Anguished Culpability

What if you could step into the shoes of one of your most beloved icons at one of those crucial moments in their lives that end up defining them forever? Adam Ashraf braves these murky waters, venturing into the mind of the eternally fascinating Truman Capote on the eve of one such moment... 

My publisher just hand-delivered a copy of my new novel that will hit the racks next week- In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote. Me – cold-blooded killer. Merely looking at the instrument I used for the murder – the murder of a man far better than I – makes me nauseous. I can’t bring myself to touch it, much less read it. I steal a look at the back cover and read, “On November 15, 1959, in the small town of Holcomb, Kansas, four members of the Clutter family were savagely murdered by blasts from a shotgun held a few inches from their faces. There was no apparent motive for the crime, and there were almost no clues. As Truman Capote reconstructs the murder and the investigation that led to the capture, trial, and execution of the killers, he generates both mesmerizing suspense and astonishing empathy. In Cold Blood is a work that transcends its moment, yielding poignant insights into the nature of American violence.”

Truman Capote. My name always comes with a little bio. In early days, I was called “Local Reporter”. Later, it was “Freelance Writer for The New Yorker”. “Best-selling Author of Breakfast at Tiffany’s” followed. Today, I get a new sobriquet. It is the most significant of them all.

I wrote a book that was of a new genre; a new style of writing. It is bound to become a classic and is probably going to be compared to the work of Hemingway. I am probably going to be put in the league of Dickens, Twain and Fitzgerald. I’m not just about to become the Manhattan literary toast of the sixties, I am about to become an icon. As the dreariest of thoughts pops into my head, I pour myself a glass of champagne and toast, “To the man who betrayed his friend!”

“Was it all worth it?” I wonder. In forty years, what will the world remember? The man who betrayed his friend or the man who wrote the best non-fiction novel of his generation? Am I going to be compared to Hitler or Lincoln? After draining my glass down in a single gulp, attempting to vanquish the guilt that refuses to let me go, I pour another drink. “To the man who will inspire writers in generations to come”, I say as I wait for my emotions to numb.
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Guilt Of Ignorance: Icon by Michaela Rinaldi

“Of course it was worth it!” the rational side of me attempts to calm it down- the guilt.

“They were murderers, Truman.” I remember, my best friend, Nelle Harper Lee’s words from right after the execution. They are words that never fail to calm me down. “They were murderers, Truman”, I repeat to myself. Those words are my calming lullaby. They soothe me and shelter me from my own self-contempt. They help me sleep at night. I slump into slumber praying that they will sink in once and for all even though I know they never will. They are laws. They are not the spirit of the laws. They are what bound the laws, but they had nothing to do with justice. They are not what bound me. I know better. Perry Smith was indeed a murderer, but he was no beast. Perry Smith was indeed a murderer, but he was no monster. Smith was my friend. If Smith was a monster, then who is not?! If Smith was a monster, then what am I?! And now he is gone. The pen is mightier than the sword. I would know - I used it to kill.

That champagne isn’t serving its purpose. I need something stronger. I gulp a gin martini and toast out-loud with the theatrical tendencies I shall forever be notorious for, “TO THE MAN WHO KILLED HIS FRIEND”. I scream hoping it will numb my senses because the alcohol is doing such a bad job.

My demons will haunt me for life. I know that. I know that my editor, Shawn, is a stranger to the truth. He will lie to save himself the guilt. “You didn’t kill them,” he would tell me with the most plastic of smiles on his face. “You simply did not help.” Nothing is further from the truth. The whole jury probably read In Cold Blood’s excerpts before the final verdict was made and the sentence was uttered. I practically tied the noose around Smith’s neck with my bare, filthy hands, to land myself a bestseller. No, no, no – I did it to make myself an icon. I need more gin. Straight, this time.

“To the biggest writer of the twentieth century! TO THE BIGGEST FRAUD OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY!” I toast in my sharp voice as I turn around flamboyantly.

What is happening to me? Why am I thinking like that? This is the book that millions around the world are waiting for! Millions around the world are chanting my name! I can’t pull the plug now. It’s too late. I’ll open a charity in Smith’s name. It’ll be redemption for his sins. “And yours too,” my demons remind me with a condescending look on their faces. I don’t know what they’re talking about – I haven’t done anything wrong. Everything will be okay. In one week, I’ll be the biggest household name in New York. I’ll be the biggest household name in America! I’ll attend all the fabulous galas and parties. Life will be good. It will be good. I’m sure it will be.

“It ought to be, right?” I mutter over another glass of gin.

-Adam Ashraf

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Devil's Breath: Curse in Disguise

I recently went through something that got me thinking about power and how having it bestowed on us may influence our actions. Upon research, I found the ultimate power tool, Devil’s breath, a drug that rids the taker of free will, the real life equivalent of Harry Potter’s Imperius Curse. This short story explores how a person would react to owning this drug. P.S. Before you jump to the conclusion that the main character is the 'villain', stop and consider what would you have done had you been given the same opportunity. 

I stared at the package before me, unable to comprehend whether it was all a mere scam or if this was genuine. It seemed like something out of a Harry Potter book but if this really worked, which was a one-in-a-million possibility, I’d probably be able to become The President of the United States in a week or so. The limit was beyond the sky. I looked at the little vial again trying to find a loophole. The bottle was labeled ‘Devil’s Breath’ and instructions were written below.

“Use this powder on who you wish to subdue.

May be ingested or smelled.

Compulsion powers in this bottle”

There was nothing to lose. Nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Suspicion captured me though. This wasn’t the sort of thing you’d find in your mail. Was it even legal? I picked my bag up and headed off to Starbucks. Seeing the seemingly infinite queue got me thinking about Devil’s Breath so I opened the vial put out a little powder on my palm and headed off to the cashier directly. I blew it at her. For the first second or so, she had that look of confusion and irritation on her face that basically said, “What the fuck?” To my utter surprise, it disappeared though and was suddenly replaced by a look of blankness. Total blankness;

“Grande Amaretto non-fat Cappuccino, please”, I said the please as a plea, a plea that this would work rather than backfire the way everything did these days.

"Yes, ma'am", she mumbled as if in a daze, and shouted the order back to the barista. A look of bewilderment must have flashed across my face, but I was in a daze, I thought it impossible, yet I had seen the proof with my own eyes. "Will that be all ma'am?" "Yes, yes," I said quietly and shuffled to get my drink, ignoring the indignant shouts from the people behind me. She handed me the Starbucks and I reached work in Fifth Avenue, about ten minutes later.

My boss was frowning, whining and bitching as always. A crazy thought came to mind. Could I try it on her? I was nearly risking getting fired here. I took the vial out, put a pinch of Devil's breath in her Starbucks. I slowly picked up on the blank look reaching her face so I told her to shut up. Typing letters and picking up laundry wasn’t what I signed up for when I got into public relations. A crazy thought came to my mind but I suppressed it thinking that would just be too immoral. I saw a couple of coworkers in a heated argument over god knowsF what, I reached into my bag to take out a pinch of that magic powder, thinking whether it was worth it to make them shut up. I withdrew my hand and carried on, leaving them to settle their petty disputes, knowing that now, I'm far above them

My boyfriend came to pick me up during my lunch hour, about four hours later. During lunch we discussed what we were going to be doing on the weekend for our anniversary. I wanted to just recreate our first date by going for dinner and a movie. He wanted to go to a new club opening. I knew that was probably the most immoral of them all but I used a little powder on him too. He left a bit later convinced that dinner and a movie was the coolest way we could spend the night.

Back at work, Samantha, my boss, gave me a lecture about how lunch hour made her lose a call with an important client. She told me that I was never going to be good enough and that I represented what was wrong in the industry. My frustration with the thick idiot reached its boiling point so I decided that I’ll set the crazy thought from the morning into motion. I left her mid-lecture and walked straight to Smith, the company’s CEO, and compelled him into firing Samantha and hiring me in her place. He did immediately.

As I left the building and went down to hail a cab, a stranger stopped me. As a New Yorker, I knew that I shouldn’t have stopped but he said, “How’s Devil’s Breath treating you, Taylor?” I knew instantaneously that this was the man who gave it to me. How else would he know about it?

“It was you,” I muttered under my breath. “Precisely, Smart,” he said. “Congrats on your promotion; Senior publicist at twenty four, impressive.”

“Why?” I asked. “I mean, it’s amazing but why me?”

“Random selection, you could say. I’m a philosopher, forming theories on the human race. It was sort of a test.”

“How did I do?”, I asked in anticipation. “Dismal, Taylor, dismal”. I was about to protest when my phone buzzed. It was one of those annoying commercial texts. I looked back up but the man was nowhere.

What a day! Was it the best day of my life or the absolute worst? Could I have possibly sunk so low as to rid my efficient, maybe a little too tough boss of her job? Did those customers at Starbucks really have to wait for me as I got my cappuccino? What about Nate? Did he really have to miss that club opening he was craving for?

This day wasn’t a good one for me. It wasn’t filled with the challenges, exhaustions and adventures that usually made up my day, ones that, to the contrary of societal perception, were the ones that made us happy and set our fate into being what it is. More importantly, I wasn’t happy about my promotion… Sure, I was leaving my shared Brooklyn apartment to a lavish one in Greenwich Village and I was going to be able to buy more designer clothes but the feeling of self-fulfillment, that I made someone out of myself wasn’t there, what was the point? I haven’t grown and thrived and rose up the challenges that I faced to get here. I was a guinea pig, the failed product of a madman’s experiment with a drug that was bound to turn the world into a madhouse.

I called Nate, my boyfriend and told him I want to go to that new club opening instead, inboxed Smith telling him that Samantha should stay in the job and smashed the vial into a million pieces on Fifth Avenue then spilled water on the powder and glass that surrounded me on the ground. This was one invention that shouldn’t see the light of day.

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The Curse of the Caste

I’m an urban boy. I love big cities with their fumy exhausts, historical monuments, rude people, wide wealth gaps, disgusting public transportation and chic restaurants. After the excruciating process of taking my IGCSE examinations this May in Cairo where the sirens and whistles are sometimes too loud for you to be able to think, I decided to visit my grandma in Alexandria which contrasts with Cairo the way New Jersey contrasts with New York.

After visiting the Bibliotheca Alexandrina, the Alexandria museum of Art and watching The Hangover 3 in a local cinema, I decided that what I was missing was yoghurt slush, a drink Alexandria is notoriously known for, on one of the rustic cafes located right by the Mediterranean. The experience was one of immense delightfulness as the scent of salt air surrounded me all over. When the waiter brought over the yoghurt slush, I said ‘merci’ instead of ‘shukran’ and expected a moment of awkwardness. Weirdly enough, I was treated to ‘De Rien’. One thing led to another and soon enough we were talking. The young waiter of twenty-something apparently spoke three languages, went to law school and ended up working as a waiter because he couldn’t find a job and the entry level salary for lawyers was less than that of a waiter.

As I walked home, I couldn’t help but wonder about the Egyptian social system. Law school graduates from my social class, which your average sociologist will define as upper middle class, graduate from college and are supported by their parents throughout until they reach that point in their lives when they are finally ready enough to support themselves. That got me thinking, has the caste system or income discrimination really been eliminated or are we merely living a more discreet form of it? Is success in the world truly based on personal achievement alone, or are the depths of our parents’ or our own pockets the real deciders of whether we shall make it or break it in our futures?

Unemployment rates, nationwide, may be on the rise but that isn’t stopping everyone who society defines as ‘rich’ or ‘classy’ from effortlessly landing jobs through family connections with the C.E.O. of a multinational company or the renowned dentist who plays golf with one’s father in the community club. Could this be the root cause of the slackness, laziness and plain failure that is the ubiquitous complaint in most of workplaces today?

To everyone’s misfortune, the issue doesn’t just affect the individual in question, but the other person who was worthy of the job but didn’t have enough contacts, and more importantly, the economy as a whole bending in his or her favor. This is what has lead to the failure of our society today.

Why don’t we treat everyone for the assets that they bring to society rather than for the surnames, since they’re such an obvious indication of where we come from? Isn’t that what made first world countries become what they are today? Sure, if we’re taking Egypt as an example, even though it is my understanding that issues of the sort occur elsewhere as well, a huge part of the reason that upper middle class individuals are picked over those of a lower social class is the fact that upper middle class individuals are actually higher educated, but isn’t that to blame on the dismal conditions of public education in most third world countries? It all goes back to corruption, which is an issue I’ll be addressing later this summer.

It is not an unheard of notion- you eliminate caste and society will become a better place. Survival of the fittest is how the world was meant to be, not survival of the richest!

-Adam Ashraf

Untouchability, a solemn critique of the now outlawed Indian caste system by prominent artist and former Dalit (or 'Untouchable') Savi Savarkar

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Think Again!

Summer… it’s that amazing time of the year when we get to embrace the hobbies that we barely get to practice year-long, well at least, for people who are too lazy to get a job, like me. Earlier this week, as I got to reading The Phantom of the Opera for the third time around, my father pulled a little intervention on me to force me out of my profound introversion. We ended up visiting my great-aunt, a Turk of sixty-something who was born and raised in Egypt and has come to know me as the toddler she babysat fifteen years ago when my parents went out on date night.

A long conversation with her got me pondering about choices, opportunities and determination. The result is this article. As a celebration of ‘Show, don't tell’, here is her story in her own words.

“I was born in 1951 on the outskirts of Cairo to a rich family, a family of circus performers.  My father was a clown; my mother used to hang on the aerial trapeze, my uncle was a juggler and grandpa was the ring master. We were rich, but lacked intellect. Many members of the family were illiterate. Cursing, abandoning kids for careers and more was common within us. Our family was the sort who had it all easy. I never fit in the scene. I always felt like I was on the fringe and a feeling of self-hatred built up within me. When I hit puberty, a time at which we start getting trained for a life in the circus, our family was shocked to find how clumsy I was. I lacked acrobatic skills and I could barely jump the rope. I suppose it had something to do with the fact that I was subconsciously unwilling.

Being the disappointment that my father saw in me, I was sent to live with a distant aunt who didn’t engage in the family business. Until this point, I had received not just enough education to make me functionally illiterate, but my craving for intellect was strong. That didn’t change the fact that I was destined for illiteracy. I there met her homeschooled son, who was my age too. Since my father never paid my aunt to hire me a tutor, I didn’t have the opportunity to share his but the first day I saw a tutor walk in, I saw an opportunity so I listened at the door.

Over the next couple of weeks, I saved my dismal allowance to buy books that would prepare me for the checkpoint examination done in sixth grade, through which I could go to high school. Back then, attending school up to sixth grade wasn’t required to take the checkpoint examination. I would listen at the door to the tutor everyday and spend all night studying. I ended up passing the test with a higher score then the boy who had all the opportunity in the world.

I finished high school and went to Law School; back then higher education was free. I graduated and worked for the government until I retired two years ago after getting my Masters and climbing the career ladder up to the position of undersecretary.”

Source: Unknown

After listening to this, I was struck. I couldn’t help but wonder, where would this woman be had she had my share of luck growing up in a decent society, studying in a lavish school where my biggest worry was whether I can afford an iPad soon? It got me to look at life from a new perspective. Shouldn’t I prove to the world that I deserve the lifestyle I was blessed with?

This story will definitely remain with me for life as it stands as a beacon of hope when hope is shattered and represents a quote I have always cherished, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way”. So the next time you think your upcoming SAT, sports game or interview, will be challenging, think of her, then think again!

-Adam Ashraf

Catch more of Adam's random, insightful ramblings on his column 'Adam's Ecstasy'. You may also write back your thoughts and reflections directly to him at adamashraf97@hotmail.com.

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One Short Day...

In the life of Adam Ashraf, 20 years from now...

Even after nearly a year living in the penthouse my spouse and I bought when Sarah turned two, the panoramic view from the expansive window pane never fails to take my breath away. The sight of every skyscraper looking back at me from my Upper West Side castle in the sky continues to tantalize me. It was what drove me to move to the city from across the world to begin with, after high school, exactly two decades ago. Yet, having been raised in an urban environment myself, it was not the steel erections on their own that appealed to me. In fact, what did was the grandeur of the city with all its theaters, art galleries, fashion shows, club openings, so on and so forth. For a young writer trying to break out of the preordained shell he was fixated in with all its third world constraints, it wasn’t just a good place to be. It was THE place to be. Even when I was living with two roommates in Harlem during college, I never regretted falling for the Big Apple one bit.

My cell phone buzzes right after I switch it on, a status that only remains twelve hours a day since, unlike fellow editors at Vanity Fair, I like to maintain a good balance between career and family life. Aishwarya, my assistant, was calling to confirm the dinner and Broadway reservation that I had made for Taylor and I to celebrate our anniversary and to tell me that the babysitter taking care of Sarah was coming at seven. I wore my Calvin Klein shirt and denim Levi’s bottoms (it was casual Friday), kissed Taylor and Sarah goodbye and took my daily two-and-a-half mile walk to the Theater District. Even though the limousine could come and pick me up from home, since I hated working out I thought the least I could do was take the daily one hour walk during the chilling winter while sipping on my tall Starbucks latte.

In my office Aishwarya, the one person who knows where everything is placed more than I do, hands me over ‘The Book’, the mock-up of our upcoming issue. I flip to the eight pages I am in charge of, the Hollywood and Culture sections, contact Carrie, the theatre critique who never fails to miss her deadline and then saunter off for a meeting with Iman Ali, a longtime friend who also currently happens to be the Editor in Chief of Vanity Fair and, therefore, my boss.

Later in the day, I make it a point to catch up with Elizabeth, the editor of first novella who tells me that I’m going to have to make a trip to Paris later in the winter since an extra 500,000 copies happened to be swept off the shelf there and appearing for a book signing could only make it better. Despite my explicit instructions, Aishwarya keeps buzzing my phone so I pick up to snap at her. Only, she breaks into an animated frenzy first to deliver the earth-shattering news that an article contrasting the works of Miller and Williams I had penned for The New Yorker had just won the Pulitzer for Criticism! Considering the only time I have ever came close to winning any accolade of such prestige was when I was nominated for the ‘Best Book of a Musical’ Tony Award in 2027, this was, indeed, a momentous accomplishment! I immediately text Taylor and mentally plan to use the cash prize to take Taylor and Sarah on a surprise trip to Disneyworld during the upcoming spring break! It was time my little baby saw the beauty of it! Being both children at heart, that was where Taylor and I had had our honeymoon.

At about four, I head back to the office to interview a prospective writer for the magazine. In my heart of hearts, I was pegging lots of hope on him since he was an Ivy Leaguer. Once the interview is over though, I laugh hysterically remembering the days when being an Ivy Leaguer actually meant something. As Veronica, a good friend of mine who currently works as a guidance counselor drops by to meet me at the office, a feeling of déjà vu sweeps through my mind as I recall the time we both first met in eighth grade back in Dubai. Things were so different then. But the only things I took with me from my old life were family and friends, I even left my name behind! After Veronica leaves, some writers come in wanting advice about content, wondering if certain content is appropriate for the magazine’s vision. I smile as I see the look of admiration in their eyes, and remember the little boy who questioned if he could do any of it twenty years ago.

Later that night, Taylor and I decide to go out for dinner at Sardi’s, my favorite restaurant, and then we head to the Imperial to watch the revival of Les Misérables which opened in 2014, making it the second longest running show on Broadway, after The Phantom of the Opera. As always, the show is amazing. Chris Colfer plays the role of Jean Valjean now. We surprise Sarah by telling her about the mystical Disneyworld and she ecstatically runs around her room. Once we have finally managed to somehow subdue her excitement and tuck her in, Taylor and I contentedly slump down into our own bed, ready to conclude this perfect day.

- Adam Ashraf

P.S. The story’s title is homage to the song of the same name composed by Stephen Schwartz for bestselling Broadway musical, Wicked.

How would one day in your life a few decades from now be, if you were permitted to have it any way you like? Tweet or post #Onedayinmylife and #HASH on Facebook, or simply write to us at hashthemag@gmail.com to let us know!

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Apollo Agrees

I realize that if I was a celebrity I’d be getting lots of hate mail for this one, but thank God I’m not! Viral hit, that is what the international culture of Transhumanism will evolve into over the next couple of months after it has become the central topic of bestselling author, Dan Brown’s new book, Inferno, which hit the racks just last month. Similar to the case of the Illuminati, a groundbreaking phenomenon, society will spend a large portion of their time addressing it, an issue that they fail to grasp in the first place… But what is transhumanism really? 

To put it in simple terms, transhumanism is an intellectual movement aiming at fundamentally transforming the human condition by developing technologies to greatly enhance human intellectual, physical, and psychological capacities. They predict that human beings may eventually be able to transform themselves into beings with such greatly expanded abilities as to merit the label "posthuman".

I found the moral dilemma the author presented through the protagonists over whether or not transhumanism was to be implemented rather preposterous and the views of the side presented as villain rather sensible. Is transhumanism really a work of a group of fiends from hell or is it truly what is best for the challenging times to come? Before your brain escalates to a thought of, ‘Hell no, I don’t want my genes modified with’, let’s get some facts straight. As you can see in the sigmoid growth curve demonstrated in the graph below, the human race is currently at the point of exponential growth at its highest acceleration yet and it’s ever increasing. Soon enough we’ll have massacres over bread in Times Square and Champs Elysees and the death rates would go so high… and this is where Transhumanism comes in, dearest readers, the ultimate solution.

What if we had bodies that were modified to function just as good, or even better, with a fraction of the nutrients required? What if we became fast enough to ditch the car and go on foot everywhere? After all, we’re faster! There wouldn’t really be emission issues, would there? Would that be, as some parties claim, an abomination beyond proportion? Is this defiance of the deities that each of us conform to? When it come to science, where should we draw the line, or should we at all? I think not. This is just another step in evolution, it is not fast forwarding of the process. In fact, it is what’s natural. Isn’t transhumanism the result of our naturally ‘evolutionized’ minds? The debate between God and science that philosophers, scientists and preachers have been addressing since the brink of dawn is frustrating! God and science CAN co-exist, a point that Dan Brown has been trying to convey since his first novel in the Robert Langdon series, Angels and Demons. Every civilization that’s ever thrived had a God of knowledge or wisdom, be it the Egyptian, Greek, Rome or Hinduism. Spirituality and religion should push rather than hinder the borders of science. You may disagree with Transhumanism, but Apollo agrees.

After dabbling with a bit of HASH, Adam Ashraf's discovered he has become an addict. You can now read more of his random, outlandish musings on his column, Adam's Ecstasy, which will feature regularly on our blog. Disclaimer: All views expressed our entirely his own, and any wrath incited must strictly be directed at him. Write to him at adamashraf97@hotmail.com. 

Though, beware, we fiercely defend out own!

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