The History Digger

Samuel was very happy that day. He had always loved treasure. Loved hiding them, finding them. He would bury the previous year's school badge in a small tin box in the schoolyard imagining... What if that box was excavated hundreds of years later and became a relic representing yesteryear's school systems? Not all history comes to ruin after all. He would bury coins, soda bottles, and electric switches. He was always frustrated about how he never found any historical figurines though. Pissed, one day he buried one of his action figures by the car park at his favourite diner. At least someone down the ages will get lucky. Wherever he went - to the beach, to an uncle's farm, or a flower garden, he viewed dirt as a potential storyteller if you only knew where to dig. So far his collection included metal caps of liquor bottles, an ornate hairpin, a doorknob, the thing you use to pull on the zipper, and other knick-knacks. And a busted watch. His prized jewel. With the namesake 'H. A. Lionel' etched at the back. Samuel would conjure up stories about every treasure he found. Like how H. A. Lionel was a brave lieutenant. How he must have dropped the watch while being on the run from enemies. How sad he must be realizing he lost his father's gift. Samuel would then send condolences to this late Lieutenant Lionel who lost his watch during an escape. And so on for every single item he 'treasure'-d. Recently, their family had moved back into the suburbs. They had some ancestral property and Sam's dad decided it was time to retire from city life. Although Samuel would need to take the bus to school now and miss some of his neighbourhood friends, he was giddy with excitement at the prospect of his new dig site and all the secrets he would unearth. For days he would bolt down to the backyard with this kiddie spade (the only thing he had asked for last Christmas) after school and won't return until evening. He would brave mom's scolding for turning up filthy. Dad would let it pass. He would pat on his back for the good work and would reason with mom that they could always use the dug-up ground to plant flowers. But alas, it was not to be. Never had a dig site disappointed him so. He always had to sneak about; surreptitiously digging at places where there was a small danger someone could say something. But this was his place. He had the lay of the land. But nary half a paper clip. This was his first professional failure in his digging career. And he was not taking it well. Even the archeology book his dad got him didn't placate him. It only reminded him of what he was missing in real life. Life continued. It was winter again. Snow had begun sticking to the ground. There would be no new digging for some time. It wasn't Christmas yet. So the new digging tools his dad had promised won't be there for a while. Samuel volunteered for helping mom with the cleaning during the vacation. Earn back a few brownie points. But really to distract himself from being away from his true passion. So that day he ventured into the attic. It was at least somewhat amusing. He quickly started making plans about how this could be his private hideout. He went about clearing out old boxes. And then he found it. A small tin soldier. Hidden behind cartons. With the bayonet and hat intact. It hadn't even rusted. As he blew on it, light shined on the chrome and crimson coat. Dust particles danced away aglow in shafts of sunlight, happy to have played in their role in the reveal. It was very well preserved. Samuel hadn't even begun feeling the eruption of elation yet. He slowly turned the toy. Yes! The bottom carried initials 'E. M' etched in elaborate cursive. And then it hit him. His eyes widened. He screamed as he streaked downstairs not believing his luck. All this while he had been looking at the wrong place. His treasure, his first-ever figurine wasn't parked below ground but was above ground. Over his very own bedroom. As he hugged his mom who'd run helter-skelter across the hall, afraid Sam had hurt himself, it took both of them solid minutes of huffing and half mutterings to clear the confusion and explain the excitement. It was like Christmas came early. Sam cleaned and polished his figurine. And then re-did it. He cleared out his shelf and gave the tin toy soldier a good four inches of space in every direction. H. A Lionel humbly retired from the prized jewel position. Samuel couldn't wait to tell to his dad. At dinner, the family toasted to their archeological star with soda and fried chicken. It was all a hoot. The now restored tin soldier was on display in the middle of the table. Samuel kept beaming the whole time. However, it wasn't the end of unexpected turns just yet. Sam's mom while examining his son's newest exploit became silently observant while looking at the initials 'E. M'. As she mused to herself, she quietly paced the room and got an old diary from a cupboard. She flipped a few pages, nodding to herself as if confirming something they guessed at. With a certain page open, she put an arm around her husband and slid the diary towards his son. With a smile on her face, she calmed both the men who by now were wearing puzzled looks. "Sam," she said,” 'E.M' is Edward Murray. This place, our place belonged to him before your great-grandpa bought it. This diary came with a bunch of property papers. I had flipped through it and kept it not knowing what to do with it. This diary also mentions that Edward Murray ran a small toy factory. What you found today must have come from there." Sam peered at the diary. As he flipped to the end, he found an inscription. It said 'Ed Murray's Toys'. It also carried an insignia. In elaborate cursive, the initials 'E.M'. Sam looked up at his parents with astonishment filling up his eyes. He shut the diary and pushed it a little away to not have tears fall on it. Later he would re-position E.M at the center of his collection with his diary beside him. Mom and Dad tucked him in and kissed him good-night. He would not sleep just yet. This was the biggest night of his life. In all the excitement he never even found time to fabricate a back story. Now, he won't need to. Sitting there, just yonder, was a real piece of history. Ancestry that belonged to himself. He belonged to it and it belonged to him. Sam was very happy that day.

The Midnight Show

I thought I had tired myself out. But the images floating in my head are too impressive and vivid. No. Sleep would not come as it had not on many such nights when life had veered from mundane and fallen into the dramatic. Some uplifting, some crushing, some bromide but never like this. I fail to categorize it.

I have always felt that God is the greatest story-teller and I’ve been blessed with quite a few emphatic chapters in my life. Tragic or comic or simply note-worthy; they have helped forge a special spiritual bond.

Of what I’m going to tell you, not one word is imagination. This occurrence doesn’t need any. That is exactly how I like it.

The phone rings and wrenches my attention from the screen, right during the climax. I hastily spew a reply and calculate there is a good fifteen minutes to go. It had been a perfect Sunday. Work was three hours. Lunch was fabulous. I had finished the last installment of a great literary series. I was done assembling the study material for a new project.

With the promise of a delectable dinner, I exit the theatre. I couldn’t remember the last time I had had such a blast. Mentally nodding to the loquacious appreciation of a co-movie goer, I step out of the entrance.

The whole city block, blacked-out. Rain in its most persistent pitter-patter. Not in sheets, but just enough to warrant an umbrella. I open my bag. Bengaluru weather necessitates the umbrella as a companion. Its sun is piercing and rain, sudden. The radiant-case-torch light illuminates the inside of the bag. I recall my sister thrusting it into my hands when I left. Had things been set in motion since then?

I roll up my pants (that later on proved to be a redundant exercise what with my flip-flops). I would bethink later, there were so many things I had counted on. The crowd at the multiplex had been thick before the night shows were about to begin. Either we are the last to leave or just our screening was over at the time. The moon is shrouded, the street-lights that illuminate the adjoining vacant lot have taken a break and incidentally no one is going in my direction. The cops have sought refuge from the cold condensation.

I am still of two minds if my actions were a fall-out of the circumstances or were any of them deliberate to amplify the spookiness.

I decide to use my flash light and illuminate my path ahead (and behind) to stave off any surprises as opposed to use it as hidden defense weapon (you know, the old - blinding the eyes and making a run for it.)

Oh! How I love my confluences?  Ever thought, how that missing cherry would have made your banana split-nuts and marshmallows infused, wafers adorned and chocolate sauce bathed vanilla and butterscotch sundae just perfect? That’s why, I love my God-sent spots of bother. They are never in want of missing ingredients.

It takes a couple of steps for me to realize that surprise or not, running for it is impossible in the fresh runny mud. I schlep on. I have trouble finding unyielding ground and try to keep close to the brambles where the grass holds the earth better. I shine the over-growth and the path left behind. I don’t think I could have distinguished something real sifting through the one storey high vegetation from a trick of light.

How much of it was a subconscious attempt to make the night more movie-like?

Rain-drops with no direction sparkle in the flash light. Mercifully, there is no wind. It is just moisture that had been sucked under the noon’s blaze and was being oozed back in the night.

I pass the chicken coup. The stench has permeated into the grounds. I stop breathing and try to walk as fast as possible to the desired spot, where I know the air would be free of the putrid smell. There had been some light back there. The rain has made the place devoid of dogs.

I reach the lone dwelling unit on the lot. A well trodden path divides the building and high shoots. A dark figure emerges momentarily out of a door and then just as soon becomes one with the building. The lot is yet again soulless – save me.

I do a 360 degrees and the flash-light paints a haze of silver-glints, green-grey shrubs, the mud and meandering rivulets of slush. I hoist my umbrella close. No living thing that crawls, walks or paces is witnessed. The lot is at an end. I misjudge the puddle formed at the gap in the boundary walls which one has to negotiate diagonally. I fumble my light. Half the trek is successfully over.

I see no one on the main street. It had been recently dug up. As I try to cross it, I spot a SUV. I retreat to the side and try to squeeze myself between the SUV’s way and a mound of earth. I tilt the umbrella away from me, lest it be caught with the vehicle. I think to myself, there is no way for me to escape if the vehicle suddenly decides to halt and sinister hands make a grab for me. The SUV doesn’t halt but passes close-by. This time, I do revel in the imagined spookiness. I cross the road.

I decide to not take the lane which directly leads to my house. I take the adjoining lane because I know dogs stake out my usual lane. They are surprisingly docile and indifferent during day but I wonder why their tickers run counter-clockwise after mid-night. But within a few strides, my choice is nullified.

My footsteps are welcomed by vicious barks. Snouts and gleaming irises pop out from under porches. A few canines decide that a territorial threat is more worrying than the chilly drizzle.

Flailing my bag had worked previously. But then, they were numbered, there had been light and they were grouped in a single location, directly in front of me. At that time, after a momentary tussle of the fight and flight syndrome, I had gone, so to speak, gangsta on their behinds. Throwing half-pound rocks, chasing them from under cars and shouting wrestling taunts was fun where I felt ballsy and even gave myself a few brownie points for going up a couple of notches against my cynophobia. You see, you never quite get over your 1 and ½ inch long scar on the shin and the savage look in a dog’s eyes just when it decides you are its enemy.

This time, I decide to remain calm and not cause a ripple. I flare my light on their eyes not knowing if doing so will help. I know running won’t do any good for I cannot betray fear. Paws trace my path in my wake but figure I’m harmless. Their quarry keeps putting one step in front of the other while the flash in his hands is a blur.

I am now just a stone throw away. The vista of houses and cars and the street melt into a one big grey mass, glossed over by the incessant rain. Although not in my near vicinity, the air is rife with a cantankerous symphony of barks.

My light is an added source of disturbance and at the same time makes me seem too alien to attack. Probably. A breeze washes over me and I feel like I’m in my very own video game. I’m not scared or panicky and I’m absolutely sure that I’m getting home unscathed because why wouldn’t I? “Just a heightened sense of things.” I know now what Frank Miller meant for King Leonidas.

I flash my light to gauge how much distance is left. It’s more than my light can slice through the darkness. I walk some more, my progress hindered for having to scan my perimeter for any unwelcome pursuit. I get to the vacant plot that cuts through the block to the adjoining lane. I reckon the menaces in my usual lane must have been left behind, so I take the shortcut.

The iron grills come into clear view. No danger had been lurking in the vegetation of that plot, and I don’t see any between me and the house. I hope the cows (tethered to poles, on the undeveloped site juxtaposed to my building and without the cover of shelters) are benign and my light doesn’t startle them.

The metal doors clang, squeak and creak loudly as I enter hallowed ground. Feeling a lot like Alan, (Alan Wake game) I shake the water off my umbrella and shut off my trusty light which I had bought on a whim because its case glowed in the dark. The part near the head of the flash light glows silvery and orb-like green. I admire it while I climb the flight of stairs.

I catch the flicker of candle light through the glass. Its soft glow promises the warmth inside. As I knock on the door lightly, (knowing no one would have gone to bed) I make up my mind about a few things.

# I wouldn’t want to experience this again. Not for some movie, not for the adrenaline rush.

# Family has an irksome tendency of turning out right, but is great in the way that they let you realize it on your own.

My sister calls my name, and I can hear the latch pulled to my ‘hmm’.

The Predator.

A man is seen enjoying a stroll in a thick part of a jungle. His gait is leisurely, and his lips carry a tune. Just a shortcut through the friendly, neighborhood jungle – to home. He seems to be familiar with the path. The twitter of the birds above suggests the apparent invulnerability of the course. The man casually looks up as he walks on.

A subtle rustle of leaves creeps up. The rustle does not sound deliberate. It is as if it were following the natural course of things. The man does not stop whistling, but it is not loud and shrill anymore. There is a second rustle. The footsteps stop, and the lips fall quiet. The man listens for any movement. A dirty, eerie, and slow snarl fills the air. As he cranes his neck back slowly for a look, he finds anticipation and calculation filling a pair of the yellow slits that are the eyes. A putrid smell emanates from the direction of the eyes.

Half of the time, when men get killed during such situations, it is because of their minds. Racing thoughts keep them from focusing on the task at hand. The man in the pickle here, standing just a few feet away from a gruesome death, couldn’t comprehend anything beyond the sheer size, the icy gaze, the giant paws, and the long snout housing a very lethal and capable set of fangs. The feral creature shifts its weight, and its tail tautens. This gesture kicks some sense somewhere. The man is first to take off. It is seamless, as if the reflex occurred in the legs by itself.

Thuds, growls, pants, and the crunching of the jungle floor ensue. You see, when one goes into shock when confronted with life-threatening situations, it serves a purpose. The shock causes your pulse to increase, thus pumping adrenaline into your system. Adrenaline sharpens your reflexes, numbs your pain, and reduces exhaustion.

Our man here unquestionably proves that man is the fastest runner on the planet. His jumps, sprints, and skids seem like a choreographed movie sequence. It is amazing how people behave when their lives are on the line. The prolonged chase between the hunter and the prey aggravates the beast. Its initial snarls had promised fun and play, but now its growls are murderous.

Meanwhile, the prey is running out of energy. The last moment has arrived too soon. The reasoning seems to have caught up with hope. He says his prayers. The beast’s jaws are yawning and snapping at his heels. But wait. There might be hope yet. A tree branch jutting out of a tree trunk and a stone under it. Could that be . . .? 

The man mentally pushes all his remaining energy to his legs. His face cringes, fists clench, and teeth grind themselves. It is now or never. He throws himself into an Olympic leap the moment his toes touch the ‘stepping’ stone. Time seems to slow down as if the jungle has paused to witness the climax. Heartbeats pound on his ear drums. The creature’s warm breath hits his back. Its growl sound like a record played at a low tempo with the bass kicked up. Right then, reaching, curling human fingers feel wood under them.

From the point of gripping the branch till the end of landing ahead of a pit with the finesse of a trapeze happens in a flash. Perhaps it was an attempt at balancing the time the forest had lost, gaping at the unfolding action. The splendid acrobatics may have caused you to miss the sound of yelping, lots of leaves, and twigs collapsing in a thunderous crash. It was at the exact spot where the beast should have caught up with the acrobat with fangs sunk deep in the jugular. All that is left is dust billowing out of a pit that had materialized out of nowhere.

A slow grunt can be heard from inside the pit. Spikes are protruding out of a slowly heaving body. The tail has lost its vigor, and the eyes have forsaken their pride. A heavy grinding noise can be heard from the terra firma above. The man - the acrobatic bait - the predator is pushing a gigantic rock towards the pit. Exhausted and full of dislike for all the pushing and puffing, he endeavors to leave a signature for his score.

From the pit below, the yellow slits struggle to remain open. All comprehension seems to have abandoned the owner of those once indomitable eyes. Still, fortunately, the agony does not have to be drawn out. Something big starts to blot out whatever little sunlight is streaming into the pit. Then all of a sudden, a final grunt and a final grind precede the unearthly cacophony of sounds of rock, wood, bones, flesh, blood, and the damp earth beneath.

The Train.

The train has left. And I’m not on it... Right now, the platform is empty. The glee on the faces of passengers aboard doesn’t exactly warm the cockles of your heart. Ugh! the coulda, shoulda, did not moments. I have been here before. Although, I have always managed to find other trains. Well, they don’t exactly take you to places you want to go, but you do move. You see, you can’t stand on the platform for a very long time. Kinda gives you a bad habit (the other trains, I mean). That is if you are okay with riding on any train. But one thing is sure; you just can’t stand on the platform for a long time. 

Although I take full responsibility for missing that damn train, I’m debating how much I wanted to get on it. Missing the damn thing is gonna cost me. I honestly don’t know how much. Maybe I don’t wanna know. Perhaps I won’t have to find out. Perchance I’ll find another train. Who knows? It might even turn out to be better than the last, headed for more exotic locales. All of it soon gets pretty boring. I have been doing this for quite a while now. It keeps coming back like the wound-up record buzzing in your head. Maybe if I had a richer vocabulary, I could fashion it better or even pen an ode to it.

When will the next train come? What’s more important than ‘when’ is – Will it come after all? All these questions throw up thousands of answers and hundreds of thousands of other questions. Oddly (or rather ‘unfortunately’ or even better, ‘stupidly’) enough, I’m not caught up in the moment. Fear gripping your heart, cold sweat, labored breathing; I ain’t feeling none of it.

Among all the glorious and/or disastrous variables, I find comfort in one constant. One certainty that’s keeping me from going insane. One thing that keeps me functional. The train has left. And I’m not on it…