“Aanjay’s Heroic Deed”: A Short Story About Bravery and Compassion

Published on: 7 Dec, 2024
Updated on: 10 Dec, 2024

During lockdown, Guildford Dragon reporter David Reading teamed up with two friends, both ex Guildfordians, to write and self-publish a book of short stories. The profits are going to local children’s charity Challengers. The following story is part of the collection.

Aanjay’s heroic deed

David Reading’s short stories in The Kindness of Time

By David Reading

A telephone call at four o’clock one Saturday morning reminded Aanjay that the day had arrived for the annual celebration of his birth. His Uncle Harish, a well-respected resident of Mumbai, appeared to have disregarded the time difference between their two cities so Aanjay was perplexed at being woken suddenly from an amusing dream about a hat-wearing fish. But when he realised who was calling his mood lifted.

Uncle Harish. It is so good to hear from you.

Happy birthday, Aanjay. May God shine upon you today as he does every day most probably.

Oh yes of course. It’s my birthday! Thank-you for reminding me.

The conversation was brief. Uncle Harish provided news about Aanjay’s friends at the Department of Drinking Water and Sanitation. They all pined for him, especially Deepak, who missed their weekly game of Twister. Uncle Harish said there was a parcel in the post for Harish and he hoped it would arrive that very day.

Aanjay returned to his bed hoping to meet again the hat-wearing fish of his dreams but the sound of his neighbour’s radio removed any chance he might have had of further sleep. The disc jockey seemed to be a devotee of the type of popular music known as ‘heavy metal’. Aanjay had a fondness for most styles of music but realised his ambition to return to sleep that morning would be unfulfilled. So he sat at the window of his little flat, watched the sun rise over Whitechapel and listened to the starlings squabbling over scraps of food.

Just after seven o’clock Aanjay had a fine breakfast of Tesco Multigrain Hoops, which had been relinquished by the previous tenant. The tiny black specks he took to be weevils and he was encouraged by the fact that these would provide him with extra protein. He wondered whether they had been a purposeful addition by the manufacturers but could find no mention of them on the box. He enjoyed his birthday breakfast.

At nine-thirty the doorbell rang. Standing on the landing holding a small parcel was his neighbour, a stout fellow named Karl. Aanjay had enjoyed many interesting conversations with Karl in the past. Karl believed that all immigrants should be shipped back to their countries of origin and he believed Aanjay was one of those who did not belong on English soil. On several occasions he had voiced this point of view in no uncertain terms. Aanjay liked the cut and thrust of debate and would look forward to his lively conversations with Karl.

This morning, however, Karl appeared to be pressed for time and chose not to engage in small talk. The parcel he held in his hand was for Aanjay; it had been wrongly delivered. Although Karl had been tempted to keep it for himself he was worried, so he said, that the parcel might contain a bomb. Aanjay thought this was an unlikely prospect but understood that all manner of things were possible in life. He took the parcel and wished Karl an enjoyable weekend (not realising they were destined to meet again that very day in rather alarming circumstances).

Aanjay opened his parcel with enthusiasm. Although he had learned that having unrealistic expectations leads to much sorrow, he could not stop his mind from imagining what the parcel might contain. It was cube-shaped, suggesting it might be some kind of delightful decorative ornament. Aanjay felt that his little home needed brightening up. He had few possessions: just his clothes, his toothbrush, a bar of soap, an electric kettle, his copy of a James Bond novel and a picture of his mother which hung over the fireplace. As he tore away the brown paper wrapping, he saw it was not a delightful decorative ornament after all but a ceramic mug. An amusing inscription on the side of the mug read: KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON.

Aanjay was delighted with his gift and inspired by the message it conveyed. As he set about making tea, he noticed that inside the cube-shaped box there was also a greeting card. On the front of the greeting card there was a picture of a man playing golf and above that a simple communication: Happy 21st birthday. Uncle Harish had signed his name inside and added a brief message: I am sending you this gift thanks to that most wondrous of inventions, the Internet.

What a delightful start to the day! Aanjay thought to himself.

He left his flat that morning with a spring in his step, determined to tell all and sundry about his new mug and the humorous message it expressed. He promised Mrs Patel, the newsagent, that he would show it to her one day soon. You will be tickled pink, he said cheerily. Aanjay bought a packet of Rolos and the local newspaper and decided to eat his Rolos and read his newspaper sitting beside the pond opposite his flat. And that is exactly what he did.

Aanjay was dismayed to read that a woman had been sold an out-of-date pasty; and that the Mayor had been criticised for his choice of hat. But before he could read much further he heard a terrible hullabaloo coming from the direction of his flat. Looking round he saw a small crowd of people, who were shouting and pointing towards an upstairs window. Pouring from the window was a cloud of smoke. Aanjay knew it was the home of his neighbour, Karl.

Abandoning his newspaper, and his Rolos, Aanjay jumped up from the bench and sprinted across the road towards this scene of apprehension. He heard a siren wailing in the distance. Reaching the building, he raced through the foyer and up the stairs, realising that waiting for the lift would waste too much time. He arrived at Karl’s flat to see black smoke swirling out from underneath the door. There was a cry of distress from inside. His first instinct was to ring the doorbell, which he did, but after a few seconds it became plain that the poor fellow was in no position to answer the door. For a moment Aanjay shared the emotions he supposed Karl was feeling. A sensation of cold dread coursed through his body. But then he remembered the rousing message written on the side of his new mug. And immediately he felt energised.

A door further along the landing opened and a chap he knew as Mr Herring appeared. What’s up? the fellow cried. We have a problem to be solved, Aanjay called back, there is no doubt about that. The poor chap in here will fry to a crisp unless I can save him from such a fate. Mr Herring – keep calm and carry on!

Aanjay leaned heavily on the door but it was clear his small frame would provide insufficient force to achieve his aim of breaking through. Another solution came to him in a flash. He entered his own flat, opened the window and eased his way along the narrow ledge towards Karl’s window. He paused for a moment. A flock of pigeons whirled and swooped around him. He felt the air from their flapping wings brush his face. Aanjay loved all wildlife and marvelled at the iridescent colours displayed on their wings. But this was an unwanted distraction, so instantly he returned to the job in hand. Pushing against Karl’s window had little effect at first, but he noticed to his satisfaction that the window was off the latch. He pushed harder, the window opened a little, and he squeezed through the narrow gap. The room was filled with smoke, the kitchen area was aflame, and Karl was lying in a heap on the floor.

Aanjay had got as far as taking hold of the fellow’s shoulders, preparing to heave him to his feet, when a third figure entered this scene of potential calamity. Aanjay was relieved to notice that it was a representative of the local firefighting department. He – if it was a he – wore a helmet and a gas mask. Aanjay addressed the firefighter directly. This chap seems to be in a bit of a quandary. We need to get him to safety. Can you help? He was pleased that he had taken command of such a difficult situation.

The two of them dragged Karl through the dense smoke, out on to the landing and on to an awaiting stretcher, where a rather delightful woman wearing a green uniform was ready to administer medical assistance. Take care of him, Aanjay pleaded. Underneath his gruff exterior there is a good heart.

Karl opened his eyes briefly. He looked shocked to see Aanjay holding his hand and tried to pull away. The smoke had filled his throat and his lungs and his eyes were streaming. He tried to speak. He was mouthing something at Aanjay.

Anjay smiled, squeezed his hand and spoke gently to him. You are welcome, my friend.

***

The short story collection, “The Kindness of Time and other Stories,” costs £9.95, plus £3.60 postage and packing per book. Profits are going to Challengers.

To order a copy please email karinewbery1@gmail.com with Book Order in the subject line.

Please include the number of books you would like, your full name, delivery address and preferred payment method: BACS or Paypal.

To avoid postage and packing costs, delivery could be arranged to people in the Guildford area. Email davidreading47@outlook.com