That's how cops die or slide into a bottle. That's where I was until one of those chance intersections of lives pulled me out; one of those pitches life throws at you that you can decide to turn away from, or allow it to change you forever.A loss of that perspective, a loss of my ability to remember the magic in life and the accumulated weight of too many arrows and too much caring about them had led me to that hotel room in Seattle. I hadn't felt this bad in years and while I was in town to deliver a paper at a conference and had been well received, I didn't make much of a difference. I was at the point where I was counting days 'till retirement, a practice I'd always abhorred among public servants. That night I had showered, downed a vodka and tonic and was looking out the curtains of my room across the hotel's atrium. Years ago I would have looked out of that atrium and felt the hum of life: laughter, debate, pain, lust, love, joy and confusion, but in some kind of context that. Being the tallest, I could see over the heads of those in front.We were lined up alongside the parade ground/maidan, in the middle of which a party of men were digging a deep, narrow, pit. When the excavation was the size required by the Nubian in charge of the digging party the diggers were reattached to the line of prisoners. The man at the head of the manacled column gave a loud cry of distress as he was unchained from the line, taken to the pit and unceremoniously dropped in feet first. Three grinning Nubians shovelled soil and sand into the pit until all that was visible was the fellow’s head, his eyeballs glaring white in his terrified face. There came a blast of a trumpet, the double doors set into the wall at the western edge of the maidan swung open and an elephant lumbered in. The elephant’s rider, the mahout, brought the beast to a halt. The elephant raised its trunk and gave a great bellow. It was then I noticed spectators, some of them young women in colourful saris,.
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