By Haneef Sharif, translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch
He had only two dreams in his life: first, to plant a yellow flower in the courtyard, and second, to die before the flower could bloom.
He wandered aimlessly through the streets. Just as he was about to turn the corner near the supermarket, he spotted a short-statured man with a bald head, wearing mismatched shoes, and carrying a briefcase. Memories of Mr. Hunchback flooded his mind, and he was nearly hit by a bus as he stood in the road absentmindedly. The driver slammed on the brakes abruptly, jolting all the passengers from their seats. Thus, he was saved. For weeks, he avoided going back, overwhelmed by fear. He dreaded the thought of venturing to the corner of the supermarket, fearing that he might meet with an accident and eventually die, unable to fulfill his desire of planting a yellow flower in the courtyard.
One day, however, he found himself wandering through those streets again. Whether it was a stroke of fate or a design of God, he spotted the same short-statured man who resembled Mr. Hunchback. The man was carrying the same briefcase he would take to the classroom. All the curious children wished that someone would open the briefcase so they could see its contents, but the fear of Mr. Hunchback kept them from getting close to him. Thus, nobody could ever discovered the secret hidden within the briefcase.
Out of the blue, he was startled by a loud honking horn. He faltered and almost fell down. A bus had stopped just before him. It seemed like divine intervention that he wasn’t run over. The driver looked at him with what appeared to be pity. He wondered why he wanted to die; what made him attempt suicide because the moment the bus took a turn he leapt in its path. If it was not for the bend in the road, causing the bus to slow down, he would have not narrowly escaped a second brush with death.
He moved away from the path of the bus, concealing his fear of death, holding his heartbeat, and resumed walking. As he distanced himself, his gaze fell upon a young girl standing on the balcony of her apartment. Her head was bowed, engrossed in something on her mobile screen. She wore blue jeans and a grey shirt, standing with one foot gracefully placed over the other.
He stood there for a while, captivated by the sight of the girl, who remained oblivious to his presence. Moments later, a young man of her age came in and wrapped his arm around her waist, startling her for a moment. Soon after, she leaned her head on his shoulder and their lips met for a fleeting moment him before they disappeared into the apartment.
He lingered there, waiting for someone to appear, but no one did. He remained fixated on the balcony, indifferent to the passing buses and pedestrians carrying briefcases. His attention was drawn to a vase on the balcony with a yellow flower. Yellow was a colour he associated with death. Whenever he spotted the colour, he would pressume someone must have died or was about to die somewhere. He avoided yellow taxis or buses and refrained from downloading anything of that hue. He was puzzled by those who chose to paint their houses yellow.
On that particular day, the balcony he had been observing was painted entirely in yellow, including the door and the entire building. He couldn’t explain why he hadn’t noticed this before, even the girl had worn yellow earrings. Despite regularly visiting the street after his initial encounter with the girl, she never appeared on the balcony again. He began to suspect that the girl had died, but he couldn’t fathom how it had happened. Then, that day, as he gazed at the balcony, contemplating death, the door suddenly swung open, revealing the very girl he had been musing about for several days. She stood there, surveying the street below.
“Did she see me or not?” He wondered without any reason.
As she glanced downward, a bus sped by, stirring in him a disdain for buses. He quickly redirected his attention to the girl, who then approached the yellow flower, gazing at it with sorrowful eyes. As she began to caress its petals, her eyes welled up with tears. And as she sobbed, her tears fell onto the yellow petals. In that moment, he thought someday, he would plant a yellow flower and before the flower could bloom, he would commit suicide.
(An Excerpt from Hanif Sharif’s recent novel “Afsanah” brought out be Adab Publisher in Balochi, translated by Fazal Baloch)
Dr. Haneef Shareef, a trained medical professional, is one of the most cherished contemporary Balochi fiction writers and film directors. So far, he has published two collections of short stories and one novel. His peculiar mode of narration has rendered him a distinguished place among the Balochi fiction writers. He has also directed four Balochi movies.
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies. He has the translation rights to Haneef Shareef’s works.
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The good folk of Black Rock, Montana, USA, were not overly enthusiastic that a small, travelling circus would be coming to their peaceful town to make a one-night performance. They had heard disturbing stories about this circus from people out of state who had seen it or pretended to have seen it. Rip Branco, the mayor of Black Rock, felt a bit reluctant about authorising the performance, but the owners’ arguments won him over, half-heartedly. Besides, the children of Black Rock had never had the pleasure of seeing a circus, nor their parents for that matter.
So, many posters of the coming circus were nailed or pasted on the outer walls of the townhall, the school and at the farmers’ and factory workers’ cooperatives.
Strange tales circulated throughout the region: the performers originated from the Old World speaking alien tongues. Hearsay spread that many of the performers were abnormal individuals, freaks of nature, they said; and that the whole show was a razzle-dazzle of shamelessness, cynicism. What if this hearsay was the truth! The majority of the folks of Black Rock were convinced of its veracity.
In spite of all this hullabaloo the circus rumbled into town. Through the narrow, main avenue of Black Rock, lined with shops, banks, the townhall, the police-station and the Wednesday open-air market, crawled ten or eleven caravans painted in colourful figures of clowns, mountebanks, lions and elephants, and odd looking creatures whose appearances the townspeople, gaped at wide-eyed. They watched this slow-moving spectacle as they stood on each side of the avenue like rows of sentinels or pine-trees. The rear-guard of the caravan was composed of a cage with two dozing lions, behind whom plodded two baby elephants, lethargically swaying their trunks, every now and then emitting a trumpeting cry as if they were announcing the arrival of the courtly cortege …
No one uttered a word as the caravan disappeared into the weedy fields outside the town, designated by the mayor for their one-night performance.
Before the astonished eyes of the townsfolk, many of whom had rushed out to the field leaving their shops unoccupied, men, women and other ‘odd’ individuals scrambled to and thro, pitching, erecting, raising, until the top-tent loomed large and welcoming before them. Admission was a mere two dollars, a comfortable fee for the good people of Black Rock, a fee, too, considered a largesse on the part of the owners given the fact that the performers had no peer on earth … Or so they said.
At eight o’clock sharp the flaps of the big-top were flung open to the mistrustful but curious folks of Black Rock. Mayor Rip Branco, with his wife and two young boys, was the first to be admitted, then the town’s children, all to be seated in the first six or seven rows of the grandstand. Next to shuffle in were the farmers, factory workers, bankers and shopkeepers with or without their wives, conducted to the stalls flanking the grandstand. No animals were permitted. Many of the men grumbled protestations or sardonic remarks, but the ticket seller, a smiling dwarf sporting a torero costume, took no heed.
When the spectators had settled in comfortably the lights went out. A blast of music boomed out of the pitch black. Trombones, trumpets, hand-drums and tambourines filling the big-top with rhythms and melodies very foreign to the ears of the spectators. A huge spotlight fell on five or six colourfully-dressed individuals in the ring masquerading as some sort of rag-time band, blowing or banging their instruments as they danced about in happy-go-lucky abandon. The ring-master stepped out of this motley crew, pushing and shoving them aside, lashing out with his whip towards the more recalcitrant ones, who, in defiance of the snapping whip, blew out scales of disobedience. He bowed to the spectators in the most obsequious manner, doffing his black top hat. One of the musicians handed him a huge megaphone and he bellowed :
“Ladies and gents … and children too, tonight is the night of all nights, one you will never forget. All of you will witness the most rollicking merry-makers that have stalked our good earth; the most incorrigible buffoons who have ever lived. Your eyes will feast upon a jamboree of dancing, jestering and cavorting oddities whose dazzling shenanigans have always made children shriek, women scream, men doubt their senses. But I can assure you every stunt, every act, every gesture, however burlesque, is of the utmost authenticity.” Whether all the spectators were able to decipherthe ring-master’s opening tirade is difficult toassess. In any case, he went on: “ Now, let me present the strongest man on Earth, the nameless giant of Central Asia.” And as he cracked his whip the musicians fled into the darkness behind him. Out of that mysterious dark, the nameless giant charged into the middle of the arena like a raging bull. The master of ceremonies fled as if for his life. Snorting and grunting, the colossus, clad only in a tiger-skin loin-cloth, flexed his biceps, threw out his mighty chest, tightened his thigh muscles. He was indeed a mountain of muscle. Meanwhile popcorn and cotton candy were being distributed to the children, free of charge. Mayor Branco and his family also benefitted from this boon …
The strongman made horrible grimaces at the children who shrank back in their seats, squealing. He stomped about snarling and growling, flaunting his muscle-laden body until out rushed seven little dwarves dressed as toreros, all of them brandishing a bullfighter’s cape. They swarmed about the now enraged strongman, waving their capes and taunting him with obscene gestures and cuss words. The strongman charged into them head down like a bull, snorting and panting, swinging his bull-like neck from left to right, knocking a few dwarves to the sandy soil of the arena. Just as the crowd began to display overt displeasure at this unseemly spectacle with hoots and hollers (except the children who were cheering on both), two dwarves jumped up on to the strongman’s massive shoulders, followed promptly by all the rest, where gradually they formed a little pyramid atop this mountain of a man, who presently much appeased, pranced about in the spotlight with his ‘captured’ dwarves’, singing a song in some alien tongue. The dwarves hectored the dwarf-bearer, chaffing him with the crudest of names, smacking his massive face or slapping the top of his bald head with pudgy hands. With one mighty shake of the head, the strongman shook them all off into the air like so many swarms of flies, they, tumbling and rolling away, far enough from him where they continued to gesture indecorously.
Many spectators began to boo and hoot. Others laughed and cheered, especially the children, who munched happily on their cotton-candy and popcorn. “Shame! Shame!” cried out several women from the stalls. But their rebukes were drowned out by two or three applauding groups of farmers who apparently had been drinking before the performance. In fact many men were drunk, and the majority were taking much delight in this unusual spectacle …
Just then, at the crack of the ring-master’s whip, the dwarves rolled out of the arena and the strongman stomped away, bowing to the crowd. Into the ring now appeared five very weird-looking creatures, and behind them, as if by magic, a long, high tightrope that had been erected, held up by two very high wooden ladders. The spectators were baffled: humans or animals? Three, perhaps women, had faces of lions, whose ‘manes’ grew out of their cheeks, rolling in thick strands down to their feet. It was a horrible sight! But more horrible still were the two-headed and the mule-faced women, dark faces drooping down to their necks. Gasps rose from the crowd. Cries of indignation followed.
“Freaks ! Monsters!” they rasped and raged at the smiling ring-master who introduced his acrobats and trapeze performers, one by one, as the finest in the land whilst they speedily climbed up the ladders, three to the left, two to the right. At the top, they tip-toed out on to the thin wire where in burlesque abandon they danced and pranced and sang, the wire swaying to and fro. One or two juggled little red balls, tossing them over the heads of the others who attempted to catch them. Far below, the master of ceremonies whipped his whip and the merry acrobats danced and pranced all the more ardently, one or two on one foot, as the wire rocked, rolled and pitched like a boat. Terrified shrieks rose from the now standing crowd. Farmers and factory workers showed their fists. Women shouted abuse. As to the children and Mayor Branco, they clapped in rhythm to the singing quintet rocking and rolling on that tightrope.
At that point Mayor Branco turned towards the displeased crowd behind him, confused about what attitude to adopt. There was no doubt that the acrobats and trapeze performers were genuine artists ; their antics on that high wire brooked no belief of beguilement. And however ‘freakish’ they appeared to be, this awful birth-born deformity should welcome a hearty appraisal. Which the good mayor did from the bottom of his heart when the five performers had slid down the ladders, taken their bows in the middle of the ring and disappeared behind the rear flaps of the top-tent.
Much of the crowd were on its feet, red-faced (due to their drinking ?), shouting down to the ring-master as he cracked his whip violently: once … twice … thrice, signal which brought out two ferocious, roaring lions[1] shaking their manes. The spotlights followed their proud steps as they neared the front rows of the grandstands. There they sniffed the cotton candy of the now terrified children who recoiled in their seats. Their parents rushed to their rescue, but this was unnecessary, for another crack of the whip — and the accompanying spotlight — brought out a three-legged man and a pin-headed man. They strolled towards the sniffing lions, calling them by their names. One of the lions began lapping the popcorn out of the outstretched hands of several children who squealed in wary delight. Then the lion licked those charitable hands in grunting gratitude.
The pin-headed man whistled. The huge beast turned and trotted to him. He waved to the crowd then opened the lion’s mouth, pushing his pin head into it. As to the three-legged man, he had hopped on to the other lion’s back, two legs at its flanks and one lying over its fluffy mane. With a deafening yelp and roar, they galloped around the ring as if they were at a rodeo show, rushing around the pin-headed man whose whole tiny body had by now completely disappeared in that lion’s open mouth. The crowd held their breaths uncertain of the stance they should take on this stunt. Could a man possibly crawl into a lion’s massive maw ? The drunken farmers laughed grossly. Their wives sneered in contempt. The children sat in excited expectation.
Meanwhile another spotlight had fallen on a beautiful milky-white woman clad in a silken gown, standing upright against a large board placed behind her. Another spotlight swung to the left where a legless man, using his arms like a pair of crutches, had positioned himself ten or fifteen feet from the upright woman, a huge leather belt girding his chest from which hung dozens of kitchen knives. Between this scene and the lion-tamers’ antics, the spectators remained nonplussed, no longer hooting or hectoring.
The legless man swiftly took a knife and threw it at the lovely girl; it drove into the back board a quarter of an inch from the crown of her head. Here the crowd puffed in awe. Many women covered their eyes whilst the children were all eyes! He threw another and another. After each knife thrown, the crowd gasped a huge gasp! The legless man continued his act, each knife working rapidly downwards from the woman’s head, around her exquisite shoulders, along her slim, graceful hips, lengthwise her bare, slender legs until reaching those minute feet of hers. When he had finished his knife-throwing performance, the beaming, long-haired woman stepped out from the contour of the knives, the spotlight proudly exhibiting her ravishing silhouette configured on the board. With a gesture of triumph, she pointed to that silhouette, then glided over to the legless man, took him by the arm and both bowed reverently to the crowd. The men jumped up cheering wildly, either out of respect for the knife-throwing performer or for the ravishing beauty of the woman. As to their wives, they remained seated, smugly looking towards the ring, disregarding their drunken husbands’ sonorous applause. Mayor Branco was on his feet applauding along with his two boys, his wife tugging at his sleeve to sit so as not to make a spectacle of himself.
All of a sudden two spotlights swept over the galloping lion and the one that, it would seem, had all but swallowed the pin-headed man. But no ! Look … there … The lion yawned a wide yawn and out of that yawn the pin-headed man leapt, running about the ring crying out: “I’ve lost me head ! I’ve lost me head!” The crowd, stunned by these uncouth shenanigans, again began yelling insults. As to the galloping lion and its whooping cavalier, they darted to the right, where in front of them a huge hoop had been magically placed; a fiery hoop whose leaping flames hissed and sizzled. Through the hoop they jumped followed by the other lion, tailed by the waddling pin-headed man who dived through the hoop, tumbled over on the other side, got up, dusted himself off, then bowed to the hypnotised spectators. The children at once howled with joy. The adults, hesitant as to the ‘quality’ of this extravagant act, remained stoic, frowning.
The band struck up a local tune, horns and drums ushering in a motley gaggle of clowns rushing about the ring like escaped madmen from an asylum. In their frantic scuffle, two or three of them were tossing about a strange object, flinging it about like a football. A sudden shiver of horror swept through the crowd: those merry-making buffoons were passing a living torso to one another! A man without arms or legs! He had a huge smile on his face as he sailed in the air from one pair of arms to another. Then the clowns broke into a song: “ Zozo the clown and his funny hat, patches on his pants and he’s big and fat, long flappy shoes and a round, red nose, makes people laugh wherever he may go!” These lyrics were repeated without respite as they played football with the torso, who, and it must be stated here, was crying out for joy!
Enough was enough! “ Monsters! Monsters!” cried out groups of red-faced, infuriated men from the back of the stalls, screwing up their eyes. Rotten tomatoes were thrown at the shameless buffoons by the farmers who had brought them along for the occasion. Ladies screamed. The children sat in dazed awe, following each pass of the laughing torso as if they were following a football match. The frolicking clowns, undismayed by the tomatoes, performed cartwheels and somersaults from one end of the ring to the other.
But it was the following scene that left the crowd dumbfounded. As the laughing torso was thrown from clown to clown, spurts of orange flames spouted from his mouth! Long fiery flames that carved out tunnels of blazing light as he arched high in the air. This surreal scene rendered the crowd, momentarily, mute with puzzled, ambiguous emotions. They soon, however, regained their initial, infuriated state.
In the last rows of the stalls, rowdies were making a tremendous row, brawling with the bankers and notaries who had shown, up till then, an impassioned interest in these performances. Fisticuffs broke out. Faces were slapped or punched. Hair and beards were pulled. Clothes torn. Ladies knocked over. Things were indeed getting out of hand. Whistles blew. The local security guards rushed into the upper stalls roughly handling the more pugnacious men, untangling the tangles of rioters one by one, unknotting the knots of brawlers that rocked the stalls.
At that stormy moment, trumpets, trombones, drums and cymbals sounded below, silencing the brawlers for a brief moment. Then from out the side flaps two baby elephants charged, trunks held high, trumpeting louder than the fanfare! Atop them, seated in howdahs apparelled in the most royal regalia were yelping mahouts fitted out in cowboy costumes, waving their huge cowboy hats at the now stupefied spectators. The elephants chased the clowns around the ring, grabbing a few with their trunks, rolling them up then flinging them into the air. The elephants had gone amok, lifting their trunks for all to see their huge flabby smiles. The living torso was passed high over the mahouts’ reach, mouthing furious flames galore, landing with a thud in the arms of a receiving clown on the other side. The children in the front rows were on their feet howling with merriment, laughing along with the clowns and elephants as the chase continued on its merry-go-round way. And here the band struck up a favourite tune to which all the clowns sang: “Zozo the clown and his funny hat, patches on his pants and he’s big and fat, long flappy shoes and a round, red nose, makes people laugh wherever he may go.”
This boisterous chorus was joined by children, some of whom had internalised the tune. Their voices rose in unison, rising far above the brawling, bickering and rioting behind them in the upper stalls. To tell the truth, some of the farmers, factory workers and bankers had also joined in the singing. How they enjoyed those yelping ‘cowboys’ whooping it up atop the baby elephants.
Mayor Branco sized up the maddening bedlam, reluctant to decide who were the madder: the performers or the crowds! Yet, deep down, oh how he was enjoying himself that evening. For him, it would be the most memorable night of his life. And I will add here, for most of the other good folk of Black Rock, be they the howling children, the appalled women or the obdurate men …The madness grew even madder when from out of the side flaps the seven little dwarves scrambled, dashing up to the elephants, waving their capes. One or two of these mischievous acrobats had been on stilts and were trying to distract the rampaging mahouts with their capes. The mahout-cowboys riposted by letting fly their lassoes, the nooses catching one or two of the rascally dwarves who were toppled from the stilts and dragged mercilessly in the wake of the plodding elephants. The ring had become a veritable pandemonium of lunacy and delirium …
Suddenly all the spotlights went out. A sudden lull crept over the ring, creeping stealthily up into the stands. A deep lull during which time not one drunken cry from the adults, not one choking laughter from the children, not one trumpet from the elephants nor yelp from either the cowboy-mahouts or clowns or dwarves were heard. The lull must have lasted a minute or two …
The lights suddenly flooded the ring where all the performers and animals had mustered in humble expectancy. Silently they stood (or were held!) searching out the crowd for compassion, understanding, appraisal. The master of ceremonies stepped out from amongst them. He doffed his top hat :
“Ladies, gents and children. The performances that you have experienced tonight will not go unnoted in the chronicles of Black Rock.” (Whether this opening remark meant to be ironic is not for your narrator to say. In any case, it provoked a few snickers from the upper stalls.) “Yes, many of you have exhibited displeasure and resentment. Monsters you cry out? Freaks you bellow in bitter tones! Well, yes, if by monsters you mean these humble unfortunates who have had the courage to show themselves, to exhibit themselves to the public as true artists, and not sulk in self-pity or hide out like criminals or unwanted wretches out of the righteous eye of the public. But why display such ill-feelings towards them, may I ask? Because many of my performers suffer from birth deformities? Because they are physically unlike normal people? No! Their terrible deformities do not, and will never deprive the public the goodness and nobleness of their hearts of gold … their feelings of sincerity when performing for you. But this sincerity must be reciprocal. If not, their disfigurement will be interpreted as a ticket to the streets, a paid fare for lethal medical experiments in clinics, tearful departures for the zoos where they will be put into cages like savage animals … We are a grand and hard-working family whose every member holds equal status. But their livelihood, ladies and gents, depends on your good will, your protection against dangerous individuals whose illicit, murderous intentions would have killed them off long ago or maimed them even more. Here, within the sanctuary of this vast tent, look not at those deplorable disfigurements, but consider fairly and honourably their long, long hours of labour, their unquestionable talent, their dauntless courage and human dignity.”
The fanfare struck up one of rag-time tunes to whose familiar melodies all the children stamped and clapped. Their mothers and fathers also clapped. Farmers, shop-keepers, bankers and factory workers alike imitated the gaiety of the children. Even the security guards joined in the revelry. As to those adamant hooters and rioters, they stalked out of the top-tent, raising their fists, spitting out drunken obscenities … Which were drowned out by the general mirth and merriment.
All the performers bowed. The baby elephants held their trunks high, the lions shook their proud, bushy manes. With the crack of the whip the lights went out.
The good folk of Black Rock Montana filed out of the top-tent singing the Zozo tune. Mayor Rip Branco was the last to leave, a bright, beaming smile on his round face.
And as Shakespeare once had occasion to record: All’s well that ends well.
[1] The story is set in indeterminate times (the author claims around 1970s) before animals were banned from performing in circuses.
Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.
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“Kaki[1], do not worry. Will you not go to Ajmer Sharif just because you do not have money? No, no. As long as I am to support you, you are going to Khwaja’sDargah[2]. I will give you the money. Lose not this chance. When the Khwaja has summoned you, how can you deny? And, that too, because of money! No, no – never. Tomorrow is the final hearing of a case, and I will get a good sum. Pack up your luggage and be ready. I will arrange for the expenses. Take no stress. You are going to Ajmer Sharif, okay?” Mishraji said to his neighbour, an old Mohammedan widow.
Mishraji was an advocate by profession. His law practice in the district court paid well, but to assume him rich would be an exaggeration. He was not poor either; his wife wore jewellery and he had a 110-cc Honda bike.
The old widow lived alone. Her husband had died two years ago, and her two sons, too, had gone to Saudi Arabia for earning a better livelihood. Such migrations for getting a better pay were not new in the village. One or two from every family had migrated elsewhere to overcome the persecutions of poverty.
The widow, Saliman, had taken a vow that if her sons started to earn there, she would offer a Chadar[3] at the shrine of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti in Ajmer. Apparently, she needed the money for the pious journey. Her sons had promised to send as soon as they got their first pay, but even after three months, she had not received a dime.
Maybe her sons had squandered the money away, or it might also be that they had not got it themselves yet. The widow subsisted on the rations she got from the PDS (Public Distribution System) and the vegetables in her kitchen garden. As for cash, she had little money she used to get as rent for her fertile land, less than an acre. The rent she got was just enough for the daily expenses, not for the pilgrimage she had taken upon herself.
Now, when the time to go had come closer, she had almost nothing except two hundred rupees she had saved somehow. She knew it would not be sufficient even for the bus fare to the dargah.
Since many of her acquaintances were going, whenever someone asked, “Kaki, have you done your packing for Ajmer Sharif?” She would humbly reply, “Not this time. I will go next year.”
When Ramakant Mishra, the advocate known as Mishraji among the villagers, got this news from his wife, who must have heard this at Kaffu’s confectionery – the one and only one in the village, he offered to help Saliman kaki. In good will, of course.
(2)
The next day was Monday. The court was in session. He pleaded his client’s case. After the closing argument, he was waiting for the decision. The decision was in his favour. The client, who had just been cleared of robbery charges, handed him a bundle of cash amounting to ten thousand rupees. Mishraji’s eyes smiled; the crispy notes had tickled his senses.
To keep his promise, Mishraji left the court early and started on his bike towards the village. He wanted to give the money to kaki in time for her to catch the bus.
Sixteen kilometres separated the town from his village. A dilapidated zigzag road, full of potholes and hairpin bends connected both. It ran between paddy fields, hamlets, shops, temples, and mosques. Had a photographer taken an aerial shot from a minaret, the photo would have looked like a reticulated python coiled between green and grey spots.
Mishraji set out for the village at three in the afternoon. He had to reach kaki before a quarter to four because the bus was scheduled to leave at four. He was in a hurry to get to her in time.
(3)
By quarter past three, Mishraji had covered almost half of the distance; the old peepal tree, taken as the abode of a Brahmarakshasa[4]by the villagers, the brick kiln which provided work to destitute men and women and school dropouts, and the chai tapri[5] – also used as a gambling den by the idlers, all these landmarks were left behind as the bike sped past. Now, Mishraji was passing by a temple, situated near a well on his left side; but right then, a truck overloaded with cement sacks came from the opposite direction. He had to stop to let it pass. It went on rambling and trembling and leaving a cloud of dust thick enough to make him cough. These were the day-to-day realities of his life. He had forgotten that these were the problems to think about, complain about, and raise questions about.
When the truck went away, Mishraji sped off on the bike again. He could see the next hairpin turn in a distance of a few hundred meters and a boy of fourteen or fifteen riding a mule cart loaded with sun-baked bricks. The boy must have been a daily wage labourer from the nearby kiln, Mishraji thought, and he was probably going to deliver the bricks there. The boy and the mule cart were the only objects of his undivided attention then, for the boy’s focus wasn’t on the road but on the mule. He was in a hurry. He was using the whip as an accelerator on the poor mule. As the boy whipped, the mule would start braying and tried to drag the cart with greater force. The mule slobbered and writhed in pain. Mishraji wanted to stop the boy and slap him for this cruelty. But fate had some other plans.
At the turn lay a deep pothole in the middle of the rutted road. No sooner did Mishraji turn his bike than the mule cart arrived close to him, and before he could pass, the right wheel went into that pothole. The mule, already exasperated, came down on its knees. The brick stacks, at rest earlier on the plain surface of the cart, plunged with a fierce thud on the right where Mishraji was. A few bricks fell on his thigh. And a few on the wheel guard, petrol tank, and windscreen, too. The result was an instant damage. The bike skidded off, and Mishraji fell before he could control himself. His left leg rasped against the loose gravel of the road. It tore off his pants, and the abrasion against the gravel made him bleed. He also got scratches on his elbow and knee. However, his head was safe because of the helmet.
The lad, no less responsible than the road and the turn, stood on the other side of the road with a flabbergasted face. Scared to death.
The villagers working in the nearby fields ran for help when they saw the mule cart collapsing. At first, they supported Mishraji, and then, one of them straightened the bike and put it on the stand. Misraji was 46, but he had maintained his body through yoga. He stood up and walked a few steps just to check for any fractures. He was fortunate, there were none.
A searing pain tormented him, but an abrupt rage had halted on his face. He pointed the people towards the mule – still kneeling under the weight of the cart. While they ran to balance it, his eyes looked for the real culprit.
He saw the boy standing on the other side of the road and beckoned him with a wave to come to him. The boy was shivering with fear; he had not imagined that something like this could happen. He started slowly and, with measured steps, came near. When he came close enough, without asking or saying a word, Mishraji held his hand and hit a hard slap on his face. Tadaak! It at once reddened his grimy cheek; a five-fingers-mark emerged on it as if the lightning flash were imprinted on the cloud; then another slap with the same force, and then again, a third one. The boy bellowed and cried for help. Mishraji growled, “Bastard, you almost killed me! Guttersnipes like you have oppressed the whole country.” He went on abusing with the same rage. And the boy kept crying.
Someone in the crowd ran towards him, and said, “Sahib, this boy is unfortunate. Mustaqim, his alcoholic father, beats him and his mother daily; his master, Chobe Singh, at the kiln, beats and abuses him if he arrives late. The master does not tolerate a late delivery. Forgive him, please. Who knows, but maybe God saved you from a greater danger.”
The rage Mishraji felt did not calm. Though he wanted to keep slapping the boy, since he had to reach the village on time, he jerked the hand of the boy and said, “Get last, and never show me your face again. Otherwise, I’ll wring your neck off. Buzz off!”
The boy, sobbing and wiping tears on his dirty sleeve, went to collect the scattered broken bricks. Apart from the recent slapping, he was much more afraid of the upcoming insults and scurrilities from the master waiting at the kiln. He gathered and stacked the bricks and started the cart. The mule limped at first but picked up pace after a slash of the whip.
For a few minutes, Mishraji watched the boy and said nothing. The crowd had already started to disperse. Since he had to reach on time; without giving much thought, he moved towards the bike. The accident had damaged it enough. The indicator, the headlight, and the visor were broken. The wheel guard had a crack; the petrol tank, an ugly scratch; and the front number plate had twisted off in such a way that it was hard to read the numbers from afar. Nonetheless, the bike started on the second attempt and carried the angry and injured advocate to his destination.
(4)
Seeing Mishraji’s condition, Saliman Kaki guessed at once that he must have had a narrow escape from an accident. As he came near, she hugged him and started weeping. Tears rolled down her cheek, and between the sobs, she said, “For me, you had to go through this. Allah, why did You punish this kind-hearted man for my sins? How unfair it is that You always test good men!”
Mishraji tried to console her, but she kept on crying and sobbing. Tears choked her. People on the crossroad, where the driver had parked the bus, watched the emotional scene in amazement. When the driver honked a fourth time, Mishraji realised the urgency of the situation, and taking out five thousand rupees from the bundle, handed them to the widow, saying, “Kaki, do not worry about me. I just got some scratches; they will heal in a day or two. Take care of yourself and eat well. Relax. Relax and call me when you reach Ajmer.”
She was just speechless. She said, in the end, while parting from him and stepping on the bus, “I will offer a Chadar for you, too. I will also pray for you. You are also like my son.”
The bus started, and Kaki stood at the entrance doorway looking at Mishraji until he was out of sight. He stood there, oscillating between joy and joint pains. He felt happy; he had forgotten about the boy.
He came home. His wife was sad and angry and cursed the boy who caused the accident. She also cursed Saliman Kaki. Mishraji bathed, put some bandages on the scratches, and gulped a few painkillers. After dinner, he fell asleep soon.
(5)
The next day, at the breakfast table, he saw the newspaper. He was dumbstruck after reading a short report in the corner of My City page. The headline read, ‘Man Beaten to Death. Accused is Absconding’. The report read thus:
‘Shravasti: A 50-year-old brick-kiln manager was allegedly beaten to death by a teenage daily wage labourer in Angadpur village of Ranipur block on Monday. The police said that the incident took place at four in the evening when the labourer arrived at the brick kiln with his mule cart to deliver the sun-baked bricks. The manager was angry due to the late delivery and tried to hit the alleged teenager by throwing a rosewood baton at him. When the baton missed the aim, the manager ran and caught the labourer and beat him black and blue. When the labourer fell, the manager moved back and went to his shanty chamber. While the manager was busy with his notebook, the labourer came into the chamber with the baton in hand and hit him on the head. He kept hitting until the manager was unconscious. Within an hour, the manager was taken to the District Hospital by people working around, where the doctors declared him dead. The primary cause of the death happened to be the skull fracture and severe brain haemorrhage, as told by the doctors. The accused teenager is absconding. According to the police, he must have crossed the border by now.’
Ravi Prakash has spent thirty years of his life in a small town near the Indo-Nepal border in the district Shravasti. He now lives in Meerut and teaches English in a Government Inter College. Although, he has left the place, it has not left him yet; and possibly, will never leave him. Ravi tries to narrate the stories that haunt him day and night. A few of his stories and poems have been published in several online journals.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
These days, it seems to sixty-year-old Husna that the past is clearer than the blur of her mirror…
The black Morris had come to a halt near the major crossing on Top-Khana road. In the back seat, feeling as plump as the upholstery, Husna was sweating and dabbing her pretty twenty-year-old face and neck with the anchal end of her cotton Jamdani sari.
Pregnancy had made it hard for her to fit into the long tunics and gathered pants of her hitherto comfortable shalwar-kameez outfits. Beside her lay the folded newspaper that Baba, her father Dr. Rahman, had left behind that morning, when he got dropped at the Dacca Medical College. She picked it up to fan herself. It was the Bengali language daily, Azad[1], dated February 20, 1952. The headlines wafted back and forth, screaming in print the news of the continuing agitations around Dacca, East Pakistan, on the language issue.
Without needing to look at the paper, she knew about the meeting that day of the Language Action Committee from her youngest brother Shonju, the student activist. She knew that they were meeting to discuss a nationwide hartal[2]scheduled for tomorrow, a general strike against the government’s repressive policies and disregard for the legitimate demand of the people that their mother language be given its rightful place as one of the two state languages of the country.
Since January, when she had returned home from West Pakistan for her confinement, all the discussion around the family dinner table involved the Prime Minister Khwaja Nazimuddin’s reiteration of Governor-General of Pakistan, Jinnah’s enraging declaration of two years ago that “Urdu, and only Urdu shall be the state language of Pakistan.”
She glanced at driver Rashid Miya. The middle-aged man seemed unaffected by the heat, unlike Husna. She was due for delivery in a “matter of days”, as Daktar Chacha[3], her father’s MD friend, had promised during the last check-up, patting her head as if she were still the teen-aged, newly married bride, who had left for West Pakistan a year ago with her banker husband, Jamil.
In a way she was glad that Jamil and she had left their familiar world of Dacca immediately after their arranged marriage, helping two newlywed strangers to bond over the shared adventure of starting life as Bengalis new to the quasi-foreign, Urdu-speaking territory of Karachi in West Pakistan.
Not that Urdu was unfamiliar to Husna. Despite problems with gender in the language, she could manage basic social conversation (though, it annoyed her that she never found any Urdu speaking Pakistani who could utter even a word of Bengali, or tried to). But she was proud that just by listening to the radio she had learnt to sing the popular film ghazals of her favourite Indian playback singer Talat Mahmood, or Noor Jahan, now a Pakistani singer, who migrated to Lahore recently, after the Partition of India five years ago.
It was a bit disappointing that Jamil preferred her to sing the Tagore and Nazrul songs her music teacher had taught her since childhood, when all along her heart hummed with film songs. Songs from Bengali and Hindi films that her strict mother had seldom allowed her to see, unless escorted to the cinema halls by friends and relatives, and on special occasions, like Eid.
She had hoped to right this wrong immediately upon getting married. After all, Ma always said, “Do whatever you wish….after you’re married.” And Jamil did take her to the cinema, though, mostly to see English films. Matinees or late shows at the Rex or Ritz, or an early show at the Odeon followed by dinner in a hotel like Beach Luxury. Once she had seen a belly dancer from Beirut or Cairo perform there and had felt embarrassed yet fascinated by the lissom female body, the unfettered, uninhibited moves. She had felt a dizzy sense of freedom just watching the dancer.
She sighed, running her hand over the watermelon that was her belly! Today she didn’t feel like that bright eyed young girl in Karachi anymore. Nor even a mother-to-be. She just felt like a bloated animal, she sulked looking out of the car window. They were at a standstill for what seemed like an hour. Minutes crawled like the runnels of sweat under Husna’s new high-necked blouse, inspired by the popular Indian Bengali actress Suchitra Sen. She dabbed the constant beading of her nose and upper lip that Jamil always said he found endearing.
She started a mental reply to his last letter. “Dearest one. . . ” She began, then floundered. This would be her third letter to him since she arrived in Dacca, but she was still not convinced about how to address him in writing. Some of her Urdu-speaking female acquaintances in Karachi called their husbands by name, though often using the polite pronoun “aap[4].” Ma always called Baba “Ogo[5]” or “Shuncho?” as in “Are you listening?” That was funny because even if Baba were not listening, Ma would chatter on.
She felt awkward and insincere mimicking the spontaneous affection in Jamil’s letters, calling her “Beloved” and his “Myna bird” and so many other endearments, while she was unable to address him in a way that felt comfortable and not a lie. As usual, she settled for no salutations but an outright “Kemon acho?”
How’re you? I’m as well as can be expected. It’s only February and already Dhaka is uncomfortably warm. How is Karachi? Here, it’s not just the weather that’s heating up, but the political environment as well. The ‘bhasha andolon’, which the English newspapers refer to as ‘the Language Movement’ is going on full force. Baba and Ma are always worrying about Shonju, who is out on the streets every day and in student meetings at all hours. He creeps home late and stores all his protest posters and fliers under my bed and fills me in on what’s going on. I often have to cover for him to the family….”
She pulled forward the end of her sari and tried to cover her belly and wipe her glistening face. Oh! Pregnancy was so boring; and this heat was claustrophobic. If only she could be like Shonju, free to just come and go, walk the streets or ride the cycle or take a rickshaw.
“Ki holo, Rashid Bhai? What’s up?” she asked, as she wound the window all the way down.
“Apa[6], I think there’s a procession approaching. I feel we should take a side street. This road is blocked.” Rashid was already turning the steering wheel.
“Oh! Then, no New Market today? I wanted to collect my harmonium that I left for tuning.” Husna’s voice was lost in a volley of shouts that came from somewhere ahead. Meanwhile, a rickshaw edged close to the car, and two boys, possibly students, with cloth bags hanging from their shoulders, started throwing pamphlets through the windows of a few buses and into other rickshaws that were milling around.
One pamphlet landed on Husna’s lap like the silly, anonymous love-note she had once received while being driven to college, just two years ago. She smiled. She had often wished the author had been her elder brother’s friend and her girlhood crush, Farid. But he was hardly the type to write something romantic to her. Certainly not “Beloved one” or “My Myna bird.” No, it was hard to imagine that serious, brooding, good-looking face bent over anything but medical books.
Rashid stopped to make way for a group of demonstrators, banners folded under their arms. Some raised a slogan and the rest joined in. “Manbo na! Manbo na! Never will we accept!” Husna’s heart pumped. Ah! Unlike her, these boys dared to proclaim that they rejected whatever was being imposed on them. Was this possible? She wished she could get out of the car and walk with the boys, raise her voice in slogans. Unthinkable and unladylike, of course; plus, she was a waddling, pregnant beast.
Rashid Miya swung the car around and they entered a narrow street that led out to a wider road. He braked to give way to a truck that sped past, full of khaki-uniformed police, their rifles flashing in the sun. “Too many demonstrations today near the university, Apa. I hope tomorrow, your father will not go to Medical College. And our Shonju Bhaiyya should be careful. He and his friends were getting on a rickshaw at the gate this morning, when I was wiping the car, and they were talking about processions tomorrow. I kept hearing the date. 21st…Ekushey February. God only knows what will happen!”
“We better go home, Rashid Bhai. Shall we pick up Baba?”
“No, it’s only past 5. I’ll come for him later. Let me drop you first.”
Suddenly, preceded by the rumble of microphone, a van came into view. As it crawled past, it left the sputtering debris of words in crackling Bengali. She could decipher only: Section 144 imposed in the city… for 30 days…a ban on gatherings of more than 4 people in public places…processions or demonstrations to be severely punished…
Husna grew restless for Shonju. She prayed he would come home safely and not get embroiled in something foolhardy. He usually confided in her. At least, he used to till Husna got married. They were the closest among their many siblings. Even on the eve of her wedding, it was he and not one of her sisters who had insisted that if she had any doubts about this arranged marriage, it was not too late to speak up.
But she had never mustered enough courage. Or conviction. After all, Farid had not really confessed his feelings for her, and, from what she discovered about Jamil, he was a perfectly decent human being. In fact, she had no complaints about her husband, except that he was not the one her heart had chosen. If only she had met him on her own, and he had not been imposed on her, as if by state decree: “Jamil, and only Jamil shall be your husband!” And… if only elusive Farid had been clear about his feelings. Even if it were non-reciprocal, she would have felt free. Her heart would not now feel so mute.
Why was the language of the heart so complicated, so hard to decipher? It was as if its familiar truths, which could be accessed non-verbally, instinctively, were now locked in a foreign alphabet that she had to relearn in order to decode their meanings. Almost like that ridiculous proposal in the Legislative Assembly two years ago that Shonju had laughed with her about, regarding the use of Arabic script to write Bengali!
“Just imagine, Bubu, the word ‘mother’ would still be pronounced ‘Ma’ but not written ‘moye-akar’ but ‘meem-alef’! Our Brahmi script curling and prancing forward gracefully from left to right would be attacked from right to left by the slanting arrows of the Nastaliq squiggles, and then both colliding explosively in the middle!”
NastaliqBengali script
Oh! Shonju was so dramatic! A laugh escaped Husna, then she fell silent.
They were driving past the Ramna Racecourse. Her baby shifted in her womb. Later. . . many years later, she would think that her son Azeem knew that they were passing what in two decades would be a historical spot: the pulse point of an unprecedented political gathering on a March morning in 1971. On the seventh day of that month, a voice would rise like a colossal bird filling the Dhaka sky with its fateful, uncompromising call, announcing that the time had come “for the ultimate struggle, the struggle for freedom”: Ebarer shongram, shadhinotar shongram!
Had she been clairvoyant, known that the heady creature would swoop down and snatch her son and hurl them all into the whirlpool of destiny, perhaps she would have told Rashid Miya to change route, take another road. But would that have changed the course of history, erased the scribbling of fate?
For the moment, the Black Morris like a rigid pen on paper drives inexorably forward, and the future is drowned out by the sporadic shouts in the distance of “Rashtro bhasha Bangla chai! We demand Bangla for national language!”
The baby came early. In fact, the very evening after she returned from her outing, the pains started. There was no time to shift her to the maternity ward of the private clinic of Daktar Chacha, so he sent a nurse over to help deliver her baby at home. Early in the morning of February 21, her baby son arrived.
A trunk call was made to Karachi to give Jamil the good news. Then there was much rejoicing in the house with relatives dropping in to see the baby. By late afternoon, however, the atmosphere in the house became subdued as disturbing news from the streets filtered through.
The police had opened fire on protesting students. There were hushed discussions so she would not hear. But she overheard the day nurse telling the night nurse before she left that injured students had been taken to the Medical College. The very next day, Husna’s elder brother, the final year medical student, Monju Bhaijan, had come to the breakfast table shouting in rage that a student had succumbed to his wounds, and the body of another had been found on the floor behind the Anatomy room. Baba confirmed it with sadness.
Even Jamil’s letter to her after the joy of the news of Azeem’s birth contained a postscript: “Stay safe. These are volatile times. Worried about Shonju. The Dawn newspaper here carried an editorial saying that the people of West Pakistan have no objection to Bangla getting a status equal to Urdu. Why is there always such a divide between the wielders of political power and the populace?”
A few days later, Husna wasn’t sure if it was the 25th or 26th, Ma and the nurse had just taken away the baby when Shonju arrived. He was carrying a box of sweets. “Moron Chand and Sons” it said on the box. Inside were her favourite sweets: the soft, creamy white, renin-based balls of rose-scented pranhara-shondesh.
Ma must have bought the sweets and forced him to come visit his newborn nephew. Husna breathed a sigh of relief, seeing her brother, who paced restlessly, refusing to sit.
“I saw the baby in Ma’s room on my way in. Looks like Dulabhai.”
“Really? I think he has our family nose.”
“Poor kid! Hope not.” Shonju finally grinned, but his mind was elsewhere. He was wearing a black badge of mourning on his white kurta sleeve.
Husna stretched her arm and took his hand: “My heart aches for those who died, Shonju. But I’m so grateful you are okay.”
He didn’t let go of her hand but turned his angry face away.
“We students are still in battle mode. It will continue, the andolon, the protests, the confrontation. The Shaheed Minar memorial we constructed outside Medical College was destroyed, but we will rebuild it.”
He pulled his hand away, clicking his tongue: “Oh! Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to me. When you fight for a cause you feel superhuman, invincible. The collective spirit strengthens us, makes us feel immortal. We are more than an individual life. What will our enemies do? Kill or wound one person, right? But the cause… they can’t defeat that. We are the multitudes… ”
“Uff! Stop this speechifying!” Husna rolled her eyes. “Mothers don’t want multitudes. They just want their sons. Sisters want their brothers. Yes, even though you’re a moron, I’d rather have you than a street full of heroes.”
Shonju laughed. “In that case, Bubu, you better start speaking only in Urdu. Sell your mother tongue to these politicians.”
After Shonju left, the nurse brought the baby to be fed. Husna touched baby Azeem’s toes, his petal-like fingers. Once, she had laughed at her elder sister for her incessant baby talk when her son was born. Now it spilled out of her, and she felt no embarrassment. Soft, mashed up balls of Bengali words lisped with maternal love, sweeter, and more tender than the pranhara in the box.
Was that how all mother tongues started? With silly, besotted mothers cooing to the babies in their language? She realised that if she had to make up baby talk in another language, she probably couldn’t do it. There was something about expressing oneself in one’s own tongue, heard from infancy. It was the home that one carried within, because the earliest memories of the mother’s voice absorbed from the womb animated it. It was a birth right that no one could be permitted to take away or undermine.
But was it worth dying for? Worth being martyred like the student the police had shot on Thursday, the twenty-first?
A week later, after lunch, the house suddenly filled with voices. Shonju entered, followed by Monju Bhaijan, and Farid. Husna looked at him surreptitiously. His face was impassive and he gave her a distracted nod. What else could he do, or say, Husna could understand. After all, there she was, much married and a mother, to boot.
Loudly ordering tea to be served, sounding like a housewife, she left the room, disappointed in herself that despite her show of poise and indifference, her heart still ached in a dim way.
She asked herself, if, in the past, she and Farid had been granted the opportunity and the courage to express to each other what she was certain was a mutual attraction, would her life be different? Would the knowledge that her feelings were requited, or not, have made a difference to her sense of self?
When Jamil’s proposal of marriage came to her parents, and they had accepted on her behalf. It was too late. Farid was not around, having gone to visit his parents in Barishal, so nothing had been acknowledged. There had been no beginning, and subsequently, no closure.
During her impending wedding she had to make sure her feelings did not go into a Bhasha Andolon of sorts within her, agitating and demanding the right of her heart’s true language to be respected. Instead, she had gagged her heart, imposed on herself another language: a formal, emotionally correct, and socially acceptable language. The vocabulary of wedded propriety appropriate to an obedient daughter and daughter-in-law. An official language, foreign to her, like Urdu.
She sighed. Language supposedly empowered humans and differentiated them from animals. But if, despite the ability to verbalise, people could not make their wishes known or heard, were they not equal to dumb beasts? What use was the mother tongue when ones’ own mother had not understood her daughter’s unspoken wish just because she could not speak out: “I don’t want to marry, yet. I want to wait! Manbo na! Manbo na!” And what use was language when Farid too, had failed to use his tongue, express himself at the right time, ask her clearly to wait and not accede to the arranged marriage.
*
No, it was better that the Bengalis had spoken out. It was better that they had taken to the streets. This andolon would lead them to express their rights and desires, claim what was true. Of course, it would take four more years for Bengali to be constitutionally recognised as a state language of Pakistan, along with Urdu. But time was a tiny link in the cosmic chain of historical and personal events. Obviously, this last was not something thought up by Husna at the time, but by the Husna of today, watching her past self.
Today, she observed herself through the telescope of time, on the first day the young mother Husna nursed her baby son. Surely, she was unaware at that moment that everything was connected: her breast milk and baby talk in Bangla nourished not just her child, Azeem, but through him later, Shonju’s “multitudes” of a future generation, as a whole nation journeyed from Ekushey or twenty-first, to Ekattor or seventy-one: from the upheaval for language of February 21, 1952 to claiming a home for it in the war of independence of 1971. All were linked, even if separated by time and generation. In the end, everything existed in a grand NOW, where past and present simmered together.
Needless to say, all this was what she would think many years later, as an older sixty-year-old woman, looking back on her life as she wrote her journal, sitting in her room in her daughter’s suburban home in Maryland, in the US.
She dusted the photo frames on the painted bureau. Her doting late husband Jamil, and her gentle yet impassioned elder son Azeem looked at her from the distance of lost eras. One was gone in 1966 in a helicopter crash. The other in 1971, as a freedom fighter.
Farid, unframed, was a forbidden, almost forgotten memory. Lost like an unspoken language. Lost, because she had never fought for him.
She has a fanciful wish: in some after life she would like to ask those who had agitated and fought for a cause, and even laid down their life for it: in the end, was the sacrifice worth it?
“Today is February 21, 2002. Commemorated as Omor Ekushey in Bangladesh. But just another day here…” She wrote in her diary in Bangla, a language that her grandchildren could not speak.
She pulled out from under her bed the harmonium her daughter had recently bought for her from an Indian family that was moving back to India. She sat down on the rug, stroking the black and white keys with one hand and pumping lightly on the bellows at the back of the instrument.
On top of her harmonium lay open her old songbook, marked and written on by the music teacher of her childhood. She was a trained singer, and in 1950, she with a group from her school had performed some mass anthems and marching songs on what was then Radio Pakistan Dacca. There, they had met a musician named Abdul Latif, who would later put to melody a poem written by a journalist named Abdul Gaffar Choudhury for the student who had died on February 21. Later, the song would be recomposed by a noted composer named Altaf Mahmud and emerge as an anthem for what became Mother Language Day.
For her, of course, the day had a different and personal significance. It was the sacred anniversary of her motherhood that she had entered so reluctantly. On this day, every year, she sang to the son who had taught her the ultimate lesson of love and sacrifice and of never forgetting.
She started to hum the familiar refrain as she tried out a few chords.
Her granddaughter Zainab peeked through the door.
“What’re you singing, Nani[8]?” She said in her American accent.
“It’s a song about love, sweetie. About loving one’s language.”
“Which language, Nani?”
“Any language that you love, sweetheart. For me it’s Bangla, which you hear me speak with your mom.”
She sang the first lines. Zainab sat down beside Husna, gazing at her moving fingers.
“Cool! It’s like a portable piano! Can I learn to play it?”
“Well, only if you also learn to sing this song with me.”
“Deal!”
In bed that night, Husna wrote in her journal: “Today is February 21. International Mother Language Day. Today Zainab learnt to sing the Ekushey song, especially the refrain ‘Ami ki bhulite pari?’ And when I tested her on what it meant, she got it right as she ran away giggling and yelling: ‘Can I ever forget it?’
So, today turned out to be. . . not just another day, after all.”
Husna closed her eyes with a smile on her face. Just before she fell asleep, she felt as if she understood the world not with the uttered meanings of any language, but like an unborn baby breathing in the womb its mother’s voice, dreaming his or her first spoken word.
Dreaming in whatever language would become their home, their motherland.
Neeman Sobhan is anItaly based Bangladeshi writer, poet, columnist and translator. Till recently, she taught Bengali and English at the University of Rome. She has an anthology of columns, An Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome; fiction collection: Piazza Bangladesh; Poetry: Calligraphy of Wet Leaves. Armando Curcio Editore is publishing her stories in Italian. This short story was first published in Ekhushey Anthology 1952-2022, edited by Niaz Zaman, writers.ink in 2022.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
In the heart of a bustling metropolis, where neon signs battled the stars for supremacy, stood a high-rise that pierced the sky. On the 42nd floor, amidst the hum of advanced technology and the glow of omnipresent screens, lived Michael and Apollonia. Their apartment, a futuristic enclave, was filled with gadgets and gizmos that spoke of an age where technology reigned supreme.
Michael and Apollonia, once a couple whose love story could have inspired poets, now found their bond fraying in the unrelenting embrace of the digital world. Their home was an altar to the modern age, with walls adorned with the latest ultra-thin screens, surfaces cluttered with virtual reality gear, and AI assistants that responded to their every whim.
Michael, a software engineer with a passion for gaming, spent his days and nights in alternate realities. His VR headset was more a part of him than his own limbs. In these digital realms, he was a hero, a conqueror, a legend. Apollonia, a digital marketing strategist, found her solace in the lives of others through her social media feeds. Her world was one of perfectly curated images, witty captions, and vicarious living through the adventures of influencers.
Their apartment, high above the city’s ceaseless rhythm, had become a silent bubble. Conversations, once filled with laughter and shared dreams, were now a series of emotionless texts and emojis, even when they lounged on the same sofa. Dinners were silent, save for the soft tapping of their devices; their eyes rarely met, each lost in a personal digital labyrinth.
.
Michael’s world was one of fantastical landscapes and impossible quests. His laughter, once a melody that Apollonia adored, was now a rare sound, often drowned out by the synthetic scores of his games. Apollonia, whose zest for life and storytelling had captivated Michael, now channeled her creativity into crafting an enviable online persona, her real emotions hidden behind a filter of digital perfection.
Their home was a stark reminder of a past filled with genuine connection. Framed photographs of their early adventures — hiking trips, impromptu road trips, and lazy Sundays in the park — were now just relics of a bygone era. Michael’s guitar, once a source of serenity, lay in a forgotten corner, its strings still. Apollonia’s collection of travel books, which had fueled her wanderlust, now served as mere decorative trivia, untouched and gathering dust.
.
It was on a stormy evening, as the city beneath them was a spectacle of rain-drenched lights, that their worlds momentarily collided again. Michael, his VR adventure paused due to a rare glitch, noticed Apollonia. She sat curled on the couch, her face illuminated by the soft light of her tablet, scrolling endlessly. For a fleeting moment, he saw not the Apollonia lost in the digital world, but the woman he had fallen in love with.
Moved by a surge of nostalgia, Michael reached out and gently touched her shoulder. Apollonia looked up, her eyes wide with surprise, as if seeing Michael for the first time in ages. Their eyes locked, and for a brief moment, the digital fog lifted, revealing the raw, vulnerable humans beneath. A torrent of memories flooded back — their first date, the late-night talks, the tender moments.
But the magic of the moment was fleeting. Apollonia’s gaze shifted back to her screen, the ghost of a smile fading as she immersed herself once again in the digital stream. Michael, a wistful sigh escaping his lips, re-entered his virtual world. The screens that had grown between them were too strong, their digital habits too ingrained.
Their night did not end in a dramatic confrontation or a tearful goodbye. Rather, it faded, like the last bars of a forgotten melody. They continued to share their high-rise haven, yet their worlds were galaxies apart. Their love, once vibrant and tangible, had dissolved into the ether of cyberspace. Around them, the city throbbed with life, but in their high-rise sanctuary, they existed in a state of digital solitude, side by side yet worlds apart. As the city lights flickered and danced below, they sat together in their digital cocoon, a testament to a world where hearts beat in sync with bytes, and love stories are written in the code of a bygone era.
Apurba Biswas is a Ph.D. scholar at the School of Humanities and Social Sciences, National Institute of Science Education and Research Bhubaneswar (An Autonomous institute under the Department of Atomic Energy, Govt. of India), and an OCC of Homi Bhabha National Institute, Mumbai. Apurba Biswas specialises in bridging gaps between science and humanities.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
The decision to retire was a long, tough, and protracted one. The traditional wisdom always gave out doctors never retire. But we needed time to ourselves. We had long and fulfilling lives and now was the time to take things slow. The body was ageing and required more time to complete various activities. Some tasks were no longer possible.
Jiri, Nepal
I still remember the first day I met Rajendra on the orientation day of the Family Medicine residency program in upstate New York. Rajendra was from Jiri in the Himalayan country of Nepal. For a few decades, Jiri was the gateway to the Everest region. Then the hikers and mountaineers started flying to the air strip at Lukla. Roads were also progressing further and further in the country. We grew closer during the residency. We shared many interests including nature, hiking, photography, creative writing, and a strong empathy for the underdog. Our friendship slowly deepened, and by the end of the residency we decided to spend the rest of our life together.
We were also different in so many ways. I was a girl of mixed German and Colombian heritage. My family was well-to-do, and I had a privileged childhood. Raj was from a poor family and had to face many struggles in his life. He went to medical school on a government scholarship. Like most graduates of the Institute of Medicine in Kathmandu he then concentrated on being selected for a residency in the United States. Even in the early eighties this was a long, hard struggle.
He did a few ‘observerships’ and research attachments. He eventually went on to become a chief resident and we both worked for around two years in the Northeast health system after residency. Soon we had to decide on what to do next. I would have liked to continue in the United States. Raj however, was increasingly considering whether we should go back to Nepal. I told him that though I had never even visited Nepal I was OK with whatever he decided.
Though his family had settled in Jiri, Raj was a Newar. His full name was Rajendra Shakya. The religion of the Newars was complex tapestry of Hinduism and Buddhism. His family home was at Bungamati, a Newar village in Lalitpur district at the southern part of the Kathmandu valley. Newar Gods and Goddesses were complex and had both good and more wrathful aspects. Women were considered ritually impure during menstruation and were not allowed into the kitchen during this period, and they could not visit temples. In some rural parts of the country, the Chaupadi system was still followed, and women were banished to a cow shed during their periods. The Newars had their own caste system, and the concept of purity was important. In the Kathmandu valley the Newars had their ritual feasts (bhoj) and the buffalo was the most important animal in Newari cuisine.
The cow was sacred and killing one was a grave sin, but the poor black buffalo was fair game. I often reflected on this injustice. We first worked at the United Missions to Nepal hospital at Tansen at the foothills of the Himalayas. Tansen was a small town with a significant Newari influence and the hospital was the major and often only source of health care for a large population. The hospital was overcrowded, and we had to deal with a variety of patients. The houses for the doctors were lovely and picturesque, and we had a great community of both Nepalese doctors and expats. We stayed in Tansen for nearly a decade. There were delightful walks in the surrounding hills and a rather long hike to the Rani Mahal on the banks of the Kali Gandaki, often called the Taj Mahal of Nepal.
There was an opening for a doctor couple at Khunde hospital in the Everest region and as he was from Jiri, Raj wanted to apply. The hospital was at a height for around 4000 m and was set up by Sir Edmund Hillary. The hospital provides care to local residents, hikers, mountaineers, and porters from the lowlands. Initially it was a very isolated existence. Later a satellite phone was set up and eventually an internet connection followed. We dealt with all kinds of patients. The weather was cold, but I loved the picturesque cottage near the hospital. The region was becoming a popular trekking region and during the peak seasons of autumn and spring several thousand trekkers passed through.
Patan hospital is one of the old and famous hospitals of Nepal located in the city of Lalitpur also known as Patan in the Kathmandu valley. Migration of doctors to developed nations was a major challenge for Nepal and the Institute of Medicine was not very successful in producing doctors for the country as most graduates left for developed nations. The importance of a family medicine/general practice programme was understood by the policy makers and the Patan Academy of Health Sciences (PAHS) was set up. MD was the postgraduate medical qualification in the country and a MD in General Practice and Emergency Medicine (MDGP) was started in this institution.
We were among the faculty for this program, and we were now working at Patan hospital. We had some family land at Bungamati and built a traditional Newari style house. There were smiling mustard fields around though the area was rapidly urbanising. Flowers grew well. In winters, the Himalayas could be seen on a clear day but air pollution and dust made this a rarer phenomenon.
My brother had retired and settled in our family land on the outskirts of Albany, New York. We had a rather large plot of land, and I was thinking of settling near him. We had followed different life trajectories, and it would be nice to spend some together in the autumn of our lives.
Our work at Patan Hospital was hectic. After long conversations we decided to retire from the hospital and offer our expertise to the MDGP program as Emeritus Professors. Raj’s sister and brother had retired and were now living in Bungamati. Patan hospital would have loved for us to stay on.
We decided to divide our time between Albany and Bungamati. Summers in Albany and winters in Bungamati. Winters in upstate New York can be harsh and unforgiving. The long flight between the two locations will be a challenge as we did not handle long flights well. Let us see what fate had in store for us. Our son was a vascular surgeon in New York and we could be near to him. We were happy that we finally decided to retire and spend time with our families and our grandchildren. It was time to explore the road less travelled!
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Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
The oak stood in the field at the end of their parallel gardens, just over the fence. The branch stretching out over Orla’s lawn creaked like a rocking chair as she swung back and forth on the rope swing her mum had made years ago. The creak had grown louder since she’d turned nine. She watched her mum talk to their neighbour Ray over the fence, which had once come up to his chin. Since he’d walked with a cane and his wife had died, he could just about see over it on tiptoes. When her mum folded her arms, Orla stopped swinging and listened to them talk.
“I can’t get out there anymore.” Ray’s voice was strained. “I’ve only managed the trip twice since I scattered Hetty’s ashes.”
“I’ll take you out there on Sundays, Ray. I’m more than happy to drive you.”
“I couldn’t be a burden to you like that, Tamara. It would be easier if we just cut it down. England has millions of oaks.”
Orla’s mum looked over at her, noticing the creaking had stopped. Orla began to swing again, the branch speaking over the rest of her mum and Ray’s conversation. She looked up at the pistachio-coloured leaves whispering above her, some yellowing at their tips.
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After lunch, Orla took her crayons into the garden and peeled the papers off them like sweet wrappers. Gathering some of the oak’s fallen leaves, she rested them on a paving slab near the swing and placed sheets of paper over them. Rhythmically, she rubbed the crayons back and forth, the spines and veins blooming on the paper.
“You’re a big girl now, aren’t you? Too big for that swing.”
Ray’s white fingers gripped the top of the fence, knuckles peaked, watching her beneath crêpe eyelids.
Orla had liked Ray’s wife, Hetty. She’d regularly made Orla biscuits, given in a biscuit tin with robins on it. Whenever Hetty went on a trip, she’d always bought Orla a little present; a magnet of an ‘O’ for Orla from Blackpool, a bottle of multi-coloured sand from the Isle of Wight, a keyring with a plastic wedge of cheese on it from Cheddar Gorge. They were always wrapped and sealed in bright tissue paper. Once, Hetty had brought back a red kite’s feather from her Sunday walk. Even that, she’d wrapped in pink tissue paper and brown twine before giving it to Orla.
Sometimes, when Orla played with the oak, she would hear Hetty humming in the garden, and she’d stare at the trunk, imagining Hetty’s song was fairies’ singing as they worked.
Orla guessed that all these beautiful things about Hetty were why she had barely noticed Ray until the day she’d seen him crying in her kitchen, her mum patting his papery hand as he clutched his handkerchief. Orla had lined up all the trinkets from Hetty on her windowsill. That had been over six months ago.
“A swing is for tiny ones. You’re all grown up now.” The effort to make his voice singsong made Ray cough.
Orla watched the swing’s wooden seat pendulum in the breeze, her leaf rubbings fluttering on the ground.
“I like my swing. Even Mum goes on it sometimes. I don’t think you can be too grown up for a swing.”
Ray sank behind the fence momentarily, muttered something, then pulled himself back onto his toes. “You remember my lovely Hetty? Her ashes are scattered up on the hill over there.” He lifted a shaky finger from the fence towards the hill beyond the field. Orla had seen the hill in winter through the oak’s spiny boughs. “I want to see my Hetty every day from the window. I can’t see the hill with this great thing in the way.”
Orla continued pushing the crayons across the paper, her eyes down. She imagined Hetty on the hilltop and opening the robin biscuit tin, letting Orla take some lemon shortbread, fresh slithers of zest zinging on her tongue as Hetty smiled at her. Orla felt a knot in her chest and squeezed her crayon. She knew the knot in Ray’s chest was bigger and tighter, so she didn’t mention that he wouldn’t see Hetty up on the hill, tree or no tree in the way.
Ray coughed again. ‘I need to get this tree out of the way.’
Orla didn’t hear him, the leaves shushing in the wind, drowning out his voice.
“Pardon?”
“I said the tree needs to go!” His voice bounced off their houses, and birds flew from the treetop.
“What about the squirrels?” Orla asked.
“I put nuts out for them.”
“They can’t live in a dish of nuts.”
She knew she had been cheeky, so she didn’t look up until his tapping cane faded away.
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The next day Orla took some paint pens to the end of the garden. She harvested twelve acorns from the grass and slotted them into her front dungarees pocket. Laying them in a line on her paving slab, she coloured them in pastel shades. Then she turned them upside-down and drew faces on them, their cupules acting as jaunty hats. Herby scents from the greenhouse behind her made her hungry, and she wondered what an acorn tasted like, even though she knew they were poisonous. Finding one in the grass without paint, she rolled its smoothness across her lips, the tip of her tongue licking it. Orla felt a sharp smack on her head. A twig with a cluster of leaves and acorns had fallen, reprimanding her. She tossed the acorn, shiny with her spit, over the back fence into the field.
Footsteps came down the path, accompanied by a familiar beat. It was Mum, followed by Ray with his cane. Her mum looked weary.
“Orla, Ray has said he’s going to buy you a present. A swing set. Isn’t that kind?”
Ray rested on his cane with a clownish grin.
“Yes, that’s kind. Thank you,” Orla said as enthusiastically as possible. “I can still keep my tree swing, though?”
Her mum sighed. “I told you she’d want to keep it, Ray. Honestly, it’s no bother to drive you up the hill every week. Besides, having that tree felled will cost you a lot more than a swing set, and I’m not convinced the council will give you permission anyway.” She looked up at the tree, and Orla watched the dappled sunlight flash across her mum’s face. “It would be a shame to see it go. Don’t you think it’s beautiful?”
“Hetty was beautiful!”
Ray threw his cane to the ground. It hit the path, making Orla jump, a couple of her acorn people rolling away. Ray took his handkerchief from his pocket and covered his face.
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Orla dreamed she was aboard a boat on a rough sea, a pirate ship chasing her vessel through a dark night. Relentless rain pummelled the creaking deck, and the sails whined against the fierce gusts. The chasers fired a single cannon shot – a crack and wail in the night. Her ship had sunk, icy waves pulling her down as the groaning boat went under with her.
Morning brought peace and land as she awoke in her bed. A storm and a lethal shot had been true. Orla’s swing branch had ripped from the trunk and landed on her paving slab, splitting it in two. The splintered swing lay under the branch’s body, sodden rope snaking across the puddled grass. The branch’s crown had shattered the greenhouse. Glass shards and acorns sprinkled over toppled tomato vines and pots of mint, basil, and thyme. The back fence of Orla and Ray’s gardens had been thrown down, the trunk base and roots exposed for all to see.
Orla watched the two men with their chainsaws from her bedroom window, their woodchipper spraying bark fragments like snow. She traced the spine of the red kite feather from Hetty with her finger as she heard her mum talking with workmen. “That branch could’ve fallen on my daughter. What if the whole damn thing comes down?”
One of the men said, “It’s a strong tree; it just needs proper maintenance, regular pruning.” Her mum had sounded uncertain. When they left, Orla heard Ray at the front door. He sounded cross and mentioned the fallen fence several times.
“I’ve filled in the council application to have it felled. I just need your signature too, Tamara.”
“Fine, Ray,” her mum said. “It can go.”
When her mum came to her room later, Orla wouldn’t remove the pillow from her face.
Ray was impatient for the repairman to arrive. He didn’t like the idea of walkers gawking into his garden or dogs darting in and peeing on his flowerbeds. The repairman couldn’t make it until next week, suddenly overwhelmed with work delivered by the storm. Ray surveyed the fallen panels. Two of the fenceposts had snapped at the bottom, clearly rotten. He wondered if he could prop some panels up on the remaining posts to give himself some privacy. Holding his cane with one hand, he bent down and grabbed a fallen panel. The weight was unexpected, but he anticipated the fall, managing to roll and land on his back in the grass. He panted, waiting for pain, but it didn’t come.
“Stupid fool!”
His cane had gone one way, and he’d gone the other. He tried to turn and bring his hands under him.
“I’m like a bloody capsized tortoise!”
He called for help, shouting for Tamara before he remembered seeing them go out in their car earlier. He kept shouting, hoping a passing walker might hear him from the field. His throat began to hurt, and he knew he should slow his heart rate down.
It was a grey day, and the news had forecast showers. The freshness in the air told him they were on their way. Oak leaves trembled above him. Hetty had often admired the tree. He didn’t think she’d have wanted it gone, but he knew she’d understand why he would.
“I know I’m right. You’ve got to go. Supposing the branch had fallen on the girl.”
He heard the rain pattering above, but he didn’t feel it, the oak sheltering him. Two squirrels rushed up the trunk and screeched at a wood pigeon who took flight, sending acorns to the ground. Ray shielded his face, but none of them hit him. A single leaf landed on his chest, and he ran his thumb repetitively along its crinkled edges. Dots of honeybees explored the oak’s limbs, and bluetits hopped about at its crown.
“You’re a busy tree, aren’t you. So big. You’re still huge even looking at you from far away up on that hill.”
He remembered standing on the hill with Hetty on their Sunday walks, roast gammon and apple crumble heavy in their stomachs. Shielding their eyes from the sun’s glare, Hetty would point to the oak and say, “The perfect beacon to find our way home.” They’d walk back across the field, the oak guiding them home.
A red kite soared above the oak into the field to search for mice and voles. Remembering Hetty giving Orla the feather, he ripped the leaf in his hand again and again until it was mulch in his fingertips.
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When Orla and her mum found Ray, it was getting dark. They warmed him up and fed him tomato soup, bread and butter, and tea and biscuits. Her mum called the paramedics. They came and said his stats were normal. As they left, Orla heard her mum speak quietly to them at the door.
“He doesn’t seem himself. He’s barely said a word.”
They said he was in shock, he’d had a long afternoon, and he’d recover.
Orla sat with Ray while her mum washed up.
“I’m sorry you fell,” she said. Ray kept his eyes on the newsreader on the television, and she wasn’t sure if he’d heard her. “The tree didn’t mean to drop the branch.”
He stroked the hot water bottle in his lap like a cat. Orla spotted the council form on the coffee table. She stood up.
“You don’t need to get me a swing set.”
She waited by the front door until her mum was ready to go.
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At midnight, Ray couldn’t sleep. The soup and bread had made him feel stronger. Taking his cane with him, he went out into his dark garden. The clouds covered the stars, and the earlier rain soaked his slippers. He went to the shed and got a length of rope and a small step ladder. Draping the rope around his shoulders, he dragged the step ladder to the tree, dropping his cane.
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The next morning was Sunday. Orla got up early to watch television while her mum lay in. Something caught her eye through the patio doors.
The base of the oak’s trunk shimmered with silver.
Orla put her wellies on and went outside. Foil was wrapped around the trunk’s bottom half and lashed down with a spiral of rope. It had been tied off in a bow at the centre of the wrappings. She ran to it. The foil chimed against the tree bark in the wind as though the tree approved of its new attire.
Tucked into the rope was an envelope with Orla’s name on it. Inside it were confetti-sized shreds of paper. She pieced some together and recognised the print, saw the word council. It was the felling application torn into scraps.
Rebecca Klassen is from the Cotswolds and is co-editor of The Phare. She has had over forty publications in journals and anthologies, and recently won the London Independent Story Prize. The Gift was shortlisted for this year’s Laurie Lee Prize.
The wind blowing across the Long Island Sound chilled his bones. The day was cloudless and the sky blue, but the sun lacked warmth. New York. Dr Ram Bahadur had called the big apple home for over three decades. Winters were cold and snowy. There were cold snaps and the dreaded northeaster brought snow and freezing temperatures. Summers could be surprisingly warm. February in New York was the depth of winter.
Long Island was blanketed in snow. He had spent the morning clearing snow from the driveway of his home. The suburb of Woodbury was quiet and peaceful. The trees had lost their foliage and were waiting for the warmth of spring to put on a new coat of green. He had a large house with floor to ceiling picture windows. The house was two storied with an attic. There were two bedrooms on the ground and three on the first floor. He had done well in life and was now prosperous.
He still recalled his first days in the big apple. He had just come to the United States from Nepal after completing his postgraduation in Internal Medicine. The first years were tough. He had some seniors doing their residency in New York city. The state of New York offered the largest number of residencies in the country. He did his residency again in internal medicine and then a fellowship in endocrinology.
All his training was completed in New York. He worked for over two decades in large hospital systems. But, for the last five years he started his own private practice. Compared to most other countries medicine in the States paid well. Private practice was certainly lucrative, though the cost of living in New York was high.
He did sometimes think about his home country of Nepal. The Kathmandu valley was still a beautiful place. His visits were few and far in between. Unplanned urbanisation had made the valley dusty and dirty. Winters in Kathmandu were cold but milder compared to New York. The Institute of Medicine (IOM) was the first medical school established in the country. The original intention was to create doctors for rural Nepal. The selection was tough and competitive. He still remembered his joy on learning that he had been selected for the medical course. During the closing decades of the twentieth century Nepal was in turmoil. The insurgency was ongoing, and blockades were the order of the day. Violence was rife and a lot of blood was spilled.
Most doctors from IOM migrated in search of greener pastures. The others mostly practiced in the valley, the historic heartland of the country. Ram was originally from Gorkha, in the centre of the country but his family had migrated to the capital when he was a few years old. His father was a civil servant while his mother was a housewife. Civil servants did not make much and money was always in short supply. His father was a man of principle and never accepted bribes or tolerated corruption. He still remembered the argument he had with his father when he put forward the plan to migrate to the United States (US) to pursue his residency.
His parents had both passed away and his siblings were also settled in North America. He rarely visited Nepal these days. The insurgency was followed by the overthrow of the monarchy and then a new constitution was promulgated. A federal structure was set up and while this did have benefits, the expenditures also increased. Each state had to set up an entirely new administrative machinery. He married an American academician who taught Spanish literature at the City University of New York. His wife’s family hailed from the country of Colombia.
New York had a substantial Hispanic population these days. He was now fluent in several languages: Nepali, his mother tongue; English, Spanish and Hindi. He also understood Newari, the language of the Newars, the original inhabitants of the Kathmandu valley. He did think on and off about his motherland. Many Nepali doctors left the country. Working conditions were hard and the pay was poor. To advance, you required political patronage. The frequent changes in government required you to be on good terms with several political parties.
He still missed the food of his childhood. New York was a very cosmopolitan place. There were several Indian restaurants and even a few Nepali ones. He was very fond of bara (a spiced lentil patty) and chatamari (Newari pizza), traditional Newari foods. These had earlier not been available in New York. Luckily for him, two years ago a Newari restaurant had opened in Queens. He was also particular to Thakali food. The Thakalis were an ethnic group who lived in the Kali Gandaki valley north of Pokhara. He particularly fancied green dal, sukuti (dried meat), kanchemba (buckwheat fries) and achar (pickle). Anil was a decent cook and had learned to cook a decent Nepali thali[1]and dhido (thick paste usually made from buckwheat or corn). He also made tasty momos (filled dumplings that are either steamed or fried) and these were much in demand among his companions.
Ram loved the professional opportunities that his adopted homeland provided. He had become a US citizen. Working in the US was more rewarding though the paperwork associated with medical care had steadily increased. Many of his batchmates and seniors lived and worked in New York state and across the state border in New Jersey.
Many of them did miss their homeland and had a vague feeling of guilt for not contributing their share to their original homeland. A few of them were working on a proposal of developing a hospital at the outskirts of Mahendranagar in the far west of Nepal. The Sudurpashchim province had a great need for quality medical care. The details were still being worked out. There were about twenty IOM graduates involved and they decided on an initial contribution of a million dollars each. Despite inflation twenty million dollars was still a substantial sum in Nepal.
This group of friends collaborated on different social projects. They were also active in promoting a more liberal America where each citizen and resident had access to quality healthcare. The hospital would be their first project outside the US. A strong community outreach component was also emphasised in their project.
The US had made him wealthy. He was a proud American. However, he also owed a deep debt to his home country for educating him and creating a doctor. Now was the time for him to repay that debt, not wholly or in full measure but substantially to the best of his abilities!
[1] Plate made of a few courses, completing the meal
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Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
The following story is an intertwined thread of two independent narratives. The odd numbered paragraphs concern the title Pigeons while the even numbered ones are to be read with the title People.
[1] It was in early November that I saw a pigeon perched on our balcony’s sunshade. It was on our neighbour’s sunshade, to be more precise, which adjoins ours. It was an ember breasted grey one. A common variety which I had seen afar many times. Not the one with a fan tail or some exotic racing varieties which were more prized. Soon it was joined by what I assume was its partner. Now, I’m no ornithologist to point out which among the two was the male or female but I can tell you that they wanted to make the barren flowerpots on our balcony their nesting ground.
[2] The farms and fields were lying barren for quite some time. No cultivation had been done on these barren lands for the lack of manpower as most of the folk who had once cultivated it had moved to the cities. So, it was with some interest that I watched the immigrant farmer who had leased these barren lands for cultivation from the council. Now, I’m not familiar with his native land or his native tongue but something about his appearance seemed exotic. Soon he was joined by his partner, and they built a home for themselves on these lands.
[3] The pigeon pair went about their work with alacrity and within a few days they had a nest and the dull looking pigeon, which I rightly assumed was the female, sat on the nest for hours together. The ember breast went about collecting food or doing whatever it is that the male kind of its species do all day. Soon, the pigeon nest was the talk of the house.
“They look stupid to me,” my son said. “Why don’t they talk with us?”
“You want the pigeons to talk to you? Have you tried talking to them instead? “ I told him.
“My friend has a parrot, and it talks to him,” he said.
“Parrots are different, they like humans and are comfortable to handle. These are wild pigeons. Not exactly domesticated.” I told him.
“I don’t like them.” He stated.
[4] The first thing that the immigrant farmer did was to put a fence made of dried thorn bushes around the perimeter of the farm. Locals frowned at the sight of this new fence.
“Why do they have to put a fence?” Their immediate neighbours frowned.
“Good fences make good neighbours I suppose,” I said.
“No one has ever put a fence in the village, not with thorns at least. Grazing flocks may brush up against it,” he said.
“Maybe we should talk to them,” I suggested.
“Can you speak, whatever it is that they speak?” he asked.
“No but you can just mime it and probably they would understand,” I responded.
“Mime? do I look like a clown?” he asked.
[5] The female pigeon soon laid two eggs. As she brooded on her eggs, we soon discovered, to our surprise, that there were now not one but two adult pigeons that accompanied her. Those occupied the adjoining pots, some of which still had healthy plants in them. My wife, who till recently was tolerant of the pigeon family, now started showing signs of uneasiness.
“Did you notice? now there are three? Soon there will be five!” she said.
“Yeah, I noticed. Five? That would take some time,” I said.
“Our maid told me that these things usually take only around two weeks or so from the time they hatch to being fully mature,” she added.
“How does she know? She keeps pigeons?” I asked.
“She’s from the village and she’s more knowledgeable than you are in these things.” She looked at me with scorn.
“So, should I call for help and move the nest while they are breeding?” I asked.
“No, that would be cruel,” She said.
[6] No one in the village had noticed the arrival of the two young men. So, when the neighbour saw them working the fields along with the man, they began talking.
“Where did those two come from?” he asked.
“Probably their sons…” I responded.
“Soon they are going to swarm this place,” he grumbled.
“Swarm a twenty-five-acre farm with four people? Aren’t you overdoing it?” I asked.
“Sam told me that these people are up to no good,” he said.
“Does he know their native land or speak their tongue?” I asked.
“Probably. He’s well-travelled you know, better than you and me,”
“So, should I inform the village committee that we should have a word with them about the fence?” I asked.
“No, they’ve leased land. We will wait and watch.”
[7] When the female pigeon left the nest in short breaks, probably foraging for food, I had a chance to look at the eggs and the nest. Littered within the straw and some unidentifiable earths, were two eggs. Strewed around them were little feathers and the whole nest had a pungent smell. It’s just the way they are — I thought — but the sight of pigeon droppings and small unfinished food lying around made the place a mess.
“Our maid says that it’s going to get worse,” my wife told me when I told her of my inspection.
“It’s better that we keep the balcony door shut,” she continued.
“You want to shut the sun out of the house just because a pigeon built a nest in the balcony?” I asked.
“What if they fly inside the house and don’t know the way out?” she asked.
“Try hanging some signs saying “EXIT” pointing to the nearest door,” I told her as her insinuations irritated me.
“You don’t take these things seriously. What if this thing flies inside the house and gets itself killed by the ceiling fan? I am not the one picking it up.” She raised her voice.
“What do you want me to do? Call the bird gypsies and make them catch these for pigeon biryani?” I could not resist this.
“Chhee[1]! Don’t talk such things at the dinner table. Do what you want. I am not going in that balcony anymore.” She said with an air of finality.
“It will probably fly away once the egg hatches and the fledgelings are able to fly,” I said.
“You wait and see,”she said.
[8] The village councillor knocked the entrance gates of the farm and waited for a response. Seeing that no one answered and since we knew that there were no dogs, we decided to enter. The one storey house was more of a log cabin. The yard leading up to the house was unkempt. Farm tools, a wooden plough, and some odd unidentifiable things were scattered along both sides of the staircase leading up to the front door which was bolted from outside with a lock. An unfamiliar smell of broth came from the kitchen. The counsellor peered inside the house which only had a living room, a bath, and a kitchen. From the signs on the floor, we could make out that animals, probably sheep and poultry, also made their home with the folks inside the house.
“How could they live like that?” enquired the councillor.
“They are probably used to having animals around them.” I suggested.
“What kind of people bring sheep and poultry into the living room?” he wondered. A faint smell at the back of the house beckoned us to that place.
“Is that a dump? That explains why they don’t hand over anything to the municipal garbage van,” he continued.
“There is nothing wrong in composting organic waste. In fact, it’s a good farm practise.” I responded.
“So, you just let your bathroom sewage mix with the kitchen waste and pour the rotting mess in your field?” He pointed towards the heap.
“It’s probably a cultural thing. It may be common practise in their native land. Organic farming, it is called,” I said.
“Well, not here” – He said.
[9] It was late in the evening when I reached home and found that both my wife and son were waiting for me in the hall. Wife was agitated and I could see that my son was scared about something.
“They’ve hatched. The eggs, I mean and now they are five and counting,” my wife started.
“Counting? Are there more in the nest?” I asked.
“Don’t know. Why don’t you go and check?”
“Can’t you or your son, do it? Why should I do everything around here?” I said. The long work hours made me irritable.
“He did and those flying mongrel bats attacked him. See the bruises he suffered? You don’t care about us at all,” She whimpered.
“Bruises? Show me. How did that happen?”I asked my son.
“He went to the balcony out of curiosity and those wretched things attacked him.” My wife sounded upset.
“Attack? Why should they? They are not eagles. He probably scared them or something.”
“It flew right at me, the chic, it jumped out, stumbled and fell down and its father came flying and attacked me!” my son exclaimed. What he failed to tell me was that he went too close to the fledgelings.
“Didn’t I not warn you not go near them? They are young…” I was not allowed to finish.
“And he’s not?” my wife said pointing at my son.
“You don’t seem to take it seriously at all. I’m unable to go the balcony and water the plants. The roses have all but died. We are not even able to use the cloth hangers in that balcony… Look at the mess these things create on the floor and now this attack…” She was at the point of hysteria.
“Listen, don’t shout at me. I’m not a pigeon catcher. Just wait till they are old enough to fly by themselves and they would go away.” I shouted.
“You are not a pigeon catcher, but how do you know that they will fly away after some time? That balcony smells like a… I don’t know what but smells bad and their droppings are everywhere. My aunt tells me that pigeon droppings can cause avian flu. Some kind of insect breeds in it and causes skin irritation and asthma.” She turned pale while saying this.
“Don’t act up. Do all those pigeon breeders drop dead in their scores?” I asked.
“Yeah, keep talking. When I or your son are hospitalised, you will understand.”
I wanted this thing settled so I said, “Okay. I will see what I can do. I will ask the pet shop owner if he can catch them.”
“I want it done by tomorrow,” my wife said.
“Alright. Alright.” I said not wanting to escalate it further.
[10] When I entered the meeting hall, it was already noisy. Most of the village folk had gathered and there was pandemonium everywhere.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Those immigrant rats have blocked the way to the riverbed. How are we supposed to fish?” one of the farmers shouted.
“There are other places to fish too and why should you go through their farm to the river?” I asked.
“What are you saying? Don’t you not know that the fishing pier is on their side of the river? This is trout season and that’s the best place to fish. They are not opening their gates,” the councillor said. What he failed to say was that the immigrant farmers had found out about our visit had refused to open the gates out of fear.
“Did you speak to them about this? I mean that it is not proper to close a public path?” I asked.
“Yeah, we tried and that’s when they attacked us,” one of the farmers said.
“Attacked? Really?” I queried.
“The man shouted some gibberish, and his sons came charging at us,” the farmer reiterated.
“Probably they too did not understand what we were trying to say,” I told them.
“This must stop. Either they come out and mend their ways or they can go back to wherever they came from,” the farmer concluded forcefully.
“I don’t see how we can drive them back. The council has leased the land to them,” I said.
“You care more about them than about your own folk? Why don’t you go speak to them? I want them out and now.” The farmer was now shouting. I could hear a murmur of approval from others.
“They keep animals in their living rooms. Pestilence spreads from animals to humans. Who knows what they carry?” another farmer added.
“Don’t we not keep the very same animals in our farm and tend to them?” I asked.
“Not in the living room. In pens and stables,” the farmer replied.
“Alright, let me talk to the council,” I said.
[11] “It would cost you two thousand rupees,” the pet shop owner said.
“Alright. Just get it done.” I wanted it over.
I told my family that coming morning that the pet shop owner would catch the pigeons and take them away.
“How do you know that they won’t come back? Pigeons have a way of returning to its nests” my wife said.
“Should we change houses then?” I asked.
“No, we need put a metal mesh outside the balcony,” she said.
“Do you even know how much it costs? I don’t have that kind of budget.” I was irritated.
“Okay. Have it your way but when these things come back, you are going to need another two thousand. Why don’t you understand? Spend some more now and protect the house rather than taking such half measures.” She was unrelenting in her offense.
“Alright. I will talk to the metal framer.”
It would cost the upward of twenty-five thousand rupees to fully fence off the balconies with a steel mesh which would allow sun and rain but no pigeons.
[12] “They are willing to let go of their land, but the cost is exorbitant. As per contract, we need to pay them back five years of their lost revenue. But the council has decided to raise taxes and borrow funds to take the land back,” the councillor stated.
“That would only be a temporary measure. How do you guarantee that more such people don’t grab our lands?” a farmer asked.
“Should we put up a barbed fence and a warning sign?” I asked.
“No, we need a law which forbids them from buying or leasing our land.” The farmer’s stance had vocal support from others.
“That needs a bill in parliament. It needs overall approval, and it costs a lot,” I argued.
The counsellor said: “It is better that we spend now to protect our lands than to take some ad hoc measures.”
A bill was later passed in the parliament barring non-natives from buying or leasing cultivable land.
*
A ship load of immigrants just drowned in the channel trying to cross and a flock of pigeons flew southwards trying to find new nesting grounds.
My name is Phôs, and for the love of life I have no idea where I am, or how I came to be in this nowhere. I lie on my back, the earth a spongy bed of unusual odours; above me, a narrow, circular vault, where behind a veil of sailing cumuli shine a moon of alabaster and a steady caravels of stars. So narrow is this vision that I feel terribly compressed, as if trapped within some sort of cistern or pit … perhaps a well …
My body suffers no pain. No one has hurt me. I simply lie here surrounded by narrowness, daring not move lest someone or something be alerted to my presence and attack me; or worse still, that I touch something or someone alien to my daily wont. No, better to count the stars. Which I did … until daylight.
It was the azure that woke me, so bright, so cerulean. And the sun, filling my … my prison ? Perhaps I am in a prison and a well to boot ! A very deep well, perhaps twenty or twenty-five metres deep. Around me are scattered broken stones and bones of animals and humans; little leather pouches, too, here and there, which, when I opened a few held the remains of bread, cheese and dry fruit. Several jugs lay broken or chipped near the bleached bones. They must have been thrown or lowered down here: But by who and why ? In one pouch I discovered two apples and several slices of cheese that smelt edible. About to devour them a sudden rustling from behind interrupted my ‘breakfast’. I swung around. A girl! There lay a tiny young girl. Sleeping or dead? No. She was sleeping, her chest rhythmically heaved to some disturbing dream or nightmare. Her little mouth emitted bird-like sounds, and her face — a doll’s face — was streaked with mud, a clown-like contrast to the whiteness of her almond-shaped face.
I dropped an apple in the pouch, crawled over to the girl and shook her gently out of sleep. Her eyes opened in wild astonishment, green eyes staring up at me as if I were a monster. I recoiled a few paces and from that tiny, O-shaped mouth. “Who are you ?” flew out like the twitter of a bird from her.
I stood: “My name is Phôs and we are in some sort of well,” I stammered. “I have no idea why we are here.”
The young girl sat up, a look of incredulity cast a shadow over her face : “A well ? Why do you say a well?”
“Just look up at the blue sky. Just look around you: cold, polished stone, a pungent smell of clayish soil. A soil that seems to have marked your face.” I grinned. She immediately rubbed it off with the sleeve of her thread-bare vest. Her face did indeed resemble that of a living doll.
“My name is Ombra,” the girl said, getting to her feet with some difficulty. She screwed up her eyes, looking hard at me. “Odd really, when I see your face I have a strange feeling that I see mine. Like a tainted mirror.”
I stepped back: “But I don’t know what or who I look like. My face has no fixed image in my mind.”
She laughed feebly.
“Of course it has: almond-shaped green eyes, high cheek bones and forehead, a small, pug-nose and oval mouth. So, if you want an image, I’ve just given you one … mine, more or less! Who knows, you may be my brother!” Ombra smiled, but it soon faded as she glanced at the dark walls. “I’m so hungry, so hungry!”
I hurried to the pouch and took out an apple, a slice of bread and cheese. She devoured it all like a wild animal. I followed suit, helping myself to another pouch of bread and stale scones. Ombra moved closer to me: “The exiled. The criminals. The premature dead have been lowered or thrown into this place,” she whispered gravely, examining the skulls. “These scraps of food ; all these whitened and brittle bones belong to the Forgotten Sinbads, Josephs and Orhans … all those Devoid of Light.”
“But why us Ombra ? I am not a Sinbad or a Joseph or an Orhan ! Have I been exiled ? Am I devoid of light ? And you ?”
“Me,” she giggled dollishly. “A mysterious force has illumined our plight, Phôs. Our circumscribed confinement has drawn us together for some reason … For some unknown mission. And this well, if it very well be a well … Well, it has become our meeting place, perhaps even our final resting place.” Ombra pouted in a very coquettish way.
“No! There is no mission! No mysterious force!” I lashed out furiously, shuddering at my own violence. I regained my composure: “Look, at the top, a halo of greenish glow has formed the coping of the well. That is a good omen, believe me. All we have to do is reach the glowing green.”
“The green ? However can a colour become a sign of salvation ? And even if it were a good omen as you say, how are we ever to reach it ?”
It was a pertinent question. Ombra appeared to be very down-to-earth, perhaps a bit too straight forward for my taste, but nevertheless, a wonderfully sensible person. I myself have always been a bit too optimistic, too whimsical! Perhaps she is my sister after all! Notwithstanding…
I jumped to my feet and carefully began inspecting the texture of the circular walls: smooth, nickel-like silver smooth, like a cylinder. Not one rough stone. Odd really for a well, no rough or broken stones, no chinks or fissures. Every stone as smooth as porcelain. It were as if the whole wall had been glazed or polished. I turned to Ombra, she was crying silently.
Was there no way out then? I stared at my companion with deep sympathy.
“If only we were winged birds. Birds of lyrical tunes twittering out and far above the shadows of the under-world into the celestial rays of the universe above,” Ombra mused dreamily in a whispery voice, wiping dry her rosy-red cheeks.
A sudden deep vibrating sound, perhaps that of a gong, whose rolling undulations filled the well with reverberating tremors, caused us both to tumble to the bony soil where we cupped our ears and grimaced, so loud was the infernal vibrations: once … twice … thrice. The rolling trailed off into the distant twilight sky whose canvas-like backdrop painted a cartoon moon and isles of stars.
“What was that?” Ombra asked, trembling from the tremors of the unearthly sound.
“A gong of some sorts. A sign of night, I suppose. How strange that night should fall so quickly.” I searched out an answer on my companion’s face. There was none. “And who struck that gong?”
“The warden of our keep,” Ombra mourned.
“Warden? Keep? Then you really think we are prisoners?”
She nodded. “I’m sure without being sure. You know, I recall nothing of my being here, nor of my childhood. The past becomes hazy whenever I try to recollect it.” She lay on her back using an empty leather pouch as a pillow.
“Yes, neither do I. My childhood has become nebulous since I found myself lying on my back in this awful boneyard. Only the passing of day and night has any signification for me. Look, Ombra, has night not come upon us so unexpectedly?” The young girl groaned without answering.
So in awe we observed the swimming moon in a dark sea of resplendent, floating stars that gradually lost their splendour, descending into a void that our weary eyes could neither follow nor fathom.
Ombra turned to me: “Water? How are we to drink in this dungeon? Food there is, but water?”
I peered at her in the shifting shadows: “Well, it is a well, I think. Yes, but on the other hand it appears to be a cylinder … “
She sat up, her face now bathed in shadows, although her green eyes shone like embers of a once singing flame: “Do you remember how Joseph[1] survived when his jealous brothers threw him into the well like a sack of rocks ?” Ombra suddenly asked me out of the shadows.
“A passing caravan going to Egypt retrieved him.”
“Yes, like those passing stars above us!” Her voice gathered strength. “And how about Orhan’s Red[2], tossed into a well and thought to be dead?”
“Red was stone dead, but somehow his memory or subconscious outlived his corporeal existence and he was able to narrate his tragic tale,” I narrated.
“Exactly!” Ombra’s voice doubled in tone and volume: “Let us not forget Sinbad the mighty sailor [3]; he would have perished in that bone-filled pit if he hadn’t beaten the other widowers or widows to death, taken their jugs of water and loaves of bread and finally escaped…”
“Sinbad wasn’t imprisoned in a pit or well but in a cave … The Cave of Death,” I added.
She sized me up: “Tell me, Phôs, is there any difference between a well and a cave?” She stood, arms akimbo. “Just set the cave vertically and the well horizontally and there you have it!” Ombra pronounced this platitude with considerable aplomb, and rather pedantically, too. I smiled meekly. “Ah, that was truly a miraculous escape.” she intoned. “But tell me, what about the exiled, those poor creatures dumped into the shadowy folds of death by kings, queens and princes. How did they manage their freedom?”
“They hearkened to the chanting of the hoopoe and espied the dense green rays that streamed into their sorrow from the benevolent sky.”
She laughed and concluded gayly: “Well, we are certainly well-versed on the subject of wells ! Now I really understand our mission.”
“Our mission?” I raised an exasperated eyebrow.
“Because we are so well-versed in wells, so well-informed about those fabulous figures of well adventures and misadventures, it seems that it is now our turn to fill the pages of fabled lore. Don’t you see?” I didn’t. All those stories and figures were literary or fictitious. Ombra and I were certainly not a storied couple. Then again, her vibrant voice did indeed seek to enlist my sympathy.
“Perhaps. But I’m no fabulous figure, believe me.” Ombra giggled so loud that her echo raced up the wall of the well, fading into the reddening dawn.
I sighed, exhausted by all these enigmatic impasses. I wished to lie back and day-dream of green pastures or rye-filled fields. My energetic companion interrupted my drowsiness, but in more subdued tones: “And the dolls, Phôs. We forgot the dolls.”
“The dolls? I know nothing about dolls.”
“Well then let me refresh your memory. Five or six circus-like people found themselves trapped in a cylinder. They had no idea how they had come to be there. One of them, a tiny ballerina, because she was strong and nimble, managed to climb to the top, but once there she toppled into a snowy street like a tiny ballerina doll; a doll with tears running down its plastic-red cheeks.” I frowned at this foolish doll narrative, remarkable though it be. I lay back and ruminated our predicament.
I strained to conjure up one clear image of my past life, hoping to glimpse a scene or two. Nothing. Only bits of knowledge that I must have learnt at school, promptly awakened by Ombra’s unusual questioning. And now, here I am, an unfortunate soul without a history at all. I turned my head to my companion: Was she meditating upon her own amnesia?
Dawn … midday … night sheathed in moonlight were bright. No gong to usher in the twilight! Soon, however, blackness cloaked us as sleep overcame our troubled spirits and souls.
Daylight burst into our confinement like a shower of phosphorescence. I jumped up, mouth parched, eyes puffy from a restless, dream-filled night. I pricked up my ears: to my left, high up on the wall, a dripping, slipping, slithering sound filled my imagination with confused hope. I placed my hands on the smooth stone and through my fingers small runnels of water slipped. Yes, two or three runnels trickled down ever so slowly from between the stones midway up the well wall. I licked the smooth stone, lapping it up as best I could. Then I ran to Ombra, shook her awake and led her to the trickling runnels. She too licked the wall, sating her thirst savagely, heaving and panting with each lap licked. We were saved … For the moment …
I scoured about the bones and pouches and found some more bread, cheese and dried fruit. Had they been lowered during the night ? Our circumstances had become terribly enigmatic …
As we munched on our meagre breakfast, the violet of dawn grew bluer and bluer, the rays of the sun, hotter and hotter. They warmed our chilly bones. Glancing up at the coping, I again espied that green glow encircling it. A halo of throbbing green. Odd that light, I mused to myself as Ombra washed her face with the clear dripping water. That must be a sign … I’m sure of it ! All of a sudden that hellish roll of the gong buffeted us from left to right: once … twice … thrice … Then it stopped as suddenly as it began. Why had it rolled at dawn? There must be some logic to that vibrating roll! Was the gong-beater confusing us purposely by confounding the signs?
“Are we not in hell?” queried Ombra, refreshed after her ‘morning wash’. “That gong may be the Devil’s instrument to enlighten us on our former faults or delinquencies.”
“Nonsense! What faults or delinquencies? And why Hell, what have we been punished for? Are we a pair of abject criminals? Do we deserve such inhuman treatment?” I responded with more questions.
Ombra shrugged her shoulders, searching about the well for more titbits.
“How can you be sure since your past remains in some sort of veiled unknowingness?” she said. I clenched my fists in contained anger. Ombra responded in an eerie, hollow voice: “The exiled. The forgotten. The unfortunates.” She keened in a soothing liturgical rhythm. I suppressed a desire to jolt her out of that sullen, dull, monotonous dirge. But I ignored that and sat down to brood over our unfair dilemma.
That day was spent poking about pouches and bones, wordless, soundless, helpless, both of us wrapped up in his and her inner world of phantasy and fugitive illusions.
The inky obscurity of night succeeded the bluish light of day. Rosy stars waned. The silver moon waxed. So night after night, day after day we endured our imprisoned existence, two desperate souls forgotten by the outside world. Neither of us had family or friends to rescue us. Neither of us could recollect our past lives, good or bad, no matter how hard we plumbed our memories. It were as if the present alone existed; the past submerged in Lethe’s watery vapours; the future, a glimmer of green light swallowed up daily by the darkling evening tide.
Then it happened! My hands under my head, observing the rotating vault of night, I immediately sat up, for something had caught my eye. Yes, the rays of the moon, now white, now yellowish, now green fell upon several uneven and jutting stones on one side of the well wall; stones fissured, too, whose cleaved spaces allowed fingers to grasp, feet to prod and cling. Exalted, I mentally marked each and every stone of deliverance as the green slipped away into darkness.
At dawn, all agog, I shook Ombra awake and excitedly related my fabulous discovery. And although the uneven, chinked stones could no longer be seen with the naked eye, I had memorised their placements on the wall.
“But how are we to reach them so high up?” Ombra lamented.
“Not we, but you! You alone, Ombra, will make the climb. You, Ombra, will deliver us from this infamy. Your tiny, nimble fingers and feet will slip into those cleaved stones and fissured spaces. Mine are much too big. You will shimmy up that wall and once at the top find rope and get me out. Or you can run for help. Where there is a well there is a village, no?” I was in a state of great excitement, contagious indeed, because Ombra’s face showed signs of warming up to my plan; a face that now beamed with renewed hope, the white of her cheeks crimsoning.
“The plot of our mission is thickening,” Ombra chuckled in a playful tone. “But how are we to reach those first stones?” She looked up and sighed. Suddenly that devilish gong sounded, sending us to the walls where we cupped our ears until once … twice … thrice… the undulating vibrations gradually trailed off, leaving behind a strange humming that quivered within the circumferential stones of the well.
In a flash I had the solution : ‘Ombra, get up on my shoulders, be quick. I’ll lift you up to the first stones and there you can manage on your own, I’m sure of it!”
No sooner was it said than done …
Upon my shoulders, then holding her feet with the palms of my hands Ombra reached the first jutting stones. From there, the agile Ombra climbed, stretching her unusually long arms towards the height of the other fissured stones. She grasped them like a professional alpinist, and with a nimbleness that amazed me, my companion slowly but surely zig-zagged her way from left to right, right to left, clambering ever higher. I cried out encouragement after encouragement as she crept up that wall like a bat, crawling and slithering and creeping. Hours and hours, too, crept by, or so I thought. As Ombra struggled ever upwards, stretching herself towards those liberating stones, seeking them with a strained, panting excitement, I had a weird vision of her body joints stretching like a series of elastic-bands, elongating in some doll-like dislocation. Was I hallucinating ? Her forearms and biceps appeared to draw out then draw in at the elbow with each thrust upwards. Her calves and thighs, too, protracted and contracted at the knee-caps with each salvaging step. I rubbed my eyes to rid myself of these burlesque images.
“Ombra! Ombra! Have you reached the top? What do you see?” I yelled out far, far below, my voice, hollow like a death rattle.
At this point, the omnisceint narrator intervenes for the faraway Phôs had no idea what his companion had seen or felt as she clung to the green glowing coping of the well. There the exhausted young girl, mouth agape, set her tear-welling eyes on a gigantic void! Yes, their well lay in the middle of nothing! It was a tower some hundreds of metres above … above what she could neither discern nor imagine. No mountain of mirth. No plain of pleasure. No forest of festivity barred the tears from rolling down her crimson-coloured cheeks. Speechless she clung, peering into nothing, only an infinite, horizonless void. The poor girl, overcome by such a tragic spectacle, involuntarily swung a leg over the now greenless coping, and like a broken doll let herself drop, falling … falling into the clamorous silence of the black, bottomless void.
As to Phôs, his arms finally drooped in exhaustion. The green of the coping had long since vanished into night and his companion with it. There was no sign of Ombra …
He stood crestfallen, utterly alone, the expectancy of escape waxing as a dense darkness stole upon him like a shroud of death …
[2] From Orhan Pamuk’s novel My Name is Red, 1998.
[3] In Arabian Nights, The Viking Press, 1952. pp. 428-429.
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Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.
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