The Five People You Meet in Heaven

Mitch Albom has always been readers’ delight. He is not a roller-coaster writer, but writes with great feelings and emotions. That he is frugal with words never hampers his portrayal of characters that are mostly pragmatic and down to earth species, not high-flying angels.

 ‘The Five People You Meet in Heaven’ [FPYMH], Albom’s current best-seller, coming as it does from a gentry of thrillers, is an interesting read with an innovative plot. Eddie, the protagonist of the novel, a maintenance mechanic in a Theme Park, dies in an accident, goes to heaven and meets a bunch of five people there whom he had known while living on the earth but forgotten them at the time of his tragic death. Five different people with five different quaint characters trigger Eddie’s memories, both sweet and sour.

I sat through a night and read the novel in one draught. It was a sort of scary, ominous night whose deadly silence and somnolence got torn apart by streaks of lightning followed by a heavy downpour and ramblings of thunder. I felt a little frightened when I saw the eerie ambience of the novel slowly setting in my room [was it an optical illusion?]

Eddie’s meeting with five of his old acquaintances in heaven was so exciting that I was tempted to think about my own choice of the people with whom I would like to have a rendezvous in the ‘swargaloka’ [Since the Balance Sheet of my life is full of assets I hope that I would go only to heaven… he he he] Choices are many and a host of [read ghost] people appeared before me from nowhere and said:’ hello’. It was more or less a ‘Hobson’s choice, and after much dilly- dallying, I zeroed in on the following five people and wrote their names in my diary.

                 

1. Father
2. Uncle
3. Mother Theresa
4. Babuji
5. ??????

The night was getting old and I grew weary not able to catch up with the name of the fifth person whom I would like to meet in heaven. Leaving thus the fifth column blank, I put down my diary with a sigh and hit the bed.

 When I woke up in the morning, I heard Naveen’s, my brother, meeting with an accident the night before in the Chennai Bangalore National Highways while driving his car. My wife told me that Naveen’s condition was critical and he was battling for life in a sub-urban hospital. I felt shattered, smelling funeral in the air.

 The hospital was unusually crowded. The chief doctor, a tall and portly man, told me in a subdued tone that Naveen’s condition was most critical and he had the only remote chance of recovery. I stood still, unable to piece together the breaking mind. ‘Naveen … Naveen’, my mother screamed. Since I couldn’t console her, I hauled her into the other side of the hospital. 

  

An old woman who was standing at the entrance to the ICU for long came over to me in quick steps and sat by my side. She peered at me long and said nonchalantly: “I saw your mother crying in the ICU moments back. Make up your mind. No one can wish away god’s command. Today is Mahashivratri day. And whoever dies today will go to only heaven.”

Heaven! Heaven!! Heaven!!!

 I was startled, got up abruptly as if I was stung by a scorpion. The moment I heard the word ‘heaven’ from the old woman, I felt it ripped open my heart and made my head spin. It looked as though the woman did not utter the word, but by an oracle that might be lurking somewhere in the hospital. For, I began to think about the blank space I had left in the fifth column of my diary after reading Album. ‘Is it destined that I should fill the blank space with Naveen’s name? I thought plaintively. 

Time was not moving, only crawling. There were moments of anxiety, moments of despair, moments of crying, moments of despondency and moments of my cursing god when doctors shrugged off their shoulders dismissively and pouted their lips about the survival of Naveen. I felt I was in the eye of a storm. A new sense of guiltiness started running through my veins as I began to think again and again that it was Naveen who was going to fill the 5th vacant column in my diary. What a horrible coincidence? God must be ‘tyrannous and rough’, I thought helplessly.

But, to my great relief, God proved Himself otherwise. For, on the ninth day, the chief doctor came to the hospital lounge where I was sitting crestfallen and browsing a newspaper. He was all smiles, told me that Naveen was alright and his condition was stable.

“OMG! ‘Thank you doctor… thank you very much,’ I shouted, shook hands with the doctor, though I couldn’t see him for the tears. I had no inclination to go to the ICU and see Naveen. I flew home in my Santro. Reaching home, I climbed up the stairs and reached my room in one bound. Still breathing hard, I took out my diary from the table and wrote the word ‘god’ in the fifth column, which was blank until now. Only after putting down the diary again on the table, I let out a sigh…a sigh of relief. My face became more luminous and my dying spirits got a new momentum. The FPYMH was still lying on the bed. I didn’t know why I laughed when I took the book in my hand again.

I know some of you may call me a superstitious guy or an emotional freak or a pessimist or an idiosyncratic bloke. But, now, having got my brother alive from his grave, I don’t give a damn to what others say and what taunting appellations I get from them.

Image courtesy: Google

Smoking Elephant!

Dec.25, 2012

 [Rena looks intently at Sham, clears her throat and starts reading aloud a book]

 Rena: To train elephants not to run away, the Indians would capture baby elephants and tie one of its hind legs with a strong rope to a stake fixed firmly in the ground.

 [She pauses for a while, looks again at Sham and continues]

 Rena: For the first few days the baby elephant would struggle to break free, but without success. When the elephant was fully grown and was able to uproot the stake, its memory would keep telling: ‘You cannot break.’ So the elephant was no longer bound by the rope and the peg, but by its memory.

 [Sham puts out his cigarette, blinks at Rena.]

  Sham: Why, Rena? Why do you read me a fairy tale from Manu’s [daughter] text book?

 Rena: It’s not a fairy tale, but a real one… happening everywhere.

 Sham: What the hell you’re talking about?

 Rena: Come on; tell me Sham, why can’t you stop smoking?

 Sham: That’s habit. I have grown with it helluva time.

 Rena: Yes, that’s it. Your habit is like the stake. You’re the elephant tied to it. You always think you can’t break coz: you lack desire, decision and determination.

 Sham: Uh, what is wrong with you today? Think the day is not dawned well for me.

 Rena: Nothing wrong with me. I’m as clear as the day. Now, tell me how many packs of cigarettes are you smoking daily?

 Sham: May be three. [He sulks; looks away from her]

 Rena: Three packs [she screeches] and that means 30 cigarettes

.

 Sham: Yea, you’re right. I never saw a pack with more than 10 cigarettes.

 Rena: Be serious Sham. Do you know that the odds are every cigarette you smoke shortens your life by five and a half minutes? By this time you must have been dead.

 Sham: Stop preaching, Rena. Every one knows the hazardous of smoking.

 Rena: Then why don’t you kick it. It’s a habit, an acquired one at that. You can undo it if you have the will-power. Why don’t you see the elephant in the room?

 Sham: I can’t do that Rena. I smoke not to flaunt my machismo. Nor I smoke for the heck of it. Rather, the white sticks are my shock-absorbers… god’s gifts like Noah’s ark. I have had so many tragedies in my life… so many skies had fallen on my head. But still, the white sticks carry me well through the debris of my life. They help me blow away my pains and accentuate my pleasures. They relieve unpleasant, overwhelming feelings. They provide me with the power of creative imaginations. I was wedded to the stick long before I have married you.

 Rena: You trickster, stop waxing eloquent about a bad habit.

 [She now starts yelling at him. What starts as a war of words ends in Sham getting a potpourri of things thrown at him-vessels, TV remote, newspapers, and combs et al. Peace returns after a prolonged pell-mell? Sham becomes apologetic and yields.]

 Sham: Stop Rena. Enough is enough. You want me quit smoking. Yes, I would do it from 1^st Jan. Now, as you say, I have the desire and decision, will implement it with determination.

 Dec. 30, 2012

Rena: Why, what’s it Sham? Now, you’re smoking four-packs-a-day.

 Sham: Yes, Rena. I do it with a purpose. You know that things you consume too much will make you fed up with them. I’m smoking now four packs-a-day because that will make me contemptuous of smoking and ultimately I will hate smoking. I’m always ingenious, have my own scheme of things to tackle new critical situations.

 Rena: I don’t think so. Quite oft your ingenuity brings only chaos. Anyway, good luck, Sham.

 Jan.10^th2013

 Rena: Sham, you’re still smoking. You smell of nicotine. Why don’t you keep your promises? Why you lack determination? You have a chicken for heart.

 Sham: Don’t get alarmed, dear. Sit down, perk up your ears and hear what I say.

 [She sits down reluctantly on the sofa, a bit agitated. Sham takes out a paper from his pocket and starts reading]

 Sham: True, the bull elephant find it hard to break free from the stake, since its memory says: ‘You cannot break free.’ But, a cow elephant calls on him soon and tells him: ‘you darkie moron, you can just-like-that uproot the stake if you shut down your memories. The world outside your stake reckons you. Once you free yourself from the chains, you can feel free air; roam about as you like. Try your luck, dear.

 The bull elephant now breaks the chain that bound him to the stake. It starts roaming about the town and eats whatever it wants. The delight of having broken its bond and thereby having freedom wanes as time moves on. It feels a sort of loneliness, hates its new-find freedom. It’s craving for the stake and that makes it desolate and depressive. Now that it has gone too far from its stake, it cannot reach to its chains. It struggles, trumpets in dismay and finally dies of cardiac arrest.

 [Sham smiles at Rena sheepishly, but has no guts to look into her eyes]

 Rena: So what you’re up to. Why do you manufacture such cow and bull story? What you mean telling such a story?

 Sham: Hmmm… I mean to say… [He fumbles for a moment, looks at the ceiling and continues.]Okay Rena, now you decide:  do you want a smoking elephant at home or wants him die of heart attack because of HWS?

  Rena: HWS???

 Sham: Habit Withdrawal Syndrome.

  Rena: My Holy Christ! All said and done, don’t you know smoking is injurious to god?

Sham: How?

Rena: Every human body is a temple and god lives in every soul.

Sham: Honey, don’t speak ill of god’s powers. He is almighty. He won’t get injured by a few bellows of smoke I’m blowing in and out.

Rena: You’re a cheat … hopeless argumentative Indian. [She races to the bed room and plops on the bed, stupefied]

PS [This is what I call my ‘wild writing’, letting my pencil to roam about the white sheets. I would also, virtually, give him a clump of clay and allow him to make out of it either a god or devil. However, my pencil fellow never fails me. Most of the times, he would come out with a god like this short play. But, I don’t know what your take is? Do you credit him with colors or send a knife to cut him into pieces. [Smile]

Image courtesy: Google