Marx, At The Mall

# title: Marx, At The Mall

An endless night. An abandoned mall of desires unknown to my senses. Blinded by a future, a

promise, which had already become a memory.

That's all it was. That's all everything ever was. I was stuck in time. I felt myself drugged by a

richness I was consuming and which was consuming me. I kept thinking, was I even there?

Until one karkidaka vavu morning, I woke up to find that I was trapped in the shell of a crow.

As I glanced at my feathery wings and clawed toes, I thought, 'how will I get to work

tomorrow?'

'Ka-ka-karthika'

I remembered my name. A voice of salvation. Where did it come from? Eventually my eyes fell

upon another crow on the opposite branch.

'Yes?'

'Have you read kafka?'

I looked puzzled.

'Ka-ka-kafka. Have you read him?'

'No.'

'Well you should.'

'Who are you?'

'Me? I'm the ghost of Karl Heinrich Marx.'

'Karl Heinrich Marx?'

The name sounded oddly familiar. Suddenly it hit me like a jet train. I was In the presence of...

'Karl Marx?'

'Yes, You can call me Ka-ka-Karl.'

There was something very calming about his voice. My eyes closed by itself. I was back at the

mall, but this time I was on an escalator through the roof. I looked up to the night sky. There it

was. All the stars swimming, like fish in a vast blue ocean. Where was this all my life? I opened

my eyes.

'So is this it? I'm dead.'

'No. You have been working to such an extent that you have in a sense become like the dead,

like me, alienated from this world.'

Work. Yes, I remembered now. I was a data analyst. But what did I do that I messed up so bad.

There was no way. I never overworked. Never even stayed past the closing hours. Heck, most

of the time, at the office, I spent doing nothing. I hated every. single. second of it.

'So, I'm a ghost?'

'You could say that. But don't worry, I'm here to help you get you back to your body.''How?''Come with me.'

We flew.

Looking from the sky, the world was like one massive incomplete circuit. With its own

capacitors, connectors and bridges. A sudden shiver crossed through my body. I felt like the

world didn't need humans to function anymore. As if at some point in history, it had gained its

own autonomy. And the cars and the buses drive us more than we drive them. Am I in one of

them right now? Is this what he meant earlier, I wondered. How many ghosts like me existed

down below? And how long was it before they will fly like this too? Only being able to look at

what they've created from a distance.

'We're here.'

A house standing out from its surroundings. An island of its own. We stood on a mango tree in

the backyard. An old man laid down a ball of rice on the floor and started chanting. Shanti.

'Where are we? What are we doing here?'

Shanti.

'That man standing there' He said 'is a very distant relative of mine.'

'You have descendants in kannur? Well that explains everything.'

He laughed. 'And I'm in love with this city. Come on I want to show you something.'

We landed near the riceball.

'Well' I said

'Well, what?'

'Aren't you gonna eat it?'

'Why?'

'So that your soul will get shanti. Don't you want moksha?'

'You think consuming this little riceball is going to give me moksha?'

'Isn't that how it is?'

'Then tell me, why do we do it every year?'

I kept silent.

'Can you hear it?'

'Hear what?'

'Just close your eyes.'

I did. A cafe. I was sitting near the window. Espresso. Sedation. It hadn't ever occured to me

why I could never hear anything from the outside in these visions. Perhaps it's the coffee

machine, or the tainted glass, or was it the chatter of the middle class.

'Listen closely.' I heard Marx whisper.

I glanced through the window, images popping up deliberately like pixels on a computer

screen from the nineties. I could hear them! The rickshaw puller selling vegetables. The lorry

driver sounding his horn. I leaned towards. In the distance, the farmer. He's tilling his, no, our ancestral land. A pounding heart. Trembling breath. He longs nothing more from the world. I

open my eyes.

'What was that?'

'That, my comrade, is the sound of labour.'

'Where did it come from?'

'There.' I gawked at it with an *eagle eye*.

'Behind every tiny riceball lie countless, fascinating stories. A medley of myriad frequencies.'

'I suppose so.' I wondered why they never spoke to me before but Marx promptly answered,

'But they don't speak very often, for they aren't seen.'

For they aren't seen.

I then *saw* the truth. I had no clue who made this riceball. Heck, for me they might as well

didn't exist. What is the difference between me and the dogmatist who mistook the stone for

the god who made it?

Once more, the elevator door opened,

Floor-1

I stepped out through that gateway of pearls. Rose golden walls assorted with the most deluxe

slices of metal known. the iPhone.

Who made the iPhone, and the box and the labels and the plastic bag. Who made this aisle that

I walk upon. Who made this world? Why did I believe it was born out of the abyss. Out of

nowhere.

I thought about the pricetags, the terms that come with everything.

Marx. All the tales that these tags hide in its shadows. What else do they hide?

Homesick. At sea. Searching for a home I never knew of. But that which had been alluding me,

my entire life.

I started reminiscing.

High school. A young Hummingbird. A blooming sunflower who longed for him. She wanted to

be pretty. Bought Levis jeans. She paid well.

I went way back. She was five. Crying for that burger on TV. And for the smile the english kid

adorned.

I realised. I had always been a crow eagerly pecking on that riceball every annual 50% off day,

aching for it.

Shanti.

I opened my eyes.

'What happens now, Mr. Marx? How do I become a person again?'

'Again? But when were you one to begin with? Do you even know what it means to be one?'

Silence.

'To exist is to name the world with the pen called labour.'and that is no longer a part of yourself.to you, it is something you can own or dispose of,

like a toy.

to name the world,

you simply cannot do it.'

I saw myself trapped. Forever. In the Mall. Lights out in five.

One.

'Please! Ka! I need to get out! I need to be alive!'

Marx looked awry.

Two.

'Ka-Ka! Please help me get out, Mr. Marx, I beg you!'

Three.

'Control yourself, Comrade!' As his voice rose, I felt mine fall.

'You are not alone. And don't you **ever** forget this.'

This was the single most profound thing I ever heard in my short, uneventful life. I. am not.

alone. I never was. The Mall was always full. Loud. Buzzing with a plethora of ghosts like me.

Why couldn't I see them before? Well, they're ghosts aren't they?

Four.

'One day, comrade,

And there will be a day. There will be a dawn.

The people will wake up.

They will rise against these walls that trap them.

And you have a choice to be a part of it.

You can be a part of the naming.'

He called me by my name.

'But for now, you need something else.'

'What is it?' I asked. Calmly.

'A pen.'

Five.

Epilogue:

So I'm a published writer now. And back in my human body again, as you can see. You could

say I'm happy. At Least I'm happier than before. My folks think I'm crazy for quitting my

well-paying job to write "silly things about a coming apocalypse or something". But what do

they know. Things have changed a lot from their times.

Now you ask, wearing that branded leather shirt, god knows which comrade of mine made

with her labour: "Did this actually happen? How do you expect us to believe this actually happened?"

But then, you'll be missing the point.

-Easa Yahiya