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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Drama
- Published: 03/17/2018
HIS SIKH FRIEND
BY AYUSH KUMAR
He shivered a bit as he felt the tear leaving his eyes. He had tried hard to hold it back but he failed. He sighed. Lying flat on his bed he stared blankly at the ceiling.
Why me…...
Why me……..
His thoughts seemed to haunt him, he didn’t want to think in that direction but he couldn’t help thinking.
A fire of bullets outside his house helped him to break through his thoughts….
********
Born and raised in Qormi, Southern region of Malta, Frankie Camilleri began training in boxing at the age of 12. Camilleri later studied jiu-jitsu and became a black belt. He scouted at the Maltese National Jiu-Jitsu Championships, where he won the Absolute and Heavyweight titles for blue belts under age 18. At the age of 19, Camilleri came to the United States to compete. In his first sanctioned mixed martial arts match, an event called Superbrawl in Hawaii, the young Maltese defeated his opponent in 12 seconds by knockout, despite His opponent having a seven-inch height advantage and an over 100-pound weight advantage over Camilleri.
Then there was no looking back.
He became the UFC heavyweight champion at the age of 21, PFL heavyweight at 26, ONE at 30, M-1 GLOBAL at 36, IGF at 38, ROAD FC at 42 and lastly again UFC heavyweight champion at 44.
Life was moving swiftly.
Camilleri married Malta Gafa at the age of 45, with whom he had a daughter. They started dating each other …. Broke up but patched up again during a reality show. That same year Camilleri appeared next to Malta when she was photographed for the Maltese edition of Playboy.
But as everyone says nowadays ‘life is not a bed of roses’.
After a fight, Camilleri tested positive for an illegal substance, 4-hydroxytestosterone. In his defense, Camilleri argued that he purchased an over the counter supplement which contained 4-Hydroxytestosterone. Camilleri also explained that he may have received 4-Hydroxytestosterone as the result of rehabilitative injections given to him after his surgery to repair a torn meniscus in his knee in the summer.
He lost everything….Money, Fame, Respect……
He lost everyone……wife, his daughter.
Yeah that’s all they were... ‘Everyone’ for him.
Camilleri now 54 lived in a small cottage in Naxxar a town in the Northern Region of Malta. Far from the population, all his humble cottage offered was a grassy extension which one may gratefully call a parking lawn.
Despite his age Camilleri was built like a giant. His chiseled body and stiff muscles projected a perfect look of a Greek God. His fade taper undercut hair had shades of grey, and there was a faint patch of grey beard on his chiseled cheeks as well.
********
Camilleri held firmly a broken long neck bottle of La Valette wine, from which he was gulping monstrously moments ago. Now with the bottle broken it was no more an object of leisure, it was an object of murder.
Three of Camilleri’s lenders had jumped in his parking lawn. One was with a gun. Camilleri had borrowed 700 dollars from them a week ago and now they were in his house to clear the debt. Camilleri pushed the broken bottle’s edge in the belly of the one with gun. The bottle stuck there as the lender fell on the ground, blood gushing from his stomach. Camilleri caught hold of another guy by his neck from behind and bought him near his Chevrolet Silverado pickup truck that was parked in the lawn.
Thud!
He smashed the other lender’s head against the hood of the truck.
“Aah!!” cried the lender in agony.
Thud!
He smashed again.
“Leave me you….,” cursed the lender as blood spurted making a mark on his forehead.
“Alright,” whispered Camilleri under his breath as he grabbed the loose shirt of the lender from behind and in a moment held him in air, the lender’s face to the sky, and in another smashed him on the hood of the truck, nearly breaking his back.
It was then when he felt a strike on his back. Before he could react there was another. The third lender was still on his foot and now he was beating Camilleri badly with an iron rod. The giant came down on his knees. Partially due to the constant beating and partially due to his old age.
“You damn old man,” cursed the lender as he came in front of a vulnerable Camilleri. He wielded the iron rod and struck on Camilleri’s right jaw and he did so again and again, until there was nothing on Camilleri’s face but blood.
The lender was soon joined by the other two guys. Camilleri still on his knees looked at them with his blood bathed eyes.
“Shoot him,” said the one whom Camilleri smashed against the truck.
“With pleasure,” said the one with the gun as he pointed it at Camilleri.
I will have to get to the truck thought Camilleri.
Everything happened in a split of a second.
Camilleri rose like a wounded tiger and growled pushing the lender with the gun. He punched the one who had beaten him right on his nose, and pushed aside the one whom he smashed as he raced towards the pickup truck.
It was when he was at the door of the truck that he sensed something piercing his left foot; he very well knew what it was. A bullet.
Ignoring the wound Camilleri threw himself on the front seat.
Bang!
A bullet pierced his right shoulder breaking through the windscreen.
“Shit!” cursed Camilleri under his breath.
He pulled the lever and desperately fought the steering wheel for control, but the truck weaved all over the road.
He was bleeding heavily.
I’ll have to reach the hospital or I’ll die.
***********
Camilleri laid in a ward in the Old Royal Air force hospital. Each ward had two compartments separated by a single curtain and shared by two patients. Camilleri was sharing his with a brown skinned boy who wore a green turban over his head. The boy was a Sikh and looked no more than ten years of age. Camilleri had heard the nurse calling him by the name Rantej.
It had been two days since Camilleri came here. The bullets in his foot and shoulder had been removed and he was left with a fractured collar bone.
“You know there’s a key,” said the boy.
Camilleri looked in amazement; the boy had not spoken a word in last two days.
“Excuse me?” said Camilleri with a hint of uneasiness.
“I said there’s a key…..” repeated the little boy sweetly with a mild innocent smile.
“A key what?” asked Camilleri trying to soften his usual heavy voice as far as he could.
“To being happy…,” replied the boy in a melodious voice.
“You are saying there’s a key to being happy?” asked Camilleri in amusement. He had assumed by now that the little guy was looking for some fun.
“Yes there is…” said the boy.
“And what is that key?” asked Camilleri pretending to share the thrill.
“Choice,” replied the boy.
“Choice?” asked Camilleri in confusion.
“The power to choose what to keep and what not to,” replied the boy.
The words of the boy, to Camilleri, felt like someone touched a wound….a deep wound… A wound on the soul.
Camilleri smiled, hiding his emotions, “What’s your name boy? Where’re you from?”
“I am Rantej Pasaila; i was born in Qormi to a Maltese father and a Sikh mother. My father was an officer in the Air Wing of the Armed Forces of Malta. He died in a plane crash, within a few months mom passed away. My uncle took over our property and I was left in an orphanage…” said Rantej almost in a breath.
“I’m sorry,” said Camilleri feeling extremely guilty for asking that question.
“No problem, I’m happy now there’s no point in being sad,” said the boy with a cheerful smile.
“Really?” questioned Camilleri still feeling guilty.
“One can be exactly as happy as one decides to be, I see you are a broken man sir,” said Rantej looking at Camilleri.
Camilleri turned his gaze, he felt like the boy looked through his soul.
“Not much except for the collar bone,” Camilleri pretended as if everything was fine.
“That was a good joke sir, but you can tell me…..after all I’m just a ten year old boy,” Rantej smiled the brightest smile Camilleri had ever seen.
Rantej and Camilleri walked through the beautiful garden of Old Royal Air Force hospital as Camilleri told the little boy everything about his life.
Camilleri sat with Rantej on the garden bench gazing at the sunset. The sky was painted red and the birds flying sprinkled a sense of some unknown serenity.
“You can still love sir,” said Rantej.
“My wife left me, she went away with my daughter, they were everything to me, and you say I can still love,” said Camilleri patting friendly on Rantej’s back as he smiled mildly.
“You lost your daughter, I lost my father…..” said Rantej looking at the distant sky.
Camilleri waited for what was coming.
“To love and be loved…..will you be my father?” Rantej broke in tears as he spoke the last sentence.
Camilleri held him in his arms.
"I’ll be a loving father and a faithful friend."
THE END
HIS SIKH FRIEND(Ayush Kumar)
HIS SIKH FRIEND
BY AYUSH KUMAR
He shivered a bit as he felt the tear leaving his eyes. He had tried hard to hold it back but he failed. He sighed. Lying flat on his bed he stared blankly at the ceiling.
Why me…...
Why me……..
His thoughts seemed to haunt him, he didn’t want to think in that direction but he couldn’t help thinking.
A fire of bullets outside his house helped him to break through his thoughts….
********
Born and raised in Qormi, Southern region of Malta, Frankie Camilleri began training in boxing at the age of 12. Camilleri later studied jiu-jitsu and became a black belt. He scouted at the Maltese National Jiu-Jitsu Championships, where he won the Absolute and Heavyweight titles for blue belts under age 18. At the age of 19, Camilleri came to the United States to compete. In his first sanctioned mixed martial arts match, an event called Superbrawl in Hawaii, the young Maltese defeated his opponent in 12 seconds by knockout, despite His opponent having a seven-inch height advantage and an over 100-pound weight advantage over Camilleri.
Then there was no looking back.
He became the UFC heavyweight champion at the age of 21, PFL heavyweight at 26, ONE at 30, M-1 GLOBAL at 36, IGF at 38, ROAD FC at 42 and lastly again UFC heavyweight champion at 44.
Life was moving swiftly.
Camilleri married Malta Gafa at the age of 45, with whom he had a daughter. They started dating each other …. Broke up but patched up again during a reality show. That same year Camilleri appeared next to Malta when she was photographed for the Maltese edition of Playboy.
But as everyone says nowadays ‘life is not a bed of roses’.
After a fight, Camilleri tested positive for an illegal substance, 4-hydroxytestosterone. In his defense, Camilleri argued that he purchased an over the counter supplement which contained 4-Hydroxytestosterone. Camilleri also explained that he may have received 4-Hydroxytestosterone as the result of rehabilitative injections given to him after his surgery to repair a torn meniscus in his knee in the summer.
He lost everything….Money, Fame, Respect……
He lost everyone……wife, his daughter.
Yeah that’s all they were... ‘Everyone’ for him.
Camilleri now 54 lived in a small cottage in Naxxar a town in the Northern Region of Malta. Far from the population, all his humble cottage offered was a grassy extension which one may gratefully call a parking lawn.
Despite his age Camilleri was built like a giant. His chiseled body and stiff muscles projected a perfect look of a Greek God. His fade taper undercut hair had shades of grey, and there was a faint patch of grey beard on his chiseled cheeks as well.
********
Camilleri held firmly a broken long neck bottle of La Valette wine, from which he was gulping monstrously moments ago. Now with the bottle broken it was no more an object of leisure, it was an object of murder.
Three of Camilleri’s lenders had jumped in his parking lawn. One was with a gun. Camilleri had borrowed 700 dollars from them a week ago and now they were in his house to clear the debt. Camilleri pushed the broken bottle’s edge in the belly of the one with gun. The bottle stuck there as the lender fell on the ground, blood gushing from his stomach. Camilleri caught hold of another guy by his neck from behind and bought him near his Chevrolet Silverado pickup truck that was parked in the lawn.
Thud!
He smashed the other lender’s head against the hood of the truck.
“Aah!!” cried the lender in agony.
Thud!
He smashed again.
“Leave me you….,” cursed the lender as blood spurted making a mark on his forehead.
“Alright,” whispered Camilleri under his breath as he grabbed the loose shirt of the lender from behind and in a moment held him in air, the lender’s face to the sky, and in another smashed him on the hood of the truck, nearly breaking his back.
It was then when he felt a strike on his back. Before he could react there was another. The third lender was still on his foot and now he was beating Camilleri badly with an iron rod. The giant came down on his knees. Partially due to the constant beating and partially due to his old age.
“You damn old man,” cursed the lender as he came in front of a vulnerable Camilleri. He wielded the iron rod and struck on Camilleri’s right jaw and he did so again and again, until there was nothing on Camilleri’s face but blood.
The lender was soon joined by the other two guys. Camilleri still on his knees looked at them with his blood bathed eyes.
“Shoot him,” said the one whom Camilleri smashed against the truck.
“With pleasure,” said the one with the gun as he pointed it at Camilleri.
I will have to get to the truck thought Camilleri.
Everything happened in a split of a second.
Camilleri rose like a wounded tiger and growled pushing the lender with the gun. He punched the one who had beaten him right on his nose, and pushed aside the one whom he smashed as he raced towards the pickup truck.
It was when he was at the door of the truck that he sensed something piercing his left foot; he very well knew what it was. A bullet.
Ignoring the wound Camilleri threw himself on the front seat.
Bang!
A bullet pierced his right shoulder breaking through the windscreen.
“Shit!” cursed Camilleri under his breath.
He pulled the lever and desperately fought the steering wheel for control, but the truck weaved all over the road.
He was bleeding heavily.
I’ll have to reach the hospital or I’ll die.
***********
Camilleri laid in a ward in the Old Royal Air force hospital. Each ward had two compartments separated by a single curtain and shared by two patients. Camilleri was sharing his with a brown skinned boy who wore a green turban over his head. The boy was a Sikh and looked no more than ten years of age. Camilleri had heard the nurse calling him by the name Rantej.
It had been two days since Camilleri came here. The bullets in his foot and shoulder had been removed and he was left with a fractured collar bone.
“You know there’s a key,” said the boy.
Camilleri looked in amazement; the boy had not spoken a word in last two days.
“Excuse me?” said Camilleri with a hint of uneasiness.
“I said there’s a key…..” repeated the little boy sweetly with a mild innocent smile.
“A key what?” asked Camilleri trying to soften his usual heavy voice as far as he could.
“To being happy…,” replied the boy in a melodious voice.
“You are saying there’s a key to being happy?” asked Camilleri in amusement. He had assumed by now that the little guy was looking for some fun.
“Yes there is…” said the boy.
“And what is that key?” asked Camilleri pretending to share the thrill.
“Choice,” replied the boy.
“Choice?” asked Camilleri in confusion.
“The power to choose what to keep and what not to,” replied the boy.
The words of the boy, to Camilleri, felt like someone touched a wound….a deep wound… A wound on the soul.
Camilleri smiled, hiding his emotions, “What’s your name boy? Where’re you from?”
“I am Rantej Pasaila; i was born in Qormi to a Maltese father and a Sikh mother. My father was an officer in the Air Wing of the Armed Forces of Malta. He died in a plane crash, within a few months mom passed away. My uncle took over our property and I was left in an orphanage…” said Rantej almost in a breath.
“I’m sorry,” said Camilleri feeling extremely guilty for asking that question.
“No problem, I’m happy now there’s no point in being sad,” said the boy with a cheerful smile.
“Really?” questioned Camilleri still feeling guilty.
“One can be exactly as happy as one decides to be, I see you are a broken man sir,” said Rantej looking at Camilleri.
Camilleri turned his gaze, he felt like the boy looked through his soul.
“Not much except for the collar bone,” Camilleri pretended as if everything was fine.
“That was a good joke sir, but you can tell me…..after all I’m just a ten year old boy,” Rantej smiled the brightest smile Camilleri had ever seen.
Rantej and Camilleri walked through the beautiful garden of Old Royal Air Force hospital as Camilleri told the little boy everything about his life.
Camilleri sat with Rantej on the garden bench gazing at the sunset. The sky was painted red and the birds flying sprinkled a sense of some unknown serenity.
“You can still love sir,” said Rantej.
“My wife left me, she went away with my daughter, they were everything to me, and you say I can still love,” said Camilleri patting friendly on Rantej’s back as he smiled mildly.
“You lost your daughter, I lost my father…..” said Rantej looking at the distant sky.
Camilleri waited for what was coming.
“To love and be loved…..will you be my father?” Rantej broke in tears as he spoke the last sentence.
Camilleri held him in his arms.
"I’ll be a loving father and a faithful friend."
THE END
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