The Dictator
Story penned for the anthology Elixir of Words, The Write Order, 2021. Available on Amazon.
The nondescript, dingy bar was washed in yellow light. The only two occupants of the room sat on wobbly stools and drank out of watered, warm bottles of beer. I could not help but cough at dust set of by the slightest movement around, occasionally glancing at the stranger who had walked in with me this evening. Perhaps Tom would know who the newcomer is, I thought to myself.
The stranger shuffled. “This beer tastes worse than another man’s spit”, he remarked, “say, where would you say would an honest man get his glass filled here”. I grunted “we are no honest men mister, we don’t flinch from killing for bread”. Suddenly, stranger leaped to close the two stools gap between us, opened a new bottle from his sack, and poured me a drink and then matched one for himself. “Well, stranger, I would not regret dying off this elixir”, the disbelief was not hidden from my words. Stranger chuckled and said, “so tell me about yourself”. I rolled my eyes… Is the drink really worth this blatherskite? He elucidated, “tell me about your country and your people”. Ah heck, I straightened myself and mentally made pointers. The stranger would get the lesson he’s begging for.
“Naegrym’s hard working people, rich mineral deposits, architectural grandiose and natural beauty put it on the world map early on. The earliest settlers of the land, my ancestors, those who spoke Naegrm, established a balanced system of oligarchy early on, which gave impetus to the industrial, economic and technological development that carried the country for years. While all had access to opportunities, social stratification, just as natural selection, filtered the Naegrms to the cream and authority, while the rest with a few exceptions were the burden we bore as we pushed for a better tomorrow. The exceptions, fairly unacknowledged, of course sparked unrest, demanding equality. In the extremely unfortunate and tragic War of Worlds, the leaders like Slavo leveraged the sentiments of antipathy sown by stratification to massacre the non Naegrm population, which remains a dark period in our history. Like other countries that failed to oust internal thorns and guard against the external terror, our country was regressed nearly a decade. Our heads were down with shame, but not beheaded. And thus began the rebuild.”
I sipped the golden liquid, looking at the stranger from the corner of my eye. I could smell the drink on his breath and mine, and his nods and exclamations egged me on. I looked at the clock chiming to midnight, and gave in to my now old body. I turned to the stranger, “well young fellow, while I can barely resist the honeytrap that your bottle and kind ear is, pardon the old for tonight. Will we meet on the morrow if I live to see another day? I didn’t catch your name or stay.” “My good sir, you have a penchant for leaving the audience wanting more. Say, would you not give company to your weary traveller for tonight while my Horse rests and refuels?” the stranger did not hide his dismay. This was perhaps the singular notable encounter since I had been laid off work. “You have the bionic Horse? Where are you from?” I could not help asking. Bionic animals had left the automobile revolution far behind, and a Horse was a rare sight in the countryside or even in the Capital. The stranger’s eyes glinted, and he spoke slowly, “my travels sustain me, sir, hence a necessity. My name is Ary and I am expected to be in the city by day after. It is a long ride from home”. I nodded and continued.
“I was a professor of Political Economy of Development at Naegrym’s biggest institution, until some years ago. Born after the rebuild, I come from the generation that drew purpose from the collective goal of, well, the rebuild. Slavdiak gave us hope and food, and something to work for. That was till Yaryak came along, that is. He did not need a tool or sentiment to ignite civil wars and genocides that micrify the likes of Slav or Gengiz Khan or Hitler In the last ten years, I have seen our country cripple beyond recognition.”
At this point, the stranger interrupted my monologue, “how was your tenure?” Ah strange detour- I paused, recollected my thoughts and let my mind levitate in yesteryears, positively basking.
“I learnt more than I could have ever taught. PED is a dynamic and perhaps one of the most interesting subjects in the backdrop of our turbulent history. My time was divided between classes and the library. I treasured burying myself in the young ideas my pupils spelled for me.”
“And how was young Yaryak?”, the Stranger muttered. I physically flinched and cursed Tom under my breath, the man must have thought it to be amusing to share anecdotes and whatever his make-beliefs are. The clock struck 2- I took a long breath, shivered, and could not help smiling. We were two bottles down.
“This is what would come to be my favourite lecture, till I was fired of course, which was not long after. I encourage reading and retrospection from the very first day, and tested perception instead of regurgitation in my course. My selective crop of students almost always engaged in intense repertoire, and while some had strong inherent notions, some moulded theirs by absorption. ‘What would you do as a leader in the years to come?’ would be my favourite and ultimate question to the youngsters. I thereby venture to tell you about the best paper by the worst student. The student was brilliant beyond anyone I know, could memorise or solve particularly complex debates with intelligence and devotion unimaginable, and failed spectacularly at grasping the content, hearing, but not listening to what I taught. Unlike everyone else, who turn the paper in at term’s end, I received his submission five years later”. I felt my throat dry, and took a swig, and shot a glance at the stranger. I found the spark in my old, weakened eyes mirrored in his dark ones, took his nod as an approval, and went on. I was transported to my library and I had the paper in front of me.
“If one were to read it, one cannot help agreeing to excerpts. But the undercurrent mania is inescapable. ‘The fault, my old man, is in man. A man can meander as a democrat, gallop as a dictator, and even charge forward as an autocrat. But it takes a God to realise the flight of freedom; not God- the witless man make-say, God- the omnipotent, omniscient.’- these chilling words open the window to the horrific mind that unfolds herein. Yaryak goes on to list perfectly cogent and concurrently deranged arguments that grow from fascism to justify fratricide, looting and “social cleansing”, ultimately elevating the leader he would be to pedestal of the almighty. His deeds have been terrible but great. His tools are much more nuanced than mindless warfare, after all AI assisted psychological monitoring and manoeuvre or targeted killings mask the diabolical genius. I never thought I would face him again, until today. Does your former home’s devastation pain you, Yaryak?” The stranger slumped and smiled wide, speaking in no more than a whisper, “not more than the home pained me, old man. The Naegrms you so proudly speak of, made sure it was barely a home. I never got anything from Naegrym but I have so much to give. What you call crippled is the best the nation has been, but of course you are aware of my ideas and methods, we will have to agree to disagree. I am not here to make you see sense though. My people will know me as the God. Your cock and bull ideas were amusing, sure, but I could not let you poison minds, could I?”
I knew I should be scared of this man. “Kill me then, wayward man” I croaked. He smiled and said, “or I could tell you that our homes are ashes, your little pity party of a school and its children are no more. The last of my past, you, will traverse these lands without an identity or physical sense, as a mere ghost, a testimony of my great rise to those who stand in the way of Naegrym’s eminence with foolish ideas of men, and a reminder of the divine sceptic to myself”. Cough punctuated my words, “I don’t think anyone can write like you do, and pray that no one ever will”. I coughed some blood, not being able to raise my head from the table, and I could not feel my tongue anymore. “Yaryak is God” he blurted- the words rang painfully in my ears, and I knew his last words here will be the last I hear.