The Solitary Elephant and other stories

By Jay Wood

A collection of short stories that have won awards in various writing contests. There's a roadtrip in Kerala, squatting a luxury hotel to survive an earthquake, going for a vegan burger at a punk cafe, getting mugged by various animals and a couple of failed attempts at being a hipster. The stories received recommendations from contest judges such as Baroness Lola Young, Meg Rosoff and Jane Bidder, among others. Adventure, comedy, pathos and raccoons; there's something for everyone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Wood
• Release date: May 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393327400

Jay Wood

Jay Wood gave up a fledging career as a blues musician when he heard the siren call of software development in the 1980s. He cut his teeth as a developer in San Francisco before making the leap to consultancy and has never looked back. Based in London, he honed his expertise through years of experience with IT consultancies advising just about any financial institution you can name. He's had success in project work all over Europe and India with stops back in his native USA. He's published articles in technical journals and presented at technical conferences. Nowadays, Jay resides in Wales where he's won a few awards for his writing. Worryingly, he has rediscovered the guitar and is threatening to disturb the tranquillity of local pubs.  

Book preview

Introduction

Iused to travel a lot for my job. This travel included a great deal of downtime with colleagues where we'd roll out favourite stories to pass the time. After years of practice in relating my favourite anecdotes, usually over a few pints and a lot of laughs, friends encouraged me to write them down. After a few rough attempts and many pointers from accomplished writers, these stories started to take shape. Relenting to encouragement from friends, I submitted a few to writing contests. Actually winning awards took me by surprise.

The stories are based on interesting things that happened in my life. They describe a bereavement-tinged road-trip in Kerala, taking refuge in a landmark hotel during one of San Francisco's biggest earthquakes, going for a burger at a vegan punk cafe in East London, getting mugged by various animals and a failed attempt at being a hipster. The stories got good reviews from friends. But a few of them received comments from industry professionals.

'The Solitary Elephant' won a Platinum Award in the 2013 Koestler Trust Contest. Editorial director of Hutchinson and Random House UK, Anthony Whittome and novelist Jane Bidder comment: '..displays novelistic skills in the portrait of a man suddenly and rapidly cut off from his roots by the realities of his life and thrust into the utterly different culture of Southern India. The sense of landscape (notably in the train journey) is vivid and evocative, the dialogue with the Indian characters carries the narrative well and the personal vignettes are captivating. Very highly recommended.'

'Morose' and 'Up and Down' were taken from a collection that won a Silver in the Koester Trust contest of 2013. 'A very good collection of well-judged stories, set in various places which 'come alive' as you read. Well done'.

'Where's Moss' won a Gold Award in the 2012 Koestler Trust Contest and was displayed at an exhibit in the Wales Millennium Centre.

The story 'Holding Back' was awarded a Silver in the 2014 Write to Be Heard contest. Baroness Lola Young commented: 'Well-structured and cleverly written, this unusual story shows an ease with words and the ability to write a good ending'.

'Bang' and 'Quaking Apens' were taken from a collection that won a Bronze Award in the Koestler Trust contest of 2014.

I am indebted to a couple of excellent writers who gave me much needed advice, you know who you are. I'd also like to thank the many who read early drafts and made excellent suggestions. Thanks also to the judges of writing contests who wade through oceans of stories and kindly give feedback. This is what drives us on.

And don't forget to keep telling your stories to whomever will listen.

Jay Wood

Wales

2019

The Solitary Elephant

Chapter One

'Y eah, yeah, I know . You’re too busy and all of that. Look, HR says you gotta take the time off. So I’m telling you: take the rest of the year off. Go to the beach. Visit family. Whatever. Just don’t do it in the office’.

In a daze, I hung up the phone. The conversation with my boss had filled me with dread. Watching the ceiling fan in the hotel room circulate languidly, hypnotized by the motion, I struggled to come to terms with the thought of three weeks of free time. Mandatory Christmas holiday. Time off from work.

The truth was I didn’t have anywhere to go. I had accepted the job in India to get away from the stresses of the last year. The project was massive. A million problems to solve. A myriad of issues required my full concentration. No time to think of the past. I dreaded going back to the UK for the holidays. Sitting in an empty house filled with difficult memories while enduring pained sympathetic looks from estranged friends and neighbours was too much to bear. However, the die was cast. I couldn’t stay in Chennai and I couldn’t go home.

The answer came about fairly easily. An old friend had offered me the use of his disused flat in Kerala soon after the funeral. He thought I might want to use it if I wanted to get away from it all. Perhaps he knew me better than I thought. With a few phone calls back to London everything was arranged. I would pick up the key from a mutual acquaintance. All in all it would equate to a free three week holiday in sunny climes a stone’s throw from white sandy beaches and swaying palms. Christmas in the tropics. Everyone’s dream.

One of the guys in the office suggested I fly to Trivandrum. Another suggested I get in touch with the real India by taking a train. 18 hours, coast to coast, on a sleeper. I opted for the train. Sounded like a bit of an adventure. A ticket was easily purchased. While I was used to the choice of economy, business class and first class on planes, I was not aware there were seven classes of travel on Indian trains. I decided to go top class which set me back the princely sum of £22.

Over the next few days I put my work affairs in order and even started to look forward to the time off. I planned to read a few books that had been piling up. Perhaps I could put together that proposal to change the structure of the division I was working for. But wait, I wasn’t supposed to work, right? Free time. What was I supposed to do with so much? The thought clouded my anticipation.

The old railway station was very grand in a colonial sense. A vast peaked red tiled roof dominated the edifice. A scrum of taxis and buses thronged the forecourt, discharging an impossible horde of people into the cooling shade of the terminal. With my simple shoulder bag, I negotiated past the huddles of families bidding each other farewell and eventually found my platform. The heat and smells of the station were oppressive, but I was in good spirits as I pushed through the carriages to my appointed compartment.

Four empty bunks of light blue padded foam greeted me. The train carriage looked to be fifty years old but everything was in very good condition and spotlessly clean. It was like stepping back into time.

One by one passengers streamed into the carriage. While in a relaxed chatter, two men piled into my compartment. ‘Hello,’ they smiled to me in English before resuming their Tamil conversation. They sat on the bunk opposite me and spread out their travel supplies, obvious veterans of this particular journey. Soon afterwards there appeared a very brusque man in his forties, about my age. He looked sternly around at the compartment. Without a greeting, he climbed into the top bunk opposite me. He fished not one, but two, mobile phones out of his overnight bag emblazoned with the logo of a major Indian company. He immediately clamped one of phones next to his moustachioed face and began shouting importantly at the hapless person on the other end of the line. It seemed like he was showing off to us that he was a Big Man.

Right on time the long train trundled out of the station, shedding hangers-on just before the doors were closed. The late afternoon sun streamed into the window as I settled back and watched the scenery go past. Big Man continued to shout into his phones, occasionally tapping at his laptop out on display. The two friends chatted amiably casting a friendly glance my way every now and then. City turned into suburbs and then shanty towns as the miles clacked by.

The train didn’t creak at all. Nothing was loose. All the parts worked. Everything was oiled or screwed down tight. The old train felt very solid as it picked up speed. Soon all vestiges of the city disappeared replaced by a tattered rural landscape. Women beat laundry on riverbeds, shrivelled farmers drove oxen in green fields, kids ran alongside the train hands out and laughing.

At dusk, the lights came on in the compartment. A tiny wizened man wrestled a huge tureen of hot tea to the floor. He was the catering worker for this coach. He poured cups for the chatting friends. I declined the tea and Big Man ignored us all. The caterer soon returned with a large hot box of meals. Only one choice: a thin dal served in a plastic bag with two chapatis. I watched in awe as the two friends expertly cut the corners off of the bags and poured the contents onto small paper plates held in their hands without spilling a drop. They then scooped up the dal with their chapatis. Their dinner smelled wonderful and I regretted not ordering any for myself, favouring the travel munchies I had brought on board. Perhaps bringing my food was a way of disassociating myself with the local population? Perhaps I was more like the aloof Big Man shouting into his mobile phone than I cared to admit.

With this in mind I offered some of my picnic supplies to the smiling pair opposite. Quite pleased, they politely helped themselves. Kindly, they switched to very fluent English and included me into their conversation. They were both printers returning from a convention. They were also cousins in a large extended family. They had grown up together and shared a wonderful sense of humour as well as a mock competitiveness.

‘So, how do you like India?’ The older printer was curious.

‘I like it very much. Everyone is very friendly. I am enjoying learning about your country.’

‘How does India compare to England?’

‘It really doesn’t compare. India is unlike anywhere I’ve worked before. The more I learn about your culture, the less I seem to know.’

He smiled and nodded. ‘It takes an understanding of our history, ancient religions and politics to gain even a basic understanding of India. What is your religion? I am Catholic and Prakash is Hindu,’ he gave his cousin a friendly nudge.

‘I’m afraid I don’t really have a religion. In fact, I don’t have time for it. I just work all of the time,’ I shrugged helplessly.

‘Ah, aren’t the words ‘In God We Trust’ printed on the US dollar?’ We laughed.

‘I guess you are right. Perhaps I have a religion whether I know it or not.’

The evening wore on and the talk dwindled. Stifling a few yawns, the printers finally said goodnight, made up their bunks and fell asleep. Big Man had nodded off amongst his electronic gadgetry much earlier. I lay back in the comfortable bunk and was rocked by the motion of the train. Thoughts of the last few months began their nightly invasion. Emergency vehicles, baffling arrays of chemotherapy, stressed doctors with nothing but bad news and horrified relations. And then the finality of the morphine drip in a grim hospice.

The happy-go-lucky printer pair reminded me of my life prior to the illness. Laughs, future plans, enjoying life despite the setbacks. Now my old friends struggled to find words to share. Time together was haunted by the tragedy. How can one laugh