Monday, October 13, 2008

Story #1: Back to the roots

It was a cold winter evening; Mr. Khanjyan was sitting behind his desk. The office was lit dimly, but you could see the ivory and gold statues next to the window. He was looking at the floor, not moving a muscle while the phone was ringing off the hook. He took a deep breath, shifted his gaze to the cabinet next to his desk. It was full of photographs with famous personalities, certificates of appreciation and endless rows of trophies. The one on the far left was given to him by the president of Armenia for “the best businessman of the year”, next to it was the one of the highest achievement for the reconstruction of Gyumri, and another was given by the Ambassador of USA for maintaining the best relationships between the two countries. At that moment the secretary walked in.
“Mr. Khanjyan, everybody is waiting for you.”
“In a moment” he replied without turning his head.
He looked at the Japanese swords hung crossways on the wall. And he had a flashback about his childhood when he used to play with wooden swords with his friends in their garden. He remembered how he left their village house years ago and moved to Yerevan. Thereon his life had changed dramatically and in no time the little Ara of their village had become the respectable Mr. Khanjyan President of “Khanjyan International Co”.
There were series of sweet memories passing in front of his eyes, but suddenly there was one image that froze in his mind. He walked out of the office with a big smile on his face.
While passing by the big hall, he heard laughter. He turned his head and saw a lot of people had gathered to rejoice. They were all toasting, eating and drinking happily. It was a true celebration. He walked pass the hall and went through the back doors of the company to look for his Porsche. Ara gestured at the security attendant not to approach him. He himself unlocked his car and drove away quickly.
It was getting dark, but he knew the road very well although it had been more than a decade. In less than an hour, Ara parked the car in front of an old cottage, turned off the engine and walked to the door. he took a deep breath, walked into the dark house. There were no lights except for a shadowy beam coming from a room. Without hesitating, he walked to the light and through the door. in the middle of the room, there was a big wooden table. On the top of it was a half melted lit candle and an old women with her head hanging. She moved her head and raised her eyes at him. The smile lit her crying eyes.
“I knew you’d come. I have been praying for you. Happy Birthday son.”