Murdock Memories- Of Lame Foxes and Blind Cats

“Pinocchio, Pinocchio,
Thought life was just a joke-io,
‘Til the morning that he met that cat
And the fox in a long red cloak-io.

They cried, “Come on, Pinocchio,
We’ll entertain the folk-io,
On puppet strings you’ll dance and sing
From Timbuktu to Tokyo.”

Pinocchio, Pinocchio,
Got sold to a trav’lin’ show-kio,
Got put in a cage by a man in a rage
With a stick to give him a poke-io.”
-Shel Silverstein

As I read through the Ribbons of Fate from Murdock’s journal I didn’t quite get what he had meant by lame foxes and blind cats. It just seemed to me like it was one of his “lame” comparisons which he himself might be too “blind” to see! But nay, it was not to be so. Interestingly it was the lesser known phrase “I’ll take you from Timbuktu to Tokyo” which was used by Murdock the other day which got me thinking. I Googled it and, LO! I found out about his foxes and cats.

Though I had my share of luck and internet connection all I needed to do was flip a page to see what he meant by it. A few excerpts from his journal…

“…. but rest aside I was reminded about the lame foxes and blind cats I was talking about the other day. In today’s world, as cruel as it may seem, there are people who are the perfect definition of the word low-life. These creatures, for their daily food, don’t even think before they destroy the lives and dreams and aspirations of a minimum of two generations. Child labor and trafficking is not a crime in the book of law. It is a crime against the very fabric of the purpose of our existence. The poor in the slums and distant villages all across the world we live in suffer either of the two in any form. They are coaxed into this evil.

‘Once upon a time in the small village west of Genoa, Italy, there lived a young boy named Giuseppe. He was short for a boy his age and thinner than most kids around. He had peculiar set of mismatched eyes and jet black hair combed back. He never really knew his father. His mother told him stories of how his father was fighting for Jesus. He grew up listening to his mother talk all day of his father’s home coming. Only that he never came in the morning before he woke up, like she promised that he would. At nights she told him bedtime stories. His favorite was “Joseph and his many coloured coat”. He wished that one day he would also free his mother so that they can live happily ever after. After all, his name sake did so in the story,

On one fine day, he woke up to the sounds of marching. Had his father finally come! Unable to contain his excitement he rushed outside. It was not his father. It could not be. His father would surely be taller. It was a group of kids! Young boys and girls like him. And they were marching. Curiously Giuseppe asked one of the boy marching pompously,” Where are you all marching?”

The boy looked at him in a bewildered manner and replied, “Of course we are but on course to the Holy Lands. Jesus told us to come. He will part the ocean for us to go bring our fathers back!”

“Why, really? Our fathers back home?”

“Yes. What are you waiting for? Come on already.”

Giuseppe rushed to tell his mother. His mother being a devout Christian blessed her only son on his journey to save her husband from the Holy Land. And Giuseppe marched east deeper into the east where his father went. A week later they had reached the city of Genoa.

That was where I first met him. On my way to the city of Barcelona from Rome I had stopped at Genoa. As I looked down I saw a procession of children marching through the city. A wise old man once said, “Curiosity is not a sin”. I caught hold of a short and stout kid, and asked him what was all this about. I distinctly remember his jumping enthusiastically shouting something about his father whom he was going to rescue. Kids these days. They never stay at home, do they? My mother tells the same about me.

I continued my journey towards the west. Due to the highly mindless act of asking a few men along the way for directions I ended up in Turin a couple of weeks later and it took a couple of months before I reached Marseilles.

As I walked into the sea port, the roads stank of filth and poverty. The streets filled with beggars and lepers all dressed alike. The minute they see a traveler they leapt with their hands out stretched for alms, able young men and malnourished boys crying out for a franc or so to fill their ever empty stomachs. As I turned into the alley of an inn, after escaping from the horde, I saw another one of their kind. But he was not like the others. He sobbed into his arms hysterically. My heart went out to him. I called out to him. He didn’t look up. I tossed a couple of coins near his foot to get his attention and walked away. I turned to see him for one last time, and I swear I saw those same mismatched eyes.’

Did the boy deserve it? Did his mother deserve the fate that was upon him? Did his siblings? Who was to benefit from all this? From that day to this, from Timbuktu to Tokyo, where there exist wings of passion there will exist lame foxes who steal and blind cats that see.