“But mom, you’re crying!” He said, bewildered. A warm smile spread slowly across Alia’s face, as if struggling to make its way through the winding wrinkles that were carved on her cheeks and around her eyes over the years. Those were also the result of the countless smiles she had worn in the past, like those smiles of joy she couldn’t control on her graduation day, or those she worked up on her wedding day to avoid looking nervous. But for the most part, those wrinkles were the result of the smiles she had as she he watched her children grow up, and the scowls of disapproval whenever they did something wrong. This very young man sitting across from her telling her that he wants to get married is responsible for a fair share of those wrinkles. His first steps, his kindergarten graduation, his first successful try at tying a necktie, his first promotion and now, he’s getting married.

“I’m just so happy” She replied in what sounded like a whisper. “Saif, Tell me about her.”

“Well,” He clamped his hands and started speaking rather shyly, loosening up as he went on. “She’s a friend of a friend. Actually, she’s the client of a friend. You know, it’s a bit complicated but, anyway, we met few months ago in his office and, I don’t know, we just clicked!” He paused for a moment as if waiting for her to say something. When she didn’t, he thought the safest thing to say was, “What do you want to know?”

“A name would be good, for a start.” She said with a grin, as if to let him know she’s aware how nervous he was, but little did she know that what he was about to say was going to turn the joke on her.

“Lina.” He paused for a moment then realized that in this particular situation he was required to provide the middle and surname as well. It’s always like that with old folks who would probably be more interested in the generation they are more likely to recognize. So on he went. “Lina Salah Azmi”

For a moment, she doubted that she heard the name right so she made him repeat it. As he said the name again, she was rendered speechless. Her memory started to rewind and she was 23 again, standing by the window watching that man walk away for the last time, biting on the sleeve of her jacket so no one would hear her weeping.

“I think I know her father.” She finally said to him, after a long pause.

“How well do you know him? Because… he’s been dead for three years.”

She felt as if an iceberg had fell on her. She wished he could be mistaken, but how could he be? She tried to contain her shock, and with a lump in her throat she managed to utter no more that two words, “Very well.”

“Mom, is there something you need to tell me?” He asked in a rather worried voice. She sensed his worry, and in an effort to comfort him she tried to detach herself from the raging sea of memories and emotions that have just been unleashed. “I do need to tell you something.” She said, finally working up a smile.

“I never told you this” She said with a steady voice. “But, 40 years ago, before I met your father, there was someone else in my life. “It was a pretty serious relationship, we almost got married, but something went wrong at the last moment, something I don’t choose to remember, and it just didn’t work out.”

“And, that man was Lina’s father, I suppose?” He asked in a knowing tone. She only nodded in approval and lowered her gaze.

There was a long silence, finally Saif broke it rather hesitantly. “Mom, if it makes you uncomfortable, I totally understand…”

“No.” She interrupted. “It doesn’t. It’s just that I thought I would never…” She trailed off to silence again as she couldn’t finish her sentence.

“Mom, you don’t have to do that.”

“What if I want to do it?” She said with an effortless smile this time. “Do you know what real love is?

He nodded as if to say he had no clue.

“It’s the love that can never turn sour.” She continued. “Love has many forms, and we don’t necessarily perceive them all. When I loved Salah, I couldn’t imagine my life without him. I loved him deeply, I was sure it was true love, not just a whim, and I knew we had some kind of a bond. At first, I thought it was the bond you feel you have with the person that you’ll share your life with, but when it turned out that it wasn’t, I knew we still had some sort of connection. I cried when he left me, but I believed in my heart that it was all for the best, and I prayed for him from all my heart. I knew I have lost him as a life companion, and I knew I could fall in love again, but the love I held for Salah was turning into another feeling, the same feeling that makes me happy today that you want to marry his daughter.”

“Saif,” She said as noticed that he wasn’t yet relieved. “You must know that I loved your father dearly, and I have never betrayed him, neither with my heart nor with my thoughts.” She shifted in her seat and put on a less serious face. “So, when am I going to meet her?”

***

She made sure she looked her best on the day of the visit. She wore a classy gray Lenin jacket dress, one she was saving for special occasions, and made sure she matched it with the right scarf and shoes. Saif too spent a little more time than usual getting ready, but finally they were set and driving to Lina’s house, speaking very little on the way.

Her heart was pounding so fast as they rang the doorbell that she felt it was going to jump out of her chest. She found it weird that she was more nervous than Saif was. She tried to imagine the feeling the house would give her. She thought she’d smell him in every corner and hear his laughter in every room. She thought of his daughter, perhaps she bears a resemblance to him. She thought that the first thing she’d see in her was him, and she was a bit afraid that her tears would betray her.

The door opened and a young woman was there to welcome them. Alia wondered who might she be since she was almost certain she wasn’t Lina. An elder lady was standing beside her and invited them in while they exchanged formal greetings.

There was nothing in the house that reminded her of Salah, and the young girl who actually turned out to be Lina looked nothing like him. She couldn’t see a trace of him anywhere, even his distinctive scent was totally absent.

As the four of them chatted, Alia tried to look as little distracted as she could while she looked around the room for any trace of him. Finally, her eyes rested upon a framed picture on a stand in the far corner of the room. It was a black and white picture of a young man in a suit. She wasn’t really aware of the conversation when she interrupted to ask who he was.

“That would be my husband, Salah.” Said Lina’s mother. “He was quite a hunk as a young man. Wasn’t he? If you look closely you’ll probably see how much Lina looks like him. She’s the only one among my children who inherited her father’s hazel eyes”

Alia smiled and nodded at this, avoiding to look in Saif’s direction, but he knew what it was about. It was not him.

For the following few days, neither of them brought the subject up. Saif sensed her mother’s disappointment as she lost what she thought was the last link to a past she cherished. How didn’t it occur to them that there could be more than one person with the name Salah Azmi?

She tried to busy herself and act as if nothing happened. Saif seemed to respect that, and he seemed busy too working out the engagement arrangement with Lina, she assumed. He would make calls all day long and staying out for hours without saying where he was going or from where he was coming.

A lonely feeling started to haunt her, and she felt like talking, but Saif was never home and he was the only one she cared to talk to at that time.

One afternoon Saif came home early from work. She thought he had to run some errands to get some things done before the engagement party. In stead, he told her to get dressed because he wanted to take her somewhere he wouldn’t disclose.

She dressed up in a rush and they set out. She asked him where he was taking her, but he kept telling her to be patient. Finally, they pulled over in front of a small semi-villa with a big garden worn out by the early fall.

She stepped out of the car and walked behind him, as if she was hiding from something. Saif pressed the button on the intercom and made himself known. Then, the gate opened to a long paved path lined with the bronze leaves falling from the garden trees. They walked to the door where an elderly lady was waiting for them.

“You must be Alia” The elderly lady said. “Your son told me you and Salah were close friends. Do come in, he’s waiting in the living room.”

“Let’s hope it’s the right one this time.” Whispered Saif.

Alia was too dumbstruck to speak. She tried to say anything out of courtesy but words betrayed her at that moment. All she could think of was Salah, as young and alive as the last time she saw him, waiting for her inside. But that image was soon to be scattered seconds before she entered the room.

“I don’t know if your son told you this, but…” The elderly lady paused for a moment before saying this. “Please don’t feel bad if he doesn’t remember you. Salah has been suffering from dementia, for sometime now, he doesn’t even remember his own children.”

Alia was mesmerized by that, and for a moment thought of going back without seeing him. Could she bear it if he doesn’t remember her?

Yes, she could bear anything for this, she thought.

He was nothing like the last time she saw him. He was too thin and nothing was left of his locks of thick black hair but a few gray tufts. His face was even more wrinkled than her face was, and his hands were two maps of protruding green and purple veins. There was a woman in her mid thirties sitting beside him. She looked like a young version of the elderly lady who met them at the door, and she introduced herself as his daughter, Fadia.

Alia approached him slowly. Fadia gave her a curt nod, then moved closer to him and said with in a loud voice as though to make sure he hears her, “Dad, this is Alia. You remember her, right?”

“Alia?” Salah said as he studied her face. Her eyes narrowed as if he was trying hard to remember who she was. At this point, Alia could feel the tears welling up in her eyes, but she struggled to hold them back. She wished he’d remember her and they would recall the tiniest details of their past together.

“Ah, Alia.” He finally said, and her hear sank within her. She was just about to say something when he turned to his daughter and said, “She’s a good woman, she was my mother’s closest neighbor and they baked bread together.”

Alia stopped in her tracks for a few moments as Fadia shook her head in dismay and gave her a look of consolation. “Sorry, he’s memory is just total mess.”

Alia had no response to that but the tears streaming down her face. She excused herself and thanked his wife then walked out in a hurry without even waiting for Saif to follow her. He raced her to the car, telling her he was sorry. She looked at him for a moment, clueless as to whether he should really be sorry or not. But just before she could make up any thought, a voice called her from behind.

It was Fadia, she was running behind her begging her to stop. Alia turned around and faced her, thinking she wanted to give her something that might have slipped from her in the house.

“I’m so sorry for this, Mrs., Alia. I know it must be hard” She said as she seemed to struggle with her words. “My father’s memory might be a blur now, but few years ago when he was more lucid, he told me all about you. Everything.”

“Excuse me?”

“He told me how you met and how much he was fond of you. He said you were a great woman, and to tell you the truth, I felt a bit jealous to think that he may have loved you more than my mom, but he told me it was different.”

Alia had no idea what to say, and she no longer felt the tears on her face. Fadia stood speechless too, and at last figured out she’d better excuse herself and go back inside. Alia remained standing still for a moment, then she glanced at Saif who was waiting for her in the car and motioned for her to get in. She walked with slow steps, but before she stepped in, she turned around and yelled at the top of her lungs.

“Wait!”

Fadia turned around just before the gate closed.

“Why did he tell you about me?”

Fadia smiled and lowered her gaze to the ground.

“He knew his memory was fading away,” she said with what sounded like a sigh. “He wanted to make sure some things weren’t lost along with it. Some things are worth being remembered.”

For a moment, Alia lost the sense of time and place, the wrinkles disappeared from her face and she was standing by the window again, looking at the same young and strong man, but this time she didn’t hear herself weeping; the only sound she could hear was a voice in her head that said over and over:

“Some things are worth being remembered.”

Every morning, Dalia would wake up at the same time, dress up in the same drab colors of her uniform and take the same route to her workplace. Occasionally, this daily routine would be broken by a flat tire or a malfunctioning gear. But all in all, Dalia loved the commune. She like to dodge her way through the heavy traffic of the city, switching gracefully between lanes and coming to a slow stop at the traffic lights, leaving the drivers behind her in a horn-honking frenzy as she never crossed a yellow light. Yet, the thing she enjoyed the most was the way the car jerked as she left her foot slowly off the clutch before touching down on the fuel pedal, one reason why she never used an automatic car. Her car, Dulcinea, was a poorly maintained 1989 Toyota. Yet in her mind she managed to convince herself that she was driving a finely restored 1967 Mustang.

Every morning as a part of her routine she would grab the newspaper on her way to work from a nearby supermarket in which worked a middle-aged man whose genuine smile gave her a certain assuredness. She loved the familiarity of his face as she dropped by to exchange the same morning greetings and buy the same newspaper for 7 years.

That was pretty much the life of Dalia, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to make a good piece of news to share with her mother when she got home. She knew that her mother, like most mothers, always waited for her to come home with some happy shy news of a potential suitor, especially that her father had passed away several years ago and all her sisters and brothers were going about their lives, each having a family to keep them busy. Dalia wanted to make her mother happy, but she wouldn’t take any chances in that matter; because although life was getting tough for her, she resented the idea of committing her life to someone just because she’s tired of it.

Several years passed like this. The last time she had a change in her daily agenda occurred one rainy Tuesday afternoon a few weeks before her 27^th birthday. It was the dullest thing ever; she was stuck at work with the heating system down, all cuddled up in her wool coat, breathing in and out through the old coarse threads. She was bored out of her mind, there wasn’t much work to do and she’d been observing the downpour from the window for a while. She had already read the newspaper, but she thought that she’d take another look anyway, and that was when she found it. It was a column somewhere in the middle, for someone who calls themself A.F. From then on, that unexpected change of routine became part of the routine itself.

Every morning since that afternoon she would grab the paper and go directly for the column. She would fix herself a nice cup of coffee to go along with it. Many times she wondered about that person. The way they wrote, the things they talked about and all the tiny details made her feel like she knew that person. Sometimes she would imagine herself sitting across from him, sipping coffee and discussing whatever the article was about. She even laughed and frowned at times when no one was around, but every now and then someone would catch her talking to herself. She would shun the embarrassment by pretending she was doing the math for something or trying to pronounce a strange client’s name.

One of those days as she was doing the mandatory task of checking her email, the one she wished she could cancel along with her cell phone and go live in an exotic island, she had no idea that this very mundane task would lead her where she’s never gone before, and change that way came. Just as she was typing in a reply to one of her most annoying clients, she figured it would help if she imagined herself typing in an intellectual argument in reply to someone interesting. It didn’t take her imagination much effort to fill in the blank with a name. All of a sudden she found herself grabbing the newspaper looking for any email address through which she might be able to contact that who has become her main imaginary discussion mate. Luckily, like most columnists A.F always left an email address at the bottom of the article, which was never noticed by Dalia as she used to block out anything that is technology related when she read the paper.

She started typing eagerly, taking sometime figuring out how to start and deleting the first line several times before settling on an opening statement. After getting past that awkward beginning, the ideas literally flowed. She felt so comfortable expressing herself without any fear or hesitation. However, the hesitation kicked in as she moved the cursor to the “Send” button, her finger tapping on the left mouse button a few times before finally pressing down on it. Message sent.

The waiting for a reply started the very moment she sent the message. For the first time in her life she actually felt excited to check her email. To her disappointment, there was nothing of the sort in the inbox. She checked the junk mail folder, and checked the sent items time and again to make sure she typed in the right email address, all to no avail. Few weeks of the same, she started to induce a sense of despair to reduce the mounting feeling of disappointment. It wasn’t only about failing to make contact with that person; it was about having to go back to the dullness of her daily eventless life.

Just as she was losing all hope, something happened that suggested she shouldn’t. The reply came in early one fine Thursday morning, first apologizing for the delay and then appreciating the smart observations and arguments included in the first message. Overwhelmed with excitement, it took Dalia a few minutes to compose herself and organize her thought as to what her reply should be. She wrote with the same excitement with which she wrote the first message, the only difference is that this time she didn’t have to wait long for the reply.

Those emails have become an inseparable part of her daily life. They even started to take the place of the daily skimming through the newspaper and acquired a higher importance than the morning coffee. Something surreal was happening. It was unbelievable what they had in common and how they seemed to be stealing each other’s mind. She has never believed in soul mates until then. At last, the long wait for the extraordinary has come to an end.

They proceeded this way, anonymous and happy, until one only normal request changed it all. “I want to meet you in person.” As simple as that line sounded, the impact on her was gigantic. All of a sudden everything turned gray, the world seemed like a low-quality version of a horror movie. Her hands were shaking, her heart beating like an African drum and her forehead breaking out into cold sweat. She didn’t consider or even give herself a chance to do so. The decision was final and decisive. She wasn’t going even to reply to that message, it was over.

For the rest of the day, Dalia couldn’t get her mind to think of something else. It’s very hard to think of anything when you’re trying not to think of something in particular. She decided that the best thing to do is to take a leave of her work since she couldn’t get any work done anyway. As she left the building, she walked to her car unconsciously and regained awareness only as she was turning the key in the door lock. At that, she took the key off and decided to take a short walk in an attempt to make neutralize all the puzzled emotions raging inside.

A thought led to another, nothing soothing, nothing to give her the peace of mind she sought. But at last, it hit he . The only thing that could end that ambivalence was resorting to her own world, her own techniques. She began picturing the opposite situation. She saw herself meeting up with him, a tall handsome man with hazel eyes, olive toned skin and the most charming smile. Once again they were talking and talking, and she was happy. She was happy again. Just then, it all came crashing at her, and for the first time in her life she realized that she’s the one who wanted her life to be nothing but ordinary, chickening out when it came to any change or anything out of that kind of ordinary.

Curiously enough, that wasn’t the thought that gripped her. In fact, she didn’t really mind it. So, rather than mourning her blown chances to happiness, she was taken by a whole other realization.

The thing no one knew about Dalia, and the thing she hasn’t realized until that moment, is that she had an imagination capable of turning the most mundane details of her life into a once in a lifetime extravaganza. She started to remember everything, from the extraordinary pleasure of manipulating the clutch in her car to her dreams of being thrown by the waves into a deserted island. It occurred to her just at that moment that the life she's always wanted has always existed in her head, and that was the only place where she wanted to live such a life. She began contemplating the possibilities that could come out of this. She started visualizing everything she's ever dreamed of, every single detail, and there she started to lay out the lines for a best seller novel, or perhaps a movie. She got so excited that she lost track of time and had no sense of her surroundings. She kept walking while visualizing and creating dialogues in her head. Everything was coming along nicely, until it all erupted in one major flash of light.

Dalia couldn't see what exactly had hit her. Was it a car or a bus, she had no idea, and there was no telling what happened next to her as she bid the world farewell. Eye witnesses to the accident confirmed that the driver wasn't to be blamed, since Dalia is the one who came out of no where and crossed the street without looking at any direction. Thus, the accident didn't make the news, and her death didn't provoke any outrage against reckless drivers or driving laws. A small funeral was held to put her where she will lie for a while. Her family and friends mourned for a few days before going back each to his life, and the page was turned on Dalia, an ordinary girl, who lived an extraordinary life, only in her mind.

The small coffee shop where the village men gathered to watch football matches was a tiny room with yellow walls that smelled of sweat and cheap cigarettes. I called it the Den, although I don't know how or when I came up with that name. I used to sneak there after work, since my mother wouldn't let me go, saying I was too young to go there. That was a year or so ago, when I used to attend school. My mother used to brag about me to her neighbors, saying I would be a famous doctor one day, and that we will move out of this "desolate nondescript village" as she called it.

Many nights when we were sitting in silence, while my sick father lay in his bed in the next room, my mother sewing in her chair and me leaning over my notebook, earnestly doing my homework, she would raise her eyes to look at me, but I never felt like she was really seeing me; for her smile and the sudden glitter in her eyes made her seem to me as if she was looking out to the ocean while effectively daydreaming of something more beautiful than I could ever imagine. Once, she said to me after a long pause: "You know what, Maniram? You'll go to school, learn your lessons, and then you'll go to the best collage in India, where you'll study to be the best doctor in the country. You'll make lots of money, and once you do, we'll move out of this rotten cell and go live in Mumbai."

My mother has always had very high expectations of me that I was afraid there was no question I would let her down. Each time I remembered my mother's dreamy gaze I would become keener to rise up to those expectations. For all I remember, my mother wanted me to be a doctor more than anything in the world; that's why I found it hard to understand how she could get herself to tell me I was to leave school.

"Maniram" My mother said hesitantly, with her eyes drooping. "You know how much I want you to go to school and be a doctor." There was a long pause before she continued. "But, as you know, your father has grown very sick, and I can't afford the medicine anymore. My work is not paying even for the half of it. I need your help."

The very next morning my mother took me to see a man she called "the contractor". His office was located in an old building, and the office itself was a small gloomy room that reminded me of the coffee shop in some way. There, behind the desk, sat a man about my father's age, but much bulkier than he was, clinching a cigarette between his lips, under his heavy mustache. He took a look at me, studied my hands for a while, and then asked my mother a few questions I don't remember, mostly because I was busy trying to figure out the reason behind them. After that, he opened a notebook that was in front of him, took a pen in one hand and the cigarette from under his mustache in the other, then he let out a curt sigh and wrote something in the notebook.

"Okay" He said after a brief pause. "Bring him in tomorrow. I hope he's a fast learner; I'm having much trouble with dense kids these days. They work half as fast and cost us twice the effort to teach them!"

"Don't worry sir; my son is a very clever boy." My mom said, and then pressed her lips together as if to keep herself from saying any more. I imagine she had a pressing urge to tell him I was going to be a doctor someday, and that we'll move out of here forever, and that I won't have to work with him any more.

The next day my mother took me to the factory in Meerut, where I was to start working. I was very nervous at first, but my tension was eased a great deal when I saw that there was many children my age. My mother got to her knees so her eyes would level with mine, looked me square in the face, and told me in an assuring tone that I would be all right. I suspected from her tone that she herself wasn't feeling that way, and the trembling of her lips when she kissed me confirmed my suspicion.

In the factory, a man showed me what I was supposed to do. He then handed me pieces of rubber, leather and bundles of threads and needles. "The more balls you stitch together, the more money you make" He said as he bent down. "If you need to know anything, you can ask the other kids, but try not to bother them with too many questions as they also have work to do."

I settled in my place on the floor, it was dirty and nowhere near comfortable. I began stitching while stealing glances at the boy next to me. I was trying to pour all my concentration into the work, having my sick father in mind and my mother's dreamy gaze in front of my eyes. For a moment, I even thought she was observing me from her chair. Hours went by and I still didn't finish my first ball. My vision began to blur, and my back ached from bending over, trying to work as fast as I could. When I couldn't bear the haziness and pain anymore, I let go of the needle and leaned my back against the wall. My eyes welled up with tears as I thought of how slow I was. It was at that moment when the boy next to me decided to start a conversation that soothed me a little. "Tired already?" He said half-jokingly. "Don't worry; it's always hard at first. But you seem to be doing well so far. You know, none of us could finish more than 2 balls a day."

His words were somehow comforting; for I knew I wasn't a slow worker. But, for 3 rupees per football, I thought I was supposed to make 5 or 6 balls a day to say that the job was worth it.

I continued going to the factory and stitching balls day in day out, and within one week I was able to produce 2 balls a day. Often when I finished a ball I would hold it up to the bars of light coming through the small window at the top of the wall, and I would feel a great temptation to take it out on the street and kick it with all my might. I've always been fond of football; I used to play it with the neighborhood kids with balls made of worn out socks. but I knew then more than ever that there was no time for me to play with that ball, even though I made it myself. I often consoled myself by thinking that when I become a doctor I would buy one of these balls. I heard that they were being sold for what amounts to 100 rupees each.

At that thought, I found myself starting to pick up speed, which caused me to prick my thumb with the needle, but I didn't make such a big deal of it; I only put the needle aside and sucked the blood from the small wound. I have taken to that kind of accidents by now; it was bound to happen as I always tried to work as fast as I could. The first time I pricked a finger I panicked, fearing it would grow septic. But by then my hands were studded with punctures, and with some of those punctures growing septic, my hands looked like a rusty sifter.

The World Cup tournament started a few months after I'd started working in the factory. One evening after I was done for the day, I decided to sneak to the Den; for there's been much talking about the next game that seemed to be a very important one. To tell the truth, I didn't care to know who was playing, all I wanted to see was the ball rolling on the playfield; I could hardly believe the balls I was making would be juggled by the feet of world renowned players, and that all the eyes and cameras would be following it, waiting for it to rest in one of the nets. What I found most mind-boggling was that, after being kicked around and smeared with dirt, the ball was many times worth what it was when I first stitched it together and held it to the bars of light in pride. For some reason, this made me remember the needle pricks in my hands, and felt them starting to ache.

I stayed in the Den for an hour or so, watching closely as people around me went fanatically on ranting and calling names. I didn't know what they were so angry about, and didn't even try to find out; being too busy counting the balls thrown in the field. I was surprised at the number of balls used in one match. If one ball flies out of the field, they throw in another one immediately, like it was nothing.  This made me think of how many people and children my age were making footballs out there. I tried to do the math in my head all the way home, but I still couldn't figure it out.

I went on my way thinking, unaware of the bustle around me; for it seemed the match had ended and the fans of both teams were celebrating and engaging in fights in the streets. As I reached home, I opened the door as quietly as I could. Everything was as I left it in the morning. My mother was sewing in her chair, my father groaning in the next room, and the same heavy silence filling the place. Who said silence has no sound? Maybe we've just grown too familiar with it that it became very hard to distinguish.

My mom didn't ask me anything, and just responded to my good night with a curt nod. I figured she didn't want to shatter the silence around, or she's just lost the desire to speak. I headed to my room with the same thought still spinning in my head. As I lay in my bed, I tried so hard to shut it out. In the past, I loved to stare at the ceiling and indulge in daydreams for a while before I finally gave in to sleep, but I stopped this habit ever since I started working in the factory. I was often too tired to think, but even when I had some energy left in me, I forced myself to sleep because all I could think of was worrying about what lay ahead of me the next day, and it never fell short of my expectations. But that night I couldn't block out that same pressing idea. I wondered what would become of me in the future, and how it would turn out to be.

I can't remember when or how I fell asleep that night, maybe my brain was too exhausted at last from all those thoughts. All I can remember is that I closed my eyes, wishing with all my heart I would never have to wake up.

"I understand the complexity of the situation, but it's about time he knew. You know you should do something to reduce the shock by then."

"Well, you know my job is kind of sensitive, and kids tend to have big mouths" I replied coldly.

"But, a lifeguard? Your son thinks of you as a superhero!"

"Well, I wouldn't put it that way…"

"Let me ask you something" She interrupted. "Are you satisfied with what you do?"

I could clearly see the reason behind her question, what I couldn't see was the answer she was expecting. Are you satisfied with what you do? A perfectly normal question, if asked to a baker or a blacksmith, not a hangman. You don't ask a hangman if he'ssatisfied with his job. If you must, ask him how he feels when he takes the life of someone he believes to be innocent the same way he takes that of a serial killer or a drug dealer, or how he grows nauseated each time someone drops through that trap door and turns into a lifeless body swinging in the wind, all in the matter of minutes.

"Excuse me" The teacher's voice brought me back to realty. "Are you satisfied with your job?"

"Well, I'm just another human being."

She forced a heavy smile and said nothing. But I knew almost for certain what she was thinking. What on earth does the devil look like?

****

My daily encounter with death cast its shades on every detail of my life. My relation with my wife, kids, people and even with myself. I could not look into the mirror without feeling a strong urge to spit, which made me excuse the sideway glances I get from others all the time. I could feel the stiffness of my wife's body whenever I touched her. The rigidity of her skin, the tightening if her voice. I knew that with every passing day, we drew further apart. My son would always ask me to tell him some of my life-saving stories, and I would ramble on and on about how I saved those little school kids when their boat sank a few miles off shore. I enjoyed telling those stories and nearly believed them myself, except that deep inside, a huge wave of disgust tore into my guts…

Very few people in the neighborhood knew what my job really was. Curiously enough, Zaki the garbage man was one of them. He had a dark complexion, a pair of coarse hands, caked with dust and dirt. I always looked down on him, but deep inside I was green with envy; because I knew that as soon as he got home, he got rid of all that dirt by a simple shower, something I've been trying to do for many years.

"And I thought I had the worst job in the world" Once said Zaki, with a small chuckle. "Dealing with all that rubbish everyday. But, you know what? When I come home to my wife and kids, I feel like the cleanest person on earth."

I gave him a sarcastic remark, a skill I acquired through years of experience with the ironic contrast between life and death. He gave me a brief look that I suspected to be one of empathy, and said: "You may joke about it, but I'm telling you: that job redeems me. And they call me a garbage man! Why should I be labeled with garbage when all I  do is to collect your rubbish? Then, all of a sudden, you are disgusted with me!"

Ironically, the disgust I felt with myself that moment left no room to be disgusted with Zaki anymore. I only I wished that, somehow, Zaki would be up on the gallows the very next morning, waiting for me to tie the rope around his neck and see him swinging like a rubber dummy.

A sudden call shook off all those memories at once, and I was back again at the hanging room, waiting for my next prey. All those years gave me an extraordinary talent of knowing who's innocent and who's guilty by looking into their eyes. Both had their eyes full of fear, but the innocent ones had it mixed with bitterness. The guilty, with regret. Two huge guards came through the doorway, dragging a shackled man, who didn't show any resistance. I was wearing a black hood that had slits for my eyes, something that has always added to my sense of villainy. I was also carrying another hood for the convict, but that one had no slits whatsoever, something I never understood the wisdom of.

The three of them approached the gallows in firm steps, the huge men looking fairly normal doing such a routine task. The dead-man-walking looked no less normal than they were. There was a strange calm surrounding him, so intense that it gave me the shivers. For some reason I didn't know, I wanted to snatch the hood off my head and run… just run without thinking whereto. But the next thing I knew was the man all but set up on the gallows to face his eminent death. All that was left for me was to wrap his head with the black hood, then, show time.

He was tall and skinny, old enough to be my father. The wrinkles in his forehead looked like cracks in a worn-out rock. He had a long, white, well-trimmed beard. He possessed a certain poise that made me think that he could never have committed a crime that makes him deserve biting the dust.  

Reluctantly, I held the hood above his head to shut him out, wondering what good it would do. The man eyes were silently following my movements, till he blurted out all of a sudden…

"You know I don't need this! You are doing it so you won't have to see my face."

He paused for a moment, as if waiting for me to absorb the idea, then sighed and turned his face away. "Go on, spare yourself some nightmares."

The officer in charge yelled at me to continue with the procedures, and without blinking, I blocked out all the thoughts burning in my mind, putting the hood into place hastily, making sure he wouldn't get another glimpse of this life.

The hanging went perfectly normal. We heard the choking sound tearing out of his throat as he recited the Declaration of Faith - which he wasn't given enough time to finish- and watched as he swung by the neck, back and forth in the chilly wind.

Loaded with all what I had previously blocked out, I walked slowly out of the hanging room, for the urge I had to run had faded away. And as I do after every hanging, I went to the clerk to get my wages, feeling all the humiliation in the world eating away at me.

"Good one, tiger!" said the clerk jokingly. I gave him my back and walked away, without the slightest response.

As I walked home, everything seemed normal, nothing seemed to have been changed, the sun hasn't frozen and the earth hasn't stopped turning around. Only I was changed forever. I kept walking along the river, observing the people humming around, wondering what could be their biggest concerns. I stopped at some point, looking at the ripples on the silver sheet of the river… I fished for the blood-soaked wages in my pocket, looked at them with disgust and then looked again at the river. For a moment, I thought if redemption ever materialized, it would most probably be a river. I smiled at the thought, and without thinking any further, sent the coins sinking in the water, throwing them as far as I could… a life wasted for free.

What harm will be done if I tell her? Just once! She’s not staying for long, few weeks and everything will be buried with her: the pain, the shame, the guilt and the madness.

I never shared my feelings with anyone. Every time I tried, words won’t escape my mouth. I kept everything in a deep well I dug years ago, somewhere inside. A bottomless well that got deeper and deeper over the years. I thought I was thus sparing my dignity, among other things. I never knew I’ve built a steel shell around myself, not until it was too late.

Ironically, it wasn’t until one sad afternoon that I started to see the light at the end of the tunnel. My mother had hard time deciding how to tell me the sad news, not knowing that my life is about to take a new turn.

 “Her heart is so weak. Doctors say she needs an immediate transportation. She’s on the waiting list, but people of the same condition are too many and…”

She needed not say more. My cousin is dying. I get it.

At first, the shock was enormous, but then I started to see it.

She’s dying… let her take your burden to the grave.

I knew I should be ashamed of myself to think like that, but I was desperate, and shame was the least of my worries. I started rationalizing, and encouraging myself to go ahead and get over with it… what’s better than sharing your deeply held secrets with a dying person?

That night I couldn’t sleep; my blood was boiling with anticipation. Tomorrow I’ll be free. Free at last.

The next day I made sure to go to the hospital in a time in which there would be no visitors, Just her and me. I entered the room wearing a shy smile, I knew she had such a good faith in me that she would believe I was faking the smile as not to cry upon seeing her in that condition. She would never knew I was trying to hide my shame behind that sheepish smile…

I asked her how she was, and she went on and on about how good she’s feeling and how she’s accepting her fate. Meanwhile, I was thinking how to start telling her what I came for. But I didn’t need to think hard, because she did it for me.

“Seems like you want to say something” she said suddenly, interrupting herself as she noticed that my mind was somewhere else.

“Well… I don’t think it’s a good timing” I stammered, knowing it was the perfect time, at least for me.

“Oh, for God sake!” she moaned. “It’s not like we have much time left!”

“Well… you asked for it” I said half jokingly.

She Shifted in her bed, inspecting me with eager eyes, as she has never seen me in such a confessional position. I fidgeted in my seat, avoiding locking eyes with her.

“You know how I always said I had no secrets like other girls” I kicked it off. “Well, not exactly”

She smiled knowingly and nodded for me to continue.

“You know I always preferred to keep it to myself, but now I feel that I can’t bear it anymore. It’s eating away at me” I paused here and looked timidly at her. “Promise me you won’t think ill of me or judge me for anything I say”

“I promise”.

“Well, this might look silly I know, but I’m in love”

“That’s good for a start!” she said with a curt nod.

“Well, that’s not all” started speaking rapidly as not to hear what I’m saying. “I was in love with my best friend’s fiancé. I was in love with him before I knew they were on a relation. I never had the guts to tell her, I just choked it up, and it killed me. I listened to her when she talked about him. I gave her advice and helped them to make up whenever they had a fight. I even picked his gifts with her. It was eating me alive, and nobody knew”

“Then, what happened then?”

“As I expected,, they broke up. I must be ashamed to admit that a part of me was happy. No! Not only a part of me, Iwas happy. Actually, it was the happiest day in my life. I acted sorry while I was consoling her, but inside, I felt like dancing with joy. The worst of all is that I didn’t feel guilty, not at all. I knew they were so different, a total mismatch. I knew it, but I went so far as to think that he had something for me. How stupid! You know sometimes you want something badly that you think you feel it. Desire mistaken for hunch. How pathetic!”

She smiled and waited for me to continue. I looked at her through the corner of my eye, and then blurted: “I never told you my bus driver tried to rape me when I was sixteen”

She stared in awe, said nothing.

“Well, I don’t like to remember the details, it took me a good deal of time trying to get over it. Thank God I remembered my mother’s advice. Go for the eyes. Fortunately, I had my nails done that day, I almost took out his eyeball” I grinned uneasily, and she giggled along, trying to soothe me into going on. “Worse yet is that he still drove me to and from school for the rest of the year”. I said coarsely.

I readjusted myself on the cushioned chair. “I… I killed our neighbour’s son”

She opened her eyes wide and stared with shock. She tried to mutter something but she couldn’t make anything up.

“He was 2 or 3 years old, and he…” I paused, fighting back the tears that started to stream down my face. “He was trying to get a cherry from the fruit bowl, so I helped him to some. It didn’t occur to me that he’d swallow the seed… it was too big for him. I didn’t know what to do, I ran for help, but it was too late.”

She buried her face with her hands.  And before she asked anything, I answered her unspoken question. “Nobody knew I gave him the cherry.” I gasped, looked her in the eye and cried out, “I didn’t mean to do it!”

A heavy silence prevailed for few minutes, then without uttering a single word, I stormed out of the room. That was the last time I saw her.

For several days before she died, she had tried to call me and leave me messages that I would not care to check. Whenever my mom asked me why I didn’t visit her, I would say I couldn’t bear seeing her in that situation. After the funeral, I ran home as fast as I could, stormed into my room, buried my face in the pillow and wept for hours.

Several days after that, I hesitantly picked up my phone, and with a trembling hand, I opened my messages, not knowing why I was doing it then. Maybe she wanted to tell me something. I hesitated for a moment. Finally, I opened the messages, one after another, all of them were brief, and said the same thing:

“I was raped too. You never told me attacking the rapist’s eyes would save me”