Fizzy Cherry Cola
Gerrard Wilson
Copyright 2014 by Gerrard Wilson
Fizzy Cherry Cola
I can imagine you thinking, ‘What’s so scary about ‘Fizzy Cherry Cola?’ To be truthful there is nothing scary about it, but having said that, please look carefully into the picture of the bottle before making your final assumptions…
Well, did you see anything? Did you see all those troubled souls trapped inside the bottle? Did you see the expressions on their poor, pitiful faces, knowing they have no hope of ever escaping it, that the only release they might hope for is that someone happens upon the bottle, and drinks them?
Mr Singe – Gupta – was an old man who had seen many changes over the course of his seventy-five years on this earth. When he was sixteen years of age, his family emigrated from India to the colder climes of England. Along with his parents, brothers, and sisters, Gupta began a new life in a county so different from the hot, tropical one he was used to, and so loved.
Snow; snow was one of the first things the notoriously fickle English weather hurled at the Singe family after their arrival one cold, dark, wet December day. The snow remained stubbornly on the ground until mid February. Gupta thought it might never melt. Nineteen sixty-three will always be remembered as the year of the big freeze, a time when the whole country came to a standstill.
As the days, weeks, months and years slowly passed, the Singe family settled down well into their new life. Despite feeling homesick for the old ways and the warm sun of the tropics, the each carved out a grand new life for their growing families.
Four years after his arrival in England, Gupta met a beautiful young Indian woman called Sonita whom he fell madly in love with and then married. Two years later, after the arrival of a baby son, Gupta and his wife were about as happy and contented as they could possibly be.
Having opened a shop, a convenience store that became indispensable to the local community, Indian and English alike, Gupta worked day and night to make is a success. Life was good for the Singe family. They looked forward to a long, happy and contented life together.
One day, however, all of this changed, it changed utterly and completely, when a man – a newly arrived immigrant – entered the shop, enquiring if Gupta knew of anyone who had a room to rent.
Happy to help a fellow compatriot find his feet in a foreign land, Gupta said, “I have a flat for rent over my shop.” He pointed upward. “Mind you it is quite small.”
His eyes beaming, the man replied, “Small is okay, if I have as much room in heaven I will be so happy.”
“Would you like to see it?” Gupta asked the heavily bearded man.
“Yes, please,” he replied, offering Gupta his hand. “My name is Ali,” he said, smiling, “I am very pleased to meet you.”
Having returned the greeting, Gupta led him outside to a separate door. Turning the key, Gupta invited Ali to follow him up the narrow stairway leading to the flat.
“It is perfect,” said Ali as he wandered around the three small rooms, then back again to Gupta.
“I haven’t yet told you how much the rent is,” Gupta warned.
“How much?”
“Three pounds per week, with a month in advance.”
The smile on Ali’s face disappeared, and he said, “That much?”
“It is the going rate,” Gupta said defensively.
Buttoning his coat, Ali apologised for wasting Gupta’s time, saying, “Thank you for showing me your wonderful flat, but it is sadly more than I can afford…”
At this point Gupta felt bad, so far removed from the teachings of his religion, to help his fellow man. As they walked down the narrow stairway, Gupta thought about it some more. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, he said cheerfully, “I tell you what I will do…”
Ali listened with interest.
“For the first six months, I will rent you the flat for only two pounds per week, after that it will return to the original three – I can’t be anymore fair than that!”
Smiling again, Ali quickly agreed to his terms, promising to help in the shop during his spare time as a way of making up for the shortfall in rent.
“If you give me a hand at the busy times, when I really need it,” said Gupta, “that will be fine.”
So it was agreed, and within the week, Ali had moved into his new flat.
For a while, everything went swimmingly, with Ali gladly helping in the shop whenever Gupta needed him. However, this happy situation failed to last, with Ali making more and more excuses as to why he was unable to help Gupta when he asked him.
The kind-hearted Gupta readily accepted Ali’s excuses, thinking how he might feel if the tables were turned. Although Sonita had some doubts as to the validity of Ali’s excuses, she also accepted them in the spirit of genuine Indian hospitality.
One particularly busy evening, just after Ali had made another weak excuse as to why he was unable to lend a hand, Gupta decided to look further into the situation of their lessee.
“You can’t be serious, Gupta,” said Sonita after she had heard what her husband intended to do. “Suppose he finds out what you are doing? What will happen, then?”
“Don’t worry, my wife,” Gupta replied, trying to calm her concerns. “I just want to find out who we really have living above us…”
“But?”
“It will be okay, I will be watching him from afar. I will be extra careful that he does not see me.”
Nothing more happened for over a fortnight. Sonita had almost forgotten about her husband’s plan to follow their lessee, to try to find out what he was getting up to in his spare time, until one evening when Gupta came down from the flat with another lame excuse why Ali was unable to help.
Tearing off his shop coat, Gupta grabbed hold of his raincoat and hat, putting them on in a flash.
“What are you doing?” Sonita asked as her husband closed the venation blinds on the door. Lifting one, he peered through it.
“Watching,” Gupta replied in a whisper.
“Watching what?”
“Shush, I think I can hear him…”
There was a bang as Ali pulled his front door closed behind him.
“I am going to follow him, so I am,” said Gupta as he carefully opened the shop door, to see Ali turning the corner at the end of the rain soaked street.
“Be careful, my husband, Sonita warned as her husband disappeared into the night.
As he made his way along the cold, wet streets, Ali had absolutely no idea that he was being followed, spied upon. Even when he reached his destination, a large red brick house, where he knocked once, then twice and then once again, he saw nothing to tell him someone was following.
After a couple of minutes, a young woman opened the black painted door. After greeting Ali, she invited him in.
“That’s it,” said Gupta from his position of concealment across the road, behind a pillar-box. “It’s a woman, and a rich one at that judging by the size of her house!”
Happy that he had solved the case, that Ali was seeing a woman, that he was not the dark, shady character he had been beginning to imagine, Gupta made his way back to his shop.
“Well?” asked Sonita as Gupta took off his rain-soaked coat and hat.
“Well what?” he teased.
“Ali – where did he go?”
“Oh, Ali,” Gupta answered, pretending he had all but forgotten about him.
“Come on,” Sonita warned as she grabbed hold of an egg.
“No, not the stock,” Gupta cried, in fake concern for his profits.
“You have one second, then you get it,” Sonita laughed, raising the egg, making ready to throw it.
“All right, all right,” Gupta laug
hed, “I will tell you what I saw. There is nothing to worry about, my wife,” he explained, “Ali has been making himself busy – with a woman, that’s all, a woman.”
“A woman?” Sonita exclaimed, “then why all the secrecy?”
“He must be a shy lover, I guess.”
The Singe’s stopped asking Ali to help in the shop, thinking he had other, more amorous things on his mind than baked beans and cornflakes.
Despite this change, Ali never once asked why they had stopped asking him. Whenever he came into the shop, when they were particularly busy, he never offered to help; he simply paid for his purchases and left without saying a word.
As the days passed, Ali withdrew further into himself and his secretive life. He never ever spoke to the Singe’s about it, until one quiet evening when he came down to the shop, to purchase a pint of milk…
“Hello, Gupta,” said Ali, seeing him enter the shop.
“Hello, Ali,” Gupta replied with the same welcoming smile he offered all his valued customers.
“I’m in need of some milk,” Ali explained. “It’s thirsty work trying to study.”
“You are studying?” Gupta asked, surprised that Ali could actually find the time, considering his work amorous commitments.
“Oh, yes, I am studying the Cryptic Agenda for improving one’s whereabouts in the order of life,” Ali proudly informed him.
“Hmm, that is a mouthful…”
“It is more than that, Gupta,” said Ali as he placed the bottle of milk onto the shop counter, and rummaged in his pockets for some change.
“What exactly is it?”
Sorting the money from an assortment of buttons, coins, keys and pieces of paper that he had taken out from his pocket, Ali placed the correct amount onto the counter, and said, “It is a complete way of life – a life change. Oh, Gupta, I am so happy…”
“I am pleased for you,” said Gupta, with the same customer-welcoming smile he had offered him minutes earlier.
Over the coming weeks, Ali visited the shop on a growing number of occasions, each time buying milk, cheese or eggs.
“My, you do like your protein,” Gupta exclaimed one evening, when Ali purchased two pints of milk and a dozen extra large eggs.
“We need protein,” Ali replied in all seriousness, “for the Transmigration…”
“The trans – what?”
“The Transmigration,” Ali repeated, raising a finger to his lips lest the customer at the rear of the shop might hear, “is when we pass over to the next stage of existence – to Alocyrrehcyzzif…”
“Alocyrrehcyzzif?” asked Gupta, struggling to pronounce the word, let alone understand it.
Smiling from ear to ear, as if he had just won a million pounds on the lottery, Ali said, “It is Nirvana – Heaven, whatever you wish to call it. In our case we call it Alocyrrehcyzzif .”
Confused, Gupta asked, “Who is calling it this?”
“The Cryptic Agenda, of course,” he answered. “Gupta, I have so much that I want to tell you and your lady wife… You see, this is why I have been unable to help in your wonderful shop. I have been taking my studies.”
“I know that, you already told me.”
“Yes, it is true – I must tell you all about it!”
“Try and relax, Ali, have a drink of cola – it’s on the house.”
“No, I cannot drink cola!” Ali replied, horrified by such a suggestion. “Cola is reserved for the Holy Ones.”
“The holy ones?”
“Yes, at the centre, where I have been taking my studies, I have learnt that cola, and the bottle in particular, are a part of our Transmigration – we cannot partake of it until we are pure.”
“But everyone drinks cola,” said Gupta, scratching his head, frustrated by the increasingly weird conversation they were having.
“Jean Walters – my Numinous – has explained it to me; she has shown me the way to Alocyrrehcyzzif. She told me to eat protein and follow the true ways of The Cryptic Agenda.”
“It sounds like you have been sucked into a cult.”
“No, no!” Ali insisted, “It’s not a cult – It’s the true path to perfection.”
“Doesn’t every religion say that?” asked the customer to the rear of the shop who had been listening to their conversation with a growing curiosity.
Neither Ali nor Gupta answered, Gupta because he fully believed in his religion, and Ali because he fully believed in the Cryptic Agenda, Transmigration and Alocyrrehcyzzif.
“I will speak with you on the morrow,” said Ali as he opened the shop door, exiting the shop.
“That’s a weird one,” said the man as he approached the counter.
“I beg your pardon,” said Gupta, his mind set on his obviously brainwashed compatriot.
“I said, he’s a strange one, spouting that mumbo-jumbo. I always say you can’t beat the established religions.”
“And which one might you be a part of?”
“Me – none – I’m an atheist,” he proudly professed, “but if I were in one, it would be an established religion, not one of those new-age things – here today and gone tomorrow.”
With that piece of profound thought still ringing in his ears, Gupta handed the man his change and thanked him for his custom.
True to his word, Ali returned to the shop the next evening. While there, he tried so hard to convince Gupta that he and his wife should join the Cryptic Agenda. He went on and on about how happy they would be after they had joined. In the end, Gupta had to ask him to leave, saying he was quite happy with his present religion.
After leaving the shop – without getting any new converts, Ali made his way through the quiet streets to the large, red brick house where he worshipped and studied.
When she opened the door to him, Jean Walters, the assistant Grand Master, was disappointed to see Ali alone.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly, “but I was unable to convince my friends to come…”
“The Grand Master will not be pleased,” Jean replied, bidding him enter. “You know the way through,” she said as she left Ali alone in the hall.
After taking off his shoes, Ali walked quietly into a small, dimly lit room where he spent most of his free time studying the word. Seeing six other people (three of them new) seated upon the floor on their cushions Ali joined them.
After several minutes in quiet contemplation of the Bottle of Transmigration displayed in front of them on the altar (it appeared strikingly similar to a bottle of Cherry Cola), Ali could hear the sound of people talking behind the purple coloured curtain used as a backdrop. Suddenly the curtain opened, allowing Jean and The Grand Master to enter.
“We welcome you all,” said Jean in her usual slippery smooth voice, “despite the fact that one of you has failed in your duty to the Cryptic Agenda.” In the dimly lit room, all eyes rested on Ali. He smiled nervously.
After Jean had finished welcoming the new converts, she brought everyone up to date on the Cryptic Agenda’s recent activities. When she had finished, she introduced the Grand Master, a tall, bearded man called George Ducket. As Jean disappeared behind the thick curtain, the group welcomed the Grand Master with a round of applause.
“Thank you, thank you,” said the Grand Master, inspecting the seven people sitting on their cushions before him. “Thank you so much for coming out on so chilly an evening.”
The Grand Master welcomed the three groups of two, but ignored the lone group of one. He praised the newcomers for having the faith and insight to join them their Cryptic Agenda, which would culminate in the Transmigration of the Soul towards Alocyrrehcyzzif.
Although Ali was totally committed to the cause, he felt increasingly awkward as the Grand Master continued to heap praise on the real followers, ignoring him. After listening for a good fifteen minutes, with seemingly no end in sight of the Grand Master’s praise for the real followers, Ali was unable to take any more. Standing up, shouting at the top of his voice, he said,
“I have tried to get two converts – Gupta and Sonita Singe – but I need some more time to convince them to come… I am sorry, I am so sorry that I have let you and the Cryptic Agenda down. If there is any way I can make amends for this terrible thing, Grand Master, please, please tell me!”
As if he had heard nothing at all, the Grand Master stared over Ali’s head to the front of the room. Then the curtain opened again, revealing a sullen faced Jean as she walked slowly, methodically across to the Bottle of Transmigration, before carefully picking it up from the altar.
“Ah, so you have the Bottle of Transmigration,” the Grand Master said cheerfully when Jean stood next to him with it. “That is good, very good…”
Ali was puzzled. Had the Grand Master not heard what he had said? Moreover, if not, why not? He watched the bottle with acute interest.
“Ali,” said the Grand Master, beckoning him to come closer. “Ali, it has been decided to give you the chance of full Transmigration. Perhaps, in Alocyrrehcyzzif, you will find your true place.”
Ali was ecstatic, to think he was being offered Transmigration – and so soon!
“Approach us,” the Grand Master ordered, “approach the bottle of Bottle of Transmigration. Your time is here, it is your time”
Hardly able to believe his luck, especially after failing to get even a single convert, Ali stepped towards the front of the room. The Grand Master beckoned him to stand in front of Jean who was holding the Bottle of Transmigration before him.
“Ali, have you any last words?” he asked.
“Last words?” Ali thought, in shocked surprise, “I don’t like the sound of THAT!”
“Jean, please unscrew the bottle top.”
With increasingly frightened, eyes, Ali watched Jean unscrew the bottle top.
“Do you have anything to say, Ali?”
Ali’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
“Very well,” said the Grand Master, “remove it.”
With that command, Jean removed the bottle top and pointed the bottle directly at Ali.
No sooner had she done this, a vortex exploding from the bottle, took hold of Ali and began pulling him kicking and screaming back into it. It was over in an instant; Ali was gone. Silence returned to the darkened room.
Screwing the top onto the bottle, Jean carefully returned in to the altar in front of the curtain.
“That, my dear people, is how we Transmigrate,” said the Grand Master as he began to take off his official garments. “The only problem, however, is that in order for it to work properly you must have first died.” He stared into the bottle, watching the contorted face of Ali floating around on the inside, with so many other like-minded souls who had fallen foul of the Cryptic Agenda, failing to find them converts. “As you can see,” the Grand Master explained, “if you enter the Bottle of Transmigration before your physical body has died, you are cursed to remain there for all eternity…”
After the service was over, and everyone had left, the Grand Master, calling Jean to come over to him, said, “What were those names Ali called out before he left us so untimely?”
“Gupta and Sonita Singe.” she told him.
“Do you know where we can find them?”
“I do,” she replied, smiling. “They run a small convenience store, not too far from here.”
“That’s good,” said the Grand Master, also smiling. “I think we should go pay them a visit…”
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Harry Rotter – an excerpt