Posts Tagged ‘story’

No freddom

My head is going dizzy. It is paining too much. The air was heavily filled with the smell of tobacco. I have been smoking my pipe for the last one hour, sitting in my rocking chair, in the heat of the flame, I was lost deep in thoughts. I have lost my job today and now there is no Mary to divert my thoughts. For the first time in my life I am feeling miserable. The lonely sensation is common for me from the day Mary had left me and the world. For the first time in my life, I have come to know the meaning of depression. I stand up from my chair and go to the mirror, there was standing a Paul Anderson staring me from within the depths of the mirror, short hair, and Irish green eyes; yes this is me Paul Anderson. Today I know what it feels like to be depressed. Today I know what Steven Flo must have felt like. Oh! How old memories rushed inside me, for much of my life I had tried to forget these memories, forget Steve. But today these memories rushed to me like it all happened yesterday. Steven Flo was a genius, not that he was the topper in our class but those who knew him completely, knew that beneath his undeveloped educational skills was a brain far more developed than other children of his age. But if there was one thing sad about him were his parents. He was the youngest of the 6 Flo brothers. All other five were topper but Steve was a below average child. Pie, theta, gamma were far too easy for him to understand at the age of 7. But unfortunately he hated studies. He was experiencing too much pressure from his parents. He hated them. It was at the age of 12 that Steve started experiencing hell. It was perhaps 5 Feb. when I received his phone call, he said “Paul I have found my adoption papers in mom’s jewelry box.” He was tensed. I advised him to talk to them. He did but alas his anger came in between. After his mother scolded him for opening her jewelry box. He had shouted at her for not telling him he was adopted. Then one day he comes to school with a blacked eye. He told me that his father had done it when he had demanded the names of his parents. It was at the age of 15 when the incident happened. It was a Sunday morning Steve was lying near the flowerbed, trying to gain some tan. And as usual he had gone into a row with his mother who had scolded him for not studying. He had received beating from his father. He said “what gives you right to beat me” his voice made it clear that he was trying to fight back tears. “You are our son” his mother replied. “You are just a foul women you aren’t my mother”. This was enough to break his father’s patience. Steve was lashed. The wounds on his back were bleeding he ran into the bedroom and closed the door. His mother shouted “open the dam door”. “I quit” Steve replied and the last thing he heard was his mother commanding his father to break the door. I don’t know what made his mother break the door, perhaps it was because the love for Steve buried deep inside her heart had resurfaced or perhaps she was afraid what the neighbors would say about her hatred for Steve. But I know one thing; after the door had broken she had realized it was too late. That day she had understood what Steve meant by his self –created phrase ‘you can’t grow a tree in a confined space; you ought to give it freedom’. That day the Flo family had lost a member whose knowledge was far more than any other Flo member. But perhaps suicide isn’t an option for me I have to wait for this terrible night to be over, I have to trust god to do the best for me.

Checkmate  The air was filled with the smell of tobacco. Steve had been smoking his pipe for the       last one hour. He had been sitting in the comforts of the heat of angethi. He was lying lazily in his rocking chair reading ‘A brief history of time’ well at least his eyes were on it. His brain was a wandering dog. For once or twice his coach’s advice had come to his mind but he ignored it. He gently blew out the smoke. The previous morning his coach had advised him to look at the previous games of Paul on the net. He had to learn Paul’s strategies and modify his own to beat Paul. But he had ignored the advice. He was too proud to listen to the coach. After all what was the coach? He was only an old fool. He   had won all previous games of the championship, he could beat Paul. His chain of thoughts was broken by the flickering light of the angethi. The clock stuck twelve. It  was after half an hour that the angethi’s flame was out. Steve was too tired to replace the coal. He decided to sleep, his eyelid became heavy. Steve had come to India to play the finals of the ‘World Chess Championship (W.C.C)’. His competitor, the other finalist was Paul Anderson from Ireland. The previous game’s stats favored Steve. Experts said Steve had a better chance of winning. Paul himself had admitted that Steve was better as a player than him. Perhaps these were the facts that had inflated Steve’s ego. Steven Flo had been representing England in the game. He was a new comer in the world of international chess. Steve knew if he loses, his career was over, well at least those who didn’t get a chance to represent England would make sure that his career was tore apart to bits.
The next morning, the sun’s rays penetrated Steve’s eyelids. He woke up with a start. Today was an important day for him. Today either he would attain eternal glory or would become a disgrace for England. The pressure on him was even more because England couldn’t loss from an eastern country like Ireland and more over England was a champion for the last 6 years. It was not only a game it was a quest for glory.
At about 8 at night the people of Ireland switched on the TV a satisfactory smile lit their faces the headlines were ‘Paul beats Steven Flo to win the finals of W.C.C’…
Steve was sitting in his chair, the clock stuck 11. He was smoking his pipe. He had lost the championship. It was not a close win by Ireland. It was perhaps the quickest game in the history of international chess. His career was over, he was over. Could he face the anger of his fans? Could he face his mentor and coach? Could he face anyone in England? Panic washed over him like icy cold water. He was a disgrace to his country. Despair and helplessness filled him up. Then suddenly an option came to his mind. He considered it. Yes said a voice from back of his head. He got up and went to his suitcase and picked up his pistol, placed it on his chest and pulled the trigger. Steve fell, blood oozed out of his chest. His pager beeped, he reached his breast pocket for it. He cleaned the blood on it with a struggling hand. He read it with difficulty it was from his mentor it read ’Success is a lousy teacher it seduces men into thinking they can’t lose’. Everything went black…