The silverware glistened in the golden light from the elaborate chandelier that hung from the ceiling. She looked up to admire the sixteenth century painting that was beyond the light. A slow breeze from the sea side, and the waiter rushed to hand her a pashmina, which she really wouldn’t have needed if she hadn’t let vanity talk her into wearing his favourite shoulder baring black dress. The tripes a la mode de Caen was heavenly. As were the chardonnay and then, the platter of cheese that came with it. “Camembert, Neufchatel, Pont-L-Eveque, Livarot,…” she couldn’t even focus on the waiter’s captivating discourse on the Norman cheeses. All she could think about was that, it had been eight days.

She glanced at her watch. No, it had been seven days, twelve hours and fifty minutes. To be a bit more precise. Not really precise. To be really precise, she would have to go into seconds. She considered whether it would be too anal to delve into that. “Is something wrong?” his voice woke her from her momentary lapse. She should not let it bother her. Eight days ago - we are back to being imprecise now - she had decided that she could live without it for eight days. And she was almost there. Just this dinner and then the night and then by mid-morning, she would have it. Again. Available. Anywhere. Anytime.

She hated being so addicted. As a kid, she had heard stories about alcoholics. How they had no control over their lives. How they squandered their money, beat their wives and eventually ended up bankrupt and homeless. She had read about drug addicts in the newspapers. She had wondered why anyone would voluntarily give up control over their own bodies, their own selves. How anyone could give in to hallucinations and speed trips and be at the mercy of dealers. She had scorned at smokers and the scary statistics about the damage done to children because of the parents’ chain smoking. In fact, she had even helped out in the Quit Smoking campaign in her office, all the while not quite understanding why people couldn’t wake up one morning and kick the habit. In fact, she abhorred addictions of all kind.

She refused to admit that she was addicted. She stared at his deep dark eyes and tried to think of the eight blissful days they had just had. She wanted to focus on the beautiful beaches they had lounged in, the charming chateaus they had slept in and the quaint French streets they had wandered in. But she couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking about. And that led her back to it. Maybe, just maybe, he was thinking of it too. No, this is anal. She chided herself. It is just 8 hours, 7 minutes and 12 seconds more. Oh darn, she had done it. Precision was a sure give away for obsession. “Cafe, mademoiselle?” she was jolted out of her trance again. She resolved she won’t let herself be addicted. She won’t think about it anymore. She will have some good coffee and then, some fine conversation will now follow. She will look around and enjoy the wonderful art that was on display at the restaurant. She will have a wonderful time. She imagined a thick black blanket in her mind. She covered her obsession in it, tied with a thick blue rope, placed into an solid copper box, closed it with its ornate heavy lid and pushed it into a dark corner of her mind. Not to be opened again. Until it was time.

And then, it was time. 8 hours, 7 minutes and 12 seconds were over. She clicked on the small orange icon with the three small men. She entered the eight magical numbers, clicked OK and waited. She felt the joy of watching a lotus blossom. And then there was light. You have new mail. Happiness. Bliss. Joy. Contentment. Was it wrong to feel happy? She looked across the table. His face radiated the happiness too. He looked up and smiled.

Some obsessions are just not worth fighting.

Sadananda Gopalan is woken up from his sleep. News reporters are waiting to talk to him. He rubs his bleary eyes and looks up at the bright lights. He then gets out of his bed, washes his face and gets ready to relate once again the story of his life.

Sadananda Gopalan was barely 3 years old when the Tsunami hit the village where he lived with his family. He hasn’t seen or heard from them ever again. Father, mother, two sisters and a young baby brother - they were all lost to the fury of the sea. After nearly a year of wandering around in the camps and barely managing to survive, he met Sarada, a woman who had lost her infant and her husband to the tsunami. Instinctively, he felt an affection towards her. His survival instincts told him to stick by her. Several weeks later, Sarada started to notice a young boy who always seemed to be around her. She decided he will be like the son that the black water had taken away from her. She drew him close and hugged him.

Sadananda Gopalan smiled his innocent smile. There might be no food, no water, no place for him to sleep - but a warm hug was as much a rarity too. He felt the lights blinking. The TV cameras had somehow spotted him - an innocent boy who seemed to have the courage to smile even amidst all the dismal conditions around him. The reporters asked him a flurry of questions, to which he smiled again. The local translator asked Sarada some questions and she mumbled some answers. The cameras remained fixed on the boy. His was a story of human triumph in a sea of desperation. Sadananda Gopalan provided to viewers the world over a ray of hope. An ointment to ease their guilt. An affirmation that things may be getting better.

Years have passed. The smiles have slowly faded. Sadananda Gopalan started to go to a makeshift school, where a room enough to fit 10 students was packed with 40. No one had books or pens. Yet they repeated the words after the teacher and sang the songs she asked them to. If it rains, the classroom flooded and there would be no more classes. Sadananda Gopalan didn’t mind - he didn’t really know what he was studying for. The teacher told them that many good people have given them money to rebuild the houses. He will go back to living a nice house with a hard roof, as he once used to. Some of his classmates seemed to get better rooms. But it never seemed to be his turn. The teacher told him that one day, all of them would have food to eat every day. But that was a few years back. Now, the teacher doesn’t say anything. The hope seems to have died from her eyes. She teaches the same things all over again. Yet, the students keep coming back - a roof above their head and a dry floor to sit on is not something you pass up.

Sadananda Gopalan is woken up from his thoughts by the sudden blink of cameras. There seems to be many more of them than the last few years. Someone tells him that it has been 10 years since the Tsunami had killed his parents. Does he miss them? Does he have food everyday? Does he feel resentment and anger when the officials pass up his family every year when it comes to allocating the newly rebuilt houses?

Would he like a chocolate? He dips into the bowl of candies and smiles his famous smile. The smile to erase the guilt of the millions.

He smiled. This must be the Santa Claus his teacher had told him about - they come in the day after Christmas and then promptly disappear for one year, till it’s time to bring candies again.

Sadananda Gopalan smiled. Santa Claus didn’t forget him this year too.


Desipundit has a post on Disaster Remembrance Week and list of charities you can contribute to.