Considered objectively, Alan wasn’t really one of the bad guys. Provided it didn’t cost him significant quantities of time and/or cash, he was okay about helping out unfortunate relatives, friends, or neighbours. He had a soft spot for rough sleepers, as long as they weren’t hallucinating. He claimed, with some justice, that when he was working he’d worn a hole in the arse of a perfectly good suit sitting on committees, but he remained willing to do the odd shift of volunteering here and there.
Nevertheless, there were occasions when he found himself recurrently recalling previous blunders, transgressions and indiscretions – recollections that could sometimes be so shaming that he found himself groaning out loud. As he had once told himself, there were times when he had spoken when he should have been silent, and times when he had been silent when he should’ve spoken.
So it turned out to be a real red letter day when Mahatma Gandhi suddenly materialised before him, while Alan was drying the dishes and cutlery from out of the dishwasher. He never worked out which dish, plate, cup, knife, fork, or spoon he’d been rubbing that had provided the cue for the Mahatma to appear. The guy just stood there next to the fridge, in his dhoti, and announced that he was ready to do Alan’s bidding and grant him forgiveness for the three worst of Alan’s trespasses.
There was a long pause before Alan found his voice: “No three wishes, Mahatma? Er, okay to call you ‘Mahatma’?”
“You may call me ‘Mahatma.’ It merely means ‘sage’ or ‘holy man.’ Frankly, my first name is a bit of a mouthful. And I know nothing of that granting of three wishes procedure, Alan. That’s a completely different department. I just deal with regrets.”
‘Regrets, eh? Okay…. Let’s start with my regret that I let slip to Ginny that Dougie had been gay when he was a student.’
‘It is accomplished, Sire…. Now, your second regret, if we may proceed?’
‘Uh, how do I know it is accomplished? Can’t phone Dougie, haven’t got his number. And, in any case, ever since it happened, he’s refused to speak to me.’
‘Sire, I am here to rid you of your painful regrets. Checking up is not…’
“Yeah, yeah, Mahatma. Gotcha: ‘checking up’ is not your department. All the same, you can see that this puts me in a difficult position. What if…?’
The Mahatma sighed and adjusted his dohti. ‘Sire, if I may? I’m on a busy schedule. My esteemed colleague, Scott of the Antarctic, is off on holiday and I’m covering for him, along with my own caseload. I believe there is a Complaints Division, but I assure you: I’ve never been aware of any dissatisfaction among my own Ex-Regretful. Can we move on to your number two?’
“Hmm, okay. Listen, how about that bastard in the HR department, we called it ‘Human Remains,’ suppose he lights that stupid pipe of his and sticks it up his…”
‘Sire, we are dealing with regrets, not revenge.’
‘Sorry, sorry, Mahatma. Don’t worry, I’m on the right page now. And I really do appreciate you turning up and offering me… Okay, this one has been bugging me for all my adult life: all that damage me and Jimmy O’Dell did that night on the allotments after we’d drunk that home-brewed Elderflower wine that his dad made – the broken shed windows, the flattened and trampled runner beans…’
‘Thank you, Sire. Okay: all taken care of.’
‘You mean…?’
‘Yes, Sire. Never happened. Though I’m afraid that this post-hoc adjustment doesn’t also apply in Mr O’Dell’s case. But he’s in New Zealand now. Between you and me, I wouldn’t concern yourself too much about that omission. And your last regret, Sire?’
‘Jeez. Wish I’d thought this through properly at the beginning [Mahatma muttered: ‘They all say that]. Completely wasted that first regret. Bugger it: Ginny and Dougie were never suited for each other anyway…’
‘If we could just move on, Sire?’
‘Okay, okay, I really, really, really regret not managing to get to the hospital in time, the night my mother died.’
‘That’s it then. Accomplished.’
‘That’s it??’
The wizened old man allowed himself a modest smile. ‘That is it, Sire. How do you feel now?’
‘Err, phew, well, ha: so much better.’
Alan wanted to thank him, but Mahatma had already disappeared.
Image – A fpuff of grey smoke on a black background from Pixabay.com
literally stories 
I read this and found it amusing and entertaining and then, as I finished I had this little boing of understanding – I think! Clever Mr Bloor – very clever. dd
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Hi Mick,
Cracking bit of perceptive writing!
If we vocalise our regrets, face up to and accept them, they will go away. That will change very little apart from how you feel about yourself.
I thought about this and I like what you’ve touched on.
You see, no-one can slag me, make me feel small or guilty. Not because I’m perfect – I have Gwen to emphasise the anti-perfect in me, but I know exactly what I am.
No-one can pick at my insecurities because I’m happy (HAH! wrong word!!) to vocalise. I know exactly what I am, I know exactly who I am, I know my short-falls, I know my insecurities and weaknesses.
Here’s the point – I vocalised these years back and I feel a wee bit better for doing so.
This wee story touches on that.
Excellent my fine friend.
Hugh
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Hey Mick
I think Alan hit on the right idea. If The Mahatma would give a person a little notice, a chance to organize her vast canon of regrets, it would be helpful because, as is, “Regretting I chose a weak regret to shitcan” might be considered a new regret, but perhaps easy to forgive.
Very pointed and true. A fun thing to do would be to force a sociopath into the job. But Ironic Justice is probably a different department.
Thank you for the thoughful and thought provoking work.
Leila
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