One mans habit is another mans dream

One Man's Habit is Another Man's Dream

A small whisp of a figure stares longingly, her hollowed eyes catching
glimpses of men in suits and women in elegant saris walking side by
side down a blossom lined street, paved with the gold they drop as they
wander freely. She blinks, moisturising her eyes with what little fluid
she has yet to loose through dehydration, and the image is gone. It was
the image of a better life - the one she longs to lead. Instead she
only hears the whirring of machinery, and the distant sound of voices
on a radio, and sees misery. A sharp pain surges up her back, and she
jumps slightly as she feels the impact of the coarse leather strap at
the base of the spine. No words were uttered, but she knows she must
continue sewing the jeans. Her hands work quickly and swiftly, whipping
in and out precisely, only going where it needs, as they switch into
autopilot - she works without even thinking about what she is doing.
She never pricks herself, and would not feel it if she did, for the
ends of her fingers have built up resistance to the spiteful little
metal splinters, the ones worth more than she is (or so she is told by
her owner, every time she breaks one from overuse). The first leg is
complete now, and she pauses momentarily, looking around her knowingly,
trying to spot any changes in the factory she knows so well. Her
friends and colleagues are bent over their work, some sew jumpers
others T-shirts or jeans like her. But they all sweat profusely, they
are all half starved. The rags they wear barely cover their skin, which
has a parchment-like feel to it, and it so thin they bones are clearly
visible. They all blend together perfectly, creating a mass of
overtired, overworked and undernourished nobodies - nobodies who could
have been somebodies, was it not for this cruel fate. There identities
blend into one, a single body described as 'The Slaves of India'. The
girl looks at herself and realises she is no different, just like she
will tomorrow, and did yesterday, in her routine that never
changes.

'Will that be all Ms Green?' asked the perky shop assistant who knows
the women from her frequent visits. Mrs Green replies by nodding her
head enthusiastically, before handing over her gold card to pay for the
designer purchases. She picks up the carrier bags, bulging with
material of the finest quality, shaped into garments only the
privileged can afford. Every time it's the same: parading around
boutiques and some of the larger stores, handing over Daddy's hard
earned cash when she sees something she likes, or something someone
else would like on her. The same old, boring routine, the habit
developed from growing up spoilt in America.
She walks idly into a jeans shop, and runs her hands across the stiff
material. She doesn't need a new pair, but she thinks the style is
nice, or that her old ones in a different style are worn out, though
they have only been worn for a short while.
Tonight she will return home to her big empty house and pick away at
her big dinner ungratefully, before throwing the rest away in the
trash. Tonight she will watch television, on the widescreen, laughing
at the antiques of witty characters in moronic show or weeping at the
romantic tragedy of a film. Tonight she will be bored, with nothing to
do, and will hate her life, she will wish she had a job.
Now the woman has gone into autopilot herself, handing over items she
wishes to purchase without a second thought, in fact she is practically
unconsciously aware of what she is doing. She signs the slip without
hesitating to the total price. She never thinks how lucky she is, in
this land of opportunity, and has stopped thanking her father for the
money she knows she will receive. Instead she will grumble over the
hardship of having to choose between two pairs of shoes. In the end she
will just buy both.

The fever rages through his body, turning him hot one second, and cold
the next. He gasps and wakes suddenly, reaching out his drink, and
being stunned by the whiteness of the walls in the hospital room, as
the light streams in and reflects of it. The man is in the room, all on
his own, but there is the option for others to rest there, but in the
tropical diseases section of the hospital, he is all alone. The outside
world is directly in front of him, through the large window, whose
blind is pulled open and secured in place by a thick cord. The
Australian summer light streams in and clearly highlights the dust in
the room. A bird flies past and the man sighs, wishing he was as free
as that bird. Instead he is trapped inside, with a rare strain of
malaria, at least that's what the doctors think it is. He had acquired
it from a spider bite, although it was a spider unlike he, or anyone
had seen before (after it had bitten him it was captured and brought to
the hospital in the hope that an antidote could be discovered). Now the
man wishes he hadn't gone camping in the bush, although to get that
feeling of freedom back would have been wonderful. Just to stretch his
legs for a minute, or to wash he greasy hair, would have been bliss.
The only thing, however, he could do in between fits of feverous sleep
was read magazines or watch the old black and white television they had
wheeled in for him especially.

A young child screams in the whiteness, and rolls it into a ball to
return fire. But as he does, he is hit from behind and an ice cold
stream of melted snow trickles down his spine making him shiver all
over. His young, slim frame is covered with thick woollen clothes,
shielding him from the harsh Scottish weather. Then again the boy
doesn't care. He is as of full of naivety and ignorance as the day he
was born. Well, nearly.
Now he grins toothily - he finally managed to hit his target, one of
his friends. There are five or six of them in total, all with rosy
cheeks and windswept hair. All loving their freedom, all content, all
never wanting it to end. But none of them more so than the boy. He
sprints around, full of the joys of spring permanently, and he is never
knocked for his enthusiasm. Without a care in the world he now turns
his attention to building a snowman. As he is halfway to completing the
body, it becomes a joint project as his friends join him. Together they
work tirelessly, only pausing when they finish. They stand arm in arm,
locked together in a proud comradeship and admiring their handy
work.
A distant voice comes from inside the small cottage, calling them to
come in where a warm fire awaits them. They hurriedly jog in and set
themselves down on the comfortable three piece suite, and searching
through the television channels for on to tell them the latest
news.

*

The Indian girl hears a muffled message on the radio. It reports that a
woman has made a large donation to the Indian Slave Appeal. She smiles
hoping she will soon be able to carry out her dream.
The woman holds the check of one million dollars up to the camera, and
smile fakely. Now she wishes the donation had been anonymous or even
that she'd never seen that documentary on slave labour in the first
place. Instead she wants to be isolated, away from everyone - like that
man who's now famous because he discovered a new disease, but is still
alone with his fame, in hospital as they try to find a cure. Of course
it would have to be without the illness and the celebrity.
A throaty cough resounds around the room, and the man is watching a
photograph of himself on the news. He thought his new found fame would
mean people would come and visit, but his is still alone, not even a
single camera crew showed up they just took that photo from his
parents' photo album. They didn't even ask him. His face disappears now
and instead there is a report on the heavy snowfall in Scotland and the
children playing in the snow, without a care about school or anything
else in the world. They are free in their youth, and as his fever rises
the man wishes he was like them.
The boy reads a newspaper slowly, trying to make out the words. He's
not able to read properly yet, but he makes out the basics: a
millionaire donating money to Indian slaves and a man with a new strain
of Malaria.

For one moment they are all untied through thought.