Writing Into The Sunset

Extra Judicial Killing?

2011-10-01T21:51:00.000-04:00

The New York Times (Oct 1) reported that “The killing of Anwar al-Awlaki, an American citizen struck on Friday by a missile fired from a drone aircraft operated by his own government, instantly reignited a difficult debate over terrorism, civil liberties and the law.” It went on to report that “ … a range of civil libertarians and Muslim-American advocates questioned how the government could take an American citizen’s life based on secret intelligence and without a trial. They said that killing him amounted to summary execution without the due process of law guaranteed by the Constitution.”

Firstly, I believe that the killing is a part of the on-going war between Islamic terrorists and the

If it is not a war, then Awalaki was simply killed as a common criminal who did not surrender himself to the law so that he could be given the due process of law. He is no different from the bank robber who is killed in a running gun battle.

Those who argue that he was killed without a trial conveniently ignore the fact that Awlaki failed to avail himself of the due process available to him. If he’d walked into his lawyer’s office and simply made himself available to answer the charges against him, would they have resorted to force? If you’re accused of murder and you attempt to run from answering those allegations, the law is there to apprehend you. Radical fanatics, Muslims, Christians or atheists (fanatical atheists?), are not above that obligation.

This can't be what I think it is?

2011-07-05T11:34:00.000-04:00

What do you think this is? They are on two trees side by side, on the side walk outside a school. Other trees around these two don't have the same "objects" on their branches. Some of these objects are just low enough for a tall kid to reach.

She Fooled Me

2011-06-15T21:12:00.000-04:00

Definitely not a bird brain, this dove. She's been hiding her pair of chicks under all those fluffy feathers thru out May. In spite of my daily checking, I never once saw any chicks until this week. Babies are now too big for her to hide under her wings. Here she is, turning away from the camera and still trying to hide her chicks.

The apartment is getting smaller!

Empty Nest

2011-06-07T21:49:00.000-04:00

She completed her nest at the end of April, and laid her eggs immediately after that. It’s been over a month. She still sits faithfully in the nest, day and night. Hoping ... hoping ...

The look of Hope

Even as her nest crumbles and gets smaller and smaller. She has no doctor to tell her that her eggs will not hatch. I wonder if she will continue sitting through June.

The nest is now smaller than her

She does even fly away when I come within inches and the camera flashes. A prisoner of maternal instinct?

Unlucky Ducky

2011-05-21T23:20:00.000-04:00

The very next day she came back. The bloody skunk! And finished the job... This is the crime scene.

And this is the crime scene today, covered appropriately with Forget-Me-Not.

Mother duck has flown off somewhere. The season is still young, so she will probably go into estrus, lay another batch of eggs and hopefully find a safer location than somebody’s backyard.

But while one avian family faced tragedy, this one will hopefully have better luck.

Ironically this is a Mourning Dove; do you think she knows what happened to the Duck family? We watched husband and wife swooping in and out over 4 cold rainy days building a flimsy nest in the crab apple in our front yard. It’s awfully low! My short self can touch it if I stand on my tippy toes. My neighbour worries that a squirrel or skunk will get the egg/s.

I see her sitting in that nest day and night. Actually sunrise to sunset. Can’t see her at night. She’s hidden amongst the crab apple blossom during the day and you can't see her unless you know she's there. She’s probably afraid when I stand under her nest taking pictures, but maternal instinct glues her to her eggs. I wonder what I can do to give her better odds than the duck.

Duck Tale

2011-05-18T21:05:00.000-04:00

Winter ended the usual way, with birds and ducks returning from the south. I thought I saw a goose in our backyard. Must be a mistake because those monsters take off and land like planes – they need a long landing strip and our backyard isn’t exactly a runway. Then while clearing last year’s dead vegetation, I stumbled upon a nest with feathers and scraps of leaves and twigs.

Last week we saw a duck sitting on the nest. When it flew off for dinner, I spied on her nest. Eggs!!! Hidden under straws and feathers. We watched her over the next few days, working around her as we did our gardening.

“There’s a raccoon eating the eggs!” came the shout from upstairs. I dashed out in my PJ in the rain and threw rocks and bricks at the predator. When I was a few feet away I realized, to my horror, it was a skunk. Luckily I wasn’t sprayed.

The skunk had eaten 2 of the eggs. One bright red yolk was staring pitifully at me. There were about 7 or 8 left, scattered around the nest. Mother was no where. I called Ducks Unlimited. They said to give her 2 or 3 days and she might return if the scent (of the predator) is not too strong.

I checked the same evening. Yes! Mother sitting on her nest again. She’d also nudged the other eggs back into her nest. I spread mothballs around the backyard to keep the skunk away. And crossed my fingers for ducky.

This Show Comes Once A Year

2010-05-06T10:49:00.002-04:00

Imagine practicing for 51 weeks for a one-week performance. It’s got to be good.

Each spring, for less than 10 days, they explode onto the relatively bare stage which winter has vacated. There are at least a dozen of them on our short street, synchronizing their performance. Every dog walker and jogger must pause to admire the show. If they miss it, the next show is next year.

Don’t Wait for your Government to Control Wall / Bay Street

2010-03-16T14:05:00.000-04:00

We’re read about the government’s attempts to fix the weaknesses in our financial system which has led to abuses / unethical conduct on Wall / Bay Street. These abuses include runaway compensation which bear little relation to reality.

Small shareholders have tried to be heard over the voices of large institutional investors who are sometimes connected to management in convuluted ways. A Montreal Shareholder (Mouvement d’education et de defense des actionaires) has proposed that Scotiabank discloses the “fairness ratios” of its executive compensation in relation to the average compensation of its employees. The shareholder states that “According to … the Economic Policy Institute in Washington, American CEOs earned 262 times the average worker’s annual pay in 2005.” So the CEO makes more in one day than the worker does in ONE YEAR.

The proposal only calls on Scotiabank to disclose the CEO’s compesation as a ratio of the average employee’s compensation and does not seek to control how much the CEO is paid. It is absolutely reasonable, and unreasonable for the bank to recommend against it.

Small shareholders who have been shut out for so long should read their shareholder’s notice, instead of using it to line their kitty litter.

The Montreal Shareholder has also proposed that the Bank should provide shareholders with more candidates than there are Board positions to fill. Currently shareholders have no choice but to vote in favour of a nominee or withhold their votes. The Bank always proposes the SAME number of nominees as there are vacancies. That does not sound like an election.

Again the Bank is recommending against this very reasonable proposal. If you’re reading this, tell your friends about it. It’s time small shareholders have a say.

The law can’t prosecute unethical conduct. Knowing this, Wall / Bay Street have learned to skate just inches away from the illegal threshold. They have no qualms with unethical / questionable practices, if there is no legislation against them. Their primary concern is: is it illegal? Not is it ethical?

While the law takes care of illegal acts, it is unethical behaviour which has been responsible for so much of our mess. Hiding the “fairness ratio” is not illegal. Proposing 14 nominees for 14 vacancies is not illegal.

But is it ethical?

Chimamanda Adichie: The danger of a single story

2010-01-25T14:09:00.002-05:00

Any comment from me will only be an injustice to this fabulous video. I hope you enjoy it. (You may want to turn off the music at the bottom of this blog first)

Of Cockroaches and Going After Bad People

2010-01-11T21:18:00.003-05:00

Aaahhhh! Cockroaches in our son`s room! We told him he has to tidy his room, remove the garbage which attract the roaches, and arrange his things neatly so that we can find the roaches easily when we spray with Raid.

He`s complaining that we’re trespassing in his room, for which he pays us rent. “But the roaches have migrated from your room to your brother`s room upstairs” I say. We found new eggs upstairs, which means they’ve invaded the upstairs.

He says he’s entitled to his privacy. We should not enter his room.

I say that might be so, but when your habit adversely affects us in the other rooms, we have a right to intervene to remove the health hazard.

He says the roaches don’t bother him. I say that’s fine if they don’t bother us either. But they’re getting into our food and books, and they spread diseases. We're all interconnected.

He says, “They bother you because you bothered their nests in the first place. If you leave them alone, they will leave you alone.”

So I said, “Take me to their leader so that we can discuss this mano-a-mano.”

“They have no leader” he says. “They’re just insects.”

“So how can you be sure they’d leave us alone. Won’t they just multiple and take over everything?”

Do I have a right to enter his room to clean it up?

Real Cute But Think Twice

2010-01-03T21:02:00.000-05:00

This is REAL cute, but if you live in a place with a decent water supply (which you probably do if you're on a computer & blogging), please think twice about the environmental impact before buying bottled water.

Thanks Evian.

Two People I Remember

2009-12-23T20:44:00.001-05:00

This time of year, I always think of two people. They both died just before Christmas.

I first met Rene over fifteen years ago in a previous company. She was a young graduate and had come in for an interview for a secretarial position. She was the gentlest and purest soul I’d ever met. There was absolutely no malice in her. She always spoke well of everyone, and if anyone was really horrible, she’d just laugh about it. I eventually left the company. She also left for another company later on. But we kept in touch. She got married to a perfect gentleman and had two lovely children.

When I joined my previous company, I asked her to join us too. She hesitated because it meant a further drive and with her children and all that. But the prospects were brighter and she really liked our company culture. After some cajoling she eventually she joined us, but ended up working for a very difficult manager noted for tactlessness. In spite of that she did very well and eventually was promoted to another role. However her kids were getting older (about 9 or 10) and the long hours kept her away from them. So she decided to go back to school to become a teacher, something she couldn’t do earlier.

As she was finishing her teaching program, she was diagnosed with cancer. It had crept up on her unnoticed. They removed most of her stomach and fashioned a replacement from what was left. She improved dramatically.

The other person I remember is Christine. I first met her about ten years ago when she interviewed for the job of project coordinator. In later years she would tease me about the interview because I (the interviewer) had no idea what the job was about. Somehow she ended up working for me as well. She was super efficient. Smart, well-organized and had the right amount of initiative.

One day she brought her pet parrot to the office. It had cancer and she was taking him to the vet. The colourful bird didn’t look like it had cancer to me, but what do I know.

Christine got married and had a child. As soon as she started maternity leave, she was diagnosed with massive breast cancer. She fought it every step of the way. For two full years. During that time, she came back on modified duties on and off. She bravely kept us up to date on her battle and we prayed for her. It was like a combat movie – fighting street by street, house by house, lane by lane. Sometimes winning but mostly losing, bit by bit. Retreating step by step. But never giving up. Hoping that reinforcement will arrive and that the tide will turn. It never did. Eventually it got to her lungs and choked her to death.

When Rene found out about her cancer, she already knew about her Christine’s fight. She was encouraged by Christine’s iron determination and focus to fight it. I don’t know if they talked to each other and shared their experiences. I’d like to think they did.

Both were in their thirties. Both were the most pleasant colleagues you can ask for. And both were physically fit. Rene used to work out in the gym and Christine led a physically active life.

Rene heard about Christine’s passing. Within a month, Rene was gone too. It’s been at least five years now. I still think of them this time of the year.

Tiger's Woes: Private or Public Business?

2009-12-08T13:29:00.000-05:00

Let’s have another round of golf with Tiger. On Dec 2, his website said, among other apology words:

“But no matter how intense curiosity about public figures can be, there is an important and deep principle at stake which is the right to some simple, human measure of privacy. I realize there are some who don't share my view on that. But for me, the virtue of privacy is one that must be protected in matters that are intimate and within one's own family. Personal sins should not require press releases and problems within a family shouldn't have to mean public confessions”

Does he have a right to privacy?

Public figures play on our minds by using their public image to sell us stuff. The relationship between Mr. Woods and the public is one of seller & buyer (among other relationships e.g. golfer - fan). He dresses up as a Boy Scout to flog products. If it turns out that he’s no Boy Scout, we have a right to know what happened. That’s not invasion of privacy.

Any one who tries to sell us something, using his own good image as a testament to the quality of the product must be prepared for the public to question his character. After all, he’s linked his character to the product. Imagine me selling you baldness reversal oil, and I say, “Look at me, I was once bald like a bowling ball.” If you then discover that I wear a wig, you have a right to question me because I was using that to sell you something.

I know Tiger is not overtly saying, “Look at me. I don’t screw around. I’m an all-American Boy Scout. Believe me, Gillette is good!” But you don’t have to say it in words to communicate that. It’s clear that he’s claiming to be faithful, has strong family values and is trustworthy, just like his products. Therefore, when he claims to be what he’s not, and proceeds to sell us stuff based on non-existent character traits, we have a right to look closer.

That’s not invasion of privacy. That’s consumers’ rights.

Mr. Woods and his sponsors know that. That’s why they want to maintain his trustworthy, faithful and family-man image, to sell more products.

Otherwise they might as well get O.J. Simpson to speak for Nike. He’s cheaper. And faster.

The Tiger Woods Story

2009-12-05T21:49:00.000-05:00

Letterman was only too grateful to pass the media scorch to Tiger. Even Obama’s much anticipated announcement of a troop surge could not take the glare off Tiger. Why is there so much interest in the Tiger story?

Is it because we care about the fidelity of the guy who’s trying to sell us Gillette blades? Do we care if our butcher “buys his meat elsewhere”?

Nobody admits to buying Gillette because Tiger says it’s good. But major sponsors believe that a Tiger with a Gillette on his hairless chest influences our buying decision, in spite of our protestations. Their research shows it; that’s why Tiger makes millions endorsing products.

What’s my point? That, according to Gillette, we know zip about yourselves!

And Tiger knows we care where our butcher buys his meat from. That’s why he’s prepared to give wife Elin another $60 million if she stays with him another two years. Two years in which he can make more than five times that amount. And Elin (she’s more like a sleeping business partner) knows that her presence beside him makes him look wholesome. Looking 'wholesome' is his brand, which helps him command high sponsorship fees. And that’s why the story should be on the business page and not the sports page.

Besides being a business story which just happens to have sex in it, why else are we interested in the Tiger story? I’ll like to suggest that in each one of us there is that sin of schadenfreude – the pleasure we feel in someone else’s misfortune. Our pleasure is directly proportionate to the status the unfortunate person has reached in society. The higher up the cheater, the greater the schadenfreude. That’s why we only tsk tsk and pity Mr. Nobody who’s caught boinking his neighbour’s wife, but delight in reading Tiger’s tale.

Who hasn’t felt a tinge of satisfaction at the misfortunes of the big wigs on Wall Street, but pity the terminated mail room person?

In preparing this post, I found a simplified table of related emotions.

• Mudita – sympathetic happiness or happiness in someone’s good fortune. Its evil brother is

• Schadenfreude – happiness at someone’s misfortune. The opposite of this is

• Empathy – sadness at someone’s misfortune. Its evil brother is

• Envy – sadness because of someone’s good fortune

Of course emotions can’t be boxed in so neatly. Invariably they bleed into other emotional “boxes” and become a palette of paint with shades of emotions and extreme colours.

I must say I found it insightful examining my own emotional reaction to Mr. Woods’ peccadillo. At the same time, I was sad that we had more interest in this than Afghanistan and Pakistan which deserves more of our attention.

Adam Smith was right – Specialize

2009-12-01T14:42:00.000-05:00

It's Dec '09. This is my Poinsettia from last Christmas which I lovingly watered and fertilized throughout the summer hoping to get it to reflower this year.

This is what she would look like, if she’d cooperated (or if I’d succeeded). We picked this pot up this weekend from the store. The nursery obviously knows how to do it.

Adam Smith was right. If you want to be good at something, you have to specialize. I can’t be a good gardener and a good writer. But I was thinking, since I’m a bad writer I ought to be a good gardener ... Alas! I’m good at neither.

Spring into Fall

2009-11-23T14:05:00.002-05:00

As the breeze nipped at my exposed ears, I’d forgotten what spring was like. Or in case one forgets, these two sentries do a good job of waking one up to cold reality.

Not just six months ago, this is how they presented themselves. Bright, cheery and waking up with the rest of the earth to life anew.

But I know the cycle of life will go one full circle, and they’d awake once again. In the fullness of time.

Simple Solution to Soft Slimy Soap

2009-11-19T17:26:00.003-05:00

Common problem – water-logged soap dish = soft slimy soap = nagging spouse (maybe?)

Simple solution – a few well-placed elastic bands – Voila! Firm soap = peace and harmony

Or for greater harmony, you can have this Kohler soap dish in French Gold for $240.

Toilet Paper Mishap

2009-10-11T23:53:00.006-04:00

The English language is like a Hollywood monster. It gobbles up everything in its path, incorporating other foreign words into itself. It has not always been a conquering language, though. As McCrum, MacNeil and Cran tell us in The Story of English, the language has had violent ancestors of various origins in its genes. England was invaded by different European tribes, each bringing its own tongue and culture until English became a complex stew of these various languages.

There is no disputing that English is today the most widely used language in the world, able to communicate every human endeavour, monumental or miniscule, Herculean or puny. However, in spite of its all-pervasive influence in every sphere of our lives, there are still pockets of human activities where English falls short.

Sometimes when sitting comfortably on your throne, have you ever been moved to constipation at the sight of undisciplined paper work? Paper that does not line up along the perforated line? Take a look at the pictures.

What is the English word to describe the King’s frustration at such a situation: a roll of paper with one ply marching willy-nilly ahead of the other? A superstitious King would never enter battle with such omen of undisciplined soldiers. Like a ragtag army, you cannot separate misaligned toilet papers along the perforated line without leaving a jagged mess. It is soooo … frustrating! Especially if you’re in a hurry.

What is the English word to describe this dilemma?

It’s not “Oh, s...”! That delightful phrase is a lexicographic kinsman, but socially beneath it. “Oh shit!” describes many other complex situations, but something more delicate is needed for this.

It would be too presumptions to call it the “Canadian March”, because it is a universal problem.

A friend suggested we call it the “Taliban March”, but that’s not being nice to them and we daren’t offend them.

Perhaps you have a phrase in your culture or language that describes this frustration – of two plies of toilet papers unwinding incongruously, perforations out of step. The English Language would like to borrow that phrase.

Unless you’re happy just to call it the “Canadian March”.

My Pacemaker

2009-10-06T14:16:00.005-04:00

In the spring of 2008, my heart started complaining intermittently that it didn't feel good. I had bouts of panic-like attacks, when my heart felt like it was racing. I could hear it pounding in my ears, while it seemed to be lodged in my throat.

To shorten a long story, I wore a Holter monitor for a 24-hour period. Symptoms like to play a frustrating cat-and-mouse game, and the mouse was no-show that day. My cardiologist told me to return in six months (sooner if I had an emergency), during which time I had more intermittent symptoms. Next, I wore the Holter monitor for 48 hours. Presto! The Holter caught the symptoms and I went for further tests which confirmed I needed a pacemaker.

So, after dealing with this for just over a year, I had a pacemaker implanted last week. They cut a slit above my left breast and inserted a dual chamber pacemaker under my skin (OMG! I now have a breast implant!!). One wire snaked its way into the atrium and another to the ventricle. The excess wires were knotted behind the device, just like the wires behind your TV! Thanks to the electrician, I mean ... surgeon :)

Now I can't hit anyone with my left arm until the body grows over the device and the wires. The size of the pacemaker (about four cm) and the relative simplicity of the whole procedure was an amazing experience.

I’m hoping to have both hands back at the key board more often once I regain full movement.

Original Fiction - A Better Deal (Part 3)

2009-07-11T22:56:00.006-04:00

Part 3 (Final installment)– The gunman shows up

Please read Parts 1 and 2 under Original Fiction before Part 3

It had been a long time since Rick felt so good. He had a new sense of freedom that this five hundred was giving him. This money would be his alone to spend. He wouldn’t have to account for it to his wife. He hated the way she controlled their finances, always nagging him to get a better deal. “There’s always a better deal. Just look for it!” she nagged whenever he came home with a new tool from the hardware store. She didn’t stop him from spending, but only insisted on recording everything in her ledger. He resented how his every movement came under her microscope that way.

But now with this, he could take Victoria to lunch and his wife wouldn’t know. And he could stop expensing it as a business lunch, which he’d been doing to hide it from her. He could even spend a secret afternoon with Victoria at the Garden Inn and it would not appear in his wife’s ledger. It would a far better deal than his wife could ever imagine!

But he needed more than five hundred to do all that. So he withdrew five hundred on the second and third day. He hid the money at the bottom of his office drawer, moving its hiding place twice because the Maintenance people had a spare key to every drawer in the office. Then he left the office at six thirty sharp. It was the ideal time to leave because the bulk of humanity, which he despised, had left by then. Even Victoria had left by then. He took the stairs, to assuage his guilt about his poor fitness record. But his intention at atonement echoed hollow with each step as it took no effort descending the empty stairwell.
When he reached the Level 2 parking, a man approached him. The man looked vaguely familiar; perhaps he worked in one of the other offices in the same building.

“Excuse me. I don’t seem to be able to find my car. I think I parked it on Level 2, Section ‘G’. Can you direct me there, please?” the man asked politely.

“I’m parked at Level 2 myself. Let me show you.” Rick led the way, slightly irritated that his reverie was interrupted.

As they walked silently in the deserted underground parking, the man pulled out a gun and pointed at Rick to keep walking towards the darkest corner.

“I don’t have much with me,” Rick started to say, thinking of the fifteen hundred he’d stashed upstairs. “You can have everything. Here, you can take my wallet but leave me my IDs.” He clumsily pulled his wallet out of his jacket and handed it to the man before he realized it was the blue suede pouch instead.

“Where did you get that pouch?” the gunman asked, still pointing the gun at him.

“It’s … it’s … it’s … mine.” Rick managed to stutter. “You like it? You can have it. Here.” He put it down by his feet. “And you can have my wallet too,” he started patting his pockets to find it.

The gunman waved the gun at Rick, for him to back away from the pouch. He picked up the pouch and examined it, with the gun still pointed at Rick. He rubbed the phone against his pants and reflexively held it to his ear to test it. A picture clicked in Rick’s consciousness.

“I thought the hospital had misplaced it,” the gunman muttered almost to himself. He didn’t understand how it got from the hospital to this stranger, but there was no time for puzzles now. He had a dinner date with Destiny. And the stranger he was staring at looked like the man in the photo he’d picked up at Union Station. The Christmas cat that was no longer a novelty. He pulled the trigger, hitting Rick in the upper torso.

As Rick slumped to the ground, he remembered where he’d seen the gunman before. He could see the man with the cell phone held to his ear and hear the screech of the taxi. Then he heard the bang as the taxi hit the man, even as Rick’s head hit the ground.

He worried about his wife finding the fifteen hundred dollars stashed under his files when they clear his drawers. But as his eyes closed for the final time, he smiled as he thought about how it would infuriate her when she can’t reconcile that to anything in her ledger.

* * * * *

She took out her ledger. She was angry that she could not reconcile the fifteen hundred to anything she’d given him. So she simply crossed out the three thousand under Miscellaneous. In its place, she penned in fifteen hundred. What a coincidence, she thought. That was the discount I tried to negotiate, and she smiled.

* * The End * *

Author's note: I hope you've enjoyed this short story. If not, please let me know.

Original Fiction – A Better Deal (Part 2)

2009-07-09T14:09:00.008-04:00

Part 2 – The Husband

A close encounter with the gunman.

Please read Part 1 under Original Fiction before Part 2. Part 3 (final installment will appear later)

Rick only noticed the man in the brown jacket when he heard the screech and the bang. For an unconscious second, he saw the man with the cell phone. When he looked up, it was the cell phone that caught his eyes. It flew in an arc, as if tossed by the stranger in his attempt to save it from being crushed by the taxi, and landed in the flower bed in the median, amongst the summer petunias.

When the ambulance and police left, Rick found the phone. It sat inside a custom-made blue suede pouch. He turned it on, wondering if he could find the name of the victim, or a contact for ‘mom’ or ‘dad’. The first name in the contact list was ‘Atmpw’.

‘Atmpw’ whoever he was, had a strange phone number – ‘5455’. Rick knew that could not be a Canadian phone number. Perhaps it was a code to an automatic garage or a padlock. People keep all kinds of information in their cell phones. You can tell a lot about a man’s life just by looking through his phone, he thought. You can find his girl friend’s porno shots or his baby’s pictures. You can find out who calls him most frequently and the time of day of the calls. Then there were the text messages, sent and received. People say the most unguarded things in their text messages. He continued scrolling down the list, but found no ‘mom or ‘dad’ or even a ‘home’ number.

He checked the small pocket secured by a button on the side of the blue suede pouch and found a card. A Bank of Nova Scotia ATM card. Suddenly ‘Atmpw – 5455’ meant something to him. But he was not certain. There was only one way to find out.

He circled the bank of ATM machines until they were all clear of customers. Then he took out the card, held it by the edges so that he left no finger print on both sides in case the machine swallowed it, and guided it into the slot. When it asked him for a PIN he punched in ‘5455’ and waited nervously as the machine verified it. Bingo! He was correct. He felt pleased at his own cleverness.

‘What would you like to do today?’ the machine asked. Well, since we’re at it, let’s just see how much this fellow has, he thought. Probably nothing. Most people who had money wouldn’t be so careless with their bank card. He hit ‘Balance Inquiry’ and was surprised that there was three thousand and eighty odd dollars. He hit ‘Cash Withdrawal’ and asked for three thousand dollars. He felt he should not clean the poor man out. ‘Sorry, the limit on this account is five hundred per day’. Boy, these machines are exceeding polite, he smiled. No wonder no one missed those sour faced tellers. So he withdrew five hundred bucks.

Don't miss Part 3 (final installment) on Saturday.

Original Fiction – A Better Deal (Part 1)

2009-07-07T22:42:00.005-04:00

What happens when you pay cheaply to murder your husband.

Part 1 - The Deal is set. Parts 2 and 3 will appear later.

“You’re sure you can’t do it for fifteen hundred?”

“I’ve told you before. Absolutely not!”

“Alright, you will find his photo and the three thousand in mailbox number Thirty Three in Union Station. You can collect the key from the ‘Lost and Found’ counter. In a brown envelope addressed to a Mr. McKinley. There will be no need for us to contact again.”

The female voice hung up. She hated that she couldn’t get a better deal, as she was the one constantly nagging her husband: There’s always a better deal. Just look for it! But she couldn’t get it this time; it wasn’t like auto insurance. You can’t shop around for the best deal to knock off your husband. Even though she was an Economist, and understood that murder is not price sensitive, it still irked her that he would not budge on the price.

She took out her ledger and penned in three thousand under Miscellaneous.

* * * * *
The man replaced the receiver and took out his sanitizer to wash his hands, and the ear that was in contact with the public phone. He was a germaphobic. Union Station was just ten minutes away. He turned onto Front Street and joined the afternoon crowd streaming in that direction. Ironically, the ‘Lost and Found’ was difficult to locate. But once he found it, collecting the brown envelope was easy. No need for identification to prove he was Mr. McKinley. He retrieved the two tightly sealed envelopes from mailbox number Thirty Three and left before he could attract any attention. He boarded the Subway northbound to North York. His target was for six thirty. Place: the basement parking at 5140. He always parks at the second level, the woman had informed him.

This would be an easy job. A ‘domestic’, as he called it in his trade. No gang connection. No drugs. No connection with any law enforcement whatsoever – police, the judiciary or private eye. Just an unhappy wife who wanted out; or rather, who wanted the husband out. Just like the way some people grow tired of the cat they receive for Christmas. They just want it out of the house once the novelty dies out. Except in this case, she wanted the cat dead so she could keep the house to herself.

When he got out of the Underground, he squinted at the on-coming traffic and jay walked across the street to deposit the three grand at the ScotiaBank automated teller machine.

It was the easiest three grand he’d made in a long time. He should call Destiny and ask her out to dinner. When was the last time he saw that sexy ass of hers. Two weeks ago? That was the last time he made any money. He was paid two hundred bucks for talking to the pizza operator. He gave the man some ‘good friendly’ advice, which put things right between the sassy pizza man and the Boss so that the boys needn’t come and ‘fix up’ the pizza joint. He liked to talk real soft and slow. People always knew what that soft slow voice, coming from a big man like him, meant. Destiny would be happy to see him if he asked her to meet him at the 360 Restaurant on top of the CN Tower. She liked looking over the whole of Toronto at night. It made her feel like a queen. Like being in control. The wine, the music, the good food and the glittering lights of the city will put her into a really agreeable mood. Then they’ll adjourn to his place, or her place. Whatever she preferred. It didn’t matter to him, so long as he had her sexy ass again.

It was still late afternoon, with the summer sun suspended just below every driver’s sunshade. He fished out his cell phone to call Destiny, while jay walking back across the street. He was searching for a Tim Hortons or Starbucks where he could get a latte while waiting for six thirty. There was a screech and then a loud thud. He was out like a light. He did not hear the South Asian accent cursing him for stepping in front of the Yellow Top taxi. He was not aware of being lifted into the ambulance and raced to the North York General Hospital.

Next installment: The Husband

Stories Retold - The Taxi Driver

2009-07-02T17:30:00.002-04:00

Late one night a taxi driver dropped off a beautiful young lady in a red dress at an old house. The beautiful lady said she didn’t have the fare with her and would he mind waiting if she went in to get the money for him. Of course he didn’t mind waiting a few minutes, he said.

A few minutes turned into fifteen and then twenty minutes. So the driver got down and went to the door and knocked. He knocked for a long time before an old lady opened the door. The driver explained to her that he was waiting to be paid by the lady whom he’d just delivered to the door. The old lady said, “There must be a mistake. No one else lives here.”

“That can’t be so”, the cab driver insisted, suspiciously.

“Well, come on in and check,” the tired old lady offered.

The driver went into the house, thinking he’d find the beautiful young woman hiding in her room. As he approached the stairs, he saw a picture of the young woman in the same red dress. “That’s the young woman I dropped off this evening,” he told the old lady.

“You must be mistaken,” she said. “That’s my daughter. She died in a car accident ten years ago.”

The driver, his face turning pale, fled from the old house. A few days later, he died from his fever. They all do.

Wawa, the First Indoor Gardener

2009-06-26T21:32:00.009-04:00

I imagine the first cave woman (let’s call her Wawa) who brought a plant into her cave did it for purely functional reason. The weather outside must have been frightful (they didn’t understand thunder and lightning). So she stocked up on green vegetation inside her cave for rainy days (literally). That was the first house plant. Wawa, like all smart women, eventually observed that the plants nearer her cave entrance, closer to sunlight and rain survived longer. Over time, her knowledge of botany would have increased and she would have brought in other plants.

Forward a few thousand years to 2009, and Wawa is now more knowledgeable than a Renaissance professor of botany. She takes her houseplants seriously. And captains of industry take her seriously because houseplants are a billion-dollar industry. They try everything to pry that penny from her purse in exchange for cheap indoor gardening gadgets.

People whose plants have multiplied give them out for “adoption”, rather than composting them. (Why can’t we do that with babies, instead of abortion?) That’s where I get mine from. The plants, I mean. Not the babies. As a result, we now have a veritable jungle of house plants with untraceable pedigree.

I spent over two hours today in my garage re-potting some of my house plants. We only do it in the summer because the garage is butt-freezing cold in the winter. They’re worth the effort because their warmth and soft touch turns a hole in the rock into a hospitable cave. Wawa would have used it to smoothen and round out the jagged edges of her cave. When guests arrive, they’re always a good conversation piece. House plants sit there quietly and don’t bark or try to hump your guests.

I love trying to grow “semi-exotic” plants – things which don’t normally grow indoors in Canada. It’s the primordial instinct to push the envelope, to take new territories, to conquer the unconquerable. See my pineapple in the photo? It took five years to fruit! Probably the first “grown in Canada pineapple”. Patience conquers all! (I'm sure there's a Latin version of that which would make it sound really deep).

The banana – it out-grew the pot. So I “promoted” it to the backyard. But it’s not happy with the chilly summer night.

I even had taro in a pot. Also promoted to the backyard in the summer. I got no tuber because taro needs lots and lots of water, and at least 8 months to mature.

A Trinidadian friend of ours has been trying to grow sugar cane indoors, without success. I think sugar cane needs extreme heat and sun.

Wawa will be proud of the tradition she started. We can now have indoor plants from virtually anywhere in the world. We have shamrock from Ireland, pineapple from the tropics (actually the crown was from a store-bought fruit which came from Puerto Rico), orange from China (the seed was from the Chinese Sugar Rock orange) and all manner of cacti and orchids.

Bringing the forest indoors is not just a functional exercise. We do it to stay close to nature. Even as we destroy thousands of acres of rain forest daily, our souls are saying, “Stop! We need to be near plants!” Of course there are therapeutic reasons as well. But deep down it’s our souls’ silent rebellion against the relentless encroachment of the concrete jungle. Our souls have joined roots with the jungle to fight us. We have Wawa to thank for this peaceful expression of protest.

Lake Aquitaine

2009-06-23T12:52:00.005-04:00

The community gym I attend is located beside Lake Aquitaine. For a water-management man-made lake, it is very pretty. The city has been very successful in turning it into a green lung for people to enjoy.

My jog this morning took me past the regular open air Tai-Chi group. It appears to be a citizen-run voluntary initiative. A group of people decided they could benefit from communal Tai-Chi. They found some one with a tape recorder and low stage fright. I saw at least three people in wheel chairs swaying to the Tai-Chi music. Cool!

I saw new moms jogging and pushing their prams along the running path. I overheard retirees (they appeared to be retirees to me) debating the Iranian situation under the shade of the trees. There were the ubiquitous dog owners walking their pets, not a few which were overweight. Cyclists zipped by us, after a polite ring. City park workers were watering the newly planted flowers. And almost always, I see some baby sitters with three or four kids in tow. Sometimes you can tell they’re baby sitters by how different the kids look.

With the bright morning sun, a gentle breeze and temperature of about 22 Celsius (about 72 Fahrenheit), it was a perfect morning for a jog or a walk. It was just such a beautiful morning! Thanks be to God!

Stories Retold - The King with the Itchy Ear

2009-06-21T10:03:00.001-04:00

Here is another story that I read long ago. I don’t recall the title, so I just made one up. I hope my retelling does not mangle up the moral of the story.

Once there was a King who was dying from an incurable illness. Neither the court physician nor any of his wise men could help him. Finally the King sent a message throughout his land. “If anyone can find me a cure, I will give him anything he wants.”

Many people came to the castle and tried, but were unsuccessful. Finally an old man came to the King’s court and brought him a cure. When the King recovered, he and his court were extremely happy. The old man was brought before the King.

“What can I give you as a reward?” the King asked. “Do you want gold?”

“No thank you, your Highness, I do not want any gold,” the old man bowed in reply.

“What about land? I can give you acres and acres of rich farm land and make you a Lord. You will have many peasants as your serf.”

“No thank you, your Highness, I don’t want to be a landlord,” the old man again answered.

Finally the King said, “Ahhh…, I see. You want to marry my beautiful young daughter.”

“With the greatest of respect your Highness, I do not wish to marry your daughter, even though she is very beautiful.”

Exasperated and determined to pay off his obligation, the King asked, “So what do you want?”

The old man took a deep breath. “Your Highness, all I ask is that you allow me to nibble your ears whenever I feel like it.”

The King and his wise men adjourned to consider this strange request. Finally, seeing no harm in the old man’s request, they agreed.

Now, every Sunday the people of the land brought their petitions and requests to the King for him to consider. The King would listen to their stories and decide whether to grant the petition or to send them away.

Every time a petitioner appeared before his Highness to make his case, the old man would bend down and nibble the King’s ear before the King made his decision. The story soon spread amongst the people about the powerful old man who had the King’s ear.

Soon people were bringing the old man gold and jewelleries, gifts of land and farm animals and even their daughters as marriage proposals. The old man never said a word about what he whispered to the King.

Moral of the story: Sometimes perception is all that matters

Stories Retold - The Stone Junk

2009-06-18T23:00:00.003-04:00

Growing up, we heard and read many stories. Some of these are in danger of being lost forever, losing out to the likes of Nintendos and X-Boxes in their struggle for the attention of today’s younger generation. I hope to influence the outcome of this struggle by retelling as many as I can recall. Here’s one of my favourites.

In a remote village far, far away, there lived a poor old widow with one son. She loved the little boy more than anything else in the world. More than herself; more than all her worldly possessions, which were not much. They lived in a ramshackle hut which was badly in need of repair. The strong sea wind blew through it, and the rain would not leave her alone.

All her energy was spent tending her small plot of paddy field, and taking care of her little boy. She had no time for herself or to repair her hut. The boy grew into a strong young lad, helping his mother in the paddy field.

One day he told his mother, “I want to go out into the world and seek my fortune.”

The mother was very sad, for her world revolved around the boy. But she knew that he would not be happy until he had seen the world and found his fortune. So she reluctantly gave him her blessings. Packing his one change of clothing and a small pouch of rice, he kissed his mother goodbye and set out into the world, promising to return when he’d made his fortune.

Years passed and nothing was heard of the boy. The old woman grew more and more frail. Her paddy field yielded less and less each year, and her house looked more and more forlorn.

One day, there was a big commotion by the waterfront where the fishing boats docked. A big ship had sailed into their tiny little village. They had never seen such a huge and marvellous sailing ship. Accompanying the lead ship were five equally magnificent ships. Everyone in the village came out to look.

Soon there was a rumour saying that the old woman’s little boy had made his fortune and was returning to see his mother. A neighbour ran to her hut to tell her. She hobbled down to the harbour hardly able to believe the news. She was amazed to see the six huge ships with flags flying as high as the hills.

The rich captain appeared with a most beautiful woman, obviously his wife, by his side. She was as fair as the lilies that grew so abundantly in the village. The young handsome captain began to walk around the harbour.

The old woman ran up to the captain, “My son! My son! You have returned!” She threw herself at his feet; her old rags and unwashed body against his rich perfumed robe. He was embarrassed and recoiled in shame. Pushing her away he said, “I don’t know who you are woman! You are not my mother! You must be a mad woman!”

With that, he turned and returned to his ship with his beautiful wife still holding his arms.

The old woman was completely heart broken. Could her precious son be too ashamed of her? As the ships set sail, she stood there staring. Then with her arms outstretched and skinny fingers pointed at the ships, she said with a quivering voice, “If you are indeed my son, may all your ships and all on board turn to stone!”

Then, before the very eyes of the villagers, the entire fleet turned into solid rock. That is why the village of Tanjong Batu, once a fishing village beside the sea is today a mile from the sea. They say that if you visit the village today, you can still see the hills that are shaped like sailing ships.

Twitter

2009-06-17T00:19:00.000-04:00

We’ve finite time
2 make Peace Bells chime
So much 2 say
2 fix each day
End injustice
Solve Mid-East crisis
Find answers
In 140 characters
Can we?
YN

Some Things Are Impossible To Prove

2009-06-12T17:57:00.000-04:00

Not a day passes when I don’t think of God. I am not religious, pious or spiritual in the traditional sense.

I know it sounds passé, but I see God in the sunshine and in the rain. I even see God in pain and suffering.

One of the challenges thrown at me is to prove the existence of God. I’ve in turn forwarded it to God: Why don’t you just come down to earth and show Yourself to humanity. That will resolve the Basic Question: Do You exist? Then humanity can get on with doing the things that are more important instead of being embroiled in endless debate about God’s existence, like the recent advertisements on buses.

Then I wonder how God would do it. If I were God, how would I show Myself to Humanity so that people know that I exist?

I could not think of a way God could prove His existence to us, without we humans attributing it to some natural phenomenon or explaining the science behind it. (Apologies, I’m referring to God as masculine only for convenience.)

If God appeared as a loud voice only once, future generations won’t believe His existence since they didn’t hear it. If God appeared as a loud voice frequently, we’ll find a natural explanation for it e.g. thunder, ocean waves or wind.

If God appeared as a Person, we’ll put that Person in an asylum, or stone Him. If we only believed because we saw Him, what about future generations who did not see Him? If He appears daily to all generations of people, we’ll call the phenomenon something like the Sun, or Conscience, or Stars.

If God spoke to me or appeared personally to me, they’ll put ME in an asylum.

If God appeared to a group of people, we’ll call them a cult that had too much cool aid.

God can do all things. But I think there's something that God can’t do: He can’t conclusively prove His existence to all of us (past, present and future) without humanity finding a credible (natural?) alternative explanation that excludes His existence. The reasons for this will take more than one blog, so I’m not going there.

If anyone can think of a reasonable way for God to prove His existence, without humans being able to find an alternative explanation that excludes Him, let me know (keep it short, please).

I’ll like to ask God why He doesn’t do it, just to get over the Basic Question so that we can all get on with our lives.

Have a nice day.

Of Naked Truth & Men

2009-06-11T15:23:00.000-04:00

I try to make it to the gym regularly. Mornings are the best time because there are less people and they’re mainly more mature adults – retirees or stay-at-home parents. Not the twenty-something bundle of muscles that I tend to see later in the day. The morning crowd is very friendly; almost like a club. They know each other on a first name basis.

In the change room the other day, I was mesmerized by the serious political discussion between Al and Ray, while Tony was placidly crooning a gospel piece in the shower. Al and Ray must be upwards of seventy years, judging from their skin and the way they walk and hold themselves. Their spirited discussion was about the global financial crisis and the role of governments and the role of the corporate scoundrels who’d helped dig us into this hole. Each was taking turns gesticulating wildly with both hands to express how they felt about the various players in this crisis. I could sense that they were personally affected, probably from their devalued portfolios. But what caught my attention weren’t their emotions.

What hypnotized me was the entire picture. Standing there, in the middle of the change room were two people, whom some will cruelly refer to as ‘whales’. They had enormous pot bellies and double chins to go with them. Their skins were lily white and wrinkly. They were barefooted. And … and… completely stark naked! While discussing world economic crisis; expressing outrage at those responsible for threatening their retirement portfolios.

I guess ‘incongruous’ is one way to describe the scene. But as I thought about it, I began to appreciate the level of comfort between Al and Ray. My guess is that they were just gym buddies, and their friendship did not extend beyond the weight room. Hence their level of comfort with each other’s nakedness, while engaged in serious world economic issues, was all the more remarkable.

I just thought it wonderful that they had nothing to hide between them. Perhaps age disrobes us of our 'petty pride' and prejudices. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if our Prime Minister and all members of parliament could discuss issues completely naked? It will be a powerful symbol of honesty and transparency. Nothing to hide. Yours may be longer than mine, but that’s irrelevant in the discussion.

Not to mention what it’ll do to their motivation to work out and get in shape before each parliamentary session. Think about it.

In The Beginning ...

2009-06-08T15:43:00.000-04:00

So here I am, after so much vacillation. To blog or not to blog, that was the question. I’ve decided that I will try it. And see if you like it.

My blog name is Adirya Kiratas, obviously not my real name. Should I use my real name? I guess my real name is not relevant, and may in fact be distracting from what I want to blog about. Adirya Kiratas is the name of a character I created in one of my short stories, whom I took a liking to. That is the condensed version of the reason for the name.

My gender? I will also omit that, for now. Because that is also not relevant to my blogging.

I thought about my country and region of the country. It is, by the logic I was using, also irrelevant. But I gave in to my patriotic bias. Somewhat like giving in to that small scoop of ice cream after dieting for two weeks.

Over the next few blogs, I may add more details as I understand blogsphere and the inhabitants of this universe.

My blogging purpose: to open up my mind in the hope that someone will respond with wisdom and advice and thereby ventilate my mind of the occasional cobwebs. To engage in mutually beneficial discussions with cyber-travellers who happen to be passing through on their hurried journey somewhere else. TO SAVE THE WORLD!!! (lol)

A little about me. I hope to write for a living. I write now. But I fall into the category of the under-employed since what I do has no economic value, at this time. Perhaps your reaction to my writing will persuade me to get a day job. We’ll see.

In the meantime, thanks for visiting and hope to see you again.