by Ram Sundaram
“But I feel so small and insignificant.”
“So? The Universe itself is tiny. My sneeze might blow it away.”
“Stop, you’re being facetious.”
“What if you and I are the creators of all existence?”
“Now you’re being blasphemous.”
“I think I lost my wings for a reason. The world shrunk while my wisdom grew, until this tree and everything within it became larger than life. What need do I have then for flight? If I could fly, then I would delude myself by roaming uselessly around a barren, listless existence. But now I see existence for what it is: it is alone, tiny, and rather insignificant. Much as we are.”
“You’re speaking in riddles.”
Max hopped over to one of the apples and began pecking at it.
Macs called out to stop him, “Beware! That apple might be poisonous!”
“How do you figure that?”
“Every one of my family members died after they ate an apple.”
“As did mine,” said Max, remembering.
“So the apples must be poisonous.”
“Perhaps it is we who are poisonous. We poisoned the apples.”
“But the apples poisoned our families.”
“After they poisoned the apples.”
“Then we too are poisonous. We too are apples.”
“Don’t be daft. I am a bird.”
“I am an apple.”
“Then I am poisonous to you.”
“And you to me.”
They shared a laugh over the matter. The laughter soothed their abrasive natures as each then conceded to the other. “Perhaps you should take this branch.”
“I do not think I could, after all that has happened. You take it.”
“And suffer the guilt of knowing I left you bereft of a home?”
“There are plenty of branches on this tree—I will find myself another home.”
“I think I would miss you if you were not near.”
“I would certainly miss you. Perhaps you should stay near.”
Their attention was stolen by rising smoke. One saw it, while the other sensed it. The tree was on fire. Max and Macs weighed their options and found them to be limited.
“The tree will not survive. We cannot linger here.”
“It is too late! Save yourself, fly away.”
“How? Blind as I am, if I leave this tree I may never find another home.”
“But if you stay here, you will surely burn and die.”
“Then that is my fate. Could you not hop away?”
“The flames are too vast. Wherever I hide on this tree, I will be found. It is over.”
“Then I am glad for your company.”
“As I am for yours.”
“Tell me what you see.”
“A flood approaches. It has vanquished everything, from the mighty mountains to the vast forests, and has levelled the earth entirely. There is nothing left but water.”
“And this tree.”
“And this tree.”
“Now tell me what you see.”
“I am blind.”
“But not dreamless. Tell me what visions your mind has conjured for you.”
“I am soaring over a vast, beautiful land. There is colour and laughter everywhere, acres and acres of it. There are millions of trees just like this, filled with fruit. Birds roam everywhere. I am above this world, flying proudly, freely. I feel fortunate.”
“You are fortunate.”
“How do you figure?”
“You are blind to reality, but your mind is awake to fantasy.”
“Yours isn’t?”
“Not anymore. I have seen too much to dream. It is the curse of vision.”
“If only I could live in my dreams.”
“If only I could dream.”
“I will share my dreams with you.”
“Then I will share my sight with you.”
There was a pause, as they regarded each other with compassion. The flames rose steadily; most of the tree was now on fire, but for this branch and everything above it.
“In this end, are we so different?”
“How do you mean?”
“We fought for the rights to this branch, as though our lives were independent of each other. But alas our fates are entwined, more so perhaps than any two living beings.”
“More than a pair of close friends, or siblings?”
“More than a mother and child.”
“More than a husband and wife?”
“More so even than God and His creatures.”
“Then should we not be one?”
“Perhaps we are one.”
The flames rose to the level of the branch. Searing pain and suffocating smoke surrounded Macs and Max as they stood in a tight embrace, awaiting death.
They conversed till the very end.
“Is this tree not a living being also?”
“Indeed it is.”
“Then is it not also a part of us?”
“Of course. That’s why we are all dying together.”
“Then the tree is one with us. We are all one.”
“Take me into your dream.”
“Which one?”
“Your choice. Just take us all away from this fire.”
“I am dreaming of a world that is neither fair nor pure. There is abundant darkness, and yet there are golden hearts everywhere, scattered like gems over a field of dirt. It is a world different to ours: there are trees, there are apples, there is an apple tree, and there is you and there is me; but in this world that I dream, we do not know that we are all one.”
“An all-consuming dream.”
“Indeed.”
The branch was on fire. Max and Macs were surrounded by the flames.
“Take us into the dream. I will follow.”
“But in the dream we will be ignorant, much as we were before we spoke. We will not remember. Would you rather not die here, pure and enlightened?”
“To live is to think, to dream and to hope. That is what I wish for.”
“Then let us be rid of this world, and reside instead in a dream.”
“Farewell! We shall meet elsewhere.”
“Inside a dream, within a dreamless existence.”
The fire consumed the tree, the branch, the apples and both Macs and Max. Yet their spirits were not conquered. In another world, within another existence, immersed in a different dream, Macs and Max were reborn. They were not birds in their new lives, but they were neighbors. And in between their houses stood a tall, proud apple tree. Macs and Max, like all living creatures, were children of circumstance. They were now within a different reality, and yet a new dream had begun. The apple tree, however, was still the same.
VII
Touch of Reality
Most good stories involve conflict, engaging plots, vivid characters, and romantic settings. They are not mere tales, but fragments of a reality blended so artfully with colour and imagination, that even the most skilled reader cannot discern fact from fiction. Yet in my experience, I have found that the most interesting stories are ones that bear none of the traits required of a “good story.” There are mere glimpses of conflicts or none at all; the plots, which are hardly engaging, threaten to collapse before the reader even gets through the first page; the characters are dull, while the settings are about as romantic as bus depots. But what makes them good stories is the ambiguous, almost malleable nature that they each possess. Every reader has the opportunity to absorb an entirely unique translation, individual to that reader alone.
I have one such story, built more out of fact than fiction, which bears close, personal significance to m
y life. If it is a good story, perhaps it will transcend the limitations imposed by the empty words that define it, and translate importance to each of its readers.
My memories of that delightful night are hazy, but not because the occasion wasn’t significant enough to remember—on the contrary, its sheer worth as a memorable event exceeded the grasp of my mind, and most of the details were dropped by the clumsy fingers of my feeble memory. But though the facts are somewhat fuzzy, the emotional impressions left upon me are strong and clear, and I daresay they will remain with me for a long time to come.
It began, somewhat ironically, with disappointment.
I was in the lobby of a grand, luxurious reception hall, with thousands of people flocking around me, speaking to ushers, to security, and other theatre personnel. A few grim ticket collectors were checking the receipts of the crowds before allowing them access into the stadium, and I was harshly aware that I myself was ticketless. I saw V.I.P ticket holders bypass the rest of the crowd, receive special treatment and considerations, as they filed into the theatre and took their seats amid celebrities and fellow V.I.Ps. I watched them with envy.
I was continually jostled by the crowds, who were in a mad rush to enter the stadium before the show started. I eventually left the reception hall and made my way to the elevators. I stepped inside one and as the doors were about to close, I heard a sweet, sultry voice ask me to hold the door, so I promptly obliged. A tall woman with a delightful coffee-complexion, large brown eyes, lustrous black hair, and long, slender legs, entered the elevator and left me breathless. It was not her beauty alone that floored me, but the fact that she was someone I knew and recognised better than my own reflection, for I was her greatest, most loyal fan.
“It’s you…” I said in something of a steady exhale, as the doors closed.
“It is me,” she laughed, and I practically shivered in delight. “Hello,” she then added, politely. She chose the fourth floor and looked at me enquiringly. “What number?”
“The same,” I said, breathlessly. I was dimly aware that I was gaping at her, my expression no doubt suspended somewhere between a state of awe and having been clubbed on the head. She looked across at me and smiled again, though nervously this time.
“I… I can’t… I can’t believe it’s you,” I said, grinning so widely that my face ran out of room to accommodate the gesture. “You’re the reason I came here tonight. I wanted to see your performance. Actually, I wanted to see you up close, if possible. I mean… when I say ‘up close’ I mean I thought I would get to see you like across the lobby, separated by like over a thousand people, or else in the stadium, separated by fifty rows… if I was lucky. But I certainly didn’t expect to see you standing next to me on an elevator… Oh my God, you’re standing next to me on an elevator. I’m talking to you… I can’t believe I’m talking to you…”
She laughed warmly, but said nothing in reply to that nervous rant.
“I can’t believe I’m standing next to you,” I said again, with an excited chuckle. “I’ve been a huge fan of yours for ages and ages! You look even more beautiful up close, if that’s even possible. I mean, forgive me for saying so. I don’t know if that’s rude or not, but it’s the truth.”
She smiled shyly, looking flattered but modest.
“I’m sorry, I must sound like an idiot,” I said, embarrassment finding me at last.
“No, of course not,” she said quickly. “I think you’re very sweet.”
It was only then that we noticed the elevator had zoomed past floor number four without stopping. She frowned. “We missed our floor…” We watched as the elevator display climbed steadily, past 10, 20, 30, 50, 80 and eventually rested at 84, the top floor.
“Odd,” she said, and selected 4 on the console once more. The elevator dropped back down again. She looked nervously up at the roof of the elevator, and then rocked on her heels uncomfortably; it took me several seconds to realise it was because I was still staring at her.
“So…” I said, still not bothering to look away.
She turned to me.
“You’re performing tonight,” I said, rather ineffectively.
She nodded. “And I’m running late. I should have been here an hour ago.”
40, 38, 36, 34… the counter display kept dropping.
I had a rapid and violent struggle within my mind, as I searched despairingly for something to say, something clever yet relevant and pleasing, something that would interest her, amuse her, and perhaps tempt her to remain in my company for just a little while longer.
18, 17, 16, 15…
I wanted to show her that I was intelligent, and that I could hold a conversation on any topic of her choice. But I also wanted to demonstrate my sensitivity and my emotional prowess. Yet perhaps the most attractive initial gesture would be to display my sense of humour. I needed a joke… but I couldn’t just turn to her and say “Knock knock…” No, I would need to set it up…
8, 7, 6, 5…
It was too late… In a moment she would step out of the elevator and I’d never see her again. My one chance to impress the most beautiful woman in the world, and I’d missed it.
4…
I closed my eyes and sighed…
…but the elevator didn’t stop.
3, 2, M.
“Again?” she exclaimed, hitting the panel with frustration as the elevator opened on the ground floor. “What’s wrong with this stupid thing?” she said, annoyed. “Why won’t it stop at number four? Do you think it’s broken?”
“We could try it again?” I suggested.
She shrugged and hit floor number four again. The doors closed.
I realised as she stood there in frustration that I had been given a second chance to impress her. A good joke would now break the ice perfectly.
“Your fly’s open,” she said, turning to me.
I looked down at my trousers, at the shirt flap sticking out through my zipper and hastily readjusted myself as the lift shot upwards again.
2, 3…
I’d lost yet another chance.
4.
…5, 6
“Damn it!” she said, and chose floor ten, but the elevator kept rising. She chose 15, 28, 32, 49, but it didn’t make a difference, the elevator refused to stop until it hit the top floor again.
“Now what?” she said, turning to me as the doors opened on the 84th floor.
I was flattered and excited that she was asking for my opinion. I was also painfully aware that I didn’t really have a suitable answer ready for her. As the doors closed, inspiration struck.
“We could… take the stairs?” I suggested. “We’ll try number four on the way down again, and if it doesn’t work again, we’ll just take the stairs from the ground floor.”
She paused and then smiled. “Now why didn’t I think of that?” she said, as she hit the ground floor button. “I wish I’d taken the stairs to begin with.”
I privately disagreed, because if she had taken the stairs, I never would have had these few minutes alone with her. As the elevator dropped back down yet again (I was starting to feel a little sick, but there was no way I would admit that to her), she looked at me with unexpected gratitude. “I’m glad I’m not going through this alone,” she confessed. “I’d have lost my head if I was by myself. I think having someone around who was calm and relaxed made a difference.”
I smiled in what I hoped was a suave, nonchalant manner. I wanted to say something cool and smart, but my tongue seemed to be glued to the roof of my mouth.
The elevator, almost predictably, didn’t stop at number 4 again, and the doors opened instead on the ground floor. We stepped out into the chaotic scene of mad crowds thronging into the stadium, and she seemed at once to regret her decision. She looked around and hesitated, clearly unsure of where to
find the stairs in the midst of this madness. I pounced on the opportunity by offering to lead her. “I can show you where the stairs are,” I said, politely.
“You will?” She sounded surprised and suspicious.
“Of course.”
“I can’t be seen,” she said, slipping on her sunglasses and covering her face with her right hand—ironically, though I didn’t say so, this only made her more conspicuous.
“I’ll hide you,” I said, walking closely by her side. She looked at me with sudden gratitude and then ducked her head in my chest as we walked, so she wouldn’t be seen.
“So where are the stairs?” she said, in something of a whisper now, because people were bustling around us, and I gathered she was afraid her voice would be recognised.
I felt embarrassed, for I’d passed the stairs on my way to the elevators and yet was unable to locate them now. I was worried that she would think I’d lied to her just to be in her company a little longer. I looked around the large, posh lobby, which now looked more like a massive shopping mall than anything else. “There was a sign… I saw it when I came in here,” I told her. “It was of black stairs against a yellow background. It shouldn’t be hard to find, should it?”
“Let’s hope so,” she said, taking charge of the hunt. She now led me through the crowd, and I kept pace with her as though my life depended on it. Blind to everything else, I searched desperately for the sign I was sure I had seen earlier.
“Maybe there aren’t stairs in this place,” she finally said, sighing in frustration.
But I had just spotted what we were looking for. “This way,” I said, and weaving through the bustling masses, I led her to a doorway right below the symbol of the stairs. The stairway was deserted, and she briskly ran up the first flight. As I prepared to follow, I noticed something strange: this stairwell didn’t have an echo. Almost all stairwells have echoes, probably because of the abundant spaces, but this stairway sounded like a tiny closet. Yet it was 84 floors high.