I dreamed I was dying; as I so often do
And when I awoke I was sure it was true
I ran to the window; threw my head to the sky
And said whoever is up there,please don't let me die

But I can't live forever,I can't always be
One day I'll be sand on a beach by a sea
The pages keep turning, I'll mark off each day with a cross
And I'll laugh about all that we've lost

this is a feeling that lasts as long as the song lasts

Guilt

I felt sweat drip out of every pore as I walked past the front reception of my fiftieth floor office. Numbers rang inside my head the same way they had been the past eight weeks and they didn’t show any signs of abating today. Annual staff turnover, trailing revenue, adjusted earnings per share, diluted earnings per share, staff options granted this quarter, overhead cuts, squeeze budget bottom lines, whatever the hell it was it didn’t add up. It just didn’t. I had to do it. I saw Walter’s face as I broke the news to him and I can tell you that it just wasn’t pleasant. “But Ravi please you don’t understand. I have kids too. Kate’s just entering primary school this year. You can’t do this to me, Ravi. You can’t.” I couldn’t. But I had to. I felt sorry for Walter. And Melissa, and Aresh, and Kevin, and the rest of you MDs . I couldn’t bring myself to look at the receptionist. “Bye Mr Ramesh” was what Samantha usually said in her bright little twenty year old voice as I walked out of the office. It sounded a little less bright today, and all I could manage was a weak “Good bye” as I walked towards the lift lobby. No small talk about her boyfriend in national service, no advice about her part-time diploma course in the polytechnic, no nothing. Two of her older colleagues had been removed, treated as an overhead that was found surplus to requirements, nothing but a number in the balance sheet that had to be culled. Culled by the plague that emanated from the rest of the financial world as we all drank from the same water infected by the disease that has left everybody writhing in pain and suffering as we all sought brighter futures for ourselves, for our wives and husbands, for our children, for our goddamn Beemers and our own fucking pride. Greed was the name of the plague, and it was time for us to be culled.

I saw the numbers drop rapidly on the LCD as the lift plunged rapidly down the shaft the same way the axe fell on the heads of two hundred other honest colleagues who had to go home to crying babies, screaming teenagers, worried parents and spouses and sleeping pills.

My name was the one that was carved on the culling blade, and everything that’s left on the bodies of these corpses was the indelible mark of my name on the gaping hole that used to be their necks. My hands felt dirty, stained by blood that I could not wash off, even when I commanded them to. I heard a chuckle next to my ear. It had a diabolical and haunting quality, the kind that crept under your skin and squeezed the cold sweat out of the pores of your forehead. Whoever it was, it was gone by the time I turned around, probably laughing its way back down to hell as it prepared to welcome more friends into the land of gnashing and grinding of teeth.
I felt nauseous as I emerged from the lift. The ground floor receptionist nodded his head in my direction as I walked past and I smiled weakly back at him. I walked out of the building and saw a woman waiting at the bus stop with her child in her arms, a baby not more than four years of age and I said to myself, “Ravi, you’ve killed them. You’re a killer”.

I might as well have grabbed the child from the woman’s arms and killed him along with his mother.

The boy looked over his mother’s shoulders and gave me a smile. He was holding a sword and waving it at me. Not the bible, although I wasn’t sure if I was going to hell. Not the kind that cut people either, he was too small to understand what I had done. It was the plastic kind that came with batteries and lighted up when you pressed the little black button on the handle. He waved the sword at me and made little “bish bish” sounds with every little wave of his tiny hands. Maybe he knew. I had to leave before he could remember my face. I turned around and started walking towards the traffic light when I felt a sharp pain in the side of my head. The type that hits you when somebody drove a nail through your temple and into your brain and somehow managed to get the nail to expand and contract so you had those throbbing pains that refuse to go away even when you begged and pleaded. I bent over and rested my hands on my knees. I looked around and everybody seemed to be a little closer to me. I felt surrounded by people I didn’t know, people I might have killed, as if the Great Birnam Wood had come against me.

I looked down again and saw that I had been covered in a thin layer of film, a coating of some sort like a glaze, all over my hair, my face, my fingers, my cufflinks, my suit and I thought “Oh God, what is this?” I turned around and I suddenly understood what had happened to me. I had just emerged from the anus of a large and powerful organisation, whose function in society was to eat up the fruits of labour of honest men and women who put their trust and life savings and all their money in us hoping for a better future, and what we have done is excrete the remnants of our digested waste back into society. I was covered in a patina of excrement, and I could smell the ammonia, the smell that emanated from the layer of shit that covered my entire existence. I had emerged as a member of this big and powerful system and the stains on my body and the blood on my hands were something that would take the rest of my life to wash off. “Out, Damn’d spot! Out, I say!”

The scent became overwhelming. I bent over and gagged, and a small sliver of vomit emerged from my mouth. Oh God, the greed, the excrement, the guilt, the vomit.
I stood up, and looked at myself again, and looked back at the building and I thought, “No no, this is not it”. I had another vision, another moment of clarity, like some sort of an epiphany. The layer of film that covered my body wasn’t what I thought it was. It was something else, something deeper and stranger and yet seemed like it was part of the natural progression of things. And suddenly, it dawned upon me that I had been reborn. Not of woman born, but ripped from the womb of the organisation, the same way these good men and women were so untimely ripped from their workplaces. I was covered in a placenta of some sorts and I had been reborn into a new world of pain and despair and I had been given a new name.

I am Shiva, god of death.

Sarah’s Goodnight

The accent-less voice announced the next station’s name shortly after the door alarm chimed its usual nine times. It was a reminder to warn you about the door that threatened to cut you into half if you stood in the middle. Maybe not, but it was how Sarah used to imagine it when she was little, until Mommy told her that it wasn’t the case. The train doors were controlled by a man who watched everything that happened at the train station in a room called the control station. And so, it was impossible, even if she wanted to be cut into half. The control station man would never allow it because he wanted her to have a safe journey back home to Mommy.

She saw her mute reflection appear as the train entered the tunnel. Through the image that emerged like a negative exposure against the dark window, she saw her girly looking self dressed in a school uniform that she never wanted. The navy pinafore served as much purpose as a status symbol as it was a backdrop for a badge that many other girls and their over-zealous parents would have deemed an honour to wear. Her mother was one of them, and this girl didn’t object. She never did.
Sarah found herself holding on to the silver chain around her neck. Six carats of Mommy’s love for 4A*s on her PSLE transcript. She felt a sudden urge to remove it. She fiddled clumsily with the clasp before realising that she didn’t know how to take it off.

“You look so pretty. I’m sure your friends think so too, girl,” said Mommy as she put the chain on Sarah.

Sarah nodded automatically. She smiled as if her picture were being taken.
The same mechanical voice announced the next station as the alarm chimed the last warning for passengers to get away from the door. Today, Sarah wondered how it would sound if the train doors really closed on her. Would it make a crunching sound? Could she still do a pirouette? Mommy wouldn’t be very happy if she couldn’t anymore. She always had lots of things to say about Sarah’s ballet classes, or violin lessons, or math tuition, which Sarah never understood because she was always good at math. “You can never be too sure, girl. Last time, Mommy thought math was easy, until Secondary school”. Secondary One came and went, and algebra was a breeze. Mommy insisted on tuition still and Mommy always had the last word.

Sarah counted the number of train stops before she reached home. Three was the number, and three would have been the number of stations that passed before Sarah alighted. Not today. Today, Sarah-Lynn Chua had other plans. No more ballet lessons which made her toes bleed. No more violin lessons, she never liked classical music anyway. No more stupid math tuition. Today was the day she decided that she would take control, even if it was going to be momentary and fleeting.

The train emerged from the tunnel and Sarah discovered that clouds had gathered on this side of the island. The sky was a lot darker now, and Sarah wondered if God was reading her mind. Droplets of rain formed slanted streaks on the train windows. Sarah was well prepared for rainy days though. Mommy prepared a small umbrella that sat snugly at the bottom of her branded bag, in case the rain threatened to tear a hole in her daughter dearest. Today, the umbrella was staying in the bag.

Sarah alighted two stops after the last time she counted. She walked out of the station, and boarded the first bus that came her way. A group of friends sat across each other in the front of the bus. They were laughing and sharing jokes the way Sarah couldn’t with other girls. “Friends will come to you Sarah,” Mommy would tell her, and besides, “Mommy will always be there for you”. Sarah usually smiled and thanked her mother and Mommy would smile back and hug her so tight, sometimes Sarah had difficulty breathing.

Sarah looked out and saw that the same streaks of rain had followed her to the bus window. She alighted at a peaceful looking HDB estate. Sarah looked at her phone; incoming call. Mommy must have read the letter already. She switched her phone off, dumped it back into her bag and found the nearest lift in the block. She looked at the mirror that ran along the side of the lift wall, and saw her chain again. This time her urge to be free from it was even stronger. She yanked hard on the chain, continuing even as she felt it cut into her neck. The chain snapped and fell to the ground, and Sarah felt unstoppable.

She pressed the button with the largest number, and pressed the close button. The lift doors obeyed, and Sarah smiled to herself. She stepped out and peered out of the corridor, staring at the vast expanse of the estate that she was never going to explore. Sarah sat at the edge of the corridor wall, her legs dangling loosely underneath her body. It was getting late. The building was tall and she had such a long way to go. Besides, Daddy was waiting.

Sarah pushed herself off, spread her arms out the way bungee jumpers did, and wondered what sound jumpers made when they landed.

Parting Words

Hello blog. here's my humble attempt at a quaint (and elusive) concept called local literature.

Parting Words

Malicious thoughts ran back and forth through Jonny’s mind behind a cigarette.

Jonathan was careful not to let the ashes scatter all over the floor. Melissa had been trying to get him to quit for the past year and Jonathan listened to his girlfriend all the time. Well most of the time. He didn’t want to get caught for smoking in the storeroom. He knew it was dangerous. 200 people have died of spontaneous human combustion in recorded history and Jonathan couldn’t stop random facts like that from coming into his head. He started to regret lighting up in the storeroom. How was he going to clear up the smell by tomorrow? At least that little act of rebellion felt good for that one small moment.

His hands worked expertly through the packets of field rations as he unpacked and packed them into neatly labelled cardboard boxes. He had gotten into the routine two hours ago and he didn’t need to think about it anymore. Seven packets of main-course rations per section member from this box, seven packets of refreshment rations per section member from that box, stack alternate and vertical until there was a bit of space left at the edge, and move on to the next row. The remote control in his mind alternated between three thought channels: cursing his officer, where his platoon was enjoying their nights out, and how he was going to wake up at 8.30am, book out and claim his “birthday off-day”.

Jonathan sealed up his eleventh box of combat rations with masking tape. He stood up, twisted his torso sideways and stretched his arms high up towards the ceiling. A brown moth had landed high up on a wall in front of Jonathan. An intricate black pattern ran along the periphery of its wide wings, which were splayed horizontally across the concrete surface.

“If I could stuff that thing up his ass... “Jonathan said to himself

The corner of his mouth lifted a little.

“Jor you shouldn’t say things like that you know”

It could only be Jonathan’s cousin. Jor was his childhood name and Swee Keng was his only relative in camp.

“Wa lau you gave me a fright. Why are you here? Are the rest of the guys back yet?”

“Sorry. No I don’t think so. But then again I wouldn’t know. How’re you doing?”

“Like that lor. I seriously think Warrant Pandini is sick in the head. Why the hell does a Master Warrant care about small things like combat rations? And the bloody exercise is three weeks away, why must I get victimised like this? That bloody old cock is sadistic la.”

Jonathan looked at the remaining ration packs and made a quick estimation. Two half boxes of rations should mean a whole box of rations left to pack. Jonathan had a curse word for every green packet in sight.

“You know, in the future, you’re going to look back on small mishaps like that. And seriously these things will make you smile at yourself. Life will only get more complicated you know? Just remember to stop and count your blessings when you get sad. Anyway I’m so happy you’re going to uni. Think you’ll enjoy it as much as Siang did.”

“My father enjoyed uni meh. Don’t think he did well right. He didn’t even get honours. And how did you know that. Your father told you ar.”

Jonathan had settled back into his field chair, making sure that all three interlocking legs of the tripod formation were stable and his buttocks were firmly planted on the canvas that stretched across the top of the leg stands. The folding chair was developed at 1500 bc as a portable chair for the commanding officer in the army. It was also treated in Egypt as a symbol of divinity, fit only for kings. Jonathan was Lord and Commander of his rations tonight as these thoughts broke the monotony of his packing.

“The older you get, the more you know. The more you know, the unhappier you become. When you get out of here, you will realise that many unpleasant life experiences are waiting for you. Especially once you start earning money. Jonny, you must remember not to put all your hope into these things that you try to earn. Sometimes they disappoint you. Treat Melissa well ok.”

“Yeah I will la. She’s really pretty. And why are you talking like that tonight? Then again I can imagine getting philosophical if I’m going to ORD next month. I’ll have all the time in the world on leave to think anyway right. Eh how does it feel to be leaving?”

“It feels liberating. Anyway I just wanted to say you some things to you before I go. And if I were you, I would stop smoking that thing. Cancer is really a terrible thing.”

Jonathan started thinking about how he would dispense his words of advice to other campmates just before his ORD. Assuming he doesn’t drop dead for training next week, that is. In forty eight percent of deaths in the SAF, servicemen dropped dead in the midst of routine training activities. Jonathan wanted to tell his cousin about that little factual snippet, but instead decided to keep those words in his mind. Jonny’s little conversational eccentricities could wait; especially with people he thought didn’t understand him.

“Eh I’m finally going to be done with this whole packing shit. Yeah I remember Daddy telling me about that tumour that Ah Gong had in his throat. If only he was around for a while longer. I was so young la.”

Jonathan was Ah Gong’s favourite grandchild.

“Yeah if only, Jonny. If only. Actually, there’s something I need to pass to you.”

“Come in la. I’ll open the door for you. I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

“No it’s okay, really. I need to go now and I won’t be seeing you in quite a while. Take care, Jor. I’ve left it at the door.”

“Eh, Swee Keng! Come in la.”

Jonathan dropped the masking tape and made his way to the door.

“Swee Keng, you still there?”

Jonathan opened the door and stepped out of the room. He felt the cool night air and the sweat evaporate from his face, arms and legs. He looked at either direction of the long corridor and Swee Keng was nowhere in sight. An old looking soft cover notebook lay on the concrete floor to his left, next to the doorway. It was one of those brown coloured ring-bound paper notebooks that Jonathan knew was popular in the 1940s. Ah Gong used to keep one of those ancient things in his shirt pocket, and young Jonathan was always curious to know what he wrote inside.

“Memories Jor, memories” was Ah Gong’s reply most of the time.

Jonathan flipped open the notebook to find an entry dated nineteen sixty-two. It was Siang’s full-month and as Jonathan read about his Grandfather’s thoughts on his firstborn, the moth that was on the wall started flapping its large brown wings and flew in irregular circles around the room. It found its way to the door, flew past Jonathan who was still concentrating on the notebook, and disappeared into the night never to be seen again.



Thanks for reading if you've come this far.

I was people watching over dinner and a whimsical little thought came to my tired mind.

It wasn't a moment of epiphany nor enlightenment. Rather, a small realisation that, with every mouthful of my dinner, crept surreptitiously into my head.

Maybe we're all just manufactured

Maybe i'm just sleepy

O mighty Caesar! dost thou lie so low?
Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,
Shrunk to this little measure?

Julius Caesar, Act 3, Scene 1