The Binoculars

The Binoculars by Dinshaw Patel (2010 for Toronto Star & CBC)

As Lieutenant Arthur Warren tried to relax in his armchair, the low pitched hum of the air-conditioning unit was an irritant to the usual tranquil atmosphere in his quarters. By now the room had sufficiently cooled down for him to switch it off and start listening to the tape of the morning’s proceedings.  Ever since it had ended, his mind kept regurgitating over Buddhu’s interrogation.  Though Warren wholeheartedly supported his government’s position, things had started to seem quite messy.  They still could not exactly identify the boy’s age and for sake of expediency had documented him as sixteen.  And, yet, his own Adam looked much older though he had just turned twelve less than a month back.  Warren knew he would sanction the boy’s release in the morning, but still he wanted to listen once more to the boy, alone, without the dozen eyes peering at him through the one way mirror.   Other than himself, the actual room only had Buddhu and the translator Mustafa.

“Buddhu, what is your full name?”

“Buddhu.”

“But what is your family name? Everyone has two names.”

“My name is only Buddhu.  You cannot have a family name if you do not have a family.”

“You do not remember any mother or father or brother or sister?  What about far away relatives like an uncle?”

“No.”

“How old are you?”

“I tried to do some calculations and I remember seven Eid ul-fitrs because on each Eid ul-Fitr I was always lucky to get a new set of clothes which I wore till the next Eid ul-Fitr.  And, the old ones I tore and stitched into sleep covers so by the time I am very old, the winter wont feel that cold,” he said with a smile.

“Ok, now Buddhu tell us everything about yourself right from the beginning.  Whatever you remember - with all the names of the people and places.”

 “When I was very, very small when I remember my first Eid ul-Fitr, I was a cleaning boy at this big home for with many boys in Baghlan.  I spent three Eid ul-Fitrs there and then one day I ran away from there and never returned.  It took me a long time, but I walked to Kabul where I found the job going gardening and other cleaning for Hakim Seth, the restaurant owner.  He was a good man and…”

“Just stop.  Why did you run away?”

“The old man running the house was good to me and I was given daily meals, but the older boys kept hurting me a lot.”

“What did they do?”

“The house had a rule, the elder boys with beards slept with the younger ones without any hair on their face.  I was always Usman’s partner, but then he lost a bet and he had to share me with Akboo whose partner had died recently.  One night they hurt me so much that the next morning I could not even go to the toilet.  The old man gave me some medicine but that just made my stomach upset and I kept running to the toilet.  I thought that Usman and Akboo would let me sleep in peace that night, but they wanted me again.  I said leave me alone tonight.  My stomach is troubling me.  They would not listen and as Akboo started the pain became unbearable and my upset stomach let go.  They both got so angry that they took me to the yard kicked me a few times and said tomorrow’s sunrise will be the last one I will see.  After they were all asleep, I went washed a bit and was scared to enter the building but it was very cold outside.  When I was passing by the old man’s room, I noticed the gate keys on the table.  I slowly grabbed it with some other things including my bedding and ran through the front door locking the gate from outside.”

“Most children who ran away were always caught and given severe punishment.  That is how Akboo’s partner also died.  They always knew that the boys run towards the big city of Kabul so they send big boys chasing in that direction.  I did not go to Kabul right away.  I hid in a tree by the road and for two days watched everything.  I laughed when they could not get out of the gate and spent so much time breaking the lock.  Finally, Usman, AKboo and the old man went in the jeep and returned after several hours.  But, I noticed AKboo was not with them so I knew they must have left him there to look for me at the bus station or the square where most children hang around.  Next day I saw Akboo return looking very angry and then I knew I was safe to travel to Kabul.”

“How did you go to Kabul?”

“From the house I had taken enough bread and onions to feed me for a week. Plus, the rest from Usman and Akboo made me feel better.  I did not leave till it was dark and then I started walking towards Kabul and hiding away from the road each time I saw any light approaching.  The walking kept me warm and plus my shawl from my two old clothing also helped.  During the day when it was warm, I took a nap usually in the bushes where I could not be seen.  I was scared people would steal my belongings.”

“Since the time I left Baghlan, it took me six day before I reached Kabul very early in the morning.  I knew that if I went toward the station or the square I would be caught sooner or later so I walked in the outskirts where there were beautiful houses as big as palaces for kings and queens.  I have always known that I am a very lucky person so as I was walking, Hakim Seth came from behind me faster.  Every morning he goes for a long walk.  When he saw I was walking with my belongings in a bundle, he asked me where I was from.  First I got scared and was about to run as fast as my legs could have taken me, but then he was much too big for me and I would not have had any chance to escape.  So I said my father is old and ill and I we live in a village near Baghlan and I have come looking for work.  He asked me if I had done gardening and I said just cleaning but I know how because I have seen my father plant trees in our village.  He pointed to a house way behind us and asked me to wait by the gate till he returned.  First, I thought it was a trick and he would somehow contact the old man at the house in Baghlan, but then I saw him enter a park and walk around in circles like a rooster.  When he returned, he said if I cut the grass with some instrument I had never seen before.  He must have noticed my blank look and from then on he taught me everything from cleaning his car to cutting flowers for his house.  He was a good man.  He fed me well.  Gave me space in his garage to sleep which was warm even during the coldest nights and he allowed me four days off every month to visit my family.”

“How much did he pay you?”

“There was no regular salary, but he was a good man and gave me some money each time I was about to go on my leave.  First time I refused because I had a place to sleep, clothes and food so what could I do with the money, but then I accepted because I did not want him to get suspicious that I had no family because if he reported me to the authorities they would have sent me back to the old man’s house.”

“So where did you go on your days off?”

“For three holidays I went nowhere but hid in the park where Hakin Seth would go for his morning walks.  Usually before he arrived, I climbed and hid in a tree.  I did not want to go toward Kabul station or square in case someone recognized me from my house in Baghlan.  Then on one occasion I decided to go towards the mountains away from the Kabul and in the other direction of Baghlan.  To my surprise, the mountain was not as secluded as I had thought and plus I did not like the looks of the people there so again several times I had to climb and hide in trees.  On one occasion, I found a tree from which I could climb on to a cliff and soon I discovered that there was no other way for any man on foot to come.  The cliff was wide and took me to great distances with beautiful scenery and there I found a cave which then became my home each time I told Hakim Seth that I was going to visit my family.”

“Is that the place where we found you?”

“Yes, besides me, the three charcoal like men and two milk like men we the first ones there.”   

“Buddhu, you are the only one here at Guantanamo who does not eat meat.  Generally, people from your region are all excessive meat eaters.  Is there a reason?”

“The cave was the best home I could ever have wanted.  See I told you, I am a very lucky person.  There I played hitting one stone to another.  In the night I looked for god.  I sang inside my cave and the sound was different.  Plus, I did a lot of thinking there wonder where I had come from and how I had landed up at the house in Baghlan.  I thought maybe I was born as Adam without a mother or a father.  But, at times it also got lonely out there and loneliness made me very sad.  I always wished I had a brother  who loved me as much as I loved him.  Then one day a young goat came.  He had one ear missing as if it was roughly torn off.  At first he was scared and was about to run away but I made sounds in his language and he stopped and looked towards me.  Slowly, by slowly he approached me and we talked and I called him my brother Akbar.  I was so happy there with him that I never wanted to leave and I even extended that stay by a day.”

“After that he visited me each time I returned.  On one visit as I was leaving to return to Hakim Seth’s place, I heard agonizing cries that sounded like Akbar.  I ran towards the sound and saw these men holding him down with a knife to his neck and blood flowing in a river to the side.  I cannot forget how his eyes were fixed on to me and I ran towards the man with the knife and pushed him away, but by then the others had a hold of me and I could see AKbar had ended his struggle but with eyes wide open still in my direction. I jerked out of the clutches of the men and ran as fast as I could though I did not know in which direction I was running or where as my vision was covered with tears.  I think they attempted to chase me but again I found my refuge in a nearby tree.  That night I did not have the heart to return to Hakim Seth’s house so when it was dark I returned towards the place where they had killed my brother and from a distance saw them feasting and laughing.  That night I returned to my cave and cried and cried touching every spot of ground he laid his feet on.  I sat all night next to his favorite spot where him and I talked and I sang songs to him.  The next morning I went back to Hakin Seth’s house.  The moment he saw me he knew something was seriously wrong and in an apologetic voice asked how my father was.  I said my father was fine but those men in black clothes killed my little brother Akbar.  He put his hand on my head and said we never thought it could get worse than with the Russians, but these Talibans are much worse.  Since the day they killed Akbar, I have never wanted to eat meat.”

“When those American men found you, why did you have a set of binoculars?  Were they given to you by someone to lookout for someone?”

“Oh, you mean the looking glass.  When I was still living at the house in Baghlan, one night I saw the old man holding them towards his eyes looking towards the other building that housed girls.  I asked him what this machine was that he was holding.  At first he sounded irritated, but then he explained that he had got it from a soviet solder and if you looked towards the sea, past Pakistan, you could see god in the sky.  The night I ran away from the place, all I took was his key, the looking glass – what you call it binoculars, some food and my shawl.  I took the looking, I mean binoculars to look for god.  In the night from my cave I tried to look and look but I guess the ocean is very far from the mountains near Kabul.  But, every night I enjoyed looking at the sky from my cave and I would imagine travelling from one star to the next.”

“If we decide to return you to Kabul and guarantee you safety there is there anything else you wish from us?”

“Since I am so close to the ocean here, can I have my binoculars back so in the night through the bars I can search for God.”

With a clicking sound the tape ended.  

The Last Supper

LAST SUPPER BY DINSHAW PATEL (2009 FOR CBC)

Albert leaned over the window-sill and pensively gazed straight down.   As he raised his head towards the horizon, the network of streets, alleyways and canals below him gradually thinned into a hazy sheet of red and brown rooftops. The melodious sound of Mozart’s Requiem from inside his room mingled with the outside clamour of urban clanks and rattles from moving trams, rising and falling wails of sirens, revving engines and an impatient double concerto of tinkling bells and honking horns.  Rokin, a major artery, seemed even more congested on this eve before Easter weekend. It was Albert’s final afternoon in Amsterdam.  There was no need to stay any longer. He had received the merchandise for which he had made this long journey.

These late afternoons by the window gave him the same solace as when he was a child spending hours observing the movements within the confines of his homebuilt ant colony. Albert felt a gust of cold breeze on his face.  From the vantage point of his top floor window, the world below seemed much like another ant colony, streaming by mechanically on either legs or wheels in life’s endeavour for continuity. They seemed so well acquainted in their routes and yet so completely lost in their routine. To him, their freedoms and rights were all a sham for they were nothing but slaves to their perfunctory existence.  

The flow of his wandering thoughts was disrupted by the increasing pain in his abdomen. He rushed to his medicine pouch and gulped down several pills from a bottle. Following yesterday’s meeting with Doctor De Munch, Albert was relieved to know that his suffering would end soon. It could only be the doctor’s approach that made him so trusting for he was still unsure whether the doctor’s name was real or a pseudonym.  Their doctor-patient consultations had only taken place in public areas. 

On their second meeting Albert had said, “...but, I would feel more comfortable if we met at your clinic or my hotel rather than on this crowded floor of the Van Gogh museum.”

“My dear man, what better mise-en-scene than this,” the doctor chuckled.  “You see Albert, usually I never see foreigners as it is very dangerous and they could revoke my license, but I could not refuse my dear friend when he called me from your cold country.

“Albert, please understand, the Dutch only care about the rights of their own people.  By consulting a foreigner, I am putting my whole career at risk.”

At their very first meeting at Vondelpark, the doctor, whilst explaining his terms, had told Albert that the actual act must only be carried out upon his return to his native Canada, thus severing any connection.

Upon Albert’s acknowledgement, the doctor offered him two choices.   The first, a self-administered suicide where he could overdose himself with sedative-hypnotic drugs that would gradually put him into deep sleep. At the very beginning of drowsiness, Albert would need to cover his head with a strong garbage bag and seal it around his neck with a tape.  “But, let me warn you Albert,” the doctor continued, “the success rate for this procedure is not at all like the other foolproof method I am going to recommend.  However, there is no cost involved in it as it does not require a professional like me to get further involved.” 

He stopped to light a cigarette and deeply inhaled continuing, “You see, often the drugs are intense enough to put one into a deep sleep, but they may not be powerful enough to stop the body from naturally reacting, even in a comatose state and instinctively tearing the bag from the face for the oxygen deprived to the body. 

“Have you ever watched an animal struggle and fight against its predator?” Responding to Albert’s nod of acknowledgement, he went on, “Yes, here the predator is the absence of oxygen.  I had done much research in the field of survival instincts.  We have some genes in us whose lineage can be traced back to 3.7 billion years.  Of course, in different species they have mutated differently, but it has never lost its purpose which is the continuation of life and more specifically, the species, the individual and the gene itself.”  With a mischievous look, he added, “Among my colleagues we call it the Machiavellian genes, as at least in us, it achieves its purpose by tricking us with feelings of love, jealousy, community and so on.

“We take our rituals, duties and obligations to our family and society so seriously that everything selfish is made to look altruistic, but they are just a means to an end for survival and continuation.”

Albert impatiently interrupted, “So Doctor, what else do you suggest with a bit more assurance?”

 “You must have heard of the famous story of Socrates being given the Hemlock to put him to death.  If you read the Phaedo, you…”

“Yes, I have read it.”

Suddenly the doctor turned and looked right into Albert’s eyes and continued, “Ok, so similar to the Hemlock, my potion is in a liquid, colourless form and to avoid the slight bitter taste, it can be injected into any edible item like a roast or sausage or even mixed in a soup.  Within fifteen minutes of what I refer to as the last supper, you will experience a slight fatigue in your body and gradual loss of speech.  At that point it is best to lie down as once in coma, the brain becomes totally dead and within minutes the heart also stops. 

“I developed this compound and it is far superior in many ways to even the conventional Potassium Cyanide pill used by governments.  There is neither pain nor struggle nor any awareness in the final moments.”

“Doctor De Munch, tell me, what can go wrong here?” said Albert gravely.

“Absolutely nothing, not even the Almighty can save you after it is swallowed. Like the poison Ricin, my compound has no antidote.  Plus, I make my potion two hundred times stronger than necessary and the bottle I would give you, the size of your finger, can kill over a dozen elephants.

“You see Albert, I developed this drug myself and without the lobbying power of a big pharmaceutical name, the government will take over twenty years to consider granting it approval or not.  You see, bureaucracy is often maintained to protect the interests of the powerful.  

“Well, at the end, it is only the people in real need who suffer.”

The doctor and Albert had met yesterday for the final time on a bench outside Paleis op de Dam where De Munch gave specific instructions to Albert for collecting the bottled liquid hidden under a particular stairwell in a building in Jordaan. At their final parting both men greeted each other with tremendous sincerity and warmth though without any embrace or shaking of hands.   

Still by the open window, sitting and resting his chin on the sill, Albert recognised the woman with her usual red scarf.  If the pain was not recurring so frequently, he would have run down and followed her like he did so often to discover the multitude of lost worlds.  She waited at her regular tram stop.  Her grocery bags seemed bulkier than usual.  Even from a distance, she exuded an existence of endless drudgery.  Was she a single mother struggling at some mindless job to sustain her family and leave a nest for the next generation, Albert wondered?  What tricks Mother Nature played to perpetuate her own existence?  Suddenly he felt the intense heat and pressure of a hot flash and he automatically got up to take some more pills. When he returned the tram was already there and fully eclipsing the queue.  As the tram moved on, he noticed that she was gone too.  Leaning out of the window, he stretched to catch the last glimpse of her tram.  He was suddenly engulfed with a feeling of sadness for he would never see her again or be able to rescue her from the agony of existing.  Suddenly this feeling of loss and emptiness about the woman overwhelmed him.  Was this too another trick?  This entire needless endeavour in life to what end?  Or was it all just a purposeless addiction? He left the window to start packing.

The old adage, never to put all eggs in one basket, was engrained in him. He injected a third of the potion into a large sausage he had purchased.  The balance was divided between its original bottle and a perfume sample bottle.  This way it would be equally distributed between the suitcase, handbag and the inside pocket of his jacket. Doctor De Munch had assured him that beyond a bitter taste, it did not have any identifiable smell and hence passing it through customs should be his least worry.  

As Albert’s turn came closer in the customs and immigration line-up, he felt the growing tension.  He mopped his brow as he approached the counter.

“Purpose of your trip?”

“Business...er, I am a financial consultant.”

“Any goods to declare now or to follow?”

“Absolutely nothing...I did not purchase any gifts or duty free.”

A loud thump on the passport and a nod to the next in line gave Albert the clearance to proceed.

Soon he was by the carousel waiting for his luggage feeling a tremendous sense of relief. In a few hours he would be up at his cottage in Muskoka.  In less than 24 hours he would be in the same state of oblivion from whence he came.  Albert had settled on using his side lawn under the big oak tree as his final resting place.  This would keep him out of sight from any back road traffic and the canopy of the branches would hide the view from low flying recreational aircrafts.  By the time his remains were discovered, he would be swallowed to fill several ravenous appetites leaving no trace for the forensics to link his death to De Munch’s potion.

 Mingling with the crowd that went past the green light, he got glimpses of waving hands beyond the opening and shutting exit doors.

“Sir, do you mind coming this way?”  A sudden electrical jolt went through Albert’s body.  Taking him towards a partially enclosed booth, the young official very politely requested to see his passport.  Viewing it like one peruses a new book, he handed it back and asked, “Did you visit any other countries besides the Netherlands?”

“No, I was just there on business, you see I have my own financial consulting business and I am carrying out this feasibility study, er, for this ...”

“How long were you away from Canada?”

Feeling confident that this was just a routine random check, Albert regained his confidence and said, “Little over a fortnight and I think I may return back there after this long weekend.”

“No purchases at all?”

“No absolutely none.”

“I just need to check your hand bag.

“What are these?”

He now felt his second jolt and much stronger, but with a shivering smile he made every effort to portray his confidence.

“Oh, just some sausages I picked up for the plane.  You know how they starve you these days on the long flights.  Well, maybe I did not finish them all.”

“Sir, by Canadian law no meat items are allowed to be brought in from anywhere else except the U.S.

“We will not fine you this time for not declaring them Sir on your form.  But, they will need to be confiscated and destroyed.”

“But...”

“Any other food items?”

“Er, no, but, er, these sausages.”

“Sir, take this as a verbal warning that in the future, you are not supposed to bring any food items into Canada.” As he was completing his sentence, he disposed of the sausages into a big black garbage bag by his desk.

“Thank you.  You may continue through the exit doors.”

Albert was a bit shaken by this encounter but equally relieved that there was still sufficient left in the remaining two bottles and he congratulated himself for his cautious planning.

The drive to the cottage was far from being comfortable.  He stopped several times for medication and rest as the pain was intensifying its hold and expanding to several new places.  Life no more could fool him and make him see death as the dreaded devil.  In truth, he thought, it was life that was the conniving manipulator which had stolen him first from the cradle of death.  As he approached the dirt road leading to the cottage, he again thought of the woman with the red scarf.  Life had pitilessly even blinded her and turned her into a slave so it could waltz to the next generation and then again the next. Oh what an evil, cruel force the universe had created. 

As Albert entered the cottage, he went to the phone and dialled the local grocer;

“Joe? Albert.  How are you?  I just arrived. Can you arrange to send me some eggs, sausages and bread by 9 tomorrow morning?

 “Oh yes, also include the morning paper

“Don’t run a tab this time.  Just send me the bill and I will settle it with your boy right there. Thanks. Goodnight.”

--------------------------------------

Promptly, the next morning the items were delivered.  Albert carefully removed them from the box including the rolled newspaper.  After the breakfast was prepared he carefully injected half of the remaining potion into the sausages and went a distance into the woods to bury leftover and the syringe. Returning to the cottage he had his hearty breakfast. Feeling slightly dizzy, he moved towards the side lawn.  Like Socrates, Albert too thought he should be offering a cock to Asclepius.  With a deep calm engulfing him, he removed the rubber band from the rolled newspaper the grocer had sent.  As he read the headline, a peaceful smile crossed his face while his eyelids started to droop.  At this point he was not sure if he had really read correctly or whether he was hallucinating.  With increasingly more effort, he reopened his eyes and reread the headlines:

13 Airport Custom Officers die mysteriously while on duty