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Party Crashers

(My first novel!)

CTY Literary Zine

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Experiences

Sweeter than Sugar

A true story!

I was terrified of animals. My mom was too. The difference? She wanted to have a pet.

Having pets had always been something unattainable; something that was unimaginable. And yes, I was that terrified. I have a friend who loves animals so much that he practically worships them, and I always enjoyed watching him because he was something that I’d never be. He would take in animals and look after them meticulously. He would only take them in from the wild though, and he looked down upon domesticated pets. His policies rejected sterilization, and he even refused to get his cat vaccinated. Tiger, as he called her, always lived outside, and he was the sort of “go nature” person when it came to pets. Because Tiger was unsterilized, we’d be greeted every month with a new litter, and they’d stick around until someone agreed to take them home. I was intrigued by this whole pet affair, and I was captivated at the idea of having a pet. Out of the blue one day, I asked him if I could adopt one.

He looked at me, astonished.

“Why get one, when you can have two?” He asked, quickly recovering from his daze. “They get lonely quickly you know, and besides, you don’t have to play with them if there are two of them,” he went on. That caught my attention, and I realized that he was playing to my strengths. If I didn’t have to play with them, then I would probably be unbattered in the wilderness that my house was about to become.

“Fine,” I admitted defeat. “I’ll take two.”

He took me to his backyard and pointed. I looked around in surprise, and then realized that he was pointing to a cardboard box. It was battered and old, and it had pieces chewed off at the ends. You could definitely miss it if you weren’t rigorous in your search. He opened the lid painstakingly slowly, and finally allowed me to peek in.

Blue. Round. Two eyes peered at me. Well, you couldn’t call them eyes. They were surreal. Warm blueberry ice cream. With black currants in the center. That’s what they looked like. There was an intense green gradient off to the corner of her left eye, almost as if there was a tinge of spirulina mixed in with the blueberry. She gawked at me, taking in everything. When he pulled the lid even wider, the sunlight slanted in, cutting into the box like knives of steel. The kitten shut her eyes, and that moved my attention to the body behind her head. There wasn’t much to see; the entire thing would have weighed less than an apple. It was just white fur, but it was the finest that I had ever seen. Thinner than the blackest of feathers; softer than the richest of silks. It was perfect. It was nature’s exquisite handiwork, visible in all its splendid glory. She was magnificent as she lay there sleeping, gently purring against her mother’s warmth. She was exceptional. She was supreme. She was second to none. She was Sugar.

“What do you want to call her?” He asked. “It’s a girl?”

“Obviously,” he smirked, with a know-it-all expression. Assuming that he knew better, I heeded to agree with him.

I was different back then. I wanted to be fun, to be cool. I also loved food. Mixing in both, I decided to call her Sugar. After all, she was sweet, and I really liked the name.

I also decided to take one of her brothers, Pepper. When they finally came home, I didn’t know who was more anxious, them or me.

A few months later, we took them in to get a vaccination. What the doctor told me shocked me, and I could barely stand up straight. Sugar was a boy, and Pepper was a girl.

“Imagine him hanging out with his buddies, and everyone calling him ‘sugar’.” My friend made fun of me.

“Well, he is sweet.” I replied, laughing at the statement.

Barrier to Progress

Creative nonfiction :)

January 29, 1951. The day was cold and windy. Henrietta pulled her jacket tighter as the rain pelted in through the broken windows of their car. The paint was peeling and the right mirror was cracked, but she hardly gave it any notice as she ran across the parking lot. She had driven twenty miles to get there, and she wasn’t going to waste any more time. She was nearly there, running along the familiar pathway, when the corner of her eye caught hold of the enormous archway. She tried not to look at it too often, but today was different. Something about it pulled her closer. She gaped at the brick structure, amazed. There was a sign engraved on the top of the arch. “John Hopkins Hospital - Baltimore, Maryland” it proudly read.

“What are you doing here?” A gruff voice asked.

Startled, she was brought back to reality. She took off without a second thought, a muffled “sorry” muttered only as an afterthought. Soon, she was where she wanted to be. A small building stood in front of her, separated from the rest. Its walls were lined with mud, and the plaster was showing through in most of the places. A crooked sign hung on the wall, shaking in the wind. Half the letters were gone, but she still knew what it said. She remembered it from when she was little, when her grandfather would bring her here.

Colored Ward, it read.

She was in the waiting room, but she could hardly stand the delay. She walked around impatiently, glancing at the clock. She had to get home in time to feed the children. She looked around the room quickly, waiting for the nurse to call her in. The room was cramped with children and elderly alike. Diabetes, measles, epilepsy, tonsillitis; the list was endless. Everyone was standing next to each other, waiting for their turn to see the doctor.

The examination room was just as she remembered it. Wooden benches stretched as far as the eye could see, separated by glass walls so that the nurses could check in on multiple patients at once. Henrietta wrapped herself in the hospital gown and lay down on the bench, waiting for the gynecologist on duty. The commotion was unbearable, yet it was nothing worse than what she was used to, and her brain slowly tuned it all out. When Dr. Howard Jones walked into the room, her heart started racing. She couldn’t explain it, but perhaps it was the anxiousness of the unknown. Throughout the examination, her mind was in turmoil. Though her body stayed still, she was restless deep inside, fearing the worst. When the doctor told her the diagnosis, she felt relieved. Things she didn’t know always drove her crazy. Now her fate was definite. “Cervical cancer”, he had said. She understood neither cervix nor cancer. Yet she had a feeling, deep inside, that this was not good news.

Choosing a hospital was easy at the time. There were few that treated black patients, and very few that treated them for free. Built in 1889 as a charity hospital, the Johns Hopkins Hospital has been the avenue for numerous scientific discoveries and progress. Although 20 miles from home, the Johns Hopkins Hospital was the only option for Henrietta. It was a time when hospitals would kick out any black patients who turned up at the door.

She had been putting off this visit for a long time now. When she first started feeling pain, she had ignored it, afraid that the “knot” in her womb would be something serious. When she found herself bleeding uncontrollably a few months later, she finally decided to visit the Johns Hopkins Hospital to get a diagnosis. There, she was assigned Dr. Howard Jones, who tested the mass found in her cervix. Soon, she found out that she had a malignant tumor growing inside her.

Since her cancer was invasive, the treatment began almost immediately. She was anesthetized early the next day, and radium tubes were inserted to begin the procedure. However, just before the therapy began, Dr. Lawrence Wharton Jr, the surgeon on duty, collected two tissue samples from her cervix. One was a healthy tissue sample, and the other was the cancerous tissue sample. After placing the samples in a glass dish, he proceeded with the treatment as usual. At the end of the session, he put the samples in an envelope, sealed it, and wrote on the front: “Henrietta Lacks - Biopsy of cervical tissue - Sample given to Dr. George Gey.”

First attending, then teaching at Johns Hopkins Medical School, Dr. Gey was obsessed with creating the world’s first immortal cell line. An immortal cell line is one that does not die out after some time. Due to a mutation, an immortal cell line will continue dividing and reproducing without a clear stopping point, unlike normal cells which have a limit to stop them from dividing indefinitely. This limit, called the Hayflick limit, is naturally induced in order to stop the cell’s DNA from becoming corrupt. Since the lengths of chromosomes (more accurately, the lengths of the telomeres at the end of the chromosomes) shorten slightly after each cell division, this limit prevents the chromosomes from being shortened to a critical length. However, a mutation in some cells causes the cell to keep reproducing indefinitely. This is very useful for a variety of reasons. For one, vaccines, drugs, and other treatments can easily be tested using the cell line. Diseases and pathogens can also be studied at a greater length. Since the cell line is technically still a human cell, it is identical to a human cell for research purposes. However, nobody had made an immortal cell line yet, and nobody knew whether or not it was possible. This is why Gey was determined to be the first one to discover an immortal cell line.

Purposeful and persistent, he started collecting tumors from every cancer patient that visited the Johns Hopkins Hospital. Since a tumor keeps on replicating itself without heeding signals from the rest of the cells, it would be perfect for creating a cell line. Soon, all the doctors were giving him samples from their patients.

Sharing a passion for both tinkering and researching, Gey is accredited for developing the roller drum, a critical device for developing cell lines. The “drum” had slots for both tissue samples and for their appropriate nutrients, and it turned around once every hour to mix the nutrients. Whenever a doctor passed along a tissue sample, Mary Kubicek, Gey’s assistant, was tasked with the job of sterilizing it and popping it into the roller drum along with the other cell samples. The day with Henrietta was no different. A resident brought the sample along, Mary sterilized it, and it was soon spinning in the drum. When she first noticed some cells growing from the sample, nobody gave it any notice. All samples would grow, but only for a few days.

HeLa was different. It grew and it grew. It grew day and night. It even grew without the need for nutrients. Gey was stunned. This was his dream, and here it was, happening before his own eyes. HeLa, short for Henrietta Lacks, was the discovery that would revolutionize biology and medicine. Without hesitating, he took a portion of the tissue sample and mailed it to his friend, who was working on the same subject. Before he knew it, every researcher in the world had a sample of HeLa growing in their incubator.

More than 11000 patents and 60000 articles. HeLa revolutionized not just biology, but the entire world. The first cloned human cell, the first human-animal hybrid, and the first genome sequenced. All HeLa. The polio vaccine, the HPV vaccine, and the first chromosomal stain. All tested on HeLa. The discovery of cancer cells and in-vitro fertilization. True thanks to HeLa. Heck, even the first cell sent to space was a HeLa cell!

In fact, the demand for HeLa cells was so high that the NFIP built a HeLa mass-producing factory in 1953. HeLa could well be the reason why we’re all alive today. Ironically, the HPV vaccine (developed using HeLa) was able to cut down cervical cancer by 70%.

But this is only one side of the story. That cold windy day of 1951 held possibly the biggest ethical dilemma that mankind has ever faced. The cell sample was ripped from Henrietta’s body, without her knowledge, let alone her consent. Possibly millions of scientists filed patents and earned fortunes because of that cell sample.

However, the US Supreme Court later (37 years after Henrietta) decided that “a person’s discarded tissue and cells are not his or her property and can be commercialized”. This helped clear the gray area involved in similar cases such as the Moore v UCLA case.

However, this still does not answer the question of taking tissue samples without the patient’s consent. Whether legal or not, the ethical question still remains. Henrietta’s family were not aware of the HeLa cells until 25 years after she died. Even after that, they were not compensated financially, and they still can’t afford to see a doctor.

Yet, the other side remains too. If Wharton Jr. had asked Henrietta if he could take a sample, she would surely have declined. Throughout her childhood on the tobacco farm, she had learnt to be afraid of cities. For her, the hospital was like a nightmare. She avoided any diagnosis or treatment she could, and she only visited the hospital for absolute emergencies. Both Henrietta and her husband would have denied Gey’s request to keep her cells.

Even today, there are numerous debates and controversies based on Henrietta Lacks. Some say that the sample shouldn’t have been taken while others say that the discoveries make up for the sample’s unethical history. Johns Hopkins claims that they never profited from the cell line, but the authenticity of this statement is unknown. However, everything is not so sad. Henrietta’s children and grandchildren have since reached a semi-agreement with the numerous firms holding control over the HeLa strain. The NIH agreed to give the family control over access to the cells’ DNA sequence while they also allowed two family members to join the committee which regulates access to the sequence data. Henrietta’s grandchildren have attended Johns Hopkins numerous times to give speeches and to spread the story of their grandmother. Johns Hopkins is dedicating many buildings and awards in her memory.

Although Henrietta’s story has an arguably happy ending, this is not always the case. In science, the question will always remain. The doorway to success is often shrouded by an ethereal cloud. A cloud that is so sensitive that it dissolves at your touch. You can charge through the cloud forcefully and destroy what little there is of it, or you can try to move gently through without harming it. That cloud, it is the cloud of ethics. It is the cloud of what is right, and often, it is barely decipherable. Every scientist has a duty. To protect the rights of others, and to move through that doorway without ruining the cloud that covers it. Because there is nobody alive, with more power over mankind’s ethical and moral decisions, than a scientist.

Worth a special mention:

Bibliography:

The Warden

Instructions: A short story with emphasis on the techniques of show-and-tell and tension

“You’ll be back soon, won’t you Mom?” I asked timidly. “Of course sweetie.” She replied, kissing my forehead.

“But what if it comes back?” I asked, unconvinced. “You know it’s all in your imagination, don’t you?” She smiled.

“Besides,” she said, “there’s no way it’s going to rain today.” “It will. Please don’t leave Mom.” I begged.

“Remember what the doctor said. Close the windows when it rains and stay inside. Read a book, it’ll calm you down. Forget everything, and you’ll be okay.” Kissing me once again, she locked the door, and before I knew it, she was gone.

My teeth were shaking. I took a deep breath to steady myself. Everything was fine. It probably won’t happen again. No. I will not let it happen again. I was safe inside the house. It was a sunny day, and everything was perfect.

It started raining.

“Quick, distract myself.” I muttered. Rain, drops, water, flow, wind, blow, music, band. That’s it! A tiny marching band was moving across our roof, its miniature men walking perfectly in step.

I smiled to myself. This was nature’s orchestra.

“Crash!” The lights went off.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. Suddenly, I remembered what Mom said. “…close the window…” I muttered.

For a split second, the living room was brighter than it had ever been. The couches were bulls, lifting their horns and preparing to attack. The cushions were little rogues, sharpening their swords and sticking their noses high up in the air, ready to battle. And the pile of laundry in the corner? Of course, that was the wizard holding up his wand to commence the fighting.

I laughed at the thought. I was a brave little boy, and I wasn’t scared of anything. I didn’t need my parents to console me when it rained. What could happen when I was safe and cozy inside my house?

“Bang!”

There it was in the shadows of the lightning. A creature. A monster.

I shut the window and ran over to the couch, hiding behind it. Why didn’t Mom understand? Why didn’t anybody? I started sobbing. With the tears distorting my vision, something yellow flashed under my eye. My book! That’s what the doctor had said; to read, and to forget everything. I reached out and grabbed it. I tried staring at the words, but they just floated out of the page. I tried reading aloud, but my voice broke off into the distance. How was I supposed to read when nothing was getting into my head? I yelled and tore the book in frustration. Why did everything have to stink? Just like rotten flesh? Wait, what?

“Oh, no…” I muttered. “No God, not again!”

A flash of light illuminated the wall across the couch. A shadow. It was moving, but ever so slightly so. It grew bigger and bigger. A head, but not human. With horns as big as bulls. Trembling, I turned. I was scared, but I wanted to make sure I was not imagining things. Illuminated by the lightning, the creature stood by the window. It’s flesh was rotten, dripping from its bones like a wet rag. There wasn’t any hair on its head, but there were two big ears popping out on either side. The eyes were long slits, red in color. And the teeth… I closed my eyes and prayed. It had two large teeth coming out of its mouth. Sharp, like a lion’s teeth. A liquid was dripping from the creature’s mouth. Red in color. Smelling like… Smelling like…blood. The lightning flashed again, and I opened my eyes.

My eyes, yes, opened them. Can see. The creature. Everything is black. Blood rushing to my head. No. Mom, please… Not again. Doctor. Blood. Monster.

I blanked out.

Home

Instructions: View the photograph and write according to the prompt

Prompt: You live off this alley. Other people might feel frightened here, but you don’t. It’s not fancy or pretty, but it’s home. Describe what you see as you walk the path.

Photograph

I turn left and there it is. The familiar road, filled with potholes and murky water. The yellow strips along the edges have started peeling away, and time has eaten away at the road itself, making it seem like an endless realm of twists and curves, nauseating me.

I take a step forward.

There’s a manhole cover on the side, but it’s glued to the road with sludge and grime. It’s not like anybody cares about maintenance in this place. The tar looks old, and the gritty surface of the road rubs against my shoes.

Another step.

There’s a brown traffic cone to the left, or maybe it’s orange. Covered with years of being out in open weather, the splattering of mud on its side is clearly visible. The houses have rough gravel walls with their grainy texture showing through, nobody bothering to hide it with paint. There are metal sheets stuck here and there to cover the holes in the walls. Even the doors are nothing more than pieces of scrap metal. The walls are covered with cheap paint, ineligible curses scribbled permanently. By now the road is nothing but piles of dirt cracked at several places. The hard pieces of stones poke me, warning me to stop.

I carry on.

The cars are parked randomly without a care for pedestrians, almost as if they expect nobody to be walking in a street like this. The brick wall on my left looks like something out of a vintage movie, it’s colors slowly weathering away. There’s hardly any space on the walls that isn’t covered by the endless graffiti, but nobody notices it as they step out of their houses every morning. Everyone is so absorbed in their own lives that they don’t stop for a moment to look at their surroundings. Even the graffiti has faded away by now, gone with the hearts of the kids who painted it decades ago.

Garbage bins line the street on either side, but there’s more trash at the foot of these bins than anywhere else on the street. People don’t care. They never do. It’s always damaged beyond repair, so why did they have to put in the tiniest of effort to preserve it further? The road was nothing but hard rock by now. The sharp stones poked at my feet, urging me to stop.

I pull up my pace.

I’m at a cross road now, but I don’t stop. There are a bunch of vans parked up ahead, but it’s clear that nobody wants them anymore. They’ll probably lie here for a month or two before some kid figures out how to hotwire it, and then they’ll be used for the occasional escapades into the city. There was a giant building on the left, dust covering most of its sparkling white tiles. From the front, the building looked spectacular, but for us, this is what it looked like. Covered in dust, dirt and grime.

After all, this was a street for that. For abandonment. For forgetting. For pretending.

I turned around.

The sunlight hit my eyes hard. I looked up. The glass from the buildings looked magnificent in the evening sunlight. I saw a couple of delivery vans parked beside the road. The dirt near the wheel rim, the scratches on the side mirrors. It showed age, and as far as it concerned them, with age comes efficiency.

The sleek black cars matched the vintage look of the street. And besides, you couldn’t get free parking anywhere else in New York City. The moss on the stone walls of the apartments looked like something out of a picturesque painting. The shallow green blending in with the aged gray. The brick walls looked splendorous, the copper red mixing with the light grayish-brown. The vibrant colors of the graffiti matched the darker shade of the wall. It was fading away, and yet it twinkled like the eyes of the children who painted it decades ago.

The grainy texture of the walls gave the entire street a new look, and combined with the metal sheets stuck on it, it displayed good taste. The yellow strips were peeling away at the edges of the street. The people had better things to do and better places to get to.

I sighed. This was where I had grown up. I remember painting graffiti with my friends, I remember hotwiring vans. I remember walking on the grimy road to school. To most people, it wouldn’t seem like much. But to me, it’s home. Above the slippery road filled with mud and sludge, there are houses. There are houses made with bricks, there are houses made with mossy cobblestone. More so than the houses themselves, it’s the people who live there that matter. They’re home. My friends, my neighbors. I miss them.

Every street has something above it. Every house has walls on it. If you could take the time to examine it, you would see the beauty in it. It’s not the streets that matter, it’s not the houses that matter. It’s not even the walls that matter. It’s the fact that every street, no matter how small, has two sides. It has two faces, and you can choose to walk in either direction.

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