Revenge is Sweet, With Extra Sugar!

Mumbai, India. A seventeen-year-old boy stands alone with both hands in his trouser pockets watching the countless trains passing through the platform at Grant Road Station. Suddenly, he pulls out a pistol from his pocket and starts firing at random. Nobody is killed, but five men and one child are seriously injured. Miraculously, the boy manages to escape!

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Grant Road Police Station. A police constable wipes the sweat off his forehead with an old rag of a handkerchief. It is a sultry May afternoon and the electricity at the station is down due to some repair work.

“What motive could he possibly have?” a senior inspector demands of the overweight constable.

“God knows. Must have been mentally disturbed or must have failed his SSC exams,” the constable replies unwittingly. “Should we question the juice vendors at the station one more time?”

“Get out! You’re rubbish! Bloody useless! Don’t bother me now I have to talk to Chief sahib about a new AC for this godforsaken office!”

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Colaba Causeway. A Portuguese tourist is handing over a five-hundred-rupee note to a shopkeeper having just purchased a set of Buddha statues for four-hundred rupees. It is a typical summer afternoon and sweat pours down his tanned skin and causes his thick braided hair to stick to his skin. As he reaches out to collect his change of a hundred rupees, a bullet hits his right arm and he falls to the floor with a shriek of pain. The boy strikes again. This time, he had a target in mind.

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I hate to be rude, but I would kill you too if you disrespected my parents. My father worked at Grant Road station as a ticket-collector and he was mugged by a group of unruly travelers. Not only did they steal his wallet and cell phone but they also physically assaulted him leaving him visually impaired. My mother was killed in Goa by a drunken Portuguese tourist who stabbed her after he was ‘dissatisfied’ by the massage she gave him at the five-star-deluxe hotel where she worked. I know those travelers who I shot at weren’t the same ones who attacked Papa nor was that Portuguese tourist with long braided hair the same one who assaulted Mamma but to be honest, I don’t care. These people ruined my family forever! My father cannot work anymore and my little sister lives in a permanent state of shock and fear and is unable to leave our miniature apartment. What did we do to deserve this? Nothing. Thank God for Chote Vijay who managed to steal his uncle’s pistol for my Cause. I’m glad I did what I did. Nothing and nobody can help me get over this pain, this suffering. I am going to jump into the Arabian Sea now with no regrets. Maybe the fish will devour me? Maybe they'll find me too bitter from pain, who knows? Life, to me, is now meaningless! I lost everything. But revenge really is, so sweet. Goodbye friends.

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Although the air-conditioner has been successfully installed, the Police Station is as sultry as ever due to poor power supply. Senior Inspector Raakesh Kumar Savant angrily kills a mosquito with the folded set of newspapers he holds in his right hand before opening up the bundle and frowning at the front page. ‘Mentally Disturbed Boy Jumps Into Arabian Sea; Onlookers Shocked.’ The news article further went on to explain that the recovered body matched the description of the elusive ‘Boy Criminal’ who had caused havoc at Grant Road Station and Colaba Causeway. The journalist went on to speculate that the unidentified youth could have possibly failed the SSC exams, the results of which had been declared a week earlier. The Senior Inspector felt sick.

“tsk tsk tsk tsk......kya hoga es desh ka?” he wonders aloud. What will become of this godforsaken country?

His sour mood is dampened further by the arrival of that overweight constable, Anand Singh, whose face is notably glowing with pride beneath a layer of perspiration. 

“What did I suspect, sahib?” he says, nodding his pudgy head towards the newspaper in the Senior Inspector’s hand. “Failure tha ya paagal tha! Saala!” He was either a failure or a gone case, I knew it! That scumbag!

“Get out!” the red-faced Inspector hollered. “And tell that fool Raju to send in my tea! Extra sugar!”

_____

Isn't it strange how quickly the world jumps to conclusions? Most of us believe everything we read and hear in the print and visual media as if God Himself is sending down revelation through His angels. Have you ever stopped and questioned, "Hey, wait. Maybe there's another side to this story! Maybe the guy who they make out to be the 'bad guy' actually isn't so bad?" I'm not necessarily talking about the little story above, the kid's a lunatic for doing what he did, I'm questioning in a more general sense- There Are Two Sides To Evey Coin and the same can be said of world affairs. Just maybe, we're the ones being brainwashed by our television sets? Think about it. Leave a comment below with your opinion. 

"Room service, sir." An original short story.

His hands felt numb and his face seemed unusually pale as he rubbed aftershave against his skin. Everything around him seemed unreal, virtual almost. As if I'm a character in one of my novels, he thought. An eerie silence enveloped the bathroom. He had started to defog the mirror when he was interrupted by a sudden sound from the outside, a sharp knock at his door. "Room service, sir."

The events of the past two decades still seemed so clear...

Armand Blanc was widely regarded as one of the most influential writers in contemporary French literature. His books had been translated into twenty-three different languages. However, he had received greater acclaim for his work as a philanthropist rather than an author over the past two decades. It started with fighting AIDS in Africa, where Blanc pocketed a smooth seven million dollars in four years. Once the nouveau riche's pity for the Dark Continent had been exhausted, Blanc swiftly moved on to India, battling with God as he helped rehabilitate victims of floods, droughts and earthquakes- leading to another discreet deposit of four million dollars into an ultra-private bank account in Zurich. A year dealing with drug lords in Mexico and six months helping tsunami victims in Asia ensured Blanc's reputation as a humanitarian hero! What the world didn’t know was that only a fraction of the wealth which Blanc used his goodwill as a renowned author to amass from billionaires all over the world actually reached hungry African children and poor displaced families in Bangladesh. The Armand Blanc Foundation (ABF) was actually a criminal organisation, coy and devious behind the facade of charity. ABF bought the silence of local non-governmental aid organisations in order to carry out some of the largest financial scams in human history! Unrecorded and undetected, obviously.

As he entered his suite's bedroom, he noticed that the tuxedo he was meant to wear at the ceremony that night was neatly ironed and placed on his bed. Criminals don't deserve five-star service, he thought, angrily. They definitely don't deserve the Nobel Peace Prize! He walked out of the bedroom in disgust intending to pour for himself a glass of wine from the Ritz’s well-stocked mini-bar, in order to clear his head. Then he saw them. They were all over the living room. Red, white and blue, arranged like the French flag; more than fifty or so balloons accompanied flowers and gifts while a large poster hung from the wall saying Félicitations. Congratulations. Armand Blanc hated balloons. So much as the sight of them made him feel sick to the core. Angrily, he kicked and thrashed around the room, trying to destroy those evil objects of Satan. Dressed in nothing but a towel after his shower, he began to shiver uncontrollably. Unsure whether the shivering was due to the air-conditioning hitting his bare skin, or something else, he moved around uneasily, helplessly looking for a remote of some sort. A sudden seizure, followed by another rapid knock on his door preceded a loud thud as he fell heavily to the floor. Everything went black. “Room service, sir.”

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Flashback: Paris, 1973. A seven-year-old Armand is walking down la rue du bon espoir alongside his parents on their way to the cinema to watch La vie est belle. Life is Beautiful. Young Armand notices a vendor selling balloons across the street. A black man stands selling balloons of various colours. Armand is attracted by the man’s smile, which broadly displays his white teeth in stark contrast to his face.

“Papa, s’il vous plait. Je veux un ballon,” he asks sweetly.

“Oui, mon fils,” comes the inevitable reply. “Wait here while your mother and I cross the road and buy you one. The yellow ones look nice!”

Those were to be his father Vincent Blanc’s last words. A speeding Land Cruiser, a drunken tourist and a slow ambulance made sure of that. His wife died two days later from her injuries. Their young son Armand, stood on the sidewalk and watched in horror as his parents skulls were ripped apart in front of his eyes, his mouth wide open filled with the salty taste of tears which were now falling down his face relentlessly. The last thing Armand remembered of the day his parents died was the sight of the black vendor selling two yellow balloons to a small girl who was with her parents, wide smiles across all of their faces, as Armand was ushered into an ambulance by a paramedic.

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Flashback: Gaza, 2007. The sky is buzzing with armed Drones who have been in the air for hours, accompanied by Apache helicopters. Armand Blanc stands with his arms folded respectfully, waiting for the procession of bodies being carried toward the mass graveyard behind the two-storied UNICEF building. Child casualties- their homes shelled by the Israelis, the children having committed the crime of being Palestinians living in Gaza. Blanc crossed himself as a reporter clicked a photograph. Goodwill is a crucial asset, he though. My God, I’ve become a monster!

Tanvir, his local guide was walking towards him hesitantly. “Would Monsieur Blanc like to meet a survivor? A young boy has just lost his parents. His house was shelled but he was playing football outside and hid underneath the ground.”

He was sipping on a glass of water when Blanc entered the tiny room along with Tanvir, who was to be his translator. The boy’s food had remained untouched. They sat down on either side of the boy, who must have been around seven or eight. The same age I was, Blanc remembered. He awkwardly put his arm around the boy. Seeing that the boy didn’t resist, Blanc decided to break the silence.

“What is your name, son?”

Tanvir conveyed Blanc’s question to the boy, who remained silent. After a minute of silence the boy looked at Blanc steadily and asked in Arabic, “Who are you?”

“I have come here to help you. Things will be all right,” he lied.

The boy nodded his head furiously before he burst into words. “No, I am not going to be all right. My friends have all been taken; I saw them being carried away just now. My parents died shaheed. They are with Allah in paradise. Why couldn’t I go with them? Why should I be left here with you and this man and the Israelis?”

-------

“He’s awake. Give him some water immediately. Are you all right, sir?”

What am I doing? Looking around at the Ritz’s luxury suite, he started thinking. My whole life I’ve been a heartless idiot trying to deal with my parents’ death by taking advantage of others and earning shitloads of money. But what’s all of it worth? Why am I not like the Palestinian orphan? Do I not want to live forever in paradise?

“Merci,” he said, accepting a glass of sparkling water that was offered to him. “I’m sorry. I suffer from epilepsy. Inform them that I shall be ready for the ceremony shortly.”

The ceremony! The award! I can’t accept it! My whole life has been a lie. I should turn myself in immediately! Or maybe I shall confess in my acceptance speech? I could offer to donate every penny of my organisation to the Red Cross. They’ll save the orphans. Not eat off them like I did.

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“Mesdames et Messieurs, let us rise and welcome the winner of this year’s Nobel Peace Prize- Monsieur Armand Blanc!”

The stereophonic sound of the announcer was soon overshadowed by applause as he made his way onto the elaborate stage. Should I confess? The presentation and photographs gave him a few minutes to think of an answer to his own question. Yes, that orphan child was just one. There are thousands like him who need help. Real help. He noticed that Karoline Thompson, the beautiful American actress, was seated in the front row and he was struck by the idea of an after-party upstairs in his luxury suite. I can always call a press conference and confess later. It was time for his speech.

“What can I say?” he began. “This recognition means so much to me after years in this noble field of ours...”

-------

The guests had just begun warming to each other as the champagne started to take its effect. Karoline leaned over and kissed Blanc on the cheek. “Congratulations again,” she whispered. Suddenly, rapid thuds were heard on the door and the voice that accompanied them seemed far too impolite to match the message it conveyed. “Room service, sir.”

Blanc went to open the door, frowning. He intended to reprimand the hotel staff for their impudence, disturbing his private party, although they were probably here with more champagne.

Their well-cut suits and unyielding expressions were sufficient enough to give away the fact that the two men standing outside his door were not part of the Ritz’s payroll.

On e of them- the larger of the two, held on to Blanc’s coat firmly as if warning him not to move or make a noise.

“Interpol,” said the other, coolly displaying a shimmering silver badge from his pocket. “We are here to place you under arrest for over a thousand discrepancies which were brought to light by our investigations. Kindly follow me without uttering a word.”

The last thing Armand Blanc remembered of the day he was put under life imprisonment was the sight of fifty or so balloons- red, white and blue, being let out into a starry Paris night, as he was ushered into a police car by a lieutenant.