Jasmin’s Tale
written by: Vivek Subramanian
In Central Park, Manhattan, sunlight pierces through, casting a warm glow over the fall leaves, each one a tiny flame in the golden autumn landscape. Schoolchildren sell scout cookies nearby, their cheerful chatter, quiet murmur of two couples strolling hand in hand, while joggers pass by, their Apple earbuds protruding like tiny USB ports. I cradle a Starbucks Verdana cup, savoring each step as I take in the misty morning; lately, sleepless nights linger, bringing a sense of waiting without solace. Why does art no longer fill me with that deep satisfaction? How about thinking about politics, the future, or a woman? Why does something always feel amiss? My thoughts wander: “Thinking is not your cup of tea.” How curious, this phrase a “cup of tea” suggests personal ease, comfort, familiarity. But a “cup of coffee?” Now that conjures intensity, urgency, a pulse of alertness. Politics, as I tell myself, might just not be my “cup of coffee.” Alas! No meaning. A Sign of Depressed thoughts.
A cyclist sped past, suddenly colliding with a squirrel without even noticing. I found myself shouting, “Hey Hey…” though he paid no attention. The poor squirrel lay there, body overturned, eyes wide open, a few spots of blood marking the log nearby. A quiet sadness filled the air as I looked at the small, lifeless creature, gone in an instant. A sudden, quiet weeping fills the air—a sound so faint, it nearly fades beyond hearing. Its mournful frequency is elusive, imperceptible to the ordinary mind, for this sorrowful sound seems crafted only for a troubled mind like mine. It was a beautiful, tiny squirrel, its soft cries sounding like a faint “meee… meee…” a heartbreaking echo, as if even such a small creature could voice the depths of despair. “Great minds think alike” is an old saying, but perhaps it’s also true that the “DEPRESSED WEEPED ALIKE.”
I cradled the tiny squirrel in my arms, bringing it to my apartment. Its trembles subsided with each gentle sip of milk from the bottle. It nestled contentedly in my palms, even seeking solace in naps atop my chest. Over the course of a week, the shadows of fear in its eyes began to recede, replaced by a glimmer of trust. It was as if it had found a fragment of its mother’s spirit within me, a kindred connection that soothed its sorrow. My own anxieties, the constant hum of fight-or-flight, melted away in the presence of this fragile creature. A profound sense of peace settled over me, a comfort I hadn’t known existed.
Fueled by this newfound joy, I impulsively shared a photo on Instagram. There, perched elegantly on my shoulder, was the squirrel I’d named Jasmin. My finger formed a playful V-sign, a symbol of our unlikely camaraderie. The caption, a simple declaration of “My new joy,” resonated deeply with the internet. The post, along with subsequent videos showcasing Jasmin’s playful antics, exploded into a viral phenomenon. Fan clubs sprouted like wildflowers on Instagram and Twitter, and brands scrambled to capitalize on the newfound celebrity. Shoes, t-shirts, mugs – all emblazoned with Jasmin’s image – flooded the market. The squirrel, once a nameless creature of the Central Park, had become an icon – a symbol of beauty, elegance, and a touch of the divine.
The internet sensation that was Jasmin, the elegant squirrel, took a dramatic turn. As the videos of her and me went viral, attracting millions of views, unexpected visitors arrived at my doorstep: officials from New York City’s Animal Control. They claimed that Jasmin posed a health risk due to potential exposure to harmful virus. Devastated by the threat of losing my beloved companion, I pleaded with the officials, tears streaming down my face. I insisted on Jasmin’s innocence and pure spirit. In a moment of desperation and fear, I lashed out, biting one of the officers in a futile attempt to protect my furry friend. Law enforcement was called to the scene, and I was handcuffed and taken into custody. Amidst the chaos, the officers declared their intention to euthanize Jasmin, citing concerns about potential rabies. Jasmin is euthanized..
- Jasmin’s Tale - March 12, 2025
- Emma - November 6, 2024
