The Angry Man

When his right fist crashed into his boss’ nose, he felt the jolt in his whole arm along with the crunch and squishy mixing of cartilage, flesh and splintering bone in the other’s face. In those few seconds, as in a slow motion picture, he watched globs of blood splattering and his boss’ face registering surprise, pain and slippery consciousness.

Thirty minutes before that, he had phoned his boss from his desk, “I have to go home. It’s urgent.”

“Sure…but, is today’s report ready?” said his boss in reply.

“Yes, I have mailed it to you and Mark.” Mark was their boss in London.

“Oh…you have sent it? I must have missed that mail…” his boss had sounded miffed.

He had breached protocol. He was supposed to complete the work and explain all the technical details to his boss; and then, his boss completes the task as usual by presenting the same details to Mark.

He had tried to rush the matter, “Yes, Mark has already replied…says everything looks great…”

“Oh, really…let me talk to him…could you wait for a few minutes?” his boss had told him.

He was still waiting. He had got three more calls from home during that time begging him to get home urgently. He had gone near his boss’ office couple of times, seen his boss doodling on a piece of paper, feet on his desk, chatting and laughing on the phone. His boss had gestured to him to wait.

Back at his desk, he had clenched his fist and dreamt. He had dreamt of crashing that fist into his boss’ nose. He thought of leaving without waiting any longer but he could not risk losing his job.

Forty three minutes after he raised his request, he saw his boss walking casually to the toilet and a few minutes later, with small talk and a show of camaraderie to the colleagues on the way, his boss finally reached his desk, “Ah…are you still here? I talked to Mark…everything is fine…”

He thanked his boss and scooted from the office.

Half-way to his house from the office, at the junction where he had to cut across the main road, his car was stopped by a policeman.

“You cannot go. A VIP’s car is coming…”

“Sir, can I just cross the main road? It’s an emergency at home…I just have to cross the road, that’s all…”

“No…the VIP is expected in a few minutes…”

Three local youths standing at a wayside tea-stall, smoking cigarettes and drinking tea, laughed at his frustration.

“Oy…look at blackie…blackie cannot cross…”

“Not blackie, man…just brownie…brown faggot…”

The third one sang a song about brown maggots and black crows.

It took him ten strides and three seconds to cover the distance to those youths. He had a jack in his right hand and a heavy spanner in the left. He gave the singer a whack on the head with a left swing; and, with a right upper cut, he cracked the jaw of the second youth. The one who had started it all tried to run but he lunged forward and caught him with a tackle. They landed hard on the ground. He pummeled the sides till the youth lost consciousness. Then, he walked back to the car to wait for the VIP.

He kept looking straight while he saw those images in his head. The boys left the scene after they finished their smoke and concluded that they had had enough fun at his expense. His hands were holding the steering wheel tightly. He wiped sweat off his forehead and armpits.

After twenty minutes, the policeman came to him, “Look, why don’t you park the car somewhere here, cross the road and catch a taxi on the other side?” He took the advice.

On the other side of the road, he did not find a taxi till he reached the next junction about seven hundred metres from where he left his car. The taxi-driver was sleeping on the back seat. He woke the driver and told him the destination. The disgruntled driver got out of the back-seat, leaned against the front door,

“Sorry, boss…problem with the engine…”

“Please, brother…there is an emergency at home.”

“Hey, am I your brother? Don’t call me your brother. Boss, I told you, right? There is a problem with the engine…”

He felt his fingers digging like claws into the driver’s neck; the thumb on one side and the four on the other side digging deep, nearly circling the air-pipe, ready to pull it out. In his eyes, the driver could see the eyes of a duelist, the eyes of a man ready to kill, ready to die, willing to settle for nothing less. He closed his eyes and he wanted to keep dreaming. But, he was too tired, too angry, too worried; even to dream…

The problem with the engine disappeared after he offered three times the usual fare. He sat in the back and tried to avoid the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

When he reached his house, his young wife came running to him, looking haggard and deeply worried. She was holding their baby tight, their little baby boy.

“I do not know what’s wrong with him. I took him to the hospital this morning for the usual shots and injection…after that, Oh God…he has not stopped crying. I have been carrying him since then but he won’t stop crying…shall we take him to the doctor…Oh God! What’s wrong with him?”

He took the baby, cradling him in the crook of his left arm. The baby continued crying, as if in deep agony; the baby’s cheeks suffused with red; and quite visibly, tired and angry. He looked at his child, at the little bundle in his arms, and felt as if all the barricades made out of strength, will and sense were collapsing within. He did not know what to do.

He held his wife close to him, trying to look calm, and he told her, “Let me change my clothes…let’s take him to the doctor…”

In their bedroom, he laid the baby on the bed, still cuddling and not wanting to let go of the poor little baby even for a minute.

The baby stopped crying and gurgled with relief, looking at his mother and father. His tired parents looked at him worried. The baby gave another gurgle of delight and this time, smiled, too.

“What happened to him?” his mother asked his father.

“I don’t know.”



Author’s notes:

[1] There is one thing I enjoy more than writing - tracing the source of thoughts or stories. About his book ‘Immortality’, Kundera says: “there are fewer gestures in the world than there are individuals,” therefore “a gesture is more individual than an individual.” For me, Milan Kundera’s ‘gestures’ serve as a metaphor for thoughts.
(http://www.kundera.de/english/Bibliography/Immortality/immortality.html)

[2] Given the Mittyesque roots of my story, the source was obvious: one of the best short stories I have read – James Thurber’s ‘The Secret Life of Walter Mitty’ [1941]
(http://www.all-story.com/issues.cgi?action=show_story&story_id=100).

[3] Why did the baby stop crying? Elementary! The baby cried when the ‘new’ parents carried him and lovingly held him tight against them; and, unfortunately, pressed the spot on the bum where the baby was injected that morning.

[4] This is based on a true life incident. I was the baby. I still cry. I still gurgle with delight. But now, I cannot smile.