Bull's Eye!

“See anything, Bolivar?” the spotter softly spoke to the sniper.




He shook his head in negative.



The scorching sun was making both of them uncomfortable, but none of them moved. They were trained not to; trained to stay still for hours together.



The whole setting was as arid as you can imagine. Afghanistan at this time of the year was boiling. Camouflaged between two rocks, their sights were fixed at the broken highway. The distance must have been 950 yards from where they were. To be exact, it was 962 yards.



They kept on surveying the highway looking for the movement they waited for.



Their local contact had informed the Intelligence guys that a top-ranked Taliban Cleric known as “Mr. W” would be using that road to visit a village few miles from there any time in those three days. The news was important. Top-level classified. Absolutely at the last moment, the duo of Bolivar and Hector was dropped at the location. Operation Green Turban was on. 3 Days it was!



“I doubt if he would arrive”, Hector murmured. “The frigging son of a gun must have been tipped off”.



He did not react. The wait had been long, and he hoped that it would end soon. At the same time he knew that time was a dimension which did not apply to their line of work. What mattered was “timing”. He patiently waited. He took a sip from a small pipe which made its way to a bottle of glucose water in his backpack.



His eyes were on the road. The landscape was barren yet beautiful. For miles, they could not see anybody. Their only point of contact was with the mobile command post some Fifty miles away. A company of Marines had spread around the place to take care of an ambush if required.



The orders given to Sergeant David Koffler (Code name Bolivar) were very clear- “Take out the cleric and extract”. Shoot and scoot.



They waited.



******



“My baby sister is having a baby”, Hector announced. His non-stop blabbering had disturbed David during their initial years as a team, but slowly he adjusted to it. Now he “filtered” his words. Hector was extremely good with his eyes and that is what mattered to “Bolivar”.



Somehow, there was nothing in sight today. For hours they lay waiting. The sun was getting ready to set. The chill in the breeze increased.



“39 Hours”, Hector announced. Bolivar just nodded back.





******



His M40 A3 Rifle was his best friend. A complex amalgamation of fiberglass and gunmetal, she was put into his hand the moment he reported for duty after clearing “Sniper School”. Yes! She was beautiful.



He treated “her” like a woman. It’s funny, but he had named her “Lady Di. “She” had killer curves that slid into his arms, her head comfortably resting on his shoulder. Once his eyes met hers and his finger lingering over her lips-like trigger, they became together a deadly combination.



There were a lot of thoughts on his mind. Primarily he thought about the mortgage payments on the small house in Calabasas that he and his wife Linda had decided upon before he left for Afghanistan.



“Will we be able to afford it, David?



“It’s steep, but we should be able to get it”.



They looked at their three children who were growing up with time. David’s mind argued with the incoming financial burden. The house might have a price but the happiness of his family was priceless.



******



They took turns to nap. It was a normal routine that David and Hector followed.



David thought about the day before the operation started. They were summoned to the Commanding Officer’s office with one word- This is Top Secret.











“Guys, Operation Green Turban- this is important and this is classified- top level” Colonel Brad Haskins informed them.



They were to be dropped into wilderness two hundred miles into enemy territory for a “strategic elimination”. The target was top priority.



“You do not get to know who it is, you do not get to know where he is till the last moment. Lt. Miller will be Fifty miles away at a mobile command post relaying orders and helping you if need be.”



“Roger, Sir”, their voices echoed.



“This is important. Your success can bring a lot of stability to the regime here, and force the suckers in Pentagon to let a lot of us go back home. Remember, Snipers do not read history, they write it”.



******



Mr. W was recognizable from his trademark green turban. The information that came to them was that Mr. W always came out wearing a green turban and dark sunglasses. As soon as the green turban was visible after stepping out of the car, Hector murmured.



“Wolf in range”



“962 Yards distance, wind at 13.50 miles an hour, target locked”



Bolivar took aim. “Lady Di” was ready to breathe fire. His index finger tightened on the trigger. And then what happened was not imagined by them even in their wildest dreams.



Another man wearing a green turban and dark sunglasses stepped out of the car.



“Stop, we got a bogey”, Hector murmured. Bolivar loosened his grip on the trigger.



Then another man wearing the same attire stepped out. In total there were three people in the entourage who could be Mr. W- or could it be none of them?



******

Mr. W did not enter the village. He waited for someone.



Bolivar meanwhile was studying all the three men that could probably be Mr. W. They were similar. They stood in three different directions thereby reducing the probability of the correct man being shot to one-third. None of them moved. The end of the green turban fluttered softly in the breeze.

Some people were walking towards the entourage. Bolivar waited. He knew they would approach the correct Mr. W and then he could take his shot.



Each person was searched thoroughly by the guards of Mr. W at a safe distance. One by one they were cleared.



“I think it’s the left one”



Bolivar negated Hector’s view. He knew there was a catch here. He couldn’t take the shot. If he missed, a gun battle would ensue dimming his chances of eliminating his target.



He found it. He knew who and where the real Mr. W was.



“Wolf inside the horse. Horse wearing Kevlar”



“What?” Hector exclaimed.



Yes, there he was! Mr. W was sitting inside the bulletproof SUV.



“Lady Di” breathed fire.



The round went and hit the tire puncturing it. The hissing sound brought a few people closer to the car. Bolivar shot again puncturing the tire of the second car. They were lucky. Mr. W came with a small entourage which had minimum security. He probably did not want to draw attention. This was boon for the marines and a bane for him.



The Afghans started firing volleys towards him. But he was far. They shouted into a radio asking for reinforcements.



Hector spoke into the radio, “Pack of wolves retreating. Heavy growling. Send in the flying cats”.



David was strategically eliminating every target he could find. Each round after the other went deep into human flesh taking away a life with it. He looked in every direction but could not find the target he was looking for. Mr. W was nowhere to be seen.



He found what he was looking for. Somebody opened the door to the SUV and the real Mr. W came out.



David took the shot. The ammunition round left the barrel of his rifle and went in the direction aimed. When it hit the target, every nerve in David’s body breathed a sigh of relief.



******



He did not know where it came from. He did not know what hit him. All David Koffler remembered was that he felt was something hitting him hard followed by immense pain in his shoulder.



The next he remembered was waking up in the Base Hospital. CIA meanwhile had confirmed that Zardar Azgari, the second most influential cleric of the Taliban regime was confirmed killed.



******



The formal investiture ceremony was held at the White House. Staff Sergeant David Koffler was among the 7 men honored by the President of the United States for their uncommon valor in the face of the enemy. Their acts were considered beyond the call of duty, and the first citizen led the nation in expressing their gratitude to these selfless men.



“Staff Sergeant David Koffler, United States Marine Corps”.

The voice cited David’s act of bravery, which ended as, “….Staff Sargeant Koffler’s uncommon valor in the face of enemy gave the Marines an added advantage to fight the adversaries of democratic rule in Afghanistan. His steadfast devotion and unwavering courage to fight even when heavily outnumbered upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service”

The awardee walked up to the dais and saluted the Commander of the Armed Forces. The salute was crisp. The “Medal of Honor” was pinned to his chest. After shaking hands with the President, he saluted again”.



This time the President noticed something different.



The Marine did not have an index Finger on his right hand. It was later that the President was informed that an Afghan Militia sniper had shot Sgt Koffler. The bullet passed nicked his shoulder but hit his hand before doing so. His index finger was damaged beyond any repair.



Staff Sergeant David Koffler will never hit the bull’s eye again.



P.S. The plot and the characters are all figments of my imagination. Any resemblance to any place or event or person-dead or alive is purely coincidental.

The Imperfect Date!

The events of this piece of writing unfold over an evening. No! They stretch into the night. At the outset, I apologize to the young couple. I am genuinely sorry.



Yes! I was eavesdropping on their conversation. I had gone to the café after a tiff with my wife. Actually, I wanted to go to a pub and get drunk. Then I changed the “poison” to caffeine, and the place to a café after it struck my mind that my drinking and driving might not go down well with the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD).



The café was called, “Insomniac’s Den”. It came as a relief for me. I parked my car on the street and stepped into the dimly lit hall. The place was jam-packed. The hall comprised of a huge coffee bar behind which stood a matronly lady in her sixties. She gave me a stoic look and then went back to her vocation.



I looked around. About two dozen people were seated in the room. The seating was somewhere in between ”cozy”, and “cramped”. The walls needed a coat of fresh paint and were adorned by oil paintings which had lost its glaze. Forget it. The whole décor could have made an old-timer nostalgic.



I took a seat on small bench in the corner from where I could watch the street through the glass. It creaked. The question on my mind was whether it had the ability and the capability of sustaining the 170 pounds of mass that I was composed of. Very soon the bench made it clear that it would support my posterior in spite of the fact that it was on its way to its grave.



I kept the keys to the car on the table along with my tablet and surveyed the patrons. Most were students. They either had books or laptop computers opened in front of them. The most peculiar thing about the place was that everybody had a different mug. Maybe this café was oblivious to a historical event called “Industrial Revolution” which brought the concept of “Homogeneous Product” to this world.



Another peculiar line that caught my attention was- “Please do not embarrass us by asking for the Wi-Fi password, if your invoice is less than $ 5”. So, this was the catch.



My eyes stopped at a young man to my left. He must have been about a decade younger than me. He was trying to ward off the chilly weather by rubbing his hands together or wrapping them around the mug of coffee in front of him. His eyes were on the door, indicating that he was awaiting somebody’s arrival. His impatience was evident from the fact that he looked at his watch every few seconds and then his gaze would go back to the front door.



Bingo! This was my “subject” for this evening. I forgot to mention that my favorite pastime was “observing people”.



“This should be fun”, I told myself. I got up to order my cup of coffee. Since I had no use of Wi-Fi, I decided that a $ 2.80 cup of cappuccino would suffice. The matronly owner gave me another of her stoic expressions, as she filled up a white porcelain cup with the caffeine-laced brew and creamed it.



“Is this a cappuccino?” I asked her.



“Yes”, she exclaimed as if she felt I was questioning her brewing abilities. She reiterated it by making a sound while putting the cup on the counter. The “thud” scared me. I convinced my mind that this indeed was “cappuccino”.



******



She walked in soon. She scanned the environment inside the café. She looked at each of us, and making calculations in her mind.



“Oh my God! This was a blind date”.



The eternal optimist in me hoped that she would come and ask me if I was “He”. Unfortunately, this happens only in movies where both the drop-dead gorgeous actors of opposite genders bump into each other by coincidence.



I looked the other way. I did not want to portray myself as a middle-aged pervert (Which I indeed was not).



Then her eyes met his. They both smiled. She waded her way through the seating which was somewhere in between “cozy”, and “cramped”. They hugged.



“Hi”, she said.



“Hello Ashley”, he replied. So her name was Ashley. I made a note in the small notebook which I always carried with myself. I called it the “human log”. This notebook which had been with me for a couple of months was clear evidence of my proximity to “mid-life” crisis.



Small talk started. I started keeping a track of their words.



His name was Paul Dalton (I did not know his name then. I learnt it later), and he was an Investment Banker! What? An Investment Banker? So am I buddy, I wanted to tell him. But at this point of time, Mr. Dalton was more interested in chit-chatting with the lady about weather and punk rock than talking about complex derivatives with another “Investment Banker”.



I thoroughly understood his state of mind. There are indeed far more interesting things in this world than Derivatives.

******

“What made you interested in my post”, she asked him.



Oh! These guys met at some dating site. “Not bad”, I told myself.



He was generic when he replied- “I liked your honesty. Your wit was attractive and your choice of words was exact. Overall I liked your personality”. She blushed. He smiled.



“What are you looking for?” he questioned.



“I told you. I was looking for a SWM for an LTR”. What she meant by that, I wondered. It was a little bit too much for my pea-sized Brain. It was my wife who later enlightened me. SWM meant a single white male and LTR meant a long term relationship. Phew!



I overheard her telling him that she ran a pet-care business and had modeled for a few commercials. Paul’s eyes widened. He was impressed.



Her cellphone rang. She excused herself and went out to talk.



He took out his cellphone and called somebody.



“Al, hey buddy, how are you? It’s going good. Yeah, I met her. She’s cool. Yeah! She’s hot too”



“No, you don’t come here. No, you don’t meet her now. Maybe later. No, am not sleeping with her. No!!! I just met her, you pervert”



“Spare me Al. I kind of like her. She is cute, and peppy, and bubbly, and sweet, and sexy.” Paul went on and on.



“She probably walks dogs? What? Stop being judgmental you nitwit. Get lost you jerk”.



******



She returned with a smile. They sipped the coffee and stared into each other’s eyes. What eyes? They were staring at all over each other.



I missed my wife. I sent her a text saying, “Miss you Darling”.



She replied instantly, “Get some eggs on your way abck. Make sure they are neither too big nor to small”. How Romantic! I wondered.



******



After a while he excused himself to go to the men’s room. When he was out of sight, she fished out her cellphone and dialed a number. Her nervousness was portrayed by the fact that she looked in the direction of the restroom to ensure that he was nowhere in audio or visual distance.



“Mary, yeah! Hi, it’s Ash. Hi. How is it going?”



“Oh yes, he is cute and seems quite nice. Plus he is kind of loaded. He told me he drives a Lexus and lives in Park La Brea”.



“Loaded”, I smiled to myself. What a use of the word.



She continued. “Mmm Hmmm. He is sensitive and his eyes are just so expressive. I mean, he is impressive. But he fumbles with his fork. Plus he lacks a sense of fashion. That can be worked upon” She justified her choice to her friend.



I tried to visualize Paul in fashionable attire with her by his side. They would look cute, I concluded.



“Anyways, I am going to call you back. He fits in. bingo!” she cut the call and blushed to herself.



******

They got up.



“Let’s take a walk”, he said. I wanted to let them know that it was chilly outside, and this chill was not good for a spectator like me. But neither did I have any reason to tell them nor did they have any reason to accede to my demands.



They walked out into the street. I followed.



Oh it was chilly.



In some time they held hands. They were unaware that I was apparently going “mid-life” crisis, and had to buy eggs on my way home. And yes, mind you, the eggs are neither to be too big nor too small.



His hand was on her waist. Hers was on his shoulder. They were unaware that I was having a tiff with my wife, some idiots were fighting in Syria, Europe was going through a debt crisis and Obama administration wanted men to take pregnancy insurance.

They kissed. Oh yes! The defining moment finally arrived. They looked passionate.



They broke from the embrace after a while. “You had your tongue half-way down my throat, and I do not even know what your last name is”, she charged him. I could not help but laugh. I was standing at the bus stop where these two potential “lovebirds” smooched to glory.

He smiled and said, “Dalton, Paul Dalton”. I wonder if it would have made a difference if the chaps name was “Osama Bin Laden or George Herbert Walker Bush”. He would still have had his tongue halfway down her throat.



“Ashley Roberts”, she said. They held hands and walked to the parking lot. He opened the door to her car and let her in. After a while, she drove off.



******



“Hey Pal”, said somebody. I was walking merrily to my car. I never thought it was for me. “Hey Pal”, the voice repeated. I looked back. It was Dalton, Paul Dalton.



“Hello there”, I said.



He looked at me with mixed emotions. “You were prying on us, you realize that?”



“Yes Sir, probably I was”



“Probably? No! You certainly were”, he emphasized.



“I apologize if it affected you”, I told him and added, “I am a writer. So, could not let go of such a beautiful plot to write about”.



Mr. Dalton looked impressed. He flexed his muscles and said, “You saved yourself, buddy”. Make sure I don’t see you around.



We smiled to each other and parted ways.



******



P.S. The plot and the characters are all figments of my imagination. Any resemblance to any place or event or person-dead or alive is purely coincidental.

Parking Ticket

Katherine Hudson (That was the Anglicized version of her Indian name)! Her Indian name could be of consequence here, but let’s call her Kay. Like the character- Kay Adams in “The Godfather”.
 
Nothing special about the name, isn’t it? True! There was nothing special about her. Neither she had the looks to be called a “beauty”, nor did she possess wealth to be called an heiress.

There was one thing different about Kay. She was bright, she was smart and she was extremely intelligent. Her academic inclination blossomed as she stepped into her teens. For some reason, she hated being beaten by anybody in academics. Her ambition of playing with numbers took a definite shape when she got into a bachelors course in Economics. Her ability to question, and question with conviction impressed one and many. She did not aspire to go places. She thirsted for knowledge.

She was an obedient child. When she turned twenty-one, her conservative parents found a good match in Kumar and got her married. Kumar’s credentials were impressive- He lived in the United States, had a green card, earned a decent salary and above all came from the same caste as hers. Kumar was a good husband. Although he made no efforts for them to become soul mates, he was a good provider, protector and everything else, which was expected of a decent Indian husband.

For the next nineteen years, they lived a life which ranged from being mundane to being exciting. Kumar encouraged her to study further and find professional success.

She started working for the local library initially and took classes in the community college. Then she became a teller in a Bank and in a few years saved enough to get into the Business School of a State University. When she graduated, she was hired by a Stockbroking firm. After a while, she shifted to Investment Banking and very soon the Bank realized that she was a banker with a “Midas touch”.

One fine day her world came crashing down.

Kumar had just come back from work. She found him sitting on the sofa when she entered the house. He looked at her and said, “I need a Divorce”.

“What?”

“Yes, I need a divorce”, he repeated.  She did not react. Maybe she was dreaming.

It then went through the usual way.

He started explaining things. She was in no mood to listen any of that. She did not even want to hear the name of the “woman” whose compatibility quotient in a few months was much more than theirs in those nineteen years that she and Kumar had spent together.

She just said, “Will you handle the legalities”.

The normal reaction expected of her would have been tears and drama. But Kay mind and soul were made of a different alloy. She was calm all throughout the ordeal. Even in these rough times, Kumar was considerate. Or maybe, he felt guilty for what he was doing. He sold the house and divided the proceeds equally between them. They did not have any children, so the complications were lesser.

Kay was financially well-off, but an emotional wreck. She took a leave of absence stayed home for two months. Her moments of introspection yielded nothing but stronger will to succeed.

 
She called up her Bank and resigned. When the head of HR asked her the reason for resigning, she said that she wanted to relocate.

“Perfect”, he said. “Then you are not resigning. You are moving to Los Angeles”.

Kay made the move westward. The times weren’t angelic, but she was moving to the “City of Angels”.

******

The offices of White Tusker Bank were located in Downtown Los Angeles.

The move had not been easy for Kay. Banking in the West Coast was an altogether different ball game. Moreover, she was moving from hardcore “Investment Banking to sophisticated “Private Banking”.

Los Angeles welcomed Kay with all warmth. She found a spacious apartment in the historic “Miracle Mile” district. Los Angeles had amazing weather and its cosmopolitan confluence put Kay at ease.


Life needed a new start, and she was giving it a second chance.

******

She quietly eased her car into the basement parking lot. She had a busy day and needed to park as fast as possible. As she stopped her car, a gloved hand opened the door for her. She did not even look at the face.

She said a quick, “thank you”, grabbed the ticket and walked briskly to the lobby. In exactly fifteen minutes, she had a meeting with an important investor. She stepped into the elevator and pressed the button that would take her to the desired floor. Before the door closed, a gloved hand got between the doors.

“You could have cut your hand into two parts” she told the fellow. He smiled and stood there. In his other hand was her mobile phone. He raised his hand to give it to her.


“Thank you”, she said. He smiled again.


Next morning she saw him again. He spoke nothing but kept smiling. He must have been in his twenties, maybe approaching thirty. Not a day more.


“Hi!” She said. She wanted him to speak and confirm that he could speak. He nodded his head and smiled. It was weird.


Initially, he would be there every morning.   He was polite and acted as gentlemanly as a valet could be. There was always a warm smile on his face, and a gloved hand would open the door every time she stopped her car to be parked. She liked this start to her day.


A few weeks later she observed that he would be the one who took her car every morning and brought it every evening. She calculated. She arrived at eight every morning and left at six every evening. There was no reason he should be having a ten-hour shift.  Gosh! Was he trying to hit on her? She decided to ignore.


From the next day onwards she stopped smiling. She did not want him to have a wrong impression that she was reciprocating.


It became obvious one day. When he opened the door to her, he had a bunch of flowers in the other hand. Another valet stood along with him. “His name Santiago. He not speak good English” his friend told her. He continued smiling. “He bring you flowers for Valentine’s Day”.


Kay did not know how to react.


She dismissed his playful enthusiasm as a “passing phase” – it was clichéd in this world for a young man to be attracted to an older woman. She decided to ignore. She took the bunch of flowers, smiled at both of them and walked into the lobby.


The bunch of flowers ended up in the first trash can she saw. Although she did not want to hurt his feelings, she did not wish to be seen carrying flowers. And at forty one, she did not wish to believe that a younger man wanted more than a romp in bed with her.


In the evening, Santi had the same bunch with him. It was neatly wrapped in a plastic sheet. He said nothing but pointed to the bunch of flowers on the rear seat of her car.


She was furious. She wanted to walk to his supervisor’s office and lodge a complaint. But then she stopped. Her anger would only get him fired.  She called the other Valet and asked him, “Do you speak his language?”


He Nodded.


“Ask him what he wants? Tell him I am not interested in him or do I want flowers”. This was followed by a conversation which meant gibberish to Kay.


“Santi says he likes you. He wanted to give you flowers. He knew you couldn’t keep them with you, so you threw them into the trash can. He picked it up, rewrapped it and put it on the rear seat of your car so that you could take it back home.


At that moment, Santi spoke some more gibberish. The other guy translated, “Santi says he would not trouble you again. He apologizes”.


Kay gestured for her car to be brought back.


True to his word, he did not see her again. This made her comfortable. She saw him in the elevator after a few days. When she greeted him, he said a quiet hello and smiled.


Next day when she asked the valet attendant, “Where is the guy who does not speak English?” It was a strange way to describe Santi, but Kay could not think of anything better.


“Are you talking about Santi”, he said.


“Oh Yes! Santi”


“He is at the Self-parking area”.


She nodded and walked towards the self-parking area. There he was, giving directions and helping people to park. He saw her, and slowly started walking towards her.


“Hi”, she said.


“Hi”, he replied.


“I don’t see you in the Valet Parking area nowadays. Everything ok?” she asked.


He probably understood her. In broken English he said, “I self-parking area”.


Kay couldn’t help but smile. She felt bad for the poor chap. She was responsible for that shift. Suddenly she said, “Would you like to have coffee with me? It’s a strictly friendly cup of coffee”.


He nodded and said, “Coffee”. He repeated “coffee”.

“Would Six-thirty in the evening suit you? There is a Starbucks round the corner”. He nodded again.


She bought him a cup of coffee in the evening. She felt a bit uncomfortable. There was she in strictly official attire- black pants, white shirt and a black jacket while he was in his valet’s uniform. He though was at ease. Even after being in the United States for more than two decades, Kay hadn’t yet become American in totality.

******

In time Kay started liking Santi. Was it love? No way! She was too old for him, plus she did not have the nerve to be in a relationship. Although she looked forward to let his gloved hand open the door for her, she never talked to him. They just smiled to each other.

One day she found that the collar of his shirt had frayed. Next day when his gloved hand opened the car door, Kay put a crisp white shirt into his hand.


Next day his collar was no more frayed.

******

After a few days she found a small box in the rear seat of the car. The box contained some ethnic jewelry- a bracelet and a picture. In later days Kay learnt that the piece of jewelry was a replica of jewelry worn by Aztec women.

******

She did not see him one day. Then the next day. Then the next day again. She tried his cell phone. It rang for a while before the recorded message told her than “The voicemail for the number dialed has not yet been set up”.


In the evening she asked the Valet, “Where is Santi?”


“I don’t know Ma’m. I haven’t seen him for the last couple of days”, he replied.


“Can you tell him that I was looking for him”, she said and drove off.

******

She had come out of a meeting when Meg, the receptionist at the office buzzed, “Kay, someone is here to see you. He is from the Valet Parking”.

Kay rushed out of the office expecting Santi. However, it was not him. It was one of the other guys. His name was Julio.


“Can we talk for a moment”, he said.


She gestured him to walk into her office.


“Santi is dead. He was killed by the bad guys”.


“The bad guys? Who? Why? Was he running drugs? Was he into any kind of trouble?”


“I don’t know. They say he took a $ 1000 loan from them and did not pay them on the due date”


“What? Why did he take a loan”, she asked. He could have asked her for the loan. $ 1000 wasn’t that big a sum. Why did he have to get into trouble for such a sum?


She had a million questions. But she had no answers.


Julio left.


Kay was sad. She felt grief. But life had to go on. She missed seeing Santi in the valet parking. Sometimes she thought that gloved hand was his when the door was opened. In time she adapted to his absence. She accepted that Santi was no more.

*****

“Your bracelet is beautiful”, the host said.

“Thank you Elizabeth” Kay replied.  She was attending a Sunday luncheon hosted by the Johnsons. It was a casual day and Kay wanted to spend it lazily in a pair of jeans. Finding nothing else to match her lazy looks, he casually picked up the bracelet given to her by Santi and put it on.


As the party ended, she bid the customary goodbyes to her hosts and walked to the door.


“Excuse me”, said a man behind her. He had a mug of beer in his hand. It suited him. He was bald, had a beer belly, and had the looks of a professor.


“Yes”, she replied.


“Hello, I am Professor Delgado. I teach South American History at the University of La Paz”.


“That’s impressive. How can I help you?” Kay smiled to the bald man.


“I was wondering where you got the bracelet”. His eyes were on her hand.


“A friend gave it to me”. How else could she describe Santiago.


“I just want you to know that it may be one of the last ones that survived the Aztecs. There are very few of those around the world. If you notice, it has been restored. I hope you know it is genuine”


When he saw the surprised look on her face, he remarked, “Didn’t you now that? Don’t tell me you did not? Oh God! You might not be interested, but these list on the market for nearly a hundred thousand dollars”.


Kay wanted to tell him that the value made no difference to her.


Then he said the words she never expected, “One of them- a very similar one, disappeared from the National Museum in Panama City. That’s where I had seen it last. Since a very few people in the world have the remaining ones, hold on to it”.


Kay found the man irritating. But his words remained in her mind.


She went home and called the museum. The curator of the museum, a certain Senor Vazquez gave her the description. With every word, Kay’s greatest fears came true. When the man finished talking, Kay collapsed on the ground.

******

A week later, the bracelet was returned to the museum. It came through a personal courier who said that the sender wished to remain anonymous.

Senor Vazquez knew who sent it, but he did not wish to pursue the matter further.

******

Kay died in the winter of 2012. For the record, she died in Santiago, Chile.

P.S. The plot and the characters are all figments of my imagination. Any resemblance to any place or event or person-dead or alive is purely coincidental.