Monday, June 4, 2012

Fiction: The Cardboard box


                                                 The Cardboard Box

There are moments in a person’s life when one feels as if their entire life is worth only a handful of things. Mr. Singh was living that moment. Sitting on a bench in the railway station, he was staring at the cardboard box he held in his hands. And he felt that his entire life was contained in that one box. His worth, value, talent, education, in fact all the things that made him the person he was seemed to be cramped into that one little box. And his life was untidy at the moment, if the organization of the box was anything to go by.

The contents of this box were nothing special; a few papers, pens, pencils, a photo frame and a few other items filled up its depths. These trivial objects however were of great interest at thee present moment. , for Mr. Singh had been fired from his job half an hour ago, and this box contained items from his now bare office desk.

We must pity poor Mr. Singh, jobless and sitting alone at the railway station. But why was he at the railway station of all places? This was something he didn't know himself. Mr. Singh clearly remembered the moment when he received the order of termination and he knew that he was in a railway station, but how and why he got there was a mystery. And that was the question Mr. Singh was trying to answer himself. It is good to keep the mind busy.


It was 6:15 when there was an announcement. An express train would pass through the station, and passengers were to keep a safe distance. Mr. Singh was suddenly stuck by this announcement. An idea emerged: suicide. What if he had come here to kill himself? It was possible; losing his job was a great shock. Perhaps his inner mind had decided that death was the best solution to his predicament. That was why he had arrived here with such grogginess. Mr. Singh blinked as he tried to follow his reasoning. Would he be wise to kill himself? He had a wife and child at home. Getting a new job, at his age was difficult under present circumstances. His savings were marginal and his precious little savings wouldn't last long. Even borrowing wouldn't work. How would he pay the money back? The more he though about his situation, the more hopeless it seemed, and he began to convince himself that death was the best option.

Heartless? Leaving the family behind? Perhaps. But Mr. Singh had never been blessed with a happy married life; the priest’s mantras during the ceremony had never taken their effect.

He knew that his wife was attracted to other men, and he knew of one whom she fancied particularly. Death would liberate her to remarry with her person of desire. The child? She was still young, and would gradually adjust to the change.

Mr. Singh was now convinced of his reasoning. Setting the box aside, he looked at the lines. Shiny, black iron that stretched on for miles. Soon the train would arrive; one jump and it would be over. Mr. Singh got up and walked to the edge of the station. He could see the train’s headlight at a distance. He stepped back a few paces, and then braced himself.

The train let out a horn and with it Mr. Singh had a worrying thought. What if he failed in his attempt? Trains often slow down while crossing stations and the drivers were on high alert. What if the driver saw him and slowed down, leading to only injuries? He couldn’t afford to pay hospital bills now. It would make things worse. No, he decided that he needed a more sure way, one that would guarantee death.

He stood thoughtfully and watched the train go by He didn’t note its speed. His reverie was broken by the sight of a man standing on the road adjacent to the station. He had a sign that said “Best Rat poison”.
Poison. This was a sure method. Death would be painful but certain. All he needed to do was to consume it in a secluded spot and his body would not be discovered for days.
Mr. Singh began making his way towards the man. He was nearly there and about to take out his wallet when a new complication arose. What if the poison was ineffective? His body might manage to flush out the toxins and he would have wasted ten good rupees. And what if someone found him and took him to the hospital? No, it was the same dilemma again.
Mr. Singh began going through other alternatives in his mind. Gun? Rope? Fire?
Fire. He could use a smoke now. Mr. Singh reached inside his pocket and found his cigarettes there, but he was shocked to see that his expensive lighter, a gift from a friend, was missing. He began frantically checking his pockets as sweat formed on his brow.
Where could he have put it?  Where? Of course! Mr. Singh slapped his forehead in exasperation. The box. He had left it inside the box. Mr. Singh began sweating as he realized that he had left the box at the station. He looked quickly to where he previously was, but he couldn’t spot it in the darkness.

Mr. Singh rushed over the fence, over the tracks and onto the station. His box was untouched. He quickly checked if everything was in order; it was. Heaving a sigh of relief he picked it up. He lit up his cigarette and walked homewards, single mindedly wondering what the wife would be cooking today.


Somak
9/11/10