The Rediscovery of Purpose

Beeeep! This oddly intrusive sound arising from one’s leg of all places, waking one up in the middle of the night, would drive most to the brink of insanity. But not for Hari. Rolling on his rough printed bedsheet, the beep of the electronic bracelet around his right ankle reminded Hari of his lost freedoms. Over the course of the last six weeks, ever since he was released from county prison and got that bracelet slapped on his leg - ‘Left or Right?’, as if he were choosing jewelry, Hari had got accustomed to the wants and needs of the damned device, as if it were the child he couldn’t have. 

The long screeching beep, heard when he was going somewhere he wasn’t supposed to, the low frequency beep signaling that he was reaching the end of curfew period and the short pulsatile beep, the bracelet’s cry for charge, almost like a baby asking for milk, were all part and parcel of his life. 

Rubbing his eyes red as he woke up, Hari reached for the cable, and plugged it into the wall; the length of the cord was just enough for him to sleep recumbent, although he couldn’t toss and turn about his bed. Yet this was worth the consequences. Receiving a call from the security monitoring services in the middle of the night, or being summoned to meet his parole officer the next day were not really exciting prospects. He had only got in trouble once, when he wasn’t able to make it back in time to his house from the grocery store. Despite his earnest protestations, his long explanations of running back, panting, carrying a bag full of his supplies for the next week, his officer would have none of it. The mandate was clear, toe the line or go back to prison.

Reflecting on this conversation, Hari could detect a tinge of being assigned a ‘privilege’. The ‘privilege’ of not waking up in a padded cell, with hardly edible food, the privilege of being able to walk the streets again, if only it was so heavily monitored - almost like he was a child in a nursery. It was also a privilege he was paying hefty cash for. 300$ upfront, with a fee of 2$ per day of his privilege. ‘As if they need to monitor me’, ran the thoughts in his head, this was the kind of money his cousins in India would have given the world for. 

But yet, he knew he couldn’t complain. The manager at the store was kind enough to give him a job, arranging and sorting boxes full of toys, chocolates and clothes. Working in a kitchen was deemed to be too risky for someone of his criminal history. Bah! What criminal history, he did not have any great ‘achievements’ to boast of. No stolen cars, no great wealth, nothing of the sort that would make someone in the world of crime drop their jaws in excitement, as if that was the only area, where he could strive to surpass mediocrity. All he had done was participate in one night’s escapade with his mates from community college. Joe had promised that it’ll be a night never to forget, and Phil had appealed to the promise of nostalgia, ‘You will look back with smiles, I assure you’. Besides, between beer, cards and a night at a farmhouse, what could go wrong? Hari woke up, four hours later, in the county police station, hung up, nauseous and with a horrendous head ache, only to be told that he almost ran over an old lady and her grandson, and rammed into a traffic pole in his 2008 Toyota, pounding both to scraps. Cursed with bad luck, even in crime.

The following morning, Hari promptly disconnected the black, insulated charging cable and rolled it into a corner before hitting the shower, and chugging into his daily staple - two fried eggs and cheerios. Not much, but miles above the two years he spent in county. 

Dressing for work brought special problems to Hari’s mind. He couldn’t just throw on some jeans in the hot Californian summer, making the skin under the tag, sweat even more; but putting on a pair of shorts, would mean that his secret would be there for all to see. Yes, his secret shame, conveying to the world that he was someone not to be trusted, someone to be monitored. 

These were the thoughts running in Hari’s mind, as he walked through the almost mechanically planned streets of his suburb , in his white Levi’ Tee and denim shorts. When a criminal shouldn’t be trusted, what to say of a brown one? On his stroll to work, he had to cross the magnificent town hall, an 18th century structure, with its petite library, surrounded by lazy cafes and small neatly cordoned off shops. The sunny beach, bordering the great Pacific, and dreamy eyed teenagers walked into the local high school. Somehow, the beauty of what surrounds us increases manifold as when we realize it is forbidden to us. While in jail, Hari’s idea of the world outside was in whispers and ideas - newspaper clippings and the occasional phone call. But now the great outdoors beckon to him, but it is but a mock, the cry of a caged parrot to fly, what he seeks is well within sight, but just removed from reach.

‘Good morning’, he says to Bill, the store manager, who simply taps his pencil on the desk, pointing to the clock -  8.03. Bill was an old timer in town; Hari, figured something within him allowed him to give others a second chance, and overlook their faults - small or otherwise. Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Bill was someone he had to answer to, an unfriendly reminder of authority. Second chances are rare to come by, Bill would remind him.

 Hari’s job didn’t just involve arranging and packing, he had to show potential customers around and help them with their selection. That particular day was not very busy. Come afternoon, a mother and her young daughter walked in hoping to buy a toy, and a young couple from the high school came looking for clothes. The teenagers, he figured, were cutting classes to shop around, but the young girl, with her deep, comforting blue eyes, reminded him of his friend in his own high school. A kind that reminded him of maturity beyond age.

As Hari showed around their modest collection of clothes - denim, leather and synthetic, neatly arranged in segments, he couldn't help but notice what he thought was the mother pointing towards him and whispering something in her daughter’s ear. Maybe, they were pointing towards something else; yet the desire to explain didn’t go away, the visceral need to tell everyone that he was just as human as everyone else. It didn’t help that his image was being potentially tarnished in front of someone so young, as if it would leave a lasting impression.

Walking across the aisle, Hari showed the teenagers around to the changing room. But as they attempted to remove a used leather coat from its steel hanger, a tiny tag tugged across a hook and the entire rack tumbled down. Just as Hari managed to set it back in balance, he reminded himself of Bill’s deep, droning voice on his first day, “ You must pay in full for any and all damaged goods”.

Feeling the satisfaction of having avoided another humiliation, Hari heaved a sigh of relief, but at that very instant, the tall cupboard across the aisle was set against balance, and tumbling along with it were all metal toys contained. The little girl was perusing the lower plate, and her eyes met his.  And in a split second, as if a bird finally soared to flight, Hari pushed the girl away and braced for impact - metal, glass and all. 

The attendant sounds of destruction and the loud cries of a little girl invited her mother, Bill and several passersby inside. Amongst the crowd, with his hazy vision, Hari could see Bill shaking his head in disapproval, saying “So, you’ve done it again, you’ve wrecked my store”. But just as her mother, in a fit of rage, wrangled out her phone and proceeded to dial the police, the little girl, with her auburn hair, pushed across the debris, and walked up to brave the crowd. And after a brief moment she said, in her little voice, “I think the man in the white shirt saved me”, her blue eyes glimmering in unison with his beeping ankle.