The Final Shot

The enemy was closing in all quarters. The Family was getting wiped out. The loyal members getting knocked out, one by one. They had put up their best defence, but the enemy somehow had managed to penetrate the impregnable fortress they had designed. He was checkmated, caught in his hideout, surrounded by the enemy. His advisor and best friend of childhood shot through the head, his Vizier was taken. The knights slaughtered mercilessly, it was all over. There was no escape.

The Don had been in that room since the war between the Families had started, relaying out orders to his button men and strategizing his next move. He was all alone now. The enemy was squatting out his last few men like flies. His hideout was just a small dingy room above a motel in the shady area of the city, were the enemy least suspected. It was not as innocent as it looked, stocked with amount of food and ammunition which would stock him at least a month. He was not a person cowardly enough to hide while his men were being butchered this very minute. But then, there was nothing he could do. All of his buffers killed in combat or otherwise, he had no contact to establish. His political contacts themselves were running for cover. For the first time in his life, he felt powerless. But the game was not over yet. They still had not caught him.

   Still dressed in an impeccable suit, he went over to the bar, took out his favourite bottle. Uncorking and drinking straight from the bottle, he thought hard. Yes, there was one thing he could do. It was necessary to do it. To save his own pride. His Family burnt to ashes, his property taken, his business ruined, he was killed in all ways possible, it was just his body that was living. Taking another deep gulp of the whiskey, he went over to the strong box. Drawing out his Desert Eagle and a bullet box, he went over to sit in his leather armchair beside his desk. He kept the gun, the bullet box and the whiskey bottle next to each other on his table and stared at it. What had this come to, he wept. He had dreamt of a better life, for himself and his people. As hard as he had tried to make his world a better place, the bastards had always pulled him into the gutter, forcing him to take out the guns. But, as they say, each man has his own destiny. May be this was his.

He knew just one would do the job, but for reasons he did not know himself, he inserted all the bullets into the magazine. Taking a gulp from the bottle for every bullet he clicked into the magazine, he reached the topmost shelf of the bullet chamber. He played with the bullet between his fingers before clicking it in. This one was going to do the job.

He took a huge gulp of the liquid and eyed the loaded gun on the table. He was shivering slightly as he took the gun into his hands. Lifting it, barrel pointed towards the ceiling and elbow on the desk and finger on the trigger, he took a few deep breaths. His will failed him. He kept the gun back on the table beside the bottle and sank back into the chair. This had been so easy when he had pointed the gun on other people. All his victims seemed to be laughing mockingly at him from a far away place. He said a quiet prayer of forgiveness. Feeling his forehead, he felt he was running a fever. But how did it matter now, he laughed maniacally. He was going insane. He better be quick.

Taking another huge gulp, in a flash of a moment, he took the gun straight to his temple, giving no chances to his will to disintegrate. He felt the cold barrel against his skin. A finger on the trigger and the bottle clutched tightly in the other hand. The grip on the bottle tightened and so did the grip on the trigger. The liquor had finally intoxicated him. He rolled his eyes to the top, closed his eyelids and pulled the trigger.

The empty bottle crashed into the floor and broke into a thousand pieces, merging with the blood and bone fragments. The great Don had finally lost the game as he slumped on the leather armchair, alone, powerless and dead.The Desert Eagle was still dangling from his hand, smoking.

The Gift

Congratulations were being flown in from all parts of the city. The phone was off the hook. There was an everest of gifts on his corner table. Champagne bottles, Bouquets and various assortment of expensive articles decorated his work table. But all these were unopened, unwrapped and left uncared for. With his back to those gifts, He was looking over from his office window. Seated on a leather armchair, in a Dolce three piece suit, He felt proud of his achievement. He had managed a miracle so amazing that the entire corporate world was at his feet now. Yes, he knew he was damn good. He was the Don…the Tsar… an Emperor. Chest swelling with pride, he loosened his tie and went across the room to sit at his desk.

He started smoking a Havana cigar, puffing out curls of smoke. He looked at those gifts with a scourn on his face. He knew that all those people were faux praisers, waiting to bring him down at the first chance they get. They had been all this while. He had never given them a chance. There was not one genuine “well-done” sentiment in all those gifts. All this smoke seemed to clear his mind rather than cloud it. He knew that all those gifts were expensive. It would be really interesting, just for fun, to see who had sent in the smallest and least expensive of them all, he thought. Gently smiling to himself, he went over the corner table to see which one of his ‘well-wishers’ had lost the ‘let-me-impress-you’ competition. Rampaging through the decorative paper, he dug in deep. After comparing one gift with the other, he finally found the smallest one. It was a box of homemade cookies crudely wrapped in a red paper with a note:

Congratulations son! I know you love these cookies…

     … Mum

                At once he closed his eyes and sniffed the box. He could smell his childhood. He smelt the feel of his mother’s hands. He could smell the days when he would fight with his kid brother to get his hands on just one of these cookies. He had forgotten her all in his quest of winning the race of The Corporate World. He had everything today, but his mother by his side. He had been a cynic who knew the price of everything but the value of nothing. Regretting the day he had separated himself from her citing career reasons, today he felt alone. But she hadn’t forgotten him. He still was a son to his mother. He broke down.

                He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. Tears running down his face, He went over his trophy showcase and with a sweep of his hand, and with great content, he toppled all the precious trophies… the cause of his current state. He should have stopped long back… This was it. He was going to claim his time back and catch up on responsibilities of his life...wiping his face on the back of his sleeve, he made his way out of his office, started his Mercedes, and started for a place, he knew he should have visited long back.

                The cool wind of the drive across the sea, made him think more. He had been happy with materialistic toys whose novelty lasted for a few days and them they were replaced by new toys. Visiting his roots had never occurred to him…But now, he had learnt, just sending money at the end of his month was not that his mother needed. She needed him more than his money. The city was getting replaced by countryside and he smiled to himself when he could smell the earth. He had been lucky to get another shot at being with his mother. Many don’t.

               

Bringing the car to a halt near his mother’s home, he got down and knocked at her door. He didn’t care if she was asleep. He just wanted to hug her and never let go…The elderly woman opened the door and smiled a toothless grin at her Big Shot son. She was proud of him. Clueless about his state of mind, she said, did you like the cookies? I loved them mom, said the son, hugging her. To the world, he may be the Corporate Tsar, but he knew, he was just a little boy to his mother. He wasn’t rich enough to buy back the time to spend with his mother.

                The box of cookies remained unopened on his oak desk, But he had had his fill.

               

               

               

The Last Memory

He sat there cross-legged in his dingy cell. Like a Buddha meditating. Reminiscing on his past memories. Living those old days again. He knew he did not have much time now. But the memories were too many. Time was less. He could not compromise. He did not want his life to be flashed before his eyes just a few minutes before he died. He wanted to live them at his own will. He wanted to make sure he had lived his life till the very end.

The jail guards were not bothered by this. They were used to two kinds of convicts. First, who would turn sad and cry all the time, repenting their deeds and second, who would just accept their fate. They just let him be. It was their way of respecting a person who was about to die. To them, now, his sins did not matter.

The man, in his mid thirties, of medium build, did not repent even a bit for his crime. He would not even if Satan in hell tortured him in the most brutal way. Nobody could make him forget the last whimper of his little girl. Nobody could erase the memory of his beloved wife coughing out blood and her pale eyes wordlessly saying, please, ease the pain...The scar of watching his wife and his daughter staring blankly at him, dead, had rippled the tranquillity of his mind forever. Tuberculosis has done its job. He could do nothing more except one thing. The corrupt government doctor deserved it.

Back in his cell, he ventured his mind into his daughter’s memories. Ahh.. How beautiful she was. How he used to play with her with her dolls. He remembered the day when she came running up to him, showing how she had written the English alphabet without her teachers help. How she had let go of a particular toy which he could not afford. How both of them had made fun of mom. He remembered how happy she was when he had brought her new dresses from the town and how she paraded all around the house wearing each one of them. She was his princess. An angel. The purpose of his life. He knew he had not been a rich father... But he knew one thing...he was a good papa and that was what counted. But she had been too little to understand all this. He was not able to give her other luxuries like her friends. Forgive me child, I will do my best in my next life, if I ever get to be your papa again, he prayed.

He prayed for one more thing. Just one more..he wouldn’t mind if he were to be pushed into a cauldron of boiling oil in hell, even if he is given a hundred lashes for his crime, even if he is destined to be in hell for a hundred years, he just prayed that if he ever gets a mortal life on this earth again, he wanted his poor dead wife back as his wife again.. He knew he was her sinner. He was not able to give the best. But he had tried his best...She was ever so understanding, swallowing her desire for gold and diamonds because she knew he could not afford any of it. His heart wept at the thought of it.

But now there was no time for sad memories..he remembered her as a bride, how beautiful and gracious she looked. How they had taken the vow of being together always..in life and after..how beautiful she looked when she was angry with him after a fight ...he remembered all this..good old times.

This enchanted mental state of his was disturbed by the noise of the jailer unlocking his cell and saying in a quiet voice...It’s Time....

He got up quietly and started walking towards his end. By the early morning sun, which had just risen beyond the horizon, He could see the gallows. He was not afraid or shaken. Instead, he stared back at it , poker-faced. He closed his eyes, drifted into a memory of his wife, daughter and him laughing together over a family joke. He was asked..Any last wish ? He smiled and said.. I have had mine fulfilled sir... opened his eyes and went to meet death as an old friend.