Fiction

Mr. Warren had lived in our neighborhood for over a decade. He was old and wrinkled and thin, I remember him to be that way forever. I would often visit him on warm summer evenings when he would sit in his porch and listen to his stories from the past. The man had an adventurous history; he had tried his hand at different professions before settling down as a lawyer; he had been a sailor, been in the military, fought wars, killed men, and been to Brazil. Undoubtedly, he was the best storyteller I had ever known. I still remember the furrowed face, all vibrant in the soft evanescent rays of the setting sun, the expressions and his magical voice. On summer holidays, my evening destination would always be Mr. Warren's porch and he was always happy to have me as the engrossed listener to his stories. I don’t know why he liked me, may be since he had no family he sought refuge in our banter, or may be he found a strange portrait of himself in the growing me. For as long as I remember my childhood days and my growing up in the neighborhood, his memories are mingled and mashed inseparably with all my other experiences.

"Once upon a time on one moon lit night I stood on the deck of the ship and shouted out to the sea."

"What did you tell the sea Mr. Warren?"

"I am free…let my spirit fly like that bird in the sky"

Mr. Warren owned the biggest house in our neighborhood. While we all lived in modest white washed homes, the Warren house stood with ultimate grandeur in our locality, overlooking, may be with spite, the small, modest houses around. People used to call him the emperor of our neighborhood and Mr. Warren was thus nicknamed Chief. I had never been inside his house; I always sat in his porch on the green wooden swing amidst the rough smell of the tobacco that he smoked and the smell of his perspiration which made the evening breeze heavy.

"I heard the deafening sound of an explosion and moved forward. It was dark and cold. Corpses lay astray on the ground covered with mud and blood. I heard a shot and then my knee began to bleed"

"Who shot you Mr Warren?"

"The enemy, but then I defeated him. Let me tell you something boy, if you have to prove to the world what you are capable of then go ahead and prove it"

"I will remember it"

The swing rocked and the old, crumpled, sallow face looked at the open sky with his cloudy eyes while the white hairs on his almost-bald head were softly lifted by the evening breeze.

I grew up and joined college and had to leave my country roads for the sake of new life. My parents though still lived on in that old, smelly neighborhood. After joining my college, I discovered a new kind of life, a modern life full of outlandish pleasures, which I never liked. I always looked forward to the holidays, the smell of warm pies and cinnamon coming from the kitchen and the sound of a rocking swing.

Whenever I walked into the locality after a long semester, I looked forward to the silhouettes of my old memories--the old lanes, the green around, my parents, who seemed to be aging with every visit, and Mr. Warren.

On one such summer trip, on an ordinary summer morning, I went to the local grocery stores. I was walking up and down the aisles trying to find out exactly what I needed when I saw somebody in the electronics aisle sliding something in his pocket. He was a lean man wearing a grey suit. I didn't see his face as he was turning his back to me. I found the incident extremely unpleasant and told an employee about him.

"Did you see him sliding something? Are you sure?" he asked me.

I was sure and I narrated to him what I exactly saw, the man than called some other employees and talked something amongst them. I left the scene thinking how a respectable man (his dress made me think he was respectable) could steal in broad day light. Soon I heard a commotion around and rushed to see what happened. I saw a number of employees in their blue dresses and a number of police officers grasping an old man by his hands. . He was lying face down on the floor and protesting meekly. The man then lifted his face and to my surprise it was a face I had known since eternity. It was Mr. Warren. He found me in the crowd that had gathered to see what was happening and said "I did not do it". I did not know what to say, I was in a shock and didn’t know how to respond. The officers dragged Mr. Warren and took him out of the store. They instructed the customers to stay calm and stay inside until the problem was solved.

After sometime the commotion settled and the customers were allowed to leave. I rushed to an officer who stood at the gate and asked him what they did with the old man.

"We allowed him to leave; he is a respectable senior citizen. He deserves a second chance" he replied

Relieved, I felt happy and thanked him and asseverated his wise decision. Then I rushed out of the store and biked fast to Mr. Warren's home. Upon reaching, I found the old porch empty and the door locked from inside. I knocked on the door but Mr. Warren didn’t answer. The door never opened again and Mr. Warren never answered my call.

The police discovered his body hanging in a room in the second floor of the house. They found a letter with the body which said, "I am abashed by the abasement I encountered this morning. The embarrassment is too hard to live. For over fifty years I have been addicted to the fine art of stealing. I stole from beggars, from rich merchants, from children, from Kings and Queens, but nobody ever could ever catch me until today. If my profession as a lawyer had brought me money, my addiction to stealing and hoarding stolen objects had brought me pleasure and solace. It was a fun game in the beginning but then the obsession grew with every passing day and it overwhelmed me. It became a part of my entity, a hobby, a passion. But today…the game is over. I am caught".

I asked a police officer if I could see the room where his body was found.

"Sure" he replied and took me to a corner room in the second floor of the majestic house. It was the only time I had entered the local palace. It was beautiful, all the ornate furnitures and show pieces were in order. A huge LCD television stood in the living room. The officer took me to a corner room in the second floor. It looked like some kind of trophy room and had glass show cases on all the walls. Behind the glass a gamut of different objects were displayed and labeled. I found pens, knives, cheap cigarette lighters, a penny, an old hat, a fob chain and many other objects. They were evidently Mr. Warren's real treasures. I was amazed to see the room and was even astonished to learn that somebody whom I had known for all my life was a kleptomaniac.

In one of the glass showcases I found something, it was the camera that my father had got me on my tenth birthday which I had long lost.

The police removed Mr. Warren's dead body covered in white sheet and put it in an ambulance. With teary eyes the neighborhood and I bade Mr. Warren farewell. From then on nobody lost anything in our neighborhood