The Big Machine - A tribute to Special needs' kids

 The Big Machine

A short story by Jason Dhanapalan

The owner had seen the kid clamber over the small hills of freshly dug up earth moving towards the big machine as though he was magnetically drawn towards it. He himself had been in awe of its awesome power as it tore away at the virgin soil leaving nothing but the huge rocks freshly exposed. The smell of oil and grease lingered in the air. The operator was a quiet man with a toothy smile that spread from ear to ear. As the brilliant but gentle African sun shone on his face, beads of sweat began rolling down his gaunt features. He stopped momentarily to wipe his face with a crumpled and dirty cloth that he kept folded neatly in his trouser pocket. He would lift his leg to retrieve the cloth from a pocket on the right side that seemed too small for his hands. 

After working for several years on the machine and being known as the ‘expert’ operator, one could see that his hands were calloused and seemed to have permanently abiding dirt and grease stains. His forearm skin was not dry but oily from working all day in the sun, rain and all types of weather in between. The operator always wore a hat or rather a baseball cap. He refused to begin work at this new site because the cap simply had to go. The problem was not the humans though but a huge lion-sized German shepherd dog whose ancestors hailed from Austria. The dog was friendly enough and very good with kids and his openly violent and aggressive stance towards the operator was quite unlike him. The owners and adults in the family began to wonder if they had made a mistake in getting and taking care of such a pedigree. These type of dogs were not openly known for aggression towards humans and had actually become renowned for their ability to relate to humans, protect children and their world-famous noses. They could find things with a scent from miles away. All they needed was regular training.

So, it was a surprise when the dog leaped in the air and almost got to the operator. The neighbor, who had been in the police force and was a former canine officer suggested that the operator remove his hat. He blindly refused. When other voices joined in a chorus and yelled at him, some with threats of “I’m gonna tell your boss!”, he relented and the dog subsequently calmed down. Nobody could come and go into the yard because the dog loved to sit on the cold ceramic tiles on the front porch to cool down because he was so huge. He would often hold a huge discarded brick in his mouth as he panted away like an old man with alzheimer's disease. Perhaps he was too lazy to open his mouth to cool down because any attempt to remove the brick from his mouth would be met with a deep throated growl. This was a clear message to all and sundry that his brick was off limits, including to his owner.

As soon as someone came to the gate to ask for work or perhaps to sell something, the dog would stand up and give just one or two barks. The person at the gate, upon seeing the size of the dog thought ‘nevermind, it’s not worth it’ and beat a hasty retreat. The granny from the house would often ask ‘have you seen the mailman’ or ‘where’s the lady who was selling freshly grown corn and carrots - she promised to come today’. Only the dog knew the secrets of the happenings at the front gate and he was not letting on. He always had the best view of the Indian ocean and the coolest breeze blowing up the driveway. Perhaps he was thinking of his home far away as he watched the outlines of ships sailing the ocean blue. In his mind, there seemed to be nothing but peace. Sometimes he would go into the bush and eat grass and weeds that often got stuck in between his razor sharp canines. Only the owner was brave enough to put his hand into the dogs’ abundantly salivating mouth as he tried to remove the errant weed pieces. Puffs of hot breath blew over his hand and he sometimes got a little scratch from the operation but it did not deter him because any veterinary surgeon would have to make the dog sleep first before touching it. This was a very short, easy but expensive process. So, the owner decided to do it himself.

To prevent the unknown from happening, the dog was locked in the kitchen because everyone was too busy to mind him. People were coming to visit that night and the kitchen was a hive of activity as meals were prepared and delicious aromas wafted through the air. The granny was a great cook renowned for her food cooked next to the garage over an open fire. As the logs crackled away in the makeshift fireplace, she banged on the edge of the pot and intermittently tasted the hot gravy by pouring some of it onto the middle of her palms, the granny was happy. Her wrinkled skin, slightly overgrown fingernails and moons on them could be seen. The dog could still see over the stable door in the kitchen and popped his head over the top. When the operator resumed working after his short lunch, the dog looked over the top of the door and probably wondered, ‘does he still have his cap on…’ As the granny went in and out of the house to retrieve new ingredients or grab a cup of delicious milky hot, over sweetened tea or catch up on some quick gossip or chit-chat, the dog had to be constantly pushed away from the kitchen door to the back of the kitchen so that he could not sneak out and bite the operator. The dog was friendly to all, including strangers that visited the house but he seemed to have a natural aversion to the operator. In his mind, which he seemed to have made up on day one, when the operator showed up to excavate a portion of land at the back of the house, the dog was probably thinking ‘I’m gonna bite you so much and teach you a lesson so that you will never come here again’.

The dog seemed to appreciate the changes being made to the landscape as it could now sniff out newer stuff although one didn’t need a dog’s nose for that because the smell of diesel, grease and oil lingered in the air. This coupled with the smell of black smoke that billowed out of the tail pipe that was erroneously named because it was not in the back of the big machine but stuck out in the air like a hitch hiker looking for a ride. As the machine went forwards and backwards, tearing up the soil and crawling like a huge caterpillar over embedded rocks that shone in the sun like newly exposed dinosaur eggs, black some poured out its ‘tailpipe’ with a vengeance as though it was determined to soil up the pristine air in this environment. The owner had bought this place for the express purpose of living away from the city where in the evenings just before sunset, one could see a heavy thick black brown sheet of smog cover the horizon like a stubborn wet blanket. The owner was not too worried about this temporary intrusion of pollution as he was aware that that was something he could not avoid. He consoled himself on the second day by saying , ‘it will be over tomorrow’.

As the machine continued to growl and roar, it started chewing on newer and fresher ground, the kid who lived a few blocks away stood upon the highest mound of dirt and gazed at the awesome and powerful machine working relentlessly without stopping. His jaws seemed to have lost their muscle strength as his mouth remained uncomfortably open and drool dripped down off the side of his cheeks which by now had shiny droplets of sweat glistening in the African sun. The kid should have chosen a shady vantage point from which to observe the machine at work but he did not want to be anywhere else for fear that he might miss something. He didn’t care about the sun as other kids would and continued to let it shine on his head that sported a really short military style crop of hair. The granny called out to him in her paraphrasing manner of speech “Go in shade!” but he wasn’t listening as all his attention was on the different movements of the big machine. Sometimes the operator would dig with the digger and sometimes he would level and scoop up huge amounts of dirt in the scoop at the front of the machine. When the operator stopped working and shut the machine down to refill the fuel tanks with extra fuel that he had brought in 20 gallon drums, the kid continued to observe the whole process as though everything that was happening was connected and it was.

An hour passed and the sun began to set in the West. As it dropped below the clouds and its golden glow began to lose intensity, the driver promptly announced that his working day was over. He did not have a watch and for his entire life had been telling the time based on the rising and setting of the glorious sun. The owner, with a little bit of irritation that the job was coming to an end and likely looking to take a fourth, unplanned-for extra day wondered with amazement as he looked at the kitchen clock to confirm that indeed, the day was done. He stood by the stable door and yelled out to the driver “Come early tomorrow, ok” because he did not have it in his heart to tell the operator that he was off by a few minutes because he still had to wash himself before taking the long walk home. Soap, water and a final cup of tea were provided. The driver politely accepted a homemade snack with his tea and broke out into a big grin that more clearly showed his yellow-brown teeth in a mouth stained by tobacco and missing a good few too many molars. As the operator sauntered down the driveway to exit the property, he had to think extra hard about replacing his cap on his head but not before being reminded by the dog’s low, deep growl. The machine lay prostrate like a dead jellyfish on the seashore.

The kid too, was reluctant to leave the property as if expecting the machine to suddenly roar to life again and cause the blood in his veins to pump more vigorously. The granny again, observing the kid as she was wont to observe all the happenings at the house paraphrased to the kid “Wanna eat?” The kid smiled because he understood but did not respond as he could not speak. He clambered off the mound of dirt that he had been standing on since the morning and slowly walked down the driveway. The owner was at a loss because he did not even know his name and he never bothered to ask. He remembered him standing in the sun the whole day, without going home for lunch or even to drink something, his smooth shiny skin and big round eyes. His clothes too, had been used for several days without being changed.

As the supper guests arrived one by one, they marched straight to the back of the house where the big machine was now snoring in the twilight. It had been driven to produce results and it had not disappointed. It was a pretty picture because the sun had not settled completely. Its silhouette and yellow color could still be seen. The porch lights were turned on for the guests were going to sit outside and eat. The table was set and the food was brought out in sequence. All women present wanted to carry out one of the bowls of food and salads and desserts and there was no shortage of things to carry or eat. The smell of freshly torn up grass, weeds and soil still lingered in the air. One of the female guests commented, also in her paraphrasing style “Y’all building now? This was more of a statement than a question. “Yes,” said the owner, “They finishing tomorrow”.      

Purple Rain

Purple Rain

As teargas smoke wafted through the air, students began to run in all directions.  It was like a movie being played in slow motion.  The pungent smell literally got into their eyes and made them cry.  Each one wanted to get as far away from the soldiers as they possibly could.  The snarling German shepherd dogs barked ferociously, their teeth glistening in the African sun as saliva dribbled down the sides of their wet, pink and charcoal-black cheeks.  The noises that could be heard in those slowly dragging minutes were enough to inspire terror in even the hardest of students who could not even stand the sight of a so-called ‘white man’ let alone a soldier in his brown and camouflage green fatigues.

            Earlier, the line of soldiers advanced like a well drilled Spartan army.  They had obviously been drilling.  Stones put on a brave face and tried to hide his fear by muttering something funny to his buddies who were defiantly standing by, waiting for the other sides’ next move.  ‘Stones’ was not his actual name.  His buddies had given him this nickname as they endeared themselves to him on account of his likeable personality.  It was like a great stand-off as either side looked to their leaders for instruction on the next course of action.   The soldiers had all the firepower – R1 rifles, teargas canisters, hippos, water cannons and even tanks parked not far behind. 

The majority of students had on their one of two pairs of versatile jeans, never washed except on Saturdays, and fresh clean t-shirts.  In their hearts pumped young, fresh and innocent blood.  In their minds swirled thoughts of the great heroes of yore, men like Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr, Nelson Mandela and their own home-grown heroes Naidoo and Govender.  All were great men and stalwarts of the struggle for liberation and equality.  The male students as if putting on a show for the female students began to sing a struggle song.  Not all of them were fully conversant in the language of the song, it being in the IsiZulu language.  Their only exposure to it had been at the University where they were now in a stand-off on the quadrangle with the army and secret service police.  The few Zulu students who had managed to get into the University through its newly open policy of affirmative action led the singing and tried to inspire the crowd.

Stones tried to sing as best as he could but the words failed him.  For a long time had had a mental blockage to learning the Zulu language.  It was not that he was dumb or anything like that.  There were several factors that impeded his progress in that regard.  Among those that were distractions to him was the fact that for the first time at University, he could use clothes of his own choosing and not the same dreary uniform of his British inspired school.  He was no longer another person because he had now come of age.  He could now meet and develop friendships with people like him from all parts of the province (state), which he did.  They would use any opportunity to find time to be together, going to the mall or singing songs about their faith and socializing.  Sometimes, they even skipped classes.  For the first time in his cramped and constricted existence did he feel free, and he could not get enough of it.

Even earlier, the students as if suddenly hit by a lightning bolt of information began to congregate around one of the student leaders and their lackeys who were always nearby on hand to provide further direction to those that had missed the directions or were simply clueless.  Yet, all of them were eager for some form of distraction.  Being at University, one was afforded the luxury of skipping classes, having as much fun as one could have or even go to one of the regular protest meetings where they would sing and shout and raise the roof about anything popular or that tickled their fancy.

It was an opportunity to show among other things their camaraderie, their putting it out there that ‘I’m not racist’ by show of action without saying a word even though some of them harbored feelings of resentment towards the members of the Zulu tribe.  Now this paradox of emotions had its roots as they suckled at their mothers’ breasts.  For many decades, the race groups in South Africa had been forcibly separated by the Group Areas Act of 1950.  This act stipulated that each major race group had to live in their own designated area.  Upon pain of injury that was liberally inflicted by the special police and their ‘Blackjacks’, people could not afford to be found outside of their assigned geographical areas.

Similar to the hiss of an angry snake and equally painful though with less fatal consequences, the Blackjacks’ sjamboks (plastic/rubber whip of about 4-5 feet in length with a tapered end) cut through the air.  Everybody knew that getting whipped by one of these things was a ‘no – no’.  The welts would run about half to one and a half feet in length.  The pain on contact was felt right through to the marrow.  It was also liberating in a way – it liberated many a hapless individual or unlucky slowpoke of their bowel contents.  The pain would shoot down the body from the top of the neck to the base of the coccyx as though the whole spinal cord was now a lightning rod that conducted the pain from the back or arms to the ass and down both, now jellified legs.  Subsequently, urine would pour out of the body cathartically as though to alleviate the pain.

The people that Stones knew, told of how they didn’t notice that they had pissed or crapped themselves until much later when they could notice the dwindling pain far away from the crowds and in the safety and sanctity of their homes.  With a resolute vow, they promised themselves never again but that too was a remote possibility.  The crowd would make the final decision and then it would be back to square one again.  Different race groups were allowed to go into different race group areas to look for work but they had better be gone before seven at night or there would be %*&#@ to pay.  Everybody knew that and none were willing to take the chance of walking alone down the street close to curfew time.  Some, who had a close enough relationship with their employers would sleep in the garage on the floor or in the shithouses that were usually outside.  The city council had built these homes like matchboxes lined up on a hill.  Most were one bedroomed with a kitchen, outside bathroom and a small yard.  They being nearer to the affluent and plush suburbs of the cities had to be less of an eyesore than the houses that were further away.

The oft drunk blackjacks were on the prowl.  They would let people know of their presence though their screeching tires and loud hooting.  One could never get the image of a light brown almost beige Toyota van with its tin sealed canopy and a single lever locked gate at the back into which many a sorry individual was thrown like a sack of potatoes.  If the blackjack policeman was smaller than the ‘criminal’ then two of them would grab the luckless person by his belt or shirt or pants and with a heave-ho, in he would go.  There was no concern for whether his skull would be cracked in the process or his skin torn by the sharp metal everywhere.  Everyone knew of the blood, urine and feces stains that liberally coated the roof and walls of this veritable wagon from hell.  As it often tore around the corners, its speed belied its appearance.  Its chassis and engine threatened to leave its whole body behind but somehow by the power that the state had vested in this piece of metal, everything stayed intact.

With no seatbelts in the back, anyone found there would be thrown from side to side like a floating astronaut without a tether inside his space capsule though with more violence and absolute gravity.  The driver was always a man in his late twenties or early thirties.  It seemed that he enjoyed driving his government issued toy at breakneck speed without fear of an accident or recrimination should something inadvertently go wrong.  These often beat up little trucks would be everywhere, keeping the ‘peace’ and enforcing the ‘goodwill’ of the government on its citizens.  Nobody in their right minds messed with them.

In addition to the blackjack and the numerous police stations that dotted the residential neighborhoods, the army paid regular visits to the townships to let the people know that their government was strong.  Everybody stayed in their own place and lived contentedly among their own. 

On a Saturday, the Indians would buy their live chickens that often had their heads separated from their bodies on the spot.  At the crack of dawn, they would go to their nearest market in the city of Durban.  It was called the Indian morning market because that is exactly what it was.  At the time (during the 1970’s and early 1980’s) Indians and a few brave souls of other races would buy their weekly victuals from this rowdy place.  Even rowdier was the fish market right next door.  A lot of fish was sold, much of it stale.  The place stank and was always full of flies.  They buzzed around the market undisturbed and often settled on the fish until they were chased away by the deft flap of an old towel or filthy rag that the fishmonger had been using.  Smart customers would look at the eyes on the fish.  If the eyes looked sunken, it was a clear sign that the fish was not fresh.  Smarter mongers, knowing this not audibly spoken about secret, chopped off the fish heads.  Many an unsuspecting customer fell for this hoax.

By the evening, there was a pot simmering on the paraffin stove or the fire that glowed in the approaching darkness of night.  As the smell of strong spices and chilies wafted through the air, screams and shouts could be heard.  Some of the men who had been drinking their sugar cane distilled alcohol now began to pick little fights with their close siblings and friends.  All had the express goal of getting numbingly drunk and judicially sober with the potent concoction that their wives and mothers had been working on all day long.  As they stirred the food in their imported India pots and banged the metal spoons on the edges, they couldn’t help but feel contentment and self-satisfaction.  ‘Nobody calls it mother-in-law’s tongue curry powder for nothing’ they said as they wiped tears from their eyes.

Everybody lived separately and happily but no one was equal.  Some were more equal than others.  As they sipped their martinis, brandy or vodka on neatly manicured garden lawns in the sunset under rondavels (thatched roof gazebos) and on deckchairs the other race group was also content.  Their ‘boys’ (older black men who regularly half-kowtowed in the presence of white folk) had cleaned the garden the whole week.  Their maids had washed all the clothes and cleaned all the rooms.  Some of them had given the ‘baas’ (Afrikaans term for white man/boss) a little extra on the side because he demanded it.  From the distance, they could see the lights of the city flickering and not far away they could hear the foghorns booming.

Then the Indians in their area and the Whites in their area and the Colored in their area and the Zulus in their area began to talk.  They talked long into the night.  Sitting around the fire that crackled and glowed as it burned, they began to talk about the other side.  All the Indians agreed that the white man and the black man was evil and to be feared.   All of the Indians agreed that the Colored man was likely carrying a knife.  All of the coloreds, when they could get away from their drunken brawls and beating on their wives and girlfriends and cussing out their neighbors, agreed that the white man and the black man and the Indian man were evil.  The Coloreds, actually the majority of them thought that they were white and therefore superior to the Zulu and Indian man.  Additionally, the Coloreds thought that the Indian man was likely to rob them by giving them the wrong amount of change when they entered his store.  The white man thought that the Colored man and the Black man Zulu were a nuisance if only they were not needed for their labor.  All of the white men thought that the black man should be thrown into the sea.  The Coloreds and Indians, had they been privy to this idea would actually have agreed only this once with the white man because then there would be more of everything for them.  All the Zulu men gathered around their fires in their neighborhoods and began to drink their homemade brew named uTshwala.  It looked milky and foamy and smelled of yeast and something sour.  One could not taste alcohol proper but the effects were the same.  It was a genius combination of alcohol and hallucinogen made at home.  The recipe being handed down for hundreds of years.  It looked and tasted like milk gone bad.

As the drink took effect, the Zulus began to talk.  One told of how an Indian had underpaid him.  A maid who was serving the men meat that was cooked on the fire piped in by saying ‘Yebo (yes) my Indian baas grabbed me in my privates.’  All the men expressed horror and cussed at the Indian man and the white man who kicked his worker and called him a ‘dummy’.  They were mad at the Colored men because they had decided to negotiate with the white man for the vote and they, the indigenous Africans were not even considered for political favor.  Three more men told of how they walked the whole day through the other groups’ areas without finding jobs because they looked like they were up to no good.

As the suspicions rose and fell like the tides their collective consciences was now colored with schizophrenic thoughts about the worst that could happen at the hands of the other race.  Children perpetuated the culture.  In voicing their hatred of the other groups they were actually giving utterance to the inner voices whose sounds had nurtured them.  They were therefore only ‘safe’ among their own. 

Every gathering at the University had one of two central themes: “The white government is evil and must be replaced and, we must reconcile.”  The replacement of the government was a given.  Reconciliation was a nice word that rolled off the tongue and tickled the mouth.  Students loved that word because it now meant that they were brothers and sisters; Zulu and Indian and White and Colored and everybody else.  What a great feeling!  It was even better to say in the Afrikaans language ‘versoening’ because the word implied a kissing type of closeness.  The thought was great but the actual practice was painfully difficult to implement.  Weekend camps and barbeques of various groups helped to get the ball rolling.  The ball stopped rolling as soon as the ‘newly changed’ student returned to the reality of their homes.  The culture and ethos was so hard to break. 

Earlier, one of the leaders’ nephews whom not many knew and who clearly was a few cups short of a tea set began handing out crisp new boxes of matches in the basement of the university main hall.  With amazing alacrity and incredulousness, he said “When the police come, we will burn the place down.”  Stones was puzzled.  Clearly, this fool had not done the math.  This, being the basement, had only one service entrance namely the huge double garage door.  On all three sides was solid brick which held the whole edifice in its place.  If the police came, then there was going to be no place to run to but straight through them.

Everyone knew that this was not on the cards for the rubber bullets would whistle through the air and take out an eye or teeth or tear into muscle tissue and leave lifelong scars.  Pop! Pop! Pop!  was the sound that could be heard like a full on Diwali celebration.  Searing pain ensued.  If not the rubber bullets, it was the teargas, water cannons and an abundance of overeager German shepherd dogs.  Worst of all were the trigger happy police and special branch soldiers who seemed to have been convinced that it was ‘open season’ on those of darker skin color than themselves.

Somebody passed the message ‘The police and army are coming’.  Quick, rational thinking decided that the hall basement was not the best place for a standoff with the police and army.  The students relocated to the quadrangle that was a huge open space between their lecture rooms and the oft full cafeteria.  Should there be a need to go into Usain Bolt mode, there was plenty of options on the table.  They could run East, West or North if the army and police appeared in the South.  If they appeared in the West, then they could run East, North and South and hope that they were the lucky ones not to have the dogs let loose on them.  Either way, there was more option to escape than in the basement of the main hall.  If it came down to a fight, then the paving bricks that had not long ago replaced the worn concrete slabs could be used to at least do some damage.  The students were spurred.

Some thought of Machiavelli and others thought of Mussolini as rebellion burned within their puerile breasts.  Most thought about Karl Marx and his idealistic but unrealistic philosophies.  They did not have the foresight to see that a utopian society was a dream and not reality because at the end of the day, human personality and greed rules.

As the army and police line advanced, the students peered over their shoulders and could see the water cannons in the rear.  ‘Cool’ they thought.  ‘We’re getting a free shower.’  Not bad considering all of their other worse fears that overwhelmed them.   The soldiers dropped to their knees.  The commander spoke through the loud hailer with a thick Afrikaans accent.  “Julle het twee minute om te disperse.”  Somehow he couldn’t under the stressful circumstances, find the appropriate Afrikaans word for ‘disperse’.  Everyone understood what he said “You have two minutes to get out of here.”  Nobody complied.

At the end of two minutes, where the seconds seemed to synchronize with the sound and motion of a woodsman chopping firewood the dreaded word ‘skiet’ was uttered.  ‘Shoot’.  Loud whispers could still be heard and random screams from some of the less brave female students. ‘Runnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn,’ was the cry from one of the more vocal student leaders.  The revving of the engines powering the compressors on the water cannons could be distinctly heard ascending from a low roar to a loud growl.  Being taken quite off guard, some of the students became discombobulated.  Expecting water, they were taken aback when out spewed gallons and gallons of purple colored spray.

Stones did not know what to make of this.  Had the army come to throw the students a Halloween party?  From a distance, the water cannons did not really hurt.  The students enjoyed getting messed.  It was cathartic and euphoric.  Often, when they returned to the University from a weekend camp or seminar, they would celebrate its end with an unwilling swim when pushed into the duckpoop diluted and algae filled water of the green pond adjacent to the lecture halls and the cafeteria.  More often than not, they would use eggs, toothpaste and shampoo to ‘mess’ each other up good before parents would come to transport them home.  They enjoyed the eggs on their heads because it made their hair feel extra silky.

On impulse, the students began to run because others were running.  The soldiers sprayed them liberally.  Students who ran in different directions left their flip-flops or a single shoe or a backpack on the paved floor of the quadrangle.  The walls of the physics and chemistry building looked like the work of a drunken graffiti artist who had unlimited purple paint.  The liquid gathered into puddles and drained towards the green waters of the duck pond.  The students closest to the soldiers were drenched in purple.  It soaked through their clothes and onto their skin.  When some of them could steal a moment, they thought ‘it’ll wash out.’

When nobody could be seen in the open spaces, the students slunk out of their hiding places.  ‘Are they gone?’  Many whispered, not wanting to draw attention to themselves.  As they began to reassemble in the quadrangle, many had faces full of dejection.  As quickly as the soldiers and police appeared, they disappeared.  Some of them who had been more liberally sprayed than the others, walked silently to the nearest restroom that had about twelve washbasins in a line.  They started washing their hands and clothes to try and make the color look less conspicuous but soon realized that the color would not come off.

They had been sprayed with a potent concoction of purple dye.  At home they realized with greater anxiety that the color would not come off at all no matter how hard they scrubbed.  Their clothes and backpacks were ruined.  They could not go out in public for the next two or three weeks.  The only way for the color to completely disappear was to let the body's skin naturally exfoliate itself.

Like Macbeth who could see blood on his hands even though he had washed himself several times, the students and Stones suffered long afterwards.  The pain of that day lingered in his memory.  Even after he had exfoliated all the color from his skin, he could not forget that eventful day.  It was not a day of triumph for him or even the students whom he knew and loved.  It was a day that made him understand that for Prince (a famous pop musician and singer) ‘Purple Rain’ was life-changing and trendsetting but for him it was a grim reminder that no matter how much he washed himself, he could not get rid of the ‘diabolical’ brown color he was born with.  He resolved to love himself as he was, to look in the mirror and walk away not forgetting who he was.

The Pain of being a Victim

The pain of being a victim is like a thousand needles that stab at the heart daily and even late at night.  At the time one should find rest, the thoughts swirling around in the mind keeps a tired body wide awake.  This perpetual cycle of restlessness is like an unrelenting mosquito with unfinished business.

It really hurts because I know that there is no difference other than what is on the outside and over what I have no control, I am being made to suffer.  This time old problem of society needs confrontation if ever it is to end.  I have always fought for what is right and I have always challenged what is wrong and that is how everyone ought to be.  That is an wholesome being who blesses society.  Of late, as I have begun graying a little more, I see that the will to stand is still there but the drive is a little dulled.

Thankfully, there are people in this world who still care, those who still have concern.  They regalvanize me with new intent and purpose.  Who is better? When the French desired an egalitarian society, it came after a lot of pain and suffering.  Many countries in the world are still struggling with issues of race and class.  Xenophobia is the scourge of the planet because no one owns anything. My friend is an undertaker and I constantly ask him the rhetorical question "Did any of them take anything with them?"  Hoping for a different answer each time, I am not pleasantly surprised when he says: "No, not yet."  Everything that I have been taught in my Christian education tells me just that.  Everybody is transitioning and the world is in a perpetual state of transition.  The only thing constant is change and it is inevitable.  Nobody's status in life is going to be forever the same.  It can be worse, or it can be better.  In this modern age of the internet, one can shape the collective conscience of the public.  The only thing that will endure is that which is founded upon the truth.

Liars shall not see the kingdom of heaven - Lies tries to subvert the truth but like a geyser, the truth can never be contained.  It will out for that is its nature. Call it what you will - Karma, divine retribution or what goes around comes around, there is a right way to live well.  In Africa, they call it Ubuntu which essentially is "I am OK if you are OK."  In the narcissistic and material driven society in which we live, the saying could be "I'm OK but I don't care if you're OK, further; 'leave me alone'".  We don't want to be touched or affected beyond what's close to our noses.  Only the collective conscience and power of the net can galvanize people together and give them purpose in life.  Life lived without purpose is not life well lived.  So, while we may be far physically or different uniquely, we are brothers and sisters on this rock floating in space.  Let our hearts and consciences live again as we gain perspective.  There is more to life than just me.

Because I Love You

Because I Love You

I knew the first time I beheld your smile

I knew the first time I heard you laugh

I knew the first time I heard you commune

with the Most High,

that we were meant to be together.

What a road its been.

More ups than down I surmise

but I'm glad that we're together 

weathering those storms and 

strengthened by it.

I think of those lost and forget when

I see my blessings before me.

Its not a forlorn existence but 

a meaningful overflow,

that together we've brought into being.

Decades may pass, but the memories 

are fresh, like yesterday.

How can I live without you.  I can't.

I'm sure I would die not knowing what to do.

'Cos you're my sextant when my 

fossil fire dies.

My water in the desert.

Sparkling diamonds in the grass

after the snow raising my spirit.

Everyone is not abundantly blessed as I am

to have someone as you.

As you celebrate this milestone, I am here

and glad to have you with me

on the road oft' traveled.  Ne'er alone 'cos

I love you ever and 

always. 

Together, we'll leave a legacy

and our footprints.

That's who we are.

Jason Dhanapalan

Your loving husband

Nancy's Birthday

01/31/----

Happy Birthday, now and always

Falling Boy

Falling Boy

Falling boy is the irony

Falling boy fell down

Falling boy made me smile

Falling boy smiles.

Falling boy has emotion, 

Falling boy has courage.

Falling boy is lonely,

Falling boy will please.

Falling boy needs love,

Falling boy has love

for others.

Falling boy is wise,

thinking on his feet.

Falling boy is loved 

but can't know it for the noise

inside his head grabs and controls

his mind.

Falling boy needs to be still

and then, 

Falling boy will understand.

The peace he craves,

he already has.

9/29/13

9:51est

Tea Party Town - On the Bombings in Boston

Tea Party Town



 

 

I had always admired the Bostonians.

 

Who in my neighborhood didn't wish for their shoes,

 

a glorious, heaven sent Christmas present?

 

 

Who in history at elementary, middle or high school,

 

can forget the Tea Party?

 

We laughed and giggled at their ingenuity and their

 

resilience.

 

Challenge to the crown a fate that held certain death.

 

Like Scott Key, they held fast to that hope of freedom,

 

without letting go, they tasted it - after the blood;

 

to rise again in the morning.

 

 

Diabolos from Chechnya plotted and planned,

 

eating Bostonian meat, stealing and hoping it's forgotten.

 

Twice they heard, as nails and steel balls flew out.

 

Blood dripped on the street as sweating bodies tiredly run on.

 

 

Now, the Bostonians are angry again with purpose.

 

They will triumph once again and exult in victory.

 

O' Bostonians, when all learns of your spirit and resolve,

 

none will try to hurt you again.

 

What a mistake they made.

 

Twice.

 

Freedom shall reign,

 

again.

 

 

A long overdue tribute to the resilience and spirit of the people of the city of Boston.

5/5/2013

5:02pm est.

Friday after Nine

Friday after Nine

 

Friday after nine, a day we'll ne'er forget.

A hushed silence descended on the nation.

Little angels, their lights forever snuffed out.

 

Weep with me brother, sister, mom and dad.

In my confusion, I can't cry.

I don't know what to do.

I can't do nothin' for the questions, they ...

Swirl my head dizzy.

 

Too soon, too soon a time to go,

into that gleaming light.

We ascend with laughter, reunited

with our Creator.

 

Little beings and tall beings, misty beings

dash around and around, ensconced in

peace, joy and aware that no weight is

carried here.

 

Oh grim reaper, your victory where?

Newtown, nation be consoled, his future's

written.

Your tears are gathered up in His hands

for a memorial.

 

I mourn now, we mourn, his love descends

embracing everyone, closely.

Can you hear his heart beat?

A soft, almost muffled sound that's sure.

 

Wicked king in the dust, where is your power?

A little angel cannot be silenced, they speak

more loudly... from beyond the grave.

They are playing a fun game now, as they

hold little hands and go round and round in circles.

Little smiles potent, on little beaming faces, their song

echoes in the air.

 

Sleep little ones, play a while

no one can hurt you now.

 

 

 

12/17

21H18

Beaufort, NC

A tribute and in memory of those who tragically lost their lives in Newtown, Connecticut.