Broken News Read online



  Broken News

  Jasbir S Jagdeo

  Copyright Jasbir S Jagdeo 2014

  This is a work of fiction imagined around a news report based on a real, unfortunate event. Any resemblance to anyone or anything, except for the news reports, is purely coincidental.

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

  Dedicated to the memory of those who die for reasons not well understood.

  Newspaper in left hand, John carried his cup of coffee to his new couch and sat on it. It was so comfortable that he almost spilled the coffee. It would have been a disaster. Faux leather it was: they said it could be easily cleaned with a damp cloth but still, it would have been a disaster spilling coffee on a new couch. And cleaning it now would have ruined the fun of reading newspaper with coffee he always expected in the mornings.

  ‘Militant Group Says It Killed American Journalist In Syria’

  ‘ISIS Video Purports to Show Beheading of James Foley’

 

  There was an image in which the journalist was still alive with a terrorist covered from head to feet in black. They did not show him being executed or afterwards as such images disturbed the public at large. Rightly so, he thought. Newspapers were so accessible to children even. He was disturbed nevertheless. Eventually, he would have to see it somewhere, sometime.

  He had bought it on discount for $320. He didn’t enquire about the material at the time of purchase. There was another one on discount – a fabric beige one – costing even less, but that one didn’t look as good and graceful as this. But once it was delivered – and he had talked to the deliverymen about its durability and material – many doubts had crept into his mind.

  He couldn’t fathom why they went to such places in the first place. Wasn’t there enough news around here? He, for one, didn’t want to know what was happening in Syria, or Iraq, or Iran, or Russia for that matter.

  Now, sitting on it, his bare legs did stick to it. After talking to the deliverymen, he had done some research online: the body-touching parts were PU, and the rest was PVC. The reviews of the material were somewhat contradictory, but in general PU was regarded as more comfortable than PVC. But it was sticking to his legs. $320 was not a small amount anyway. He should have bought the fabric one. In this part of the country, the temperatures in summer easily soared over 100° F. It would no doubt be better once temperatures dropped but summers could be torture. He was such a stupid.

  ‘I call on my friends, family and loved ones to rise up against my real killers – the U.S. government – for what will happen to me is only a result of their complacent criminality,’

  Blaming government for it was stupid. He caressed the armrest; it was smooth on the palms. Probably he was made to say all that he did. But when he knew he was going to die anyway, why did he say what he said, if he did not really hold the government responsible? Maybe it was the threat of torture. Death was probably much better than prolonged torture.

  Fabric was more cumbersome to clean and it would have looked dirty in a few weeks with its light color. Ever since his divorce, he seldom did any cleaning or dusting. It wasn’t that before divorce his wife did much. But he tried to remain more active then, at least till he knew the end was imminent; he wanted to show her that he cared about cleanliness, and even about her. He could have easily sucked the dust with the vacuum, but the stains required much more – sometimes even dry-cleaning – which was expensive. But this faux leather didn’t feel comfortable. If he were to bring home a girl and they were to make out on it, it would be… torture. Most likely. It could burn the ass of either of them.

  He thought about changing it. He felt his heart burning. Why did he pick it up in the first place? What was the use of sulking now?

  Who sent them there? Did they go there on their own? Or did their bosses force them to go to conflict zones? Especially places where people wanted the blood of Americans!

  He was stuck with it now. He could not afford to change couches every week so he was stuck with it and it was sticking to his legs and his bare arms. The coffee was getting cold, but he didn’t mind: he liked it better when lukewarm.

  They had also threatened to kill another freelance journalist. He looked up and after much effort found a similar but confusing description of the journalist killed: ‘a freelance journalist who worked for GlobalPost… as well as for Agence France-Presse…’. Was he a freelance journalist who was working on an assignment for these organizations or was the word freelance printed in error? Whichever way, it was a done deed. Somewhere up there, it said his mother had been trying to publicize her son’s disappearance, but he never knew it before today. He could not remember having heard or read about him in particular.

  The second agency mentioned seemed to be French. Then the French government was also to be held responsible.

  He almost bought the other couch before images of women on the black one got the better of him. He had considered the heat factor, and it was also cheaper by $50, so he had almost decided in favor of it. Yet, in the end, he chose this one. He stupidly, unconsciously, believed it was leather. It was quite expensive if you ignored the discount: a whopping 60% discount was offered on it. The store was reputable.

  Of course, stores of repute didn’t sell products made of lower quality faux leather either. There were many varieties of PU as well as PVC, he had learnt in his research. He had also come across an image of the same model that was on sale at a website that sold old items. It was barely a year old, yet it seemed to have become flat and ugly.

  He put the newspaper down and got up to look for the disfiguration that he had caused by sitting on it. It regained its shape easily and with very little delay. He had emailed the store contact he found on their website asking about the durability of its material and last night they had replied. Pretty standard, non-committal reply, he thought. If the material was used normally, and proper care was taken, the material would last many years. Wear and tear depended mainly on the use.

  So, if he didn’t sit on it, then it could last half a century: that’s what they meant, the assholes.

  He had to get ready for work, so he sat down to finish his coffee. He looked again at the image on the front page. It was mind-numbing; he didn’t have the courage to leave the front page. The journalist was wearing an orange jumpsuit, kneeling in the sand. He seemed healthy enough. The masked man seemed a bit lost, with head tilted just a little. ‘…gave his life trying to expose the world to the suffering of Syrian people.’ He thought about Syria. He knew there was civil war going on in Syria. There were only anti-government protests first, then, he didn’t know when and why, it developed into a civil war. There was a refugee problem, and there were terrorists there and in Iraq. What was the connection? What was the chronology? What were the catalysts?

  He did not know. Or he could not remember.

  The cup was empty; he put it on the corner table beside the couch. The cushioning was top class, no doubt. When he had sat on it in the store, he felt as though he was falling down for a moment. The couch he had replaced had become as hard as stone. But the beige fabric one would have the same cushioning as this one and it wouldn’t have stuck like this. The thoughts of the beige one were beginning to torment him now and he couldn’t get them out of his mind.

  ‘We implore the kidnappers to spare the lives of the remaining hostages… they are innocent. They have no control over American government policy…’

  He wondered what the government could do to save them. Thei
rs was the most powerful government in the world. They had Navy Seals that had killed Osama Bin Laden who was hiding in a foreign country. Some of them could go and bring the other hostages back if they knew where they were. He knew they would already be trying to do something just like that. He was sure of that much.

  If he could advise the government, he would tell them to not allow anyone to go there for news. It was a risky business. He didn’t know about others, but he was sure he didn’t mind a dull newspaper that meddles with personal lives of celebrities and talks about boring politics and such other things, if in return he didn’t have to read such news.

  He flipped the pages but nothing interested him. He put his arm on the armrest and raised it; it felt like he was tearing it off from the armrest. He did it again. Again the same it felt. To make it worse, the cooling was useless. If there was any hope now to salvage the situation, it was in getting the cooling fixed. It was an added expense, but it was required, he assured himself. It was more cost-effective anyway, compared to buying an obscenely expensive leather sofa that was said to be more skin-friendly as well as more durable. The thought did make the fever of the beige one subside a little, but only a little.

  He got up as he had to get ready for work.

  END

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  Other titles by Jasbir S Jagdeo

  The Shreds of Character

  People didn’t care what she heard, and it was only fair that she didn’t care what they heard. Befitting even. Somehow, it didn’t feel wrong, or disastrous. She knew enough about men now; now she knew how to squeeze happiness out of pain. Then, though her circumspect mother was proud of her and her brother belligerently loved her, they were only shreds of happiness that were not enough reparations.

  But he wanted to kill her. How could she do it knowing she had a brother? Didn’t she feel guilty doing it? She thought their father couldn’t do anything. Didn’t she care how her brother would react? Had she no fear of him? That was the only solution: he couldn’t let her live.

  Set in a small town of Punjab at the turn of the millennium, The Shreds of Character is the tale of a disgraced family and of an enraged guilt. Available in both ebook and paperback formats.

  A Fine Poet: A short story

  A Successful Man: A short story

  About the author

  As a friend aptly describes: with "the smile of a mischievous child…a younger sibling, punished with the sorrows of adulthood and laid low but not quite vanquished", Jasbir S Jagdeo survives with his wife and children in Ludhiana, India.

  Connect with Jasbir S Jagdeo

  Jasbir S Jagdeo’s facebook page

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  https://jasbirjagdeo.blogspot.in