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
