The man on the North Pole stands on an ice cap. The ice cap is melting, and he is dying. He stands to face the fury of a sun that withers by the day yet blazes in retaliation. 

The woman on the other end of the earth, walking home from work,  collapses from heatstroke around mid-afternoon. Her children are now motherless, even though just the previous week they made a collage of two gentle hands cradling the multitude the earth contains along with a heedless plea— save our planet. The teacher gives them a B+ and says, “There’s more beauty to be shown in a saving of the earth,” and walks out of the room, leaving the lights on. Someone else’s job, he thinks.

The man on the North Pole wobbles and finds one foot slipping. He makes no effort to steady himself and stands askew. 

Elsewhere, the bamboo shed over a frightened man gives way and the last vestiges of his half-sunk spirit crash head-first against the force of water. The flood swaddles him into suffocation and his struggles wither in the grasp of a slow death. After four minutes of battle, his lifeless body floats and thrashes against the open door of an abandoned car with three of its four wheels submerged. The drains push back the flow of water in protest. The city stands still.

The man on the North Pole feels the ice break and his body sinks into a bitter coldness. He bubbles up and down and continues to breathe by rote. 

The child in a faraway land asks his friend whether the drought will eat them first or the starvation. But it is the dry storm that sneaks up from behind and swirls him around until the decision is made for him. When he is finally thrown in the arms of a welcoming tree, his house is a pile of rubble, and his father is buried deep within. Elsewhere, the multibillionaire slips into his leather sandals and steps inside his private plane to fly a second time in two days because his child’s birthday wish cannot, will not, be denied. 

The man on the North Pole drowns and reaches the depths of the Titanic. He is tired of standing guard; he is willing towards his own destruction. 

He hears the faint hum of the first leaf of a newly planted sapling unfold and floats up a little. But the sound is too low, the seed is too raw, the unfurling is too late. 

The man on the North Pole lives or he dies. Someone else’s problem, you think.

Author Bio:

Stuti Srivastava is a writer who looks to the earth before calling herself one. She likes to explore themes related to gender dynamics, inner worlds, and inequalities. Most days, she can be found daydreaming or curled up with a book, lost in her world.

Banner Image Credits: The author