FATALISTIC MADNESS

FATALISTIC MADNESS

I am sitting at a cafe, late in the evening and you are waiting on me. You are tall and beautiful; perhaps a little too brawny for a lady but that makes you sexy. You have dark skin and you wear a nose-ring, skull shaped and scary. Your hips are voluptuous and your right hand is softly resting on your waist, your elbow sticking out funnily while in your free hand, you are holding a writing pad to take down my order.

But, I don’t want to order. I haven’t come here to drink coffee while looking out on the street, watching cars go by, although that’s what I do in my lonely and idle hours.

But, not today.

Today, I’m serving a purpose.

I gesture towards the vacant chair opposite me indicating you to have a seat.

Your eyes widen. Clearly, you are not used to it. Not many people make such whimsical demands.

I urgently repeat the gesture. I don’t speak. Silence adds mystery to my bearing. You understand it. Your eyebrows shoot up and you chance a look at your manager. Your manager is busy. She is imperviously listening to a customer hurling abuses at her. You turn back and sigh softly. And then you sit.

“What do you want, sir?” You say with polite irritation, a hint of sarcasm playing at the edges of your smile. Up closer, your eyes gleam mischievously and your short black hair- which I presume you have cut yourself judging by their sharp and protruding edges- fascinate me.

You are young.

Way too young.

I slowly bring the glass of water to my lips and pass a reassuring smile before I say softly, “Part time job, right?”

You tilt your head to one side and retaliate, “Why, old man? You want me to give you a blow job for some extra money. Huh?”

I’m taken aback. I hadn’t seen it coming. It throws me off for a moment and then, I ask, “Perhaps, I’m not the first one to make this-for want of a better word, I’d say-absurd, request?”

“Yes.” You curtly reply.

“Very well. In that case, may I kindly inform you I’m not the-“

“Oh! Cut the crap.” You are angry. Your nostrils are flaring. I’m treading on thin ice. You are about to get up when I hurriedly press your hands, urgently forcing you to remain seated.

“Get your hands off.” You dangerously warn.

I know I have overstepped. I look around. The cafe is occupied. It’s rush hour. Couples have occupied corner booths, office workers are drinking coffee with their colleagues and exchanging humorous anecdotes, and some workaholics are working on laptops, answering mails and making presentations. It’s teeming with a swarm of people and the aroma of coffee beans is wafting around the place. I realize I chose a bad hour to pay my little visit. But, I can’t leave now. The first step has already been taken. I need to press on.

I lean in and whisper, “He sends His greetings.”

You are following every word and now your face shows frustration. You shake your head. You say, “I don’t know what you mean. But, seriously, I need to work now and if you don’t let go off my hand, I’ll call my manager and she’ll have you thrown out and then you can run to whosoever He is...”

You speech pulls up short and your eyes find mine.

I’m old. Old beyond years. I don’t keep count. Wrinkles are running zigzag over my face, from no place to everywhere. My lips are pale and dead and I’m dressed in plain white clothes. My simplicity strikes you hard in the chest and your interest is piqued.

And I’m also wearing an earring. It’s as archaic as I am. It’s rusty brown and it shines in the sunlight.

I register the muscles of your face contract and I know you have made the connection. You know who I am. Your eyes dart around and you break in a cold sweat. Your heart is racing and you recline in the chair. Your hand feels cold and your feet are fidgeting. After a while, when you see your manager glaring at you, you take control of yourself and you calm your nerves. You are gaping askance at me.

You suddenly smile.

“I will get you your coffee and muffins, sir. Thank you.”

You move to get up and I know you’ll be sitting across the table in less than an hour.

I solemnly nod.

I lean back, close my eyes and wait for my coffee.

***

“What does he want from me?” Your tone is aggressive and disrespectful. I don’t appreciate that. I decide not to say anything. I’m only a messenger, not a punisher.

You have adopted a fake and unfelt calmness and you presume I can’t see through it. But, I can. You are no longer dressed in your green uniform. The entire place is green. Green is these people’s colour. The walls are green. The tables are green. The doors are green. The mugs are green. All dressed in green. There’s no elegance and grace. Even the coffee had tasted green. How do you work here? For someone of your taste, this establishment is almost suicidal. Without the usual hustle bustle of people, shrouded in complete silence, this place is greenishly puckish and I might just throw up.

Your manager is surreptitiously throwing glances at you. So are your co-workers.

But, I ignore them. As you do. These people are below us. Let’s just ignore them.

You repeat forcefully, “What does he want with me?”

Your voice is louder than necessary. There’s a good-for-nothing fellow sitting at the closest table, sipping coffee. He might just listen in on us. I snap my fingers and you wait while the fellow falls asleep. Only when he drops his head on the table and his loud snores drown any opportunity for eavesdropping, I reply, “He wants the usual.”

Your grind your jaw. You take your time. I’m in no hurry. You carefully choose your words, “Well...hmm...I mean...well, I can always supplement you with...supplement you with legal documents and...What not...along the...same lines.” You finish meekly.

I knew you would say that. Each customer of his says it. It’s a venerable excuse. I hold it in great esteem. But, He doesn’t.

I say, “No legal documents. No photographs. No videos. No internet exercise. Or nothing along the same lines. You know the contract. After all, you signed it.”

You start breathing heavily. You are in trouble and you are hoping you can work your way out. Sadly, you can’t.

I’ll see to it.

You take another route, “How about...well...hmm...how about...you give me another month or so...and then...well, perhaps...maybe...?”

I cut you off, “Either you have it or you don’t have it.”

You are dumbfounded. Words are not coming to your rescue. You squeeze your eyes shut. You are thinking a solution.

You force yourself to say, “I need your help. You...need to help me. What He is asking is impossible to give. It’s just not feasible. Please...can’t you tell Him this? Isn’t it possible...for you to fucking-I’m sorry- but, can’t you explain to Him that His contract is...improbable to fulfil?”

I’m surprised. You are blunt and direct. I have started admiring you. Your honestly is honestly startling. You have already accepted defeat. That’s admirable. But, your virtue won’t help you.

I respond, “As per the contract you signed, you promised to produce a physical yet non-worldly and non-societal evidence to prove you exist within ten years of the day your wish was granted. Failing to do so, your existence shall be taken away from you. Hence, ma’am, you need to substantiate the claim of your existence with tangible proof, as requested in the contract, a copy of which I’m carrying in case you’d like to go through it again for your satisfaction.”

You are stunned. Your world is crumbling and the earth beneath your feet is slipping.

“However, I shall give you an opportunity to present your case to me, His lawyer and if fit, I shall take it to my employer. Otherwise, the terms and conditions of the contract stand intact.” A pause. “Ma’am, you should be grateful to me that I’m even hearing you out. You may commence.”

You don’t speak. You continue staring at me, expressionless. I reckon you are reflecting on what to say and what to omit. A wise decision, I might remark.

Your eyes are red with tears. You open and close your mouth quickly many times. I’m patient and you are lucky.

Finally, you compose yourself. You wipe off the tears and you sniff loudly, drawing attention. People are wondering. You do need to start.

You rest both your hands on the table and I observe your nails are trimmed. You are rubbing your hands and the mascara in your eyes has spread and stained your face. You say, “Ten years ago, I came to Him with a small wish. A wish that I knew only He could fulfil. I knew what I was doing. Anyway, I thought I did. I wanted the love of my life to live. As you...may recall, he had met with an accident and the doctors had already given up hope. He was dying. Only your employer could have saved him. So, your employer agreed to help me if I signed a contract with Him. According to the contract, I had to substantiate the claim of my existence. I couldn’t do so with any worldly documents. At that moment, I was desperate and consented. Now, I’m married with three beautiful children although I’m just twenty seven. We recently bought a little house upstate and we shall soon move in. All these years, I thought about your employer and what He did for me and what He wanted from me. I have thought hard. It’s not possible. My existence is confirmed by all those people who know and love me, by all those memories they have of me, by all those photographs and videos of me that they treasure, by my possessions and by all those documents from the government. Without these, I may have not even existed. And it’s...it’s believe me...a very chilling thought. It’s as if the last twenty seven years of my life passed in a blur and I don’t even know what I did with them. In a way, I...I wasted them if I can’t provide any evidence to support my claim? But, this is ridiculous! Of course, I existed. I mean, after a while, you start feeling that every phase of your life is digging into another and sooner or later, they all just dissolve into nothingness but this is not what He wants! He wants to know the aim of my life? I don’t have any aim. I just desire to spend time with my family. I love my children. I shall want them to succeed. To make big in life. And I want to grow old with my husband. I want us to die together. If He wants me to prove it, I’m so sorry but I can’t. You just exist. Why can’t He understand it? It’s not that difficult a concept! It’s just existence. Mere existence. Even a child gets the hang of it. Why is He after my life? Will my facebook profile do? It should do! My last many years can be read through it. But...no...that’s again...that’s an internet exercise, right? So, basically, without this evidence, my life is worthless, useless, and intrinsically purposeless? Well, to hell with it! I don’t need His verification. I know I exist. And I’m proud of my existence. How can I transmute it into a piece of evidence? You know what! Since I made that deal, I have been nauseous. Every moment of my day, every singly second, I feel like puking. I have always been feverish. Initially, I thought it had something to do with...something. But, then...no! I soon realized it was all Him. All these ten years, He has never really left me! And now, He had sent his...his...His Bloody Hound...to do his dirty job! What have I done wrong? I have lived my life morally, and I’m dispatching all my duties, I always abide by the rules and all my life, the only criminal thing I have done is get a parking ticket! And He is telling me if I can’t prove I was the one to get the parking ticket without showing Him the parking ticket, he won’t fine me, but, rather, he will kill me? Murder me? What does he think of Himself? He talks about freedom and morality and love and He won’t mind killing an innocent lady. He won’t mind butchering a person in cold blood! And he thinks He loves the world! Where’s morality in that? Where’s freedom in that? Where is love in that?”

After listening to your long dragging monologue, I riposte gently, “As far as freedom is concerned, no one forced you to sign the contract. You did it of your own free will. As far as morality is concerned, he’s nowhere at fault. By employing your freedom, you consented to death if you couldn’t come up with the proof. In fact, my employer is obliged now to terminate your condemnation to life. He’s left with no choice. He’s righteous. Now, you also brought up love. My dear lady, when did my employer say he loved you? You presumed it. He cannot be blamed for your misinterpretation of His character. If He learns of it, He shall be deeply and unforgivably affronted.”

You are sobbing silently. People are observing.

“My dear lady, I want proof. I’m a man of law. I do understand the dilemma in which you have put yourself but that’s entirely your own fault. If there’s one person to blame, it’s you. Now, tell me, have you ever painted? Or have you ever written a story? Have you ever sung a song? Or, perhaps, you have a pen that kept you company through thick and thin? Or, you can pluck a flower from your garden that can narrate the story of your life? If not, then, I cannot help you. Get me something, anything that you think represents your life, which gives me or anyone the gist of it. So, get me something and after one look at it, I shall tell you how true your existence has been. So, please, fetch the object that defines your existence. You exist. Can that object verify it? I give you some more time to think.”

I watch you delve into the banality of your past. You are desperate. I see you never painted. You haven’t experienced music. You have written a few things. Expressed yourself in bits and pieces. But, that was a long time ago and now only fragments of some of your poems drift through your mind. You have a running nose and your mind is slowly going blank. Even your poetry falls short and you are wading through your incompetence. You children are not yours. You just gave birth to them. I can feel your anguish. Trust me. For you, it’s almost over.

You reach a dead end and shout at the top of your voice, “But, I loved! I loved! I have loved with all my passion and intensity, with all the fire of my being!”

I beam warmly, “Please, would you mind proving it? Till then, even your love can be held debatable. ” I add, “Emotions are transient. Did you ever capture your love in a non-sexual physical form of reality?”

You are blatantly and shamefully crying. Someone glares at me. Someone arrives to console you. To question you. You drink a glass of water. You gulp it down. You murmur inaudibly, “No. Nothing.”

“As you have been unable to fulfil your end of the bargain, it’s been decided that you shall be adequately punished. Therefore, as you can’t establish your twenty seven years of passing through existence, you may as well not pass through it ever again. You are given three days to complete any unfinished business. Our men shall call on you then. Now, if you may excuse me, I have some important business to attend to. Thank you for taking time out for me from your busy schedule. The coffee was wonderful.”

By now, you have broken down. You are senseless, hysterical and demented. You hold no value. You are clawing your face. Your screams of terror are evil. People have gathered around you. The ambulance has already been called.

As I slowly make my way out, I’m inconspicuous. I have a piece of advice for you: you shouldn’t waste your time here, crying and wallowing in self-pity. You have little time left. Spend it wisely.

But, when have you followed my advice?

You have always been a rebel. It’s time you learned it the hard way.

You have passed out. They tower upon you, worried, panicked and amused.

Around the exit, I turn and wonder what the fate of the next person on my son’s list is.

I wish I could give you a hand. But, I can’t.

I’m bound by His love.

I’m truly sorry.

I walk out of here.

Can you hear the door close?

THE END.