Sunday Special: The House Yonder II

This piece first appeared on Curioser & Curiouser (it really is a curious site). So, enjoy the second part of Mr. Grief's search. Will he find what he seeks?

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With angry clouds streaking across the sky, Mr. Grief awoke with dawn’s first light as was his custom. His mind was made up to find this man people called Rabbi rain or no rain. As so often his custom, his mind wanders down memory lane wondering when it all went wrong. When did his life begin to disintegrate? Shaking himself loose, he mutters, “Not today Grief, not today.”

Showering quickly, he steps out of his house and almost unconsciously, glances towards Salvation Street. It had become habit. Everything looks better over there he thinks. With a fresh resolve, he enters his car and drives off to find the man they called Rabbi.

****

After driving a long while and nearly having an incident with the cops, he finally locates this Rabbi. It had taken him all day to track him down and so he took a moment to collect himself now that he had finally found him.

He is struck by the large crowd that seem to surround this man, he must be an enigma he concludes.

“…blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven…” That voice, he was certain he had heard it before. All of his life, that voice had prodded him, pushed him and encouraged him when all he wanted doing was to give up and die.

“…blessed are they who hunger…” But I know this voice! Grief says again in his heart and this time, it is with conviction he thinks it.

He hasn’t so much as gotten a glimpse of this man called Rabbi but already, he could sense a change washing over him, like cool cool water on an overheated body. He most certainly would enjoy talking to this man but first, he had to find a way to have audience with him, he wouldn’t want anyone recognising him. Finding a cool shade just far enough from the crowd but close enough to hear the man’s words, he waits, carefully keeping his face averted.

***

The Rabbi goes on with his teachings seemingly oblivious to the little man standing just beyond the edge of the crowd but he is very much aware of him and had anticipated his coming. This Pharisees he thinks, they will not hear and even when they hear, they will not believe. Yet, they leave him not alone. Let him wait.

***

The last stragglers finally leave and Grief rushes to seek audience with the young Master. Master? He stops short, where had that come from? He must really be tired he thinks. He stands before the Rabbi, he looks younger than he had imagined. They look at themselves as if asking, “What next?”

That was actually what Grief was thinking, now that he had come, what next? He suddenly finds that he cannot look the man in the eye. He feels so sad and tired and ashamed. Get a grip on yourself man, you are way older than he is.

“Master,” he finally croaks out. That word again. “I have heard that you have a solution to everything. I have a problem and I need you to help me.” He went on to pour his heart out to this young man called Rabbi, his fears, anxieties, worries, his fights with Mrs Bile, his desire to move to Salvation Street and very recently, his guilt. He just couldn’t stop, it seemed a dam had been opened. By the time he was done, he was surprised to find that he was crying and the young man was still listening, his composure oozing patience and love.

“Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.”

That sounded familiar, Grief was sure he had come across that before but where? The young man called Rabbi wasn’t done.

“Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God.”

Grief is crushed, he does not understand these words but surely they mean something? “But Master,” at this point, it no longer feels weird calling him that. “How does that help me claim residence on Salvation Street?”

The young man looks at him ever so lovingly and says, “Go home and ponder these things.”

Grief walks slowly back to his car. Admittedly, the young man called Rabbi had not said anything about his transition to Salvation Street, but he could sense that everything will be alright and for the first time in a long while, there’s a spring in Mr Grief’s steps.

No. 1 Salvation Street, that has a nice ring to it he thinks.

***The end.

Photo Credit: Jesusdaily.com

Death's Last Call

Idly wondering what the hullabaloo was all about, Keinde angrily flipped through the pages of her book. The minutes were precious, she couldn't afford to miss her deadline.

The noise drew closer still and she could vaguely make out what the crowd was chanting

"Crucify him."

"Burn him."

"Kill him."

"We want Belialas."

Not again she groans. This was a blood thirsty lot, ever ready to kill innocent souls egged on by the brotherhood's apostolates. Who on Earth would prefer Belialas the terrible over whoever was been led to the slaughter? This fella they were burning or stoning or crucifying at this early hour must be one hardened soul.

Since moving to this neighborhood, it had been one lynching or the other. Her family had strongly resisted her relocating to such a neighbourhood they termed as scum. Even the name pointed  out to the hopelessness of it, Dead End Zone. She wondered whether the developers were high on something the day they came up with such name.

Many said the early settlers had had one misfortune or the other befall them and they had hurriedly fled considerably lesser than they had arrived, hence the name.

Whatever the story, Keinde couldn't be bothered. She was here on a mission and was going to see it through. The life of a Journalist was a perilous one, not to talk of that of an investigative journalist.

Word had reached her Organisation of the nefarious activities carried out by the Sect called The Brotherhood and she had been dispatched to go digging.

It was said that they were responsible for most of the disappearances and killings reported on the media and the neighbourhood lived under their shadow.

The crowd's chant intrudes into her thoughts. With a sigh of exasperation, she gets up to close the window but her hand freezes as looking out, she recognises the cause of the crowd's ire. What? It was the young Rabbi, a really charismatic fellow. She had sat in on a few of his teachings and had even interviewed him. He was one of the few who openly rebuked the activities of the brotherhood.

Surely there'd been a mistake? Such a nice man, what could he have done? And the crowd chose him over Belialas? No, something smelt fishy and that's when her journalistic instincts kicked in. She could feel strongly that this man's death was tied to her investigations.

She rushed back to her desk, grabbed her note pad, a pen and tape recorder and rushed out the door. This would make for a good story she thought.

Photo Credit: Google

Sunday Special: The House Yonder I

This here is Mr. Grief, he lives at No. 6266 Despondency lane yonder down the hill, off Salvation Street. He had tried several times to be allocated a house on Salvation Street, but his requests were always denied or maliciously thwarted by the vile Mrs Bile who acted as estate manageress.

All his life, Grief had lived on Despondency lane, he was sick and tired of it. He saw how the other folks lived on salvation Street; they were happy and healthy and he wanted that too. From an early age, he knew something wasn't right, like something was missing and what he needed was right on Salvation Street. He could feel the pull strongly.

***

"No, no, you misunderstand me Bile..." Pause
"Uh-huh, exactly..." Another pause.
He was on yet another lengthy phone call with his estate manageress. An outsider looking in would see a shrivelled up figure of a man hunched over a desk phone. He cut a pitiful image, like the world bore heavily on him.

He had grown weary of having to say the same thing over and over without any change. The one sided conversation finally comes to an end and it is with a sigh he returns the phone to its cradle.

He looks out his window, the one looking out on Salvation Street. Oh, how he longed to be there, to be like those happy people, he tries to smile but realises he can't quite pull it off. It's been so long he smiled. He couldn't remember the last time he smiled.

Another world weary sigh escapes from him, how did they manage it, those folks? They laughed and smiled so effortlessly, everything they did was so effortless.

He had lost count how many times he'd sat here wishing for the same thing, a house on Salvation Street, he could just picture it. He feels tired. 

Tomorrow, he thinks, tomorrow, I must go to see the man everyone talked about. The man they called Rabbi.

***To be continued...

Photo Credit: Jesusdaily.com

Tale of an Ant: The Bodstacle

Once a heavy body twice removed laid down to slumber and slept deeply. Too deeply Antu thought as he watched from a safe distance, peeping intermittently from a watcher's hole he had setup when he noticed the body lay directly across his path.

What to do, what to do he thought and then he decided. Sleep on body, for it is night when all men must sleep to rise at first dawn. Some take the deep sleep never to awake, you shall awake but in pain. At least, that’s what I think he thought because you see, I was another watcher involved in the watcher’s games. Only I was aware of my presence and watched both watcher (Antu) and watchee (sleeping bod).

The long night passed on slowly, too slow for Antu as his frequent peeps became more hurried and less discreet. He watched with growing dismay as the night skyline lightened, gold tinged by the sun’s first rays yet, there was not a movement of the muscles from the prone body. It lay there, seemingly dead to the world. “But it is dawn,” cried Antu. He always did wake up with the sun and expected the body to do likewise. The more darkness gave way, the more Antu despaired for he had really believed that all bodies arose with dawn’s first light as his grandmother had once told him. In her tales, all bodies rose with the sun.

At this point, I feel I should describe Antu. A young ant in his first stages, no different from his peers but he was much smaller. According to his grandma, he was nearly eaten by a grasshopper as a baby and fell in the struggle that ensued. As stories go however, he didn’t believe one bit of it as he saw himself as special and favored (touched if you like). This would be his first time stepping out of the Chantill, a large mound of a mansion and all at the dare of the young ‘uns.

He is lightly marked unlike the darker markings of his order, this he attributes to the ‘touch’. His head’s slightly disproportionate to his body giving him a strange look which only endeared him to the Antlies- Fantu in particular.

Ah…Fantu. Thinking of her made his fluids to juice. What would he do without her? For it was because of her he had maintained this vigil. Usually in such cases, he would have long passed over and continued his search and where there seemed to be no way, he created one for himself or if need be, put his stingers to use but not this time. He wanted, no, needed to see that bod rise of its own accord. And so he patiently or impatiently as the case may be, waited. Only when it was fully bright did he decide that he had waited long enough and so it was with fire in his fluids and a cry in his heart that he rushed towards the bodstacle and stung.

It all happened too quickly but in all these, the watcher of both had drawn his conclusions.

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