Jason

Writers are thieves. We steal from reality to build a fascinating story. With a pint of imagination, we make readers enter our world and sympathise with the characters. We can make you visualise any place or person with the simple use of correct words, thrilling your mind. Jason was such a person in real life. He could make you think or do whatever he wanted, but he was only a thief, not a writer.

Jason was a criminal who lived a few blocks away from my house. Almost no one ever saw him, but everyone heard the stories that forged this infamous person. One such rumour was about a policeman’s wife who went missing after her husband threatened Jason. He kidnapped her to instil fear in the man and other trainees at the police station. Meanwhile, he ended up unintentionally sowing the seed of love in the woman, for after a few weeks, she begged him not to return her home. He must have been standing there, smiling as she gave herself to him and brought greater shame to her husband than his loss during the power struggle. Jason had won even the man’s wife.

No one meets Jason easily. Such encounters happen either out of pure coincidence or secretive plotting. Mine was the latter, with the help of mom’s friend, Uncle Steven. He owns an outlet selling Chinese street food and Jason was among his regular customers. Now, you would ask yourself why anyone would want to meet a kidnapper, but the multiple anecdotes to explain my whimsical autocracy should not steal the spotlight here. Let us just say that like everyone in the vicinity, I wanted to catch a glimpse of this man who brought terror and misery when he walked in.

Jason’s house lounged on one side of the main road, but stood alone like Alcatraz. My eyes scanned it every time in an attempt to notice some illegal business. But cream-coloured marbled walls hid the whole property so that one could only imagine the black garage door opening to let his van in. The muffled cries of a policeman’s wife would probably never be able to reach passers-by— that is only if she did cry.

On one night, Uncle Steven called to inform that Jason was on his way to the outlet. I wore the suit of a stalker and reached before him. While waiting for the man, a thousand mental images of how an infamous criminal looks like surged forward. He would be a tall, robust man whose facial features drew in the solemn air of someone having been in and out of jail— probably bald— with tattoos. He went to jail, but not only for the kidnapping incident. The charges included drug trafficking, stealing, and rape. The Labour Party he actively supported had lost that year’s elections, which explained why no recent bad deeds had been committed. Yet, for Jason, going to jail was like a stay at a hotel.

The man everyone feared stepped out of his car that was similar to a black van, or a hearse with tinted windows. My eyes were set on him just like a camera would follow an actor’s entrance in old Western movies, focusing on the stout walking boots first. They fell on the ground with an imaginary thump that could break the earth’s spine. The man himself was not taller than me. He was solid like a massive rampart of stone, and seemed bulky until the shape of his brawny arms was noticed. The black shirt was fitting him like a punching bag’s skin would enclose sand. He had no tattoos, but he was bald.

“What crimes have you not committed?” That was the question ready to roll from the tip of my tongue before a casual smile or a “hello.” I breathed in, framed my own thoughts properly and settled on my wish to later ask, “Who are you really?”

***

Jason is not his real name. But a name does not define someone. What define people are their actions and past.

How Jason became known for his infamous misconduct and lawbreaking was intriguing. It all started when he was on the threshold of adolescence with the rigid dichotomy between delinquency and decorum. He opted for the delinquency and carved it into himself over the years. To say he had any reason for his behaviour would be an understatement, for the spasm in his throat and the anguish in his eyes spoke louder than his words.

 “Nothing was really going well for anyone,” said Jason with a tone of resentment in his voice. It was resentment against the 1970s Mauritius with recurring issues in politics, the workplace and the education system, shortly after the country’s independence.

“My father worked his ass off to bring up his childs. My childhood, well, my childhood was’t easy. I had a decision to take,” he went on while trying to mask the discomfort in his voice.

Was Jason an outlaw with an emotional crack on his hard shell? Yet, he was not always honest about the anguish his past brought and suppressed the signs of tears by gazing at the blue sky as if he was following the clouds’ minute movement. I imagined that the fissured hard shell allowed light to shine on a past channelled by the dark forces of poverty.

“I had a decision to take that was: being educated, or helping my father with the money at home. I have younger siblings, no one can imagine how it is when you know the only money you have is from manual labour. That sum— it satisfies near nothing.”

His gravelly voice bore the sombre tone of his past and matched his hard, unsmiling face. “It’s really strange, and nice to meet someone who wants to know why I do all this. No one bothers to know. When you’re a criminal, you’re a criminal, nothing more or less.”

I paid attention to his voice more than the actual words. It seemed dead and fell flatly on the marbled floor in front of us. His eyes surveyed the parking lot of the shopping mall. We stayed by his hearse in case he had to leave immediately for his wife did not know he was out to meet a fan. And ironically, he was a very compliant husband.

“Did I show you a picture of my wife yet? No? Wait, let me see, one where she is with my baby.”

And his wife was in a beautiful blue saree, wearing a floral hair accessory that took a third of the picture on his phone. I wondered about the ‘baby’ he mentioned until it made sense that he spoke of the hair accessory. On a closer look, it was made out of vibrant green marijuana that was as lustrous as the wife’s long hair. The plant gleamed and hanged from his roof at home, the buds dangled like a pendulum clock in another video.

“I don’t do drugs. Just a spliff from time to time. My brother sells it though.”

I lit a cigarette— a normal one— and offered one to him.

“I don’t smoke those... Do you smoke weed? You know, I protect my brother, yeah... and everyone in the family. I protect them from the law, from myself. You know about that policeman’s wife? My wife doesn’t know that woman was clinging to me, didn’t want to return to her husband. I fucked her for months, then got bored. I made her go.”

He was sitting in front of his black van, clasping and unclasping his hands while he knew he was the living verdict of one law— the survival of the fittest.

“I say, the real criminals are them. The politicians wearing suits, making promises. Who do you think sponsors their promises? Where do you think they get the money, huh?”

He adjusted the gold chain around his neck and checked his phone for the time. With one hand on the steering wheel and a swinging gold bracelet, he looked like a thug for the first time. The tangible arrogance permeated the air as every one of his belongings seemed to scream at me that Jason no longer helps his father to make the ends meet. He had black money that satisfied more than just basic needs.

He stared vacantly at me. Then, his face lit up with a realisation that I could not yet comprehend. For a second, I feared he had heard my thoughts but he went on to say, “Which other day will you be free this week?”

And his rough hand reached for mine, caressing it as a faint smile was drawn on his thin lips.

Jason called a lot of times. I did not answer and never saw him again. But I did hear the rumours that he killed a young boy. Why he killed him no longer mattered, for the boy’s warm blood dripping on Jason’s hands would be the sole image etched in my mind.

Who was Jason?

He said he was a thirteen year old boy who took decisions that altered his life and that of his siblings.

But I think that the man he had become could alter anyone’s life with a shotgun.