Little Sam was a dreamer, imagination his one true friend.
Not that he didn't like talking to anyone or particularly enjoyed sitting by himself in the corner of a room, while other kids his age played and screamed in abandon, their young, shrill voices pricking the bed of silence in the air like tiny needles. But he would rather stare at a wriggly caterpillar curling up over a leaf and nibbling at its edges when it felt hungry, than run around playing football. He would sit next to a crop of touch-me-not's and tease them repeatedly, collapsing in a fit of self-amused giggles, clapping his little pudgy hands. Kids in his class called him 'Bumster', considering he liked sitting in one place for hours, observing something seemingly inconsequential. No one understood him or bothered to. Its hard for seven year olds to appreciate nuances of nature that fail to capture the imagination of most full grown adults. And if you happen to be that one conspicuously odd fat kid who doesn't fit in, school is sure to be brutal. But little Sam didn't seem to care about all that. He had a whole world out there, waiting to be discovered, one that was infinitely more interesting than most kids with rock-paper-scissor on their minds. He suffered his share of nasty name-calling, blows in his gut and his cucumber sandwich being taken away only to be shredded and fed to the crows. But he never fought back. Not that he was a fan of Gandhi. He was too young to have read about non-violence. Not that he did not want to be with the popular kids. But he was always painfully aware that he was different. And as far as he was concerned, it was okay to be that way. At least that's what his Mom told him. His Mom. His best friend.
Sam loved to draw. His Mom gave him a box of seven crayons on his first birthday. Red. Yellow. Green. Blue. Brown. Black. White. She told him, "This is all you need to make anything you want." And before he could walk he had started scribbling furiously, filling page after page with random but sincere strokes. His Dad laughed when he saw them. But his Mom always said that Sam will grow up to be like Picasso some day. Sam had no idea who Picasso was. But he knew he was someone great. And if his Mom thought he could be him, that's all the faith he needed to be him. She could always imagine a picture out of his messy squiggles. She could sometimes see things in them that he couldn't. And when she pointed at a deflated precarious circle and asked him with wide-eyed amazement, "Is that a bird?" Sam simply nodded and stared back at the careless shape in the corner. He did see a bird. He could only see a bird. It was like magic. He hugged her. "Its beautiful", she said.
His favourite pass-time on a hot summer afternoon, when the dog on the street slept peacefully, curled up under the shadow of a tree, was to make paper boats. His mom taught him how to make them. She called it O-ri-ga-mi. He followed her fingers as they moved deftly along the edges of a sheet of paper torn carelessly from a used notebook, turning it into a square, then a triangle, then a square again. She pulled out the neatly creased edges, and when the hood peaked from within, he stared in fascination. They filled the tub with water, and let it go. The boat bobbed on its edges, and embarked on a largely cyclic journey about the tub. Sam knew the journey would last for two rocky laps at most. But the boat didn't know that. It sailed like it never has. Full of hope and promise. He decided if he wasn't a boy, he would be a boat. A real boat. On real water. Leaving behind squiggly trails, like the ocean was his canvas.
Sam was in the car one evening. He was ten. It was raining maddeningly outside. There was thunder. There was lightning. There were drops of water trickling down the windows. But Sam didn't care about all that. He was busy drawing boats on the frosty screens. One behind the other. Ready to set sail on some unknown journey. Only they didn't.
He didn't know they would drown before they could test the waters. All three of them.
He didn't know they were going to be his last boats. Full of hope and promise.
Not that he didn't like talking to anyone or particularly enjoyed sitting by himself in the corner of a room, while other kids his age played and screamed in abandon, their young, shrill voices pricking the bed of silence in the air like tiny needles. But he would rather stare at a wriggly caterpillar curling up over a leaf and nibbling at its edges when it felt hungry, than run around playing football. He would sit next to a crop of touch-me-not's and tease them repeatedly, collapsing in a fit of self-amused giggles, clapping his little pudgy hands. Kids in his class called him 'Bumster', considering he liked sitting in one place for hours, observing something seemingly inconsequential. No one understood him or bothered to. Its hard for seven year olds to appreciate nuances of nature that fail to capture the imagination of most full grown adults. And if you happen to be that one conspicuously odd fat kid who doesn't fit in, school is sure to be brutal. But little Sam didn't seem to care about all that. He had a whole world out there, waiting to be discovered, one that was infinitely more interesting than most kids with rock-paper-scissor on their minds. He suffered his share of nasty name-calling, blows in his gut and his cucumber sandwich being taken away only to be shredded and fed to the crows. But he never fought back. Not that he was a fan of Gandhi. He was too young to have read about non-violence. Not that he did not want to be with the popular kids. But he was always painfully aware that he was different. And as far as he was concerned, it was okay to be that way. At least that's what his Mom told him. His Mom. His best friend.
Sam loved to draw. His Mom gave him a box of seven crayons on his first birthday. Red. Yellow. Green. Blue. Brown. Black. White. She told him, "This is all you need to make anything you want." And before he could walk he had started scribbling furiously, filling page after page with random but sincere strokes. His Dad laughed when he saw them. But his Mom always said that Sam will grow up to be like Picasso some day. Sam had no idea who Picasso was. But he knew he was someone great. And if his Mom thought he could be him, that's all the faith he needed to be him. She could always imagine a picture out of his messy squiggles. She could sometimes see things in them that he couldn't. And when she pointed at a deflated precarious circle and asked him with wide-eyed amazement, "Is that a bird?" Sam simply nodded and stared back at the careless shape in the corner. He did see a bird. He could only see a bird. It was like magic. He hugged her. "Its beautiful", she said.
His favourite pass-time on a hot summer afternoon, when the dog on the street slept peacefully, curled up under the shadow of a tree, was to make paper boats. His mom taught him how to make them. She called it O-ri-ga-mi. He followed her fingers as they moved deftly along the edges of a sheet of paper torn carelessly from a used notebook, turning it into a square, then a triangle, then a square again. She pulled out the neatly creased edges, and when the hood peaked from within, he stared in fascination. They filled the tub with water, and let it go. The boat bobbed on its edges, and embarked on a largely cyclic journey about the tub. Sam knew the journey would last for two rocky laps at most. But the boat didn't know that. It sailed like it never has. Full of hope and promise. He decided if he wasn't a boy, he would be a boat. A real boat. On real water. Leaving behind squiggly trails, like the ocean was his canvas.
Sam was in the car one evening. He was ten. It was raining maddeningly outside. There was thunder. There was lightning. There were drops of water trickling down the windows. But Sam didn't care about all that. He was busy drawing boats on the frosty screens. One behind the other. Ready to set sail on some unknown journey. Only they didn't.
He didn't know they would drown before they could test the waters. All three of them.
He didn't know they were going to be his last boats. Full of hope and promise.
