

She did love Maple Ridge and he was pleasantly surprised that the food was as good as it was. They talked about her trip to Berlin and she told him all about the places she’d visited and the people she’d met. He brought her up to date on the goings-on at his office and how he almost missed a deadline. The weather was lovely, a light breeze blowing in their direction every now and then, the velvety moonlit sky above. They finished a bottle of Malbec between them. He was glad for it because at the end of the meal when he got down on one knee, he was calm and relaxed.

“Carla, I love you, I am willing to love vegan food and yoga and the ozone layer. I will hug trees with you and wake up every single morning to watch you plant flowers in the home we will buy in the countryside. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Carla Abraham. Will you marry me?”

She laughed and cried at the same time. “Yes, yes I will.”

He lifted her up, swung her around and they kissed.

By the time they left the restaurant it was half-past ten. They were both ecstatic and a little bit tipsy. As Jay got behind the wheel, a clap of thunder ripped through the thick clouds that appeared out of nowhere and unleashed torrents of rain. They started to make their way through the spiralling mountainous road,but the rain was so heavy that even though he had the wipers going full throttle, he could hardly see anything in front of him.

Carla stroked his arm.“Maybe we should pull up for a while.”

He didn’t protest; they were driving downhill, the route was deserted, the visibility was next to nothing and just inches from the side of their car were ravines they could so easily plunge into. He parked and switched on the hazard lights.

Linger by the Cranberries started playing on the radio. Jay sang along softly. You know I’m such a fool for you. You’ve got me wrapped around your finger. Do you have to let it linger? 

He played with the ring he’d just placed on her finger and brushed his fingertips over her thigh. She squirmed and let out a deep sigh. The wine was still coursing through his veins and he felt himself swell beneath his trousers. He leaned forward and kissed her.

A bright beam of light flooded the car and lit it up. It was coming from behind them. Jay turned. It looked like an SUV, but with the vehicle’s headlights blinding his eyes and with all that rain, he couldn’t be sure. Just then, there was a loud tap on Carla’s window. Startled, she jerked back and shrieked. Jay put his arm around her and even though the gear console was between them,he pulled her as close to him as he could.

A craggy, middle-aged face looked into the car from Carla’s window. Rain pelted down on him and his hair was pasted to his forehead. Jay couldn’t make out his features through the wet glass, but the man was smiling and he looked unkept and creepy. He started banging harder on the window, louder and faster. No umbrella, no raincoat. He just waited in the rain.

“Should we see what he wants?” Carla clung to Jay.

“He looks crazy. What if he has a gun or something? We should just go.”

“Maybe it is an emergency? Maybe he needs help. Roll down the window just a little.”

Jay hesitated and finally,it was not concern but curiosity that got the better of him. The man’s skin was worn and leathery like a two-pack-a-day smoker’s. He had a big, tired face and a blue-black scar on the side of his cheek.

“You kids all right in there?” His voice was hoarse but friendly.

Jay held on to Carla tight. “Yeah, thanks.”

“That is some nice music you got playing there. Cranberries. 1993. Used to hear this one over and over again. Even saw them in concert.”

Jay tried to force a smile. No point being rude. But he kept thinking about the possibility of a gun and he really did not want to be having a conversation on a deserted road with a vagrant or a drunk or whatever the hell this man was. He wouldn’t have been so apprehensive if he was alone, but it just wasn’t safe with Carla there.

“Were you two kissing or something? A little bit of canoodling eh?” The stranger fixed his eyes on Carla’s legs and then winked at Jay.

Jay could feel the heat rise up in his face and his hands turned to fists. “What the hell is your problem? Listen, if your car has broken down or something I can try and help,otherwise please just fuck off.’ Jay reached over Carla and pressed the button to roll up her window.

The stranger placed his hand over the glass. His fingers got caught in the gap and he screamed in pain.

“Fuck, fuck!” Jay started the engine.

“Don’t, Jay. You will drag him,” Carla said.

The stranger let out a feral cry and bellowed, “You can drag me all you want,you little fucker. You think you are so great just because you got a pretty girl and all.”

Then his fingers stopped squirming. He dropped his head and his voice, switching from mad to sad. His eyes lost their wildness and his face twisted with sorrow. He started to cry silently as though mourning the death of a lovedone. His shoulders heaved and his voice came between soft sobs. “There’s no appreciation, I tell you. You try to help someone and all you get is ingratitude. This world has become a shithole, a shithole full of shitty people and their shitty cold attitudes. There is no hope for friendships…”

Jay didn’t know how to react to any of this, but it did occur to him just then to roll down the window to let the man’s hand loose. The stranger separated himself from the car, massaging his bruised knuckles as he retreated. He looked at Carla and said, “I am sorry, ma’am. I hope you have a nice evening.”

He walked away slowly. Jay saw his slouching and defeated figure diminish in the beam of light. The man turned around and looked straight at their car.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” Jay muttered. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Jay, wait. What’s he doing?

The stranger had moved to the edge of the mountainside. He stood there, no more than ten feet away from them, looking down into the ravines.

Carla’s voice was shaking with panic.“He is so upset, you think he is going to jump?”

Jay put the car in gear.“Who knows? Let’s just leave.”

“No. Please we can’t leave him like that. He is not sane. He will jump. Please,go pull him back. Just talk to him and make him go back into his car. At least then we know he’s safe.”

But before Jay could reply, right in front of their eyes the bleak form of the stranger lifted a leg and stepped off the precipice. They heard him scream over the sound of the rain. A loud, piercing, blood curdling sound that faded and disappeared as the man went down.

“Oh my God, Jay! Shit! Shit!”

Jay jumped out of the car. Carla too. They stood at the but they couldn’t see anything down the ravines except for the blurry forms and outlines of the vegetation.

Jay ran back towards the car.

Carla followed him. “Where are you going? Oh my God,what are we going to do? We killed him!”

“No, we didn’t. He was crazy.” Jay then corrected himself.“Is crazy.”

“You think he is still alive?”

“I don’t know, but we need to get some help.” Jay reached into the car and found his phone in the side compartment. A black screen stared back at him. “Shit! I swear it was full batt when I left home. Where is your phone?”

She rummaged through her handbag and thendropped it on the floor of the car. “I think I left it at home, right after I showed you Facebook.”

“Okay, okay, let’s not panic.” Jay’s gaze bounced from left to right, back and forth. By now the rain had reduced to a drizzle, but they were both completely wet. There was no vehicle in sight. “There is a police station a mile down. I saw it the other day on the way up. We need to get someone. Maybe the bushes broke his fall. Quick, get in the car!”

On the way down, Carla couldn’t stop crying. She kept saying they’dkilled him. Jay tried to reason with her that the man was odd to begin with and they hadn’t said anything wrong-and most importantly he could still be alive. But she wouldn’t stop-she was in shock and inconsolable. He didn’t blame her. He felt the exact same way. He couldn’t shake off the guilt of having driven a man to suicide. He reminded himself that he had done nothing wrong, that the man was most likely a floater. Maybe he was off his meds. Whatever the case, the sooner they got help the better. He drove dangerously fast. The steering wheel was damp with sweat from his palms. He couldn’t stop replaying images in his head:a tattered corpse lying amid the bushes, blood and bones and broken limbs strewn here and there.

The ten-minute drive to Grove Hill police station felt like hours. The station was a small cabin perched in a groove on the inner side of the mountain. It was dimly lit with only two wall lamps on either side of the façade and a sign that was unreadable in the dark. There was a patrol car parked on the curb.

They got out of the car and he held her hand tight as they headed toward the porch. The door creaked as he pushed it open. Inside the small room was a wooden desk with two chairs on either side. The walls were lined with old,rusty filing cabinets. A laptop lay open on the desk, but there was no one to be seen or heard.

“Hello? Anyone there?” Jay called.

No answer.

Jay called out again, louder this time. A door behind the desk opened and a severe-looking,six-foot-tall officer stepped out. “Yes sir, how can I help you?”

Carla pleaded, “We need some help. Now. There was this man. On the highway. We were parked and this man…”

“Slow down, slow down, ma’am. Take a seat.”

Carla sat down and Jay started to tell the officer everything,just as it happened. The officer peered over his round glasses and patientlytook in every word.

“Where and when exactly did this happen? What did the man look like? Can you describe his vehicle?”

“Just now, just up the mountain. He was a big guy, in his forties. It was an SUV. I didn’t notice the make.” Even as Jay spoke he could hear the screams of the man as he went down, he saw the face of the man, his scar so clearly glistening in the rain, his fingers wriggling through the window.

Carla’s eyes were bloodshot from crying and she begged, “Please let’s not waste any more time. We need to go find him. He could still be alive.”

The officer exhaled and then stood up. He opened a drawer of one the cabinets and pulled out a worn-out file. He sat down, opened it and flipped through its contents: forms, handwritten documents and newspaper clippings. He handed Jay a clipping from an old newspaper. Jay’s face went pale.

“What? What does it say?” Carla took the piece of paper from Jay’s frozen hands.

On it was a photograph of the stranger from the highway. And another photo of a Subaru four-wheel drive. It was dated March 13th, 1994. The headline read:

Man, 45, abandons car and jumps to his death on Grove Hill

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Derek is good marriage material and this is precisely why it is no surprise that he is getting married.

For the third time.

Derek’s first marriage, through no fault of his, lasted only two months. It is his good fortune that Derek did not love his first wife although he did convince himself otherwise. He had to because she was pregnant and Derek had never been the kind of man to walk away from his responsibilities. The couple even bought a house together and on the day they were to move in, which was somewhere in the beginning of the second trimester, she admitted to him that the child was not his. The real father, she informed him, was Derek’s best friend Angus McCummerbund, who was already married but had done “it” with her numerous times in multiple locations, most of which were somewhat public;  bathrooms of restaurants and changing rooms of apparel stores, that sort of thing. Anyway, long story short, Derek no longer has a best friend and neither has he a child. Both reside together with his first wife in a small farm in North Lincolnshire.

Before I go on to tell you about the real love of Derek’s life, his soon-to-be wife Miranda, I must put Derek’s second marriage out of the way. Ah, that one was entirely his fault and entirely illegal. After a drunken night at his friend’s twenty-fifth birthday in Cardiff, Derek ended up having sexual intercourse with a rather elderly, bun-faced housekeeping lady at the Ivy Cottage Lodge. In the morning, while he was still hungover and vulnerable, Bogdana chose to unburden her sorrows and cried buckets while telling him of her difficult life in Romania and her employment contract which was on the verge of expiry. He married her so that she could apply for citizenship and thus continue to live and work in the UK. Bogdana’s residency was rejected because she had a criminal record for shoplifting and worse still, she refused to sign the divorce papers until he paid her a sum of four hundred pounds for a ticket home.

It was the best money Derek ever spent.

Now, at long last, Derek is going to marry a woman he is convinced is the one for him. Thus, no expense will be spared for this genuine wedding and every single detail will be perfectly curated by his soon-to-be Mrs. This is why he and Miranda stand here now, before the offices of Ethan & Jolie Wedding Planners on the first floor of 11, Harbinger Street.

Miranda presses the button on the little keypad console and a female voice comes through the speaker-holes.

“Hi there, how may I help you?”

“Hello. This is Miranda. I am with my fiancé, Derek. We have an appointment with Jolie.”

“Yes sure, come right in.”

The door clicks and Miranda pushes it open. They enter the small reception area that is furnished with a modest set of sofas, a basic coffee table (wedding magazines are stacked high on top of it), a water dispenser and a vase full of pink roses on top of a side table.

The only empty wall boasts a large signboard that reads:

Ethan and Jolie Wedding Planners.

Celebrating your love the way it should be.

“A bit presumptuous, don’t you think?” Miranda says.

Derek raises his eyebrows, “What’s presumptuous?”

“How do they know how our love should be celebrated?” Miranda explains.

“Oh, I don’t think they mean it that way darling. I am sure they will ask us how we would like to celebrate our love.”

“I don’t know, but I can tell you right now I don’t like that signboard. I know what kind of celebration I want and how can someone who has never…” Miranda turns at the sound of a pair of heels. A young bespectacled woman is coming out of a corridor that neither Derek or Miranda have noticed.

“Hi, I am Jolie’s assistant, Amy. Jolie will be right with you, She’s just finishing up a conference call. Please take a seat. Help yourselves to some magazines.”

Amy disappears into the magical corridor and the couple make themselves comfortable on the purple sofa.

“Feels like waiting at the doctor’s, doesn’t it? You think Ethan is her husband?” Miranda says.

“Ethan?”

“You know, Ethan and Jolie…You think Ethan and Jolie are husband and wife?”

“They could be,” Derek replies.

“I bet he’s queer. These wedding planner types usually are. They must be brother and sister. Wonder why he won’t see us, if she’s busy. Are you sure they’re any good?”

Derek isn’t sure, but now that they are already here in this office and Miranda is asking in the way she is, he feels compelled to vouch for them. “Edmund used them. He said they did everything they said they would and were good value for money.”

“Is that why we are here? Because they’re cheap? I hated Edmund’s wedding. The flower arrangements were the ugliest I have ever seen. And that band. Do you know the guitarist hit on Edmund’s sister?”

“I didn’t know Edmund had a sister.”

“Oh God, I can already feel we are in the wrong place. I don’t want a wedding like Edmund’s.”

“It will be fine, darling. Trust me. We will tell them exactly what we want. And anyway, at least these guys come with a recommendation. You detested the last planners we met.”

“And you should have too! They were suggesting a Star Wars themed wedding.’

“Now, now, that wasn’t entirely their fault. You told them you wanted something different and special.”

“Yes I did, but I hardly meant outer space!”

Miranda’s voice is rising, becoming unsuitably loud and Derek decides he must take control of this rapidly deteriorating situation before she storms out of the room. He slides closer to her on the sofa so that their bodies touch, his thigh warmly against hers, his hand reaching out and grasping hers tightly. “Darling.” He looks into her eyes. “I promised you a dream wedding and we will have nothing less than that. If Nathan and Jolie…”

“Ethan,” Miranda interrupts him.

“Oh it doesn’t matter what the fellow’s name is. If Nathan or Ethan or Jolie cannot assure us of that, we will find someone who can.”

Miranda’s eyes begin to well up and her lips break into a quivering I-love-you-so-much-right-now smile. Derek breathes a secret sigh of relief. He knows he is out of the woods and in the safe-zone. He leans forward in smug confidence to kiss his future wife. Their lips meet.

“Awwww, what a sweet couple you both are. I am so sorry to disturb you lovebirds ,but Jolie is ready to see you now.” Amy leads Derek and Miranda through that secret corridor and into Jolie’s office. It is small and cluttered, but in an organized way. There are many files and binders, mood boards and fabric swatches, photographs of wedding cakes, happy couples and for some reason, among all of this, there is a picture of a large ape up on the wall.

They make introductions and Jolie, an affable young woman with darkest of hair and lightest of eyes, sincerely enquires about their wedding plans. What kind of venue, cuisine, budget, music, guest list?

Miranda has all the answers and while she gives them, Derek looks around the room and in particular settles his gaze at the photograph. It does not seem to be cut out from a magazine. It looks like a Polaroid, like it was taken by someone real. Could the ape be a pet? No, that can’t be legal.

“Something the matter?” Jolie pauses between the conversation she is having with Miranda.

Derek gestures at the picture of the ape.

“Oh him? He’s Ethan. I adopted him a few years ago when I visited Africa. I sponsor him, he’s an orphan. He has been so lucky for me,” Jolie says.

“Ethan is an ape?” Miranda exclaims.

“You’ve been to Africa?” Derek adds. “I have always wanted to go to Africa. I wanted to go there for our honeymoon.”

“But we are going to Paris instead. It is my dream to kiss beneath the Eiffel Tower,” Miranda says.

“Be careful when you’re there. Lots of pickpockets in Paris. They almost got me.”

“You’ve been to Paris too?” Derek asks.

“I do love to travel.”

“Me too. I found Paris to be a tad overrated. The coffee and croissants were lovely though.”

“Oh you must eat at this little pastry shop by the Champs Elysees –wait,what is it called again? Ah! Le Petit Patisserie. Ask for the Pain au Chocolat.”

“Can we get back to the wedding, if you don’t mind?” Miranda interrupts.

“Of course. I am so sorry. Yes, where were we? Tell me a little bit more about the two of you. I want to make sure I understand your story, your personalities. You see, I believe a wedding must be a reflection of the couple and what binds them together. How did you both meet?”

Derek takes hold of Miranda’s hand, “We worked together.”

“Yes, we did. He was in marketing and I was a design assistant.”

They leave it at that. No point going into details, is there? The story is nicer like this, without all the stuff about the office Christmas party, the alcohol, the pantry and them both getting fired right after for sharing photos on the company cloud account. That is what bound them, if Jolie really wanted to know; the fact that they were both out of a job for banging each other and making it public while inconceivably drunk. But that didn’t take away from what they had now. Sometimes you discover love in that strangest of ways.

Derek and Miranda met every day for lunch in between job-hunting and both found new employment fairly quickly. And they discovered that not working together made them miss each other all the more. They hadn’t fully realized their mutual fondness until that point. Distance does make the heart grow fonder.

“Is there any colour or theme or style you had in mind?”

Derek is interrupted at the “wh” of “white.”

“Pink. A faded powdery pink. And lots of flowers.”

On and on it goes for two hours; design and decor, centerpieces and hair stylists and cake stylists and photographers and Stationary and band options and caterer options. Derek keeps himself occupied by fiddling with his phone; reading emails, replying to text messages and smiling at unread jokes. He dutifully pauses when Miranda seeks his opinion, but it doesn’t happen all that often, because she has exited the real world and entered the parallel universe of bouquets and brunch menus.

As Derek and Miranda leave Ethan and Jolie Party Planners, Derek compares the look on Miranda’s face now with the time they had sex three times in one night; spent but satisfied, content, comfortable. She is not like this often and he is mighty pleased with himself and even more pleased with Edmund. He makes a mental note to buy the good man a beer one of these days. Now the burden of a perfect wedding is off his shoulders. Jolie’s quote of one thousand eight hundred pounds is worth every last penny. If all goes well, in three months he will be well on his way to an impeccable and enjoyable married life.

Every day for the next eight weeks Miranda is kept busy in the company of Jolie. She is either texting her, emailing her or meeting her. Together they decide on invitations, theme, venue, color scheme, tableware, candle bras and many, many other such matrimonial paraphernalia. Derek strives hard to stay engrossed when Miranda calls him at all sorts of hours to regurgitate details of the origin of the lace of her wedding gown or the kind of fork she has decided to use for the dessert course.

Time passes in the way it does and before Derek or Miranda realize it, the wedding day is upon them. The venue is the quaint Coswell Lodge, a fourteenth century manor turned hotel with thirty bedrooms, large and richly green gardens, a lovely little vineyard and a commanding view of the countryside. The ceremony is to take place on the lawns at the rear of the hundred-acre property. Derek’s two brothers, his widowed mum, his five best friends, Edmund (and his newly discovered sister), some aunts and uncles, other relatives (that he didn’t want to invite but had to because if he didn’t his mum would never let him marry in peace) and his boss are all in attendance.

Miranda’s side of the family consists of a lot of women. In fact, if one was to stand on the wedding stage and look out at the sixty odd guests at the bride’s side of the canopies, they would find exactly three men. One is Miranda’s ex-boyfriend Roy, who Derek both detests and suspects (Miranda has assured him there is nothing between them, but Derek does not understand why Roy is still single and always ready to lunch with her). The other is Miranda’s stepfather who claims his father was knighted by the queen of England and that he himself has fought in two wars (no medals or photographs to prove), and the last man is Miranda’s sister Edna,who is now her brother Eddie.

Derek is in his room. He stands in front of the full mirror adjusting the knot of his silk tie. He’s picked this tie out of all the others at the shop because of three reasons; its color, a deep amethyst which is his birth stone;the white prints on the tie,which are little Eiffel Towers that you can’t make out unless you lean forward and inspect the tie at close range, and finally because it is made in France where they will be going for their honeymoon tomorrow morning.

His shirt is crisp and his suit (he hates wearing a tux) is a dark blue with a wonderful sheen. He checks his wristwatch.It is ten past ten. He is ready ahead of time. He has been told to be at the ceremony by eleven and it is a pleasant twelve-minute walk across his patio, then through the vineyards to the canopies.

Derek opens the cupboard of the minibar and helps himself to one of the miniature bottles of vodka. He then turns on the television, surfs channels back and forth and finally stops pressing buttons when a troop of apes appear on the screen. It is a wildlife documentary. He turns up the volume and drinks the vodka in one gulp. He checks the time again. Only five minutes have passed. Eyes still on the screen, Derek gets up and goes back to the minibar to take a bag of peanuts, a mini of gin and a mini of whiskey. This show is interesting: magnificent creatures. These fellows are filmed in Africa, but he learns that apes are also found in parts of Southeast Asia. Oh, how he would love to visit Asia someday. There is so much to see in this big, big world.

The clock strikes eleven and all heads are turned, eyes wide in anticipation at the thick quilt of green, the delicate vineyards, the majestic oaks and the curving hills beyond. The pathway is lined with petals. The pianist awaits his turn as the soft classical music from the speakers starts to fade. Derek is nowhere to be seen. Not now, not in fifteen minutes and, it seems, not any time in the conceivable future.

The rest of the morning is a mishmash of tears, failed phone calls, upset family members and an inconsolable bride. Thank goodness for Roy, though, because he does seem to be able to make Miranda feel just a little bit better. The lunch buffet, because it has already been paid for, is served and the guests eat in the absence of a wedded couple. By three o clock, despite Jolie’s repeated announcements of the dinner reception still going ahead as planned, cars begin to pull out of the driveway. It is all over. Coswell Lodge is empty.

As evening comes, Jolie sits at the edge of the small river just outside the lodge and plays with a blade of grass. The dismantling of the canopies is over,but she still needs to stay to make sure her team of contract workers load every last rented fork into the lorries. What a sad thing to happen to a bride, she thinks. And why would a man do something this dreadful to a woman he loves? Unless he didn’t love Miranda, which he would know in the first place, wouldn’t he? Why plan this wedding then?

She takes her mind back to the first time she saw them at her office. They certainly looked like they loved each other. You would know, wouldn’t you, if you loved someone enough to marry them? You would know that loved them more than anything or anyone else in this world, loved them enough to commit to spend the rest of your life with them.

Her phone beeps and she hopes to God it is not the damned band for tonight. They’ve been calling incessantly. When she informed them that the gig was off, they were quite upset. She explained that there has been no wedding,thus there can be no celebration and at this the lead singer dived into an ocean of expletives and didn’t stop till she reminded him that he had already been paid in full. Now he keeps texting with pleas of We can still come sing? and can we just do a few songs?

But it is not the band. It is a number she knows but hasn’t saved.

Hi, please don’t tell them it is me. I never asked you much about Ethan. When are you planning on visiting him in Africa next?

Granted that no man has lived forever. But don’t we wish we could. We are not immortal but we sure as hell want to stretch out our time in this magnificent planet for as long as we can.

We know the tricks and the clues, the do’s and the don’ts. Do exercise, do eat fruits and vegetables, don’t drink excessively, don’t do drugs, don’t smoke, don’t stress… The list goes on and on. And you know what, it works. I’ve seen it over and over. People who live by the rules live longer. Sure, there are no guarantees. There are exceptions because you know, sometimes bad luck takes over. But by and large we know what to do and what maximizes our chances of a long life.

I’m no different, I am all for immortality and the fountain the of youth. Hell I want to jump right in and swim in it till wild horses come drag me out. I mean, it feels good to be alive and be strong and be young. I want to hang out here forever! The body, after all, is a thing to enjoy and value. Why leave the party early? What is the rush to climb up that golden staircase?

So I try. I exercise. I try to eat well. I try to get enough sleep and I try not to flip out and get stressed. I’m doing alright with all of that. I’d give myself an eight out of ten. (actually, if I am going to be honest, its a five)

But in the quest for a long life, there is one element that is frequently overlooked and it may be one of the most crucial things we can do to stick around longer and healthier.

Minding the mind, it turns out, is as important as minding the body. And this is no surprise. We’ve always known that the mind and body are inextricably linked. In fact, some philosophers would argue that we are more mind than body because where the mind leads, the body follows.

Whether we are more mind or more body is irrelevant, what is important to note though is that more and more studies are arriving at the same conclusion; that having a healthy mind can help us have healthier bodies as we age. And even more significant are the findings that healthier minds mean longer lives.

A UCL-led research published in 2014 showed that people with a higher sense of purpose were 30% more likely to live longer than those who felt purposeless.

So basically, this team went out and interviewed a few thousand 65-year-olds and asked them to fill out a questionnaire that would indicate how they rate their sense of control, their worthiness and their sense of purpose in life. These scores were tabulated and people were divided into categories;  from the highest state of well-being to the lowest.

Eight and a half years later, the researchers went back to check on these folks and they found that the mortality rate for the people with the lowes t states of well being was the highest. In short, the fellows who had a strong purpose in life hung around longer than their lesser fulfilled peers.

So Nietzsche was right when he said, “he who has a why to live for can bear almost any how,”

Meaningfulness means survival. Minding the mind means prolonging the body. And I think I understand the logic here. Having a sense of purpose creates happiness for being useful and being productive. Happiness is also proven to be a large factor in longevity. Happier people live longer. It is simple, purpose equals happiness, happiness equals long life.

Great then, we have our answer. Have a sense of purpose, be happy as you age and you won’t kick the bucket any time soon.

But there is an inescapable problem here. Our sense of purpose, by and large, reduces as we grow older. This is true for most people. We do most of our purposeful stuff when we’re young; we get educated, we marry, we build a career, we ascend in our profession, we make money, we raise children, we create a life. All of this happens when we are young and healthy and as we grow old, one by one, these purposes outgrow us. We retire, our kids move away, our usefulness reduces.

Are we all then condemned to helplessly age into an era of gloom and doom?

Hardly.

As important as it is to have a sense a purpose, it is equally important to pay attention to where that sense of purpose comes from. This has to begin while we are still young. If our sense of identity comes from “what we do” rather than “who we are”, we may find ourselves in a bit of a pickle as we age.

In the span of a lifetime we play many roles and find ourselves doing many different things. At some point we will stop doing these things either because we are no longer needed to do them, eg. mind our children, or because we are no longer able to do them, eg. we may reach an age when we need to retire from our job.

It is going to happen. Our world will outgrow us. But if we plan properly and live smartly, we will be just fine in our twilight years. We just need to ask ourselves, “when I am sixty or seventy or eighty, what will be my reason to get out of bed?”

If the answer to this question is “my children” or “my spouse” or “my work”, then we need to think harder. What should the answer be then?

Well, I am no authority but I have read enough on the subject to say that one or more of the following should keep you in good stead;

Have a passion or a hobby

Passion is the oxygen of the soul, pursue it with a vengeance. Your passion will give you reason to keep learning and improving. It will keep you challenged. It may even bring with it opportunities to travel and meet like-minded people. It will help you fill your time and will keep you happily occupied. Passion equals a sense of fulfilment and that in turn means purpose. Find your passion while you’re young, it is a worthwhile pursuit which will serve you well as you age.

Find your Rachael or Joey, or both

Never underestimate the power of good friendships. When I say friendship I don’t mean those of the surface variety. Please don’t count the ones you send a generic broadcast message to once a year on New Years Day. Close friendships consist of trust, honesty, empathy, commitment and unconditional support. Good friends are like wine, the older the better. And as you age together you’re sure to keep each other’s secrets safe because neither of you will remember any.

Contribute to the community

In your golden years, you will have racked up tons of experience at something. Accounts? Cooking? Banking? Administration? Make yourself useful. Go volunteer. In fact this should also start in our younger years. Help your local church, temple, library, school, orphanage. Find a way to contribute to society. Research shows we gain way more happiness in giving than we do in receiving. Its a win-win situation. We feel more fulfilled and society benefits too!

Start ticking stuff off your bucket list

William Ross said, “Every man dies – but not every man truly lives.” When you hit an age when the demands of work are no longer pressing and you have some time on your hands, don’t forget your dreams. Always wanted to take that trip to Africa and never had the time? Well hop on a plane and go do it!  Spent your youth playing air guitar ? Well go sign up for a real course and serenade your spouse.  Run that marathon, learn tennis, bungee jump, pick up some French, climb that mountain, learn that skill, get that PhD. Whatever it is you always wanted to do, spend time doing it.

Quality of life and quality of mind

There are hundreds if not thousands of studies that will tell you about the benefits of mindfulness and meditation. These practices are scientifically proven to boost your immune system, increase positive emotions, decrease anxiety and stress, increase emotional intelligence and help regulate erratic behaviour. Meditation also INCREASES YOUR BRAIN MATTER. Its true! Our brains shrink with age and meditation or mindfulness can help reverse this process. Like everything else, meditation and mindfulness are skills that require practice. There are tons of apps that will guide you through the process. A few minutes a day of consistent effort is all you need to get the hang of it.

Stay social

Man is a social animal and it is important to recognise the importance of staying connected with our fellow beings. Social interactions create a sense of belonging, camaraderie and relevance. We must maintain the bonds we create in our youth and carry them well into our older years. Neighbours, children, grandchildren, friends, this is the good stuff of life. This is the stuff that makes life worth living.

Me? I have a plan too. I’m never getting old. I may go get lipo, a facelift, a boob job from the best cosmetic surgeon in Beverley Hills (I know the rates, I’ve checked) and if he is good enough at what he does, I’d go in looking like an old bag and come out looking like Beyoncé. He’ll iron out my wrinkles and smooth out my cellulite. I’d biologically be seventy but physically I could fool you into buying me a drink at the bar. (Of course there is a chance I will resemble a waxwork from Madame Trussauds but you get my drift).

I’d trick you I’m telling you. Until I opened my mouth. That’s when I would tell you that I forgot where I parked my car, or maybe I will have forgotten if I even have a car. Maybe I’d repeat the same thing a few times or I’d start my sentences with “back in the day”. And as we’d get up from the bar stool to go up to your room for a night cap, you’d hear my bones creak.

Nah, that would never happen to me. Forget about it, I’m never growing up! And I’m living forever.

When people ask me what part of India I am from, my answer is that I am stateless. My father was a refugee. We are Indians yes, but in the strangest way. Growing up I was curious about my own identity and I asked many questions from my father. His answers were peppered with both fond and fearful memories of Sindh, a land that we no longer call our own.

His stories, and the stories of other Sindhi men and women who were witness to post partition events inspired me to craft the following work of short fiction. It is the diary entry of a Sindhi boy just after the partition of India. If you’re not familiar, here’s some historical background on Sindhis :

1947 saw the end of the British Raj in India. It was a tumultuous year in Indian history and a by-product of the British departure was the division of the country and the formation of a new country. A line was drawn and Pakistan was born. Mass emigrations took place on both sides of the border with Hindus running out of Pakistan and Muslims escaping India. The province of Sindh was located in the new Pakistan but was home to millions of Hindus. Violence broke out between the Hindu Sindhis and the newly-arrived Muhajirs (immigrant Muslims that were chased out from India). Sindhis were known to be an entrepreneurial group and even though their population in the city of Karachi was under twenty five percent, their participation in trade and top jobs was well over sixty percent. They controlled much of the economy. When the Muhajirs came, they drove the Hindu Sindhis out of their homes and took over their businesses. My father was a Hindu Sindhi and his family was forced to leave behind land, gold and cash in Pakistan. He made the trip across the border with his family as a young boy. Many others chose to stay and fight and a number of them died.

The ones that moved out of Pakistan built lives in all parts of the world. One of them was my grandfather. My father was a young boy and he went to Hong Kong in search of his fortune.

Today I have family members in Spain and Singapore, Indonesia and India, America and Aruba. I have Sindhi friends in every corner of the world, including Las Vegas and London! It is an honor to be a Sindhi and part of me never wants to forget the struggle of our forefathers who left everything behind and rebuilt their fortunes wherever they went.

You did well Dad! You travelled the world and you gave me a life I am grateful for. This one’s for you Dad!

Dear Diary,

The worst has happened. I never thought it would come to this. Father says now we have no choice. The decision has been made for us. We have to run.

Tomorrow morning before the crack of dawn I will leave my home and never look back again. I will leave everything I know and love forever. This land on which I was born is no longer mine to claim. I am an alien, an intruder, a foreigner; even though I was born on this very soil and have drunk the milk of the cows that roam it. Even though a house with my family name stands here, solid and real, built with bricks and cement. Inside the house is MY bedroom, where there is a pillow on which I have rested my head for the sixteen years that I have been alive.

It started with the Muhajirs. They arrived first in the hundreds and then thousands, with bags on their backs and one sole purpose in their black hearts. They want to drive us out of out homes and they want to claim what is ours. They came from Bharatpur and Awar, and from the east of Punjab and from Delhi. They left India for much the same reason I am being made to leave this newborn nation called Pakistan. They just strode into our city, past the newly drawn borders and they demand that we hand over our homes, our shops, and our money to them. They are everywhere, outnumbering us and intimidating us. These strange looking peasants in their dirty clothes and their long beards are now a part of our everyday lives.

We live in fear. Father says it is better to die than live like this.

I agree. It is better to die. And so I have made a decision.

After he saw what happened to Uncle Tillo, father has become very afraid. But I am not afraid. I am angry.

Uncle Tillo had helped us when mother suddenly became sicker last month. It was late at night and Uncle Tillo was over at our house talking to father about what we must do next. Mother had already been admitted to hospital a few times and on every occasion her health had improved. That night she was home and it seemed she was better. But some time after midnight, when Uncle and father were discussing her condition in the living room, she started to scream and gasp for breath. It must have been well after midnight. Uncle ran to Doctor Munshi’s house and dragged him out of bed. When the doctor came, she was no longer gasping. Her breaths were shallow, few and far between. He couldn’t save her, it was too late. Her heart had already exploded.

Father was distraught and Uncle made all the funeral arrangements. He organized the priest and bought the wood for the pyre. He held our hands through the whole ordeal.

But who was to know that only a week later Uncle himself would be lying lifeless on a bed of firewood and father would be consoling his family? He never hurt anyone in his life. He didn’t deserve to die. He died for nothing except the greed of intruders who wanted what was not theirs.

They came just before dark. There were eight of them, all Muhajirs. They came armed with knives and batons. They took up positions all around Uncle’s house. Four in the back and two in the front. Then they waited. When night had fallen and everyone was asleep they sawed the padlocks and broke in, violently shaking Uncle awake. They didn’t hurt him at first. They didn’t touch the women either. They only demanded he leave. But Uncle resisted. Then they killed him.

I know they did something to the women. Because Uncle’s wife and daughters escaped and are staying with us now. None of them speak very much and there is a vacant look in their eyes, as though they have seen evil very closely. All four of them are to leave with us on the train to Bombay in the morning. Father had to bribe the authorities to arrange tickets for them at the last minute.

A few days ago, I asked father where in Bombay are we going to go, where will we stay. We don’t know anyone there. He replied that the government has set up camps for refugees.

Refugees. That is what we will become.

The knife is in front of me. It glistens under this light I am using to write. I don’t know how many I will be able to kill. They have occupied every corner of Uncle’s house. They have a home now, after making others homeless.

But I refuse to be homeless. If they can kill, so can I.

I may not be alive tomorrow when father leaves for the train station. Father will go looking for me when he sees I am not in my bed. He will search everywhere and then he will think I have run away. My only hope is that he leaves as planned. I want my sisters to be safe.

My best friend Ramesh knows what I am about to do. He tried to talk me out of it. He said it was no use, they are too many and now this is their land. His family is also leaving soon. They are waiting for arrangements to be made. I know he will attend to my last rites when he finds my body. He will give me a proper goodbye. He is one of us.

I don’t know if there really is a God even though we have an altar at home and mother used to insist I must stand in front of it daily to pray. I am not afraid of death because if there is a God then I have an answer for when I meet him tomorrow. He will ask me why I have sinned, why I have taken the life of another. And I will tell him then that he is an impotent God. And if possible, I will kill him too.

(This article  was earlier posted unfinished. This is the full version. Hope you enjoy it.)

In 2015 a young and dashing man took charge of four million square miles of this planet. He lived in a far away land and began his leadership of a far away people. And even though we had never met, I was convinced we were meant to be. Me and him, we would get on like icing on a cupcake.

Justin Trudeau. Good looks, progressive policies, feminist, a gender balanced cabinet, refugee taker, yoga stretcher and the thing that clinched it for me: he plays with babies! Now you tell me if that’s not irresistable!

And I wasn’t alone. Millions of women swooned then and continued to swoon for years. There were pictures of his butt and pictures of his dimples, close ups of his tattoos and inspections of his hairstyle. And then, and THEN, he opened his mouth! He said things like: We beat fear with hope. We shouldn’t be ashamed to call ourselves feminists. Change starts with transparency.

But wait, not only was he intelligent, just, gorgeous, honest and tight-butted, he also expressed that he was IN FAVOR OF LEGALIZING CANNABIS.

Someone give him a tight suit and a cape already! The women of the world would never find another hero like him.

Or so we thought.

Enter Emmanuel Jean-Michel Frédéric Macron, the savvy heartthrob president of the most romantic country on the planet and the schoolboy-turned-husband of a woman twenty years his senior.

Okay, so you think it is creepy? A young student obsessing over his teacher and eventually marrying her? What is wrong with him, I’ve heard friends say. He is so handsome, he is successful..to marry a woman so much older…and worse still…his teacher!!!!

Can I just say that being attracted to your teacher is perfectly normal. Oh, trust me I know as does the entire female population of the class of 1989. Mr Whitmore was his name. His eyes were icy blue and his hair was just-right-messy. He wore the tightest trousers and loosest tie. Mr Whitmore would speak of patterns and laws and theories. He would speak of Newton’s Law Of Motion and it would set my heart in motion. He would speak of Tension and Elasticity and my whole body would tense. He would teach Thermal Conduction and you could feel the zap of electricity in the classroom. Oh we gushed and we sighed at his every word. And most of us failed because none of us was really listening to understand Physics. In our heads, some of us were sitting in a cinema with him, others were sipping coke from the same bottle, and yet others were doing unspeakable things with him

Now please admit that you had such a teacher too, you had that crush in the classroom. If you didn’t, you should ask for a refund of your school fees. Anyway, I was saying that Macron married his teacher who is also older than him and this has been quite a hot topic in the media. Some people have been quick to comment that it is just  too predatory on the part of the teacher.

Well me and my band of sisters disagrees. What a hero to fall in love at fifteen and remain in love with the same woman for the rest of his life! God knows the world could use more men like him.

Do you know what he told her when he left school to study elsewhere? “Whatever you do, I will marry you.”

Now THAT is romantic. Do you know how many women WAIT and WAIT and WAIT for their man to pop the question, to offer the ring, to make that commitment?

And here is this kid, bright future ahead, all the world to conquer and only one woman in his heart. If that doesn’t make your heart skip a beat I don’t know what will.

The son of two doctors, Macron was raised in a fairly inconspicuous French town before moving to Paris to pass his baccalaureate followed by a degree in Political Science. He is a prize-winning pianist and has a  Masters in philosophy from the most prestigious school in France. He worked as an investment banker before joining the civil service in his role as minister of economy, industry and digital data under President Francois Hollande.

So there you go my friends, he left school a boy and took on the world with the zest and passion of a true hero. And all the while, through all the successes and failures, he still had her on his mind and in his heart. Sigh…only the French….

The media has been spectacularly insensitive, blowing up close-ups of her wrinkles, picking on her sense of style, accusing her of being his coach and orchestrating his success. Why is it so difficult to understand and accept this atypical and unconventional relationship? Why do eyebrows not rise when an older man weds a younger woman? Why the double standards? Did you know that the age difference between Macron and his wife is the same as that between Trump and Melania (or whatever her name is)?

I say, power to the men who dare marry a woman of 64, power to the women who have the grace and dignity to bear with the wrath society throws at them, power to love at any age or at any stage or gender.

Long live romance!

Long live love!

To quote none other than the lover-boy himself: We do not have a classic family, it’s undeniable. But do we have less love in this family? I do not think so. Maybe there’s even more than conventional families.

Sorry Trudeau, I have moved on. I am headed to Paris this summer.