I am guilty as charged. As I flip through these pages I notice that I do not ever call you dear. Which raises the question: are you, in fact, dear to me? If so, then what is it that makes you so? Maybe it’s just something people say without thinking too much about it. Like the people who give you a nod in the hallways and say ‘How are you?’ or ‘How’s it going?’, but keep on walking. What they really mean to say is ‘hey’ or ‘yo’, something to quickly recognize your presence as they walk by. Had they really meant the questions they asked, they would slow down or stop and wait for a response. It’s just something people say, dear. They don’t really mean it. So with the thousands of diaries around the world, with thousands of entries in hundreds of languages, how many mean the dear they call out to?

Perhaps we are all swept by the motions around us, barely pausing to think twice. Some barely pausing to think even once. And yet I think, and I think again every time I come to write here. But I do not call you dear, at least not in the greeting. What does this say about our relationship? It is largely one-way, isn’t it? You are like a sounding board where I hear the echoes of my words. And where you listen to the ink. A shelter for these words — a safety that is, at times, not afforded to them elsewhere. My mood and musings are often with you, and yet I barely know you.

I continually change and evolve with the passage of time, and you… you remain a constant. The binding is the same and the paper is the same. You have, however, lost that new book smell you used to carry. Like perfume that wears off after a while. That is a good thing. I am allergic to perfume. But I am worried, you will not last forever. You, like others, are bound by limits. And when those limits approach, I will simply have to get another diary, another book. But another dear? Or, perhaps, you are a collective? Volumes of a saga? Really, tell me, what are you? What is it that you want?

I would have thought that I had the upper hand in this relationship. But time after time it is I who gives of myself to you. You know me. Which, then, makes me wonder: am I dear to you?

Yours,
Zackeria Zaheer

The second part is finding your way around. This isn’t all that easy but it’s assisted by the TTC. It’s a powerfully liberating concept: the ability to get from any one corner of the city to another on a single ticket. Of course, this may require traversing multiple subway lines, rapid transit trains, street cars and buses, but it’s possible. And it’s a beautiful thing.

Riding through the system doesn’t come without its quirks. I have an entire list of pet peeves. People complain about the “stand left, walk right” rule that some people just can’t seem to follow, but my complaints are based on the unwritten rules that no one seems to know.

What do you do the moment you get off an escalator? The wrong answer is stand around thinking about what your next move should be. The correct answer is you get the hell out of the way. See, the thing is that there are other people behind you, and while an escalator might look like a normal staircase, it moves on its own. So people can’t just stop on as escalator while you take all the time to decide your next steps. The escalator will eventually push the people behind you right into you. This inconveniences them more than it inconveniences you. So get out of the way immediately.

Another thing that bothers me is that lack of dignity with which people manoeuvre around trains. People will complain about letting people out before you try and get inside the subway car. Yes, we should do that. But also, once we’ve gotten inside can we move around with just a little grace? Instead, people race towards seats as if there were nuggets of gold on them. Like a gold rush. Calm down and relax. It’s not the end of the world if you fail to capture a seat. If you’re of the few who’s not rushing to find an empty seat, you’re pin-balled around by all the other moving parts. So, little old ladies who push people out of the way to get to a seat, chill out a little. I wasn’t going to take the seat anyway.

I appreciate that you are in a hurry, I really do. So when the chimes that indicate that the subway car doors are about to close start to sound, I understand why you run towards the doors. You don’t want to miss this train and have to wait for the next one. I get it. But let’s revisit the escalator rule, if you’re running towards the doors it’s likely that there are other people behind you that are also in the same hurry that you’re in. So don’t just pause once you get into the train. Do your celebratory pause after you get out of the way.

Quirks aside, do you know what happens when you fall asleep standing up? Your body relaxes and you start to fall towards the ground. Similar to how an unconscious person would fall. Your knees give out and start to bend as your upper body weight pushes you down. Unless you’re really out of it you don’t actually fall all the way down. Somewhere in the middle you start to wake up and resist gravity’s pull. I wouldn’t happen to know this otherwise, but it’s just another lesson you learn while riding the rocket.

The coffee machine was broken that day and I hadn’t had my morning starter cup. I was in a hurry, so stopping at Timmy’s wasn’t an option. I was past the subway rush and the RT was practically empty. I dozed off for the 15 minute ride to Kennedy. On a seat, no less. Kennedy wasn’t exactly packed but I didn’t feel like sitting down anyway, and there was plenty room to stand. I stood on the side where the doors stay shut, this way you get to lean on something and you’re not blocking anyone’s path. But you have to be careful when you start off at Kennedy, because at Warden you have to switch sides. The doors start opening from the opposite side.

Warden came and I made my switch. A couple of doors away two ladies were standing near the doors as well, they didn’t make the switch. A man stood on the opposite doors of the ladies. All with coffee cups in hand.

At the next stop the doors opened where the ladies were standing and they were getting in the way of incoming and outgoing commuters. The ladies stood their ground and continued standing at the doors. The man on the opposite side suggested that they move elsewhere, but they ignored him and continued chatting. A few more stops and still the same thing, the ladies were still at the doors and people were having to manoeuvre themselves around them.

The man on the other side persisted with advising the ladies to stand in a different location, but the ladies would have none of it. I heard a brief “mind your own business” bit even from a few doors away. I’m not exactly sure what words were exchanged but at the next stop one of the ladies got right up in the man’s face. Everyone else in the subway car was trying to ignore the show and were indeed trying to “mind their own business”.

The lady got progressively louder, as did the man. She was still right up in his face and he kept telling her to back off. Now it was her that was persistent. The man pushed the lady back with both his hands, separating her from the space around his face. In that very moment, in what seemed like an instant gut reaction, the lady threw her coffee on the man’s face.

The man, in what seemed like an instant gut reaction, pushed the lady against the doors and started choking her. It all happened so very fast. From where I was standing I couldn’t see clearly, but it seemed like there was kicking involved as well, from both parties. A few other men around the incident quickly started pull the man off the lady. We had almost approached the next stop and someone pressed the emergency yellow strip.

The doors opened and TTC personnel got involved.

“I’m going to press charges!!!” screamed the lady.

“So am I!” replied the man, “Bitch threw hot coffee in my face!”

The three of them walked away with the people in uniform and the train was on its way.

All of a sudden I wasn’t missing that cup of coffee anymore, not so much.

Some people are looking for a sign that will take them to Heaven. I'm content with a sign that guides me here.

I was out with a couple of friends the other day, and even though I live here, I had trouble finding my way around. I have reason to believe that I was born with a directional disability. I was advised that I look for and follow the signs around me. The advice was, of course, meant in the literal sense. There are boarded signs all around us; on the roads and in our paths. With arrows and numbers they tell us where and how far certain places are. If you miss a sign, no worries, just backtrack. This helps us determine the directions we must pursue.

Taking a step back, however, we can see signs in a whole new light. look for and follow the signs around me. The profundity of that statement is not lost on me. I can see the boarded signs, as they are embodied in a physical form. It is the unboarded signs that elude me. The signs and signals that continually manifest themselves in one form or another, but without clarity. Their subtlety is lost on me.

Furthermore, the trouble when dealing with signs from above. Those that come from God. I have enough trouble parsing the signs from people and plants. How can I deal with the signs from The Deity? This is troublesome because the other day I prayed to God for a sign. After waiting for a sign (and not seeing any), I prayed for the ability to see a sign. This is a complicated business.

So, dear God, I implore you, send me a sign I can see, send me a sign I can touch. If You think I’m asking for too much, send me a sign, and I won’t.

Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don’t really care for music, do you?

I care, I really do. Really. I care, but not in that way I’m afraid.

It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

We had a noisy major lift at work. It was mainly used to transport large objects from the fourth to the fifth floor. I wouldn’t call it a musical composition.

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you

In my defense, I just wanted some fresh air. Not like it lasted long. She was quick to leave once she noticed me. I was mainly interested at how she was able to get all that plumbing up there anyway. I did later tell her it might not be the best thing to be bathing outside in mid-January. It gets real cold.

She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Well, it didn’t happen in that order. Again, I want to set the record straight on this one. I had asked her to give me a hair cut. So that’s no big deal. But after that it got weird. IKEA never carried that kitchen chair again and that was my last bottle of hallelujah. I had been saving it for a while. It was one crazy night. If she had never asked me what I thought of the hair cut, I would have never told her.

Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.

Nothing much changed after I knew you either. Still alone — but my furniture is a lot safer now.

I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah

More like a death march, or a parade. A parade that veers off the designated path. Even the people leading it don’t know where it’s headed. Like that. And oh, it’s broken alright. I will never get that kitchen chair back. There are some things that even super glue can’t bond.

There was a time you let me know
What’s really going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?

Not after that bathing incident anyway.

And remember when I moved in you
The holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

You know, I don’t even remember that. Were we drunk?

Maybe there’s a God above
And all I ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you

Yeah, so don’t even try. I’ve been making regular trips to the shooting range… ever since that tying up incident.

It’s not a cry you can hear at night
It’s not somebody who’s seen the light
it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah

Yes, the hair cut was that bad.

I always wondered how the elephant got into the room. Surely the doors could not be large enough — were they destroyed then rebuilt for the mere purpose of getting an elephant inside? How big would this room need to be? None of the rooms I am in on a regular basis are capable of housing an elephant. The only way I can make sense of it is if the elephant was air-lifted into a room. But then the room would have no roof. Is it still a room if it has no roof? What if it has no doors? Are four walls enough to make a room? What about four lines? A room is still a room without doors, right? Like a rose is still a rose.

One should be careful around elephants. They’re said to never forget. Though if they did forget, would you rather have them forget your kindness or your cruelty? Wait — how do we know if elephants forget or not? Has there been a study? Do they never forget? Are they immune to amnesia or old age memory loss? So what if they never forget, of what use is that? Not that everything must be of use, but still. I use computers to store information, and sure they forget from time to time. But so what? At least they store information in English. What language would an elephant store? How would you ever get that information back? It’s just too complicated.

Diarrhea. The word made sure to find its way into every naggers brain. What is with people and rhymes? Why ever would I be sitting in a tree? Were all the couches and swings taken? And there are so many things that end in the letter g. At some point I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to get back at these people. The school administration never did appreciate the stunt I pulled. No matter how much I tried to explain that the package was just play-doh, mud and a little bit of sulphur, they just would not listen. They were intent on punishing me. In the end they charged me with breaking and entering into the lockers. I told them I found them open, all four of them. They wouldn’t charge me for breaking into the lockers if I was to, for instance, leave a thank you note or some candy. Sometimes you end up getting the same end of the same stick.

But it worked. They didn’t nag me for years after that. I think it was the sulphur.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”, he asked.

What does he mean about what I mean? Did I not know the meaning of what I said? Was I not clear? What more clarity could I shed beyond the words that I just said? What does he think it means when someone says ‘I don’t know’? Maybe he is not listening, maybe it is him who is not following the conversation.

“What?”, I replied with the only word I could muster up.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”, he repeated himself, though this time a bit slower.

“I didn’t ask you to repeat yourself. I heard what you said. What do you mean when you ask me what I meant? Do you think I didn’t know the meaning of what I said? Was I not clear? What more clarity could I shed beyond the words that I just said? What do you think it means when someone says ‘I don’t know’? Maybe you are not listening, maybe it is you who is not following the conversation. Maybe you are afraid of not knowing. I am not. And thus, I do not know.”

It’s 6AM and the alarm clock just started to ring. He’s a bit confused, unsure of whether this is the right time to get up. His first priority, however, is to stop the annoying sounds of the time telling machine. He reaches out with his hand, starts to feel his way to the clock and in doing so he knocks over his glasses. He looks in the clock’s direction now and all the numbers are blurry. Every morning starts off blurry. This morning is particularly dark.

He manages to find the button that silences the clock but is unable to find his glasses. It is too dark and blurry. Maybe they fell between some secret cracks? He just can’t seem to find them. He remembers that he has a spare pair in the washroom drawer. It is dark and it does not occur to him that he could switch the lights on. Instead he feels his way into the hall way and stumbles into the washroom.

He turns on the lights. This was not a conscious decision. Though the situation had warranted light, he did so purely out of instinct. It was simply a matter of fact: you enter the washroom and you turn on the lights. Everything in that moment turned brighter yet remained blurry. He catches his reflection in the washroom mirror and it causes him to pause. The blurry reflection took him to a moment some 30 years ago. For a split instant he saw a clear reflection of himself as he was some 30 years ago. He quickly recollects himself. He makes a frowning facial expression and shrugs off the moment. This is no time for musings of past. The world is blurry and that must be undone.

There are three drawers. Is it in the first? the second? or the third? I should open all of them, but not all at once. That would defeat the purpose. This is no time for thought. Thinking slows down the process. Just act. He finds the glasses in the second drawer without needing to open the third. As he puts the glasses on he forgets that he couldn’t find his other pair, as if this was his only one, as if he had never lost anything. He does remember that he needs to pick up groceries and other items. He proceeds to get dressed with a better grasp of the world than he had when he woke up.

He stands on the subway platform as the train approaches. Everyone on the platform takes a step forward in anticipation. He picks up his grocery bags from the floor and enters the train. This is his daily mode of transport, the subway lines are life lines that connect him to the city. The bags he’s carrying make his movement slow. The rushing crowd occupy all the seats, like it were a gold rush. He finds a place to stand as comfortably as he can.

He feels a tug on his jacket. A young boy (a teenager perhaps?), feeling a little sheepish, stands up and offers his seat. He looks the boy in the eyes with a smile that spells a blessing. He accepts the offer. He places one bag on his lap and the rest on the subway car floor.

In what almost seems like a ritual, he starts to take out items he’s purchased one by one and spend time with them. He takes out the apple juice carton and runs his hand across it, as if he were searching for a memory or hoping that one would be created. He replaces the juice carton and repeats the procedure with toothpaste.

He then reaches down and takes out a bag of oranges. He removes a single orange from the bag of oranges. He spins the orange on his palm and then grips it tight to stop the spin, still holding the bag of oranges in his other hand. The train comes to a screeching halt. His grip protects the singular orange, but the bag of oranges falls to the floor. One after another the oranges leave the bag and start to roll out in a line. Not a perfect line, but there’s enough of a pattern.

All the heads in the subway car follow the oranges the length of the distance.

“Nah, I’m fine”, replied Jill.

“You know, I saw a sign a few miles back and the word ‘universe’ stood out”, said Jack, the wrinkled map in his hands. “We’re just trying to get from point A to point B, and that word, ‘universe’, makes me want to look up at the sky. I see the stars. They’re like dots to connect, you can find so many patterns and shapes, dippers and the like. It’s fascinating, thousands of people through out time have used these same stars to navigate their way across cities, continents, and oceans around the world. ‘Universe’, you… neeeee… verse. Separate the ‘u’ into ‘you’, reverse the ‘ni’ to ‘in’ attach it to the ‘verse’ and you get ‘you inverse’. ‘Inverse’, black to white and white to black, up to down and down to up. It’s like the universe is telling us something. We’re heading towards point B, but do you feel we should really be heading towards point A?”

“What? What in… what did… what exactly are you trying to say?”

“I think, my dear, that I misread the directions. We weren’t supposed to take that right turn an hour ago, we’re headed in the wrong direction.”

Both, Jack and Jill, burst into laughter followed by a sudden silence.

“Like I had said, we should have gotten the GPS. Oh, and by the way, I am feeling sleepy”, said Jill as she found a spot to pull over the car.

When the TA had given the go, Saad decided to pace himself through the exam. Easy questions first and hardest questions last, he thought. Half an hour into the exam, his stomach started to growl. Saad has skipped breakfast in the morning, or perhaps he had forgotten. He tightened his abdomen muscles hoping no one heard anything.

With an hour left to go, Saad started to doze off a little. He quickly shook it off, and continued with the exam. He started to feel that his nose had started to run, and before he could reach for a tissue paper, a drop from his nose fell splat on the exam paper. Except that this drop was red in colour. Saad realized that his nose had started to bleed. He brought this right hand up to his nose, as a cup to hold and collect the drops of blood. He raised his left hand to catch the TA’s attention, “My nose is bleeding.”

“Are you okay?”, asked the TA, a little concerned and a little suspicious.

“I’ll be fine, it’s just blood.”, Saad rushed towards the washrooms.

As drops of blood fell onto the sink, Saad rolled up a piece of paper towel, stuck it up his nostril, and washed the blood off his hand. He cleaned up the sink and looked at the ceiling for a few minutes, hoping to let the blood clot and hold. Once satisfied, he took extra pieces of paper towel with him back to the exam room, just in case.

“Are you okay?”, asked the TA again.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”, Saad took his seat in the exam room.

There were a number of problems left to solve and Saad started to work his way into the exam. After a few moments he heard a sound, “Psssttt…”

Saad looked around and everyone seemed to be continuing as normal. The TA was seated at the front of the room, reading a magazine.

“Psssttt…”, Saad heard the sound again, realising that it was coming from the drop of blood, “You had a great chance to cheat there.”

“What?”, replied Saad, in a whisper.

“When you went to the washroom, you had a great chance to cheat.”

“No, I mean… what is going on? How is this possible?”

“How is what possible?”

“This conversation, I am talking to a drop of blood.”, Saad looked at the drop that had now embedded itself into the exam paper and turned a purple like colour.

“So what? Who told you blood can’t talk? You’re talking to me now, so this must be real.”

“This is insane!”

“Hah, I think you had better concentrate on your exam, Saad.”

“Not with all this talking, can you keep it down? The TA is already suspicious of brown people, I don’t want to get into any trouble.”

Saad continued on with some of the harder problems on the exam.

“I think you better double check that.”

“What? Double check what?”

“That problem you just finished, the third step is messed up.”

“Holy shit, you’re right! How did you know?”

“I’m literally a part of the paper. Oh, and you should know, the answer to question number 11 is the same as question number 3. Question 11 is the hardest.”

“Wait a minute, this is cheating!”

“How is it cheating?”

“You’re giving me the answers and correcting my mistakes.”

“But I was a part of you, I am your blood. How can this be cheating?”

“Because you’re telling me what to do before I think of it. Are you just my mind?”

“No, I am your blood.”

The TA fake coughed, putting an end to Saad’s whispers. The answer to question 11 was indeed the same as the answer to question 3.

“See, I told you so.”, said the drop of blood.

“Yes, thank you, but there is something so wrong about this. I need you to go away.”

“You still have a few more questions to do.”

Saad went on to finish the exam with hints from the drop blood from time to time. The exam time ended and the TA started to collect all the papers.

“I hope I never have to see you again.”, whispered Saad.

“Excuse me? If you’re taking thermodynamics next semester, you will see me.”, said the TA, slightly disturbed.

On the way back home all the students were discussing their answers and planning for the next exam.

“How’d it go Saad?”, asked Helen.

“It was weird, but I think it went fine. I think.”, replied Saad, “I’m too tired to think, I haven’t slept.”

Saad immediately fell asleep when he got home.

—

The weather keeps getting heavier, the snow keeps falling, the roads and sidewalks keep getting slipperier. The street car stops to pick up more commuters. Harry, still seated, puts his palm against the glass and waits for a few seconds. He removes his hand and watches his palm take shape in the dew. He draws an octagon to enclose the shape of his palm.

For a moment Harry considers giving up his seat to someone else, but he doesn’t. He puts his elbows on his knees and his palms on his forehead. One of his palms is still a little wet. The level of the street car seems to sink with each climbing passenger. The doors close and one commuter, running as he tries to get to the doors, slips and falls. The street car moves on.

Harry reaches for his phone, one of his palms still supporting his forehead.

“You’ve reached Sam, and if you’re calling you probably know who I am”, says the recording, “Wait for the beep and leave a message, your odds might be better if you call again.”

“Hey, uh… it’s me. I know I said a few things today and I umm… I just wanted to…”, Harry pauses to take a deep breath and that very moment a giant, out of control construction truck collides with the street car in the spot where Harry was sitting.

Harry did not know what hit him.

THE END.