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The New Year's eve in Paris this year was abnormally subdued. There was no air in the atmosphere; just snow. The snowflakes were falling like little beads of crystal floating through mist. The distant sky left an illusion of dusk light but the veil of enveloping snowy haze made sure that the Eiffel Tower would soon become a miniature Everest, against a gloomy skyline. There were no snowmen in the street sand no fountains of champagne a surprisingly fewer number of people were dancing about the Champs Elysees and an unknown, rather a fearful drowsiness prevailed Paris.
Ted was dying. Not with pain or hunger or any tumour or bullet but with sheer severe thirst. The irony was that there was snow all around him and no fluid, no water at all. He had already made the mistake of putting a handful of snow in his mouth, in hope that it would melt and somehow quench his thirst but it only left him sore and bitter and he had to choke and spit. The mere thought of doing it again made his flesh crawl. His tongue had turned into a dry, wounded twig, his lips blue and chipped. Ted had not tasted anything in four days and had not drunk water since Christmas Eve. He had a tattered ancient rug wrapped around his frail shoulders and a pair of shapeless sockless bundle of fibres on his numb feet.
He wanted to walk across the street to the dustbin but he could not move. He wanted to offer his last prayers but could not lift his arms. He wanted to scream with anguish but could not part his lips. He was thirsty, dead thirsty.
***
Mr. George Lockhart was frustrated. It was the sixth time in the last half an hour and he was exhausted. He did not feel like leaving his warm bed but neither did he want to wet the cozy quilt. Diabetes and a loose prostate had been concerning him for ages but this holiday season it had been aggravated due to his religious affection towards wine. Every other minute he felt the urge to urinate. Desperately, George left his cozy, comfortable bed. Involuntarily he peeped down his apartment window and saw a beggar sitting down the snow-covered pavement beside the drainage pipe. He ran towards the toilet and without attempting to sit, he released the agitating pressure.
Ted heard something. He felt a ray of hope somewhere near. A rumbling sound of flowing fluid caught him off guard. He turned aside and saw a drainage pipe running down the pavement. There was a tiny opening in it. Hurriedly, Ted put his fragile index finger into it. A flushing glee hit him as a stream of warm fluid touched his numb finger. He pulled his wet hand out and gently started licking it with relish.
One of them released and the other ingested but both were relieved.
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Writer Profile
Saad Javed
I write not because I can. I write because I have to. Good or bad, I have to keep the stream flowing. Words express a human's disposition, so better out than in!
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Comments
Muhammad Awais Aftab | Jun 20th, 2005
A very touching piece...thought provoking!
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