Crushed

The weight of a faulted life fell upon him. He felt his knees buckling as he strained to overcome. Many people passed by, some big some small. Some tried to lift the weight from him by themselves, while others just looked as they passed. Several had jacks that would have been perfect to help, but none used them and several even hide them so no one would know, thinking that if he was worthy he would not be under the weight to start with. Pintu seeing the need offered his jack and just like him he was crushed no more.

Victory Square

Mr. Simons sat with his back to the fire. Pintu leaned across the checker board opposite him. They each studied their moves carefully as the fire popped and crackled. Store patrons passed by and glanced their way. Neither spoke, just the checkers sliding across the board doing their talking. Finally after what seemed like hours, Mr. Simons’ finger lingered on a piece. Pintu’s ears dropped. Mr. Simons moved his piece slowly into the square. Pintu was pinned. Mr. Simons gave out a cry of victory that rattled the soup cans behind the counter. Pintu laid his dollar on the table

Coffee Table

Pintu waited patiently in front of the window, pot pie in hand. He stared up the street towards the main road. His eyes fixed on the bend in the distance. The pot pie steamed. Then suddenly his ears perked up, a large van came rattling around the corner. It came to an abrupt stop in front of his house. On the side read Tate’s Tables. Pintu’s ears went higher. As the two short men carried in a large box, Pintu turned on the TV. They removed a shinny coffee table and set it in the wanting spot. Dinner is served.

The Lighter

The dresser was clearly visible in the purple moon light that spilled in through the window. Pintu, his ears still damp from his tears, walked directly to it. He stood there facing it for a moment, memories rushing to him. He dragged a chair across the wooden floor and pushed it against the dresser. He climbed upon it and opened the top drawer. Inside was the lighter. Although he was sad he was not without hope. He knew where Mike was and he knew that he would be ok. The lighter shined in the dark drawer and Pintu’s eyes followed.

Poetry and Coffee II

The day had been hot and long. The steaming South American air had robbed the pickers of every last drop of energy. Pintu had deposited his beans in the bin along with the million others. As he sat there leaning against a tree and squinting through his heavy eyelids at the setting sun, one of the other workers began a soliloquy. “Soft and gentle, flowing straight, the sunlight from below, tomorrow waits. Tonight is ours, to lie and love, soft and gentle, our waiting dove.” Pintu’s eyes close as he thinks about home and all that waits for him there.

Poetry and Coffee

Two a.m. and the street was dark. The town had shutdown. One neon light shined on the wet street. Pintu walked slowly across the deserted street to get a better look. A low murmur could be heard seeping through the large plate glass. As he opened the front door the inviting smell of coffee hit him, but the beatnik sounds were abusive to his ears. He turned back to the street and the door flew shut behind him. Leaning against a parking meter was a dirty, ragged man. He looked up and softly spoke. “Brain, Train, Insane.”

Forty...III

The class was stunned as they watched the teacher stumble. Even the white-board marker seemed against him. After an awkward battle he threw it against the wall. His words forced,
“Ok class, you know this. How much is sixty minus twenty?”
He was right, but they dared not speak. Sweat plowed down his forehead.
Pintu in the back of the class pondered the situation. He knew this was not good.
Slipping out silently , he heard a cacophony of bangs and splats, and then a large and sudden boom. Then quiet. Pintu strolling away, thought to himself,
“I’m kinda thirsty”.

Forty...II

“35. How many cats did this lady have?” said Officer Sparks. “Look there’s another one.”
As the two uniformed cops made their way through the rubble in the darkened room, they caught the silhouette of something alive in the next.
“Shhhh, over there” whispered Sparks. They tip-toed quietly noting even more cats lying about. “37... 38... 39” said with a hush. As they turned the corner into the room, the image of a back lit Pintu leaning back sharply in his chair meet their eyes. He just stared at them, not moving a muscle, as they slowly withdrew their pistols.

Forty...I

Birthday candles blazing, Pintu leaned over the cake with his ears pinned back, to prevent them from singeing. As he took a deep breath grandpa shouted out,
“How many is that now?!” Pintu held the captive air. From the opposite side of the room Grandma returned even louder,
“5”! Pintu still waiting, his little cheeks bulging. Grandpa responded,
“If he’s 5 then I’m forty!”
“Death plus forty!” Grandma shouted over the huddled crowd.
“You would know!” yelled back Grandpa.
Pintu still hovering over the flaming cake, only his eyes following the volleys. His cheeks turning a patient shade of blue.

Wings

"Hey, what's the matter with it?"
Pintu lying on his back under the wing just turned and looked at him with a look of disgust.
"You going to be able to fix it?" he said with an unsure voice.
Pintu did not turn from his work this time.
"Did you try the centrifugal intake modular? Those are pieces of junk."
Pintu's dirty hands paused a moment, shaking his head, then back to work.
"Well, good luck. You'll need it," as he turned and walked away scratching a spot under his hat.
Pintu continued his work under the burned out fuselage.