The old woman with disheveled hair squinted her eyes while surveying the barren plain that lay around them. Finally, she looked at the sulking boy and said, “It hardly matters. We’ll just walk till we get there.”
The girl in her late teens looked warily at the singed-brown landscape. She could not spot a single tree or a blade of grass, let alone any other living creature. Finally, she said, “This place looks worse than the Sahara Desert. It’s like we can just die here and nobody would know.”
The woman giggled. “Die? You mean, disappear? You think it will happen anytime soon? That would be such a relief!”
The siblings looked at her with uncertainly.
As they walked, the boy said, “Did mom ever tell you about this place, Rumu Apu[1]? Why… this …” he looked about with distaste and finished the sentence with vehemence, ‘Ditch! Yes, that’s what it is – a ditch!”
His elder sister shook her head, “No, Pappu. I don’t think I ever heard of this area.” She wondered where their parents had disappeared. And where was their elder brother? Why would they just leave them at this God forsaken place in the middle of nowhere?
“We didn’t do anything bad, did we?” Pappu asked. Yes, he and his sister Rumu were having a bit of bickering in the car, but that was nothing new between the two of them.
The old woman walked ahead of them unperturbed.
Rumu said, “So, where are we headed again? Why don’t you just take us to Tilkati Lake? We can find our way from there.”
The woman stopped and looked at them with a big grin. The siblings realised with a shock that she did not have a single tooth in the cave of her mouth. Earlier, they had thought that like other village women, her teeth were plain black from chewing betel leaf with zarda[2]and tobacco leaf. For the first time, they also noticed her strange attire. Instead of a saree, she wore a greyish sack. The two shuffled uneasily and finally Pappu puffed up his chest and asked, “You know Tilkati Lake, right?”
The woman merely stared at them.
“It can’t be far from here,” Pappu persisted. “Our dad was saying that we were only a kilometer away from Tilkati Lake.”
Rumu added, “It’s very close to our grandparents’ house. You know the Chowdhuries? Hisham Chowdhury is our maternal grandfather.”
The woman finally said, “Once you’re here, you can’t go back. I will take you to the Old Man.” She turned around and said, “Follow me.”
Pappu cried, “What are you talking about? And what old man?”
Rumu clasped her brother’s hand and said, “I think she is a bit crazy. But let’s follow her— we need to get out of here.”
Rumu and Pappu trudged along with the strange woman through the parched wildernesses.
Then Pappu yelped, “What’s that?”
“Where?” Rumu looked around perplexedly.
“There, near that large rock on the left,” Pappu pointed to a boulder about twenty yards away from them.
At first, Rumu did not see anything. But as she looked carefully, she thought she saw something bright floating in the air. There was a pair of them, white and shimmering, and suddenly they flickered and disappeared.
Their companion held out her palms in a strange gesture and muttered something under her breath.
“Yes, you’ll see them sometimes,” she said.
“But what the hell are those?” Pappu was on the verge of tears.
The woman looked at them mournfully and said, “Eyes.”
Suddenly, Pappu started to bawl. He was only ten years old after all. He was also the darling of his family, born as a “sweet mistake” on his parents’ part. Used to having his wishes fulfilled all the time, the situation drove him crazy. He wanted his mother. Rumu vaguely recalled that they were driving to their grandparents’ place on the outskirts of Kumilla. Something happened when they were half a mile away from Tilkati Lake, but she could not remember exactly what.
When she woke up, she was sitting on a dirt road and the familiar green fields were replaced by a barren landscape. Pappu was lying near her on the ground and there was no sign of her parents, elder brother, or their car. She never wore a watch herself, and her mobile phone was in her purse, which was probably in the car. She tried the watch on Pappu’s hand, but it was smashed. Rumu looked up at the sky—what kind of a lurid color was that? And where was the sun?
Pappu’s incessant sobs brought her back to the present and she held him close. “There, there, don’t cry, Pappu. We’ll make it, I promise.” She looked at the woman and said sternly, “If you can’t say anything helpful, just keep quiet. Don’t scare my little brother.”
The woman shrugged and said, “But I was trying to help.”
Somewhere in the distance something howled. It was eerie and inhuman. It sounded like the lamentation of many people. Pappu sprang up and Rumu froze. They stood still hugging each other until the sound died down. Then they gritted their teeth and kept on walking.
Finally, however, they were brought to an abrupt halt in front of a tall building with an open door. Rumu looked up and realised it was not a building, but the facade of a mountain. She recalled the story of the Pied Piper of Hamlin who took the children of the town to such a mountain and disappeared through a door. She shivered, but slowly followed the woman and dragged Pappu after her. At least, they would be able to rest. Rest? She realised with a jolt that she was not actually tired. Nor was she thirsty. Yet they had walked for hours without any food or water. She bent down to look at Pappu. Unlike her, he seemed exhausted.
Rumu whispered to the woman, “Can we have some water? Pappu is tired. He needs water. And food too.”
For the first time, the woman was ruffled out of complacency. Her eyes widened as she bent down to examine Pappu. Muttering something to herself she bade them in. On entering the place, Rumu saw a long tunnel diving endlessly into some dark interior. There were small oval shaped openings on both sides of the tunnel. She ushered Rumu and Pappu into one of those holes and hurried off.
The small room was roundish in shape and the floor was smooth. There was, however, no bed or chair. Rumu sat on the floor and put Pappu’s head on her lap. After a while, the woman returned with an earthen jug. She was followed by an old man. He was small and thin and carried a staff in hand. For some reason, he reminded Rumu of Yoda from The Star Wars. The woman sat before them and poured water between Pappu’s lips, Rumu noted detachedly that there was no glass.
As Pappu slowly woke up, the woman brought out a small bowl with some fruits in it. Rumu did not recognise any of the fruits. As Pappu munched on his food, Rumu stared at their hosts who were speaking in low voices.
“Where did you find them?”
“The usual place.”
“Hmm, but the boy is not supposed to be here…”
After that Rumu could not hear anything clearly.
By then Pappu was done with eating, and he wanted to sleep. They brought out some ancient looking bedding and tried to make him comfortable. Then the old man asked Rumu to go with him. Rumu was reluctant to leave Pappu, but the old man said with a smile, “He will be safe here. Don’t worry.”
Unlike the woman, the old man seemed kind and concerned. Rumu turned to look at her brother who had already fallen asleep on the makeshift bed. She felt an acute pain in her chest as she was convinced that she would never see him again. But she had no will to protest. She felt she was living in a dream and she surrendered herself to the inevitable.
Rumu and the old man walked through the endless tunnel which looked dark. However, after a few steps, things seemed tolerably clear. The ground probably was an uneven black surface smoothed by years of usage. The walls emitted a greyish light, and they could see in the dark. But the girl suspected that her companion knew the path well and probably did not even need the light.
After a long, long walk, without any warning they reached an opening. Turning right Rumu found herself out in the open. Her feet touched something soft and she saw that she was standing on a bed of pale blue grass. Rumu realised that though the sky was still lurid, the garish landscape had softened into pastel shades here. Not too far away, there were clusters of people.
For some reason, she felt a strong urge to remember what had happened before she and her brother arrived here, but everything seemed hazy. She shook her head and went closer to the old man. She could see the people more clearly now– one woman was crying for her jewelry, another weeping over a lost child. Suddenly, a young man appeared before them and said, “Hey oldie, can’t you send me back? I just got married. I can hear my wife crying everyday.”
The old man replied, “No going back. Even if you go back, she won’t recognise you.”
The man covered his ears with both hands and howled. Then he sat down on the ground and started to sob. Rumi slowly stepped forward and asked the old man, “Can you please tell me where we are?” Her voice sounded hoarse even to her own ears.
The old man remained silent.
“Am… am I dead?”
The old man turned to look at the girl and said, “We have to wander around till we forget everything about the world we come from. No hunger or thirst. No need to rest or sleep. Here it’s all about waiting.” He raised his staff and pointed to something in the air. As Rumu squinted her eyes to see better, she noticed those strange bright things again. They shone for one last time before vanishing into the air.
“Those are the last remnants of what you call human. Once the eyes disappear, the owner of the eyes will enter the realm of the dead.”
She stared at the bright things mesmerized. “How long does it take?” she whispered.
The old man shrugged. “There’s no way to count time. No watch. No sun. But the sooner you forget the world you left the better.”
“How long have you been here?” the girl asked. “And what’s your name?”
“Time does not matter. Names neither. All those belong to the other world.”
She remembered Pappu. “Pappu…? He’s not dead, is he?”
The old man smiled. “You’re sharp. No, he’ll go back. He’s gone to sleep, and he’ll soon wake up somewhere in the old world with his family.
In the distance, she saw some people who were very small in size, and yet they were not children. Her companion said quietly, “They are closer to getting to the other side. Very soon, their bodies will disappear and only the eyes will remain. Once the eyes are gone, their journey here is over.”
“How long…” then she remembered there was no way to measure time here.
The old man said, “All you can do is wait. That’s why it’s also difficult to forget the world you left behind. But forget you must. Or you will be swirling around in this no man’s land forever.”
“No Man’s Land!” The words sounded like some kind of enchantment.
[2] Dried and boiled tobacco leaves, limes, arecca nut, additives, spices, and tannins – used to flavour paans or betel leaves.
Sohana Manzoor is an Associate Professor at the Department of English and Humanities at ULAB, a short story writer, a translator, an essayist and an artist.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Exodus of 1971 refugees, out of East Pakistan, the name for Bangladesh between 1947 & 1971Rome, Piazza
She is wondering how to enter the story, if she were to write it. The story she has been circumambulating in the last few days, ever since the encounter at the Bar in her piazza.
Was it possible to enter any story directly, as if through a front door? It occurs to Naureen that there might be as many doors and windows to a tale, as there actually were in any house. Her own, for example, here in a suburb of Rome, as also in all those houses she had inhabited in her childhood and growing years, all over undivided Pakistan before 1971.
In West Pakistan, there was the red brick colonial house in Multan of the late fifties, the modern bungalow in Nazimabad colony in Karachi of the early sixties, or in East Pakistan, the pink and grey two-storey house next to a boys’ school in Dhaka Cantonment, when the city was still written as Dacca, and the school was owned by the powerful Adamjees of West Pakistan and not a college yet, and the momentous seventies had not started. East Pakistan was not Bangladesh yet, and still yoked to its bullying Western half.
Naureen brushes off her thoughts about the past and returns to the story nagging her, which was not about houses. But wasn’t every story like a house? The house of an amnesiac who enters it as if it were an unfamiliar space, till certain things made him realise that this might be a place he knew well: a piece of furniture, a smell, a view, adding up to a sensation of déjà vu.
Or it could be an oddly familiar face. Or a voice, husky and wounded, whispering, even laughing, hiding its unspeakable pain.
*
A week ago, Naureen adjusted her mask and entered the Bar in the piazza near her house.
“Un caffè Americano, a tavolo.” She ordered her coffee at the counter and went outside to sit under the striped awning. The August heat, like clockwork, had turned after the middle of the month and it was cool in the shade. She opened her laptop but her eyes scanned the streets of her neighbourhood. Things were almost normal now, more people were out and about, wearing masks. Since the lockdown in Rome in March, her university had shut physically, but till June, Naureen had taught on-line her classes of English and Bengali to her Italian students. Now, finally, she was free.
A writer friend in Dhaka, editing an anthology dedicated to the fiftieth anniversary of Bangladesh’s independence had requested her to translate into English a Bengali story submission, and Naureen had been happy to return to the world of fiction.
The story, based on facts, the editor friend mentioned in his email, concerned the experience during the war of liberation in 1971 of a teenage girl abducted from a high school in a district town by collaborators and brought to a military camp. A rape camp. A harrowing, yet ultimately redeeming story. How could such a cruel fate end in redemption? Naureen started to read.
She had barely finished reading the first page of the story when she heard a voice across the street from the Bar.
“Apu[1]!” Naureen turned around. On the pavement, under the Nespole fruit tree stood Sadia with a pram. She looked plump since the birth of her baby. The last time she had seen her young compatriot was the year before, when Sadia had regretfully announced that due to her pregnancy, she could not continue the lessons of Italian and English that she loved taking with Naureen. Those two hours once a week were something even Nareen had enjoyed. Then came Covid. So, they had not seen each other for a long time, even though they lived in the same zone, different neighbourhoods.
Standing beside Sadia was another Bengali woman, in shalwar-kameez. Despite the mask, and her head loosely covered in a scarf, Naureen could see she was an older person, Naureen’s age, or a bit more. Possibly in her late sixties. Sadia waved with genuine delight at Naureen and whispered to her companion, who took off her mask and nodded in Naureen’s direction.
The woman looked strangely familiar. Where had she seen her? Naureen knit her brows, before she produced a polite smile. Meanwhile, Sadia left the pram with the other lady and crossed over. She walked up to Naureen’s table and beamed.
“Apu, how have you been? You never came to see my baby.”
“I know, Sadia. But with this Corona virus situation…” Naureen rose saying, “But let me see the baby now.”
“Oh! Stay where you are, Apu. Let them walk over. I’ll introduce you to my mother.” She signalled and the mother ambled over pushing the pram. Naureen cooed appropriately and forced a fifty euro note into Sadia’s reluctant hands.
“It’s for the baby,” Naureen said.
“Your blessings would have been enough, Apu,” Sadia protested.
The lady kept a smiling but dignified distance. They exchanged formalities, and the mother said: “My daughter has mentioned you often. How special you are, your home…”
Naureen kept looking at her, not listening to her words but absorbing that husky, bruised voice. “When did you come from Dhaka? Didn’t you have problems with the visa, and with quarantine?” Naureen asked.
“Oh! I don’t live in Bangladesh. I live in London. I have a small tailoring shop there in a Bengali neighbourhood. Brick Lane. I came to Rome early this year, before the corona problem started. I am now stuck here. But happily, of course, with the baby….”
Naureen was only half listening.
Somewhere, through a cloudy window she peeked into another era. Dacca, 1972, the year after Bangladesh’s tumultuous birth. Naureen and her young aunt Fahmida, a doctor and social activist, had gone to the Dhanmandi Rehabilitation Centre to interview some of the rescued rape victims….
The baby was getting cranky. Sadia was saying “Apu, you have to come over to my flat and have tea with us one day.”
“I will,” Naureen said, then turned slowly to the mother. “Is your name by any chance, Shopna?”
Sadia laughed, “No, her name is Shamima Akhtar Begum, Shumi.”
The lady turned placid eyes to Naureen, a glint of recognition surfacing. They locked eyes for a second. She said, “Sadia, you can’t just ask your teacher to drop by. Invite her for a meal.”
Sadia joined her effusively. Naureen said, “You should bring your mother to my place, too. But I will come over for tea very soon.”
After they left, Naureen sat over her coffee, her laptop, and the world of stories waiting to be uncovered. She was thinking, after fifty years, everything becomes fiction: our past, our lives, our dreams, our struggles and pains, our joys and triumphs. It all transforms into story.
Story. History. His-story. Her-story. Everyone’s story. All we could do was to preserve it by narrating and transmitting it to each other.
*
Why the hell was she talking so much? The bitch. Spawn of bloody Hindus, or sister of some ‘Mukti’ for sure. Traitors! Bastards all
“Shut the hell up!” He didn’t want to hear her voice, especially her pleading, broken Urdu. Nor look at those limpid, fraught eyes. Already it was diluting his rage, his fire.
No. He had been told while being posted to Jessore, these Bengalis needed to be a taught a lesson. . . His slap knocked her down, her head hitting the floor.
“Oof! Allah!” She cried out, and instead of terror she looked up at him with wild, angry eyes, as if she would jump up to his throat, kick and slap him back. Just the way his younger sister, Laali, would as a kid. Lalarukh, far away in Quetta.
Instinctively, he was on his knee. “Oh! God, I’m sorry.”
In a flash the expression in the girl’s eyes changed from anger back to fear. Her cracked lips trembled and so did her hand as it lifted to wipe a trickle of blood from her forehead.
But before he could pull her up, they froze on the floor listening to heavy footsteps coming up the corridor outside. The boots stopped at the door next to their room. The door handle rattled as voices jeered.
‘Oye yaar! Let us in. Why is the door locked?”
“How many do you have there? Come on, give us a share.” There were thuds, sounds of laughter interjected with the sharp notes of women’s screams and wails.
He pulled her up. She was shaking and clung to him. He held her for an instant then moved her away and said, “Listen, see that door at the back. It leads out. Just go.”
She looked at him blankly.
He repeated, “Go!”
“Go where?”
He shrugged, “Kaheen bhi. . . wherever. Just leave. Now.”
She turned her face away. “Yes, and have a whole battalion of grizzly animals descend on me. I’d rather be protected by someone decent like you.”
“I can’t protect you and I am not decent. In war, we are all barbarians.” He sat down on a chair, face in hand. She stood before him her shoulders sagging, her dupatta pooled at her feet.
*
“And then? What happened?” Seventeen-year-old Naureen asked.
Shopna gazed unseeing outside the windows of the Dhanmondi Rehab Centre and let out a shuddering sigh.
Fahmida said. “It’s okay. Shopna, you don’t have to tell us more, if you don’t want to.”
“It’s not that.” The dark eyes were strained but tearless. Her voice was low and scratchy. “It’s just that this is not a ‘story’ but things that actually happened to me, so in my mind it’s all jumbled up. Some parts are erased, others sharp as a knife. What we saw and endured…no language has words to describe these. . .”
Shopna started to sway from side to side. “We were a dozen women, all herded like cattle in that room…. One woman was fortunate and died after being assaulted repeatedly. Her body was hauled away like a sack of rice . . .” Her voice was thin and low as a keening.
Fahmida stroked Shopna’s head. “It’s okay, dear. We don’t want you to dig into anything you don’t want to. Unless it helps you.”
Naureen wiped her eyes and whispered to her aunt, “Khala, I just can’t process what she went through! Imagine, her husband brought her, a newlywed bride, to be safe with her parents in Dacca and went to join the guerrillas, and a neighbour betrayed her!”
Shopna raised stony eyes to them and muttered, “Yes. I will never forget that morning. It started as any morning. How was I to know what destiny had in store for me by day’s end?”
*
Yet the girl knew how lucky she was not to have been herded into the other crowded rooms where they took the rest of the girls brought in military trucks. She was deemed more educated and pretty, so reserved for officers. Thus, she was in a separate room.
And she survived to narrate her story.
Early the next morning, it was still dark when the officer opened the back door and smuggled her out to the compound outside. She hid behind a drum while he went and got a jeep. He backed to where she was. She scrambled in and lay low at the back. There was only one sentry at the check post at that hour, who saluted and then they were out.
She stayed hidden till he stopped the jeep. It was near a road edged with paddy fields. This was the road going out of the cantonment. He asked her to sit up. She peeked out and saw in the distance two figures: old men, farmers, watching them from the field. Nearer to them, across the road and beside a ditch stood a little boy.
“O Ma! Military!” She heard him say as he ran into the grove of thatched houses. She hid her face in her hands. He observed her reaction and understood. It would not be safe for either of them. He drove further off to a more isolated spot, took his jeep down the earth track and stopped under a tree. He let her out. She barely had time to utter her gratitude before he turned the jeep sharply around, said, “‘Forgive me.” and drove off.
*
Teenaged Naureen let out her breath. She felt she had aged since she entered the Rehab Centre that morning.
Fahmida whispered, “I wonder what happened to him.”
Shopna was far away, silent. And within the silence, each moved further into the untold story.
*
A month later the girl was in her uncle’s village home. It was a safe zone, far away from Jessore, near a Mukti Bahini training camp. Some freedom fighters including her brother and cousins had come to stash arms. She was in the kitchen boiling rice and dal for a quick khichuri for the men when she heard shouts. Then grunts, groans and sounds of jostling and kicking came from the courtyard. Her brother and his group of freedom fighters had captured a Pakistani soldier.
They dragged him to the inner courtyard and were beating him with the butt of a rifle. One of the men held up his head by his forelock. She glimpsed his terrorized, bewildered eyes in his bloodied face. In an instant, she ran outside leaving the pot simmering on the fire.
“Stop. Oh! Please stop.” She screamed and dashed between the attackers and the prone body. “Let him go.” She shouted, beating at the others.
“What?” Her brother motioned the others to stop.
“Don’t touch him. Please! He… saved my life. A month ago, in Jessore. . . before I came here.” She sank to her knees and started to weep. The soldier’s left eye was puffed, a side of his face bloated and bruised. He looked at her blankly.
The beating had stopped. “What the hell do you mean?” her brother shouted.
The girl wiped her tears and said, “Bhaiyya[2]. You have not been in touch with our mother, and when I came here, I only told you that I was with my friend Mubina at her aunt’s house outside Jessore and had come here directly to be safe. That’s true, and I told Uncle to tell Amma that also. But there was one day and night, earlier in Jessore town, when Amma was desperately searching for me since I did not return from school.” Her lips trembled. “Bhaiyya! I was abducted and taken to a military camp by someone. . .”
Her brother yelled, “Which haramjada bastard did this…? I’ll rip out his. . .”
“Bhaiyya! Listen. Nothing happened to me. It was the new chowkidar of the school. He said that Amma was seriously ill and had asked me to come home quickly. He whisked me away in a three-wheeler. With his beard and prayer cap, I trusted him Bhaiyya!” Instead of tears, her eyes are aflame with loathing.
She continued steadily, “Luckily, I was spared, because this soldier saved my honour. He helped me escape. I recognised him.” The brother, still breathing heavily kept his rifle pointed at the soldier but told the others they needed to discuss. The others turned away, all shouting and gesticulating, and motioned the brother to follow. “Lies!” One of them spat on the soldier’s boots before he left. They stood not too far away, keeping an eye on the soldier. When they came back, they told the girl that they had decided to tie his hands and feet, blindfold him and set him adrift on a boat.
“He will die,” she cried.
“Oh! Don’t you worry. Every village, every riverbank is crawling with collaborators. Some bloody razakar[3] will find him and help him get back to his camp. It’s only important that we obliterate our tracks.”
While the freedom fighters discussed the proceedings among themselves, the Pakistani soldier turned to whisper to the girl in Urdu. ‘I don’t know why you saved my life. I can never repay you for your humanity.”
She put a warning finger to her lips and muttered. “This is what I owe someone.”
He looked at her baffled. “You said I saved your life. I don’t understand. But God bless you, my sister.”
The men came back with a bundle of rope and a thin, chequered gamchha[4]. Before they dragged him away, he turned to the girl and said, “Khuda hafez[5].”
“You too. God be with you. . . and with him,” she whispered.
*
Naureen opened the windows of her study room wide to get some air to dispel the August heat and sat down at her desk computer to look at her translation so far. The rawness, the immediacy in the Bengali narrative was not coming through in English. It was sounding trite. The fault was hers. She could not improve it, because another story was fidgeting within her. She wished she could write that: Shopna’s untold story that Naureen could not even begin to imagine.
Still, she was wondering how she could enter that tale, if she were to write the story. Not through doors or windows, but possibly by burrowing through like animals, tunnelling underground, and re-imagining the trench of captivity. The grave-like penumbra, the women not knowing if it was night or day, summer or winter. A dozen half-naked ravaged females with unseeing eyes lying like corpses, wishing they were properly dead and buried, and not awaiting the shame of light, of discovery, the world outside.
Naureen got up. She needed to talk to Sadia’s mother. Not to Shamima Akhter Begum, Shumi, but to Shopna.
*
Naureen calls Sadia for directions. Her flat is near the Viale dei Caduti per la Resistenza — “The Street of Those Who Fell during the Resistance.” — the Italian struggle against the enemies during the Second World War. Naureen finds these long street names both musical and moving. How painful must have been the path of those who fell during any struggle, whether men or women. But in Italy, the “Fallen” had been elevated and preserved in public memory, and they had shady avenues dedicated to them, lined with pine trees and flowering oleander bushes.
In 1971, the struggle for freedom was fought not just by men; countless women had made sacrifices. Remembering and honouring them was of fundamental importance. Naureen feels excited that today, this peaceful street named for the spirit of resistance was leading her to Shopna. For her Italian students of Bengali, she could translate that name as “she who dreams.” But how would she tell the story of dreams mutating into nightmares?
*
Sadia’s flat is on the third floor of a well-maintained, middle-class apartment block between a supermercato[6] and a shady children’s park.
Naureen is welcomed by Sadia and ushered directly into the main bedroom.
“Apu, the room at the front, we have rented to two Bengali bachelors who work in a restaurant nearby. We hardly see them.”
The bedroom Naureen enters is well lit and airy. Next to the neatly made-up bed is a two-seater sofa facing a TV on a laminated bureau. Once Naureen is settled on the sofa, Sadia goes to the kitchen to make tea. Naureen watches Sadia’s mother put the baby in her cot in another room.
“I keep the baby in my room,” she says coming back to sit on the bed.
Without preliminaries, Naureen says, “So, Shopna, tell me your story since we last met.”
Shopna’s head is uncovered today. She takes time to knot her loose hair into a bun. There are some grey strands. “Sister, I am no longer the person you met with your aunt that day in Dhaka, fifty years ago. That Shopna died in 1971 and was reborn since then. A cruel rebirth. Still, here I am, sitting before you, smiling.” She looks out at the view of the distant hills.
Sadia returns with a mug of milky tea. It’s sweet. Naureen only drinks black sugarless tea. But she sips it to not make a fuss.
“Have you taken your mother to the hills?”
“What’s there to see, Apu?”
“You have never been there?”
“Well, my husband is so busy all week working at the petrol station that on Sundays our only outing is to go shopping.” Sadia laughs.
“Those hills that you see in the horizon, that’s where the Pope’s summer palace is. You know, the Pope? The Vatican? Anyway, in summer he lives there, overlooking a volcanic lake . . .”
Sadia is listening gravely, trying to absorb all the information.
Naureen rushes on. “Anyway, it’s a scenic place. Go there sometime.” Naureen ends, feeling slightly foolish.
Sadia says eagerly, “Apu, please write down the name of the place. I will ask my husband to take us next week. I always learn so much from you.”
Shopna smiles. “Actually, even in London, I hardly go anywhere. Once a nephew took me on the bus and showed me the Queen’s palace. Otherwise, I only know Wembley and my area.”
They are quiet for a while. Sadia goes to check on her baby, saying, “Apu, it’s her feeding time. I hope you don’t mind. It takes a while. You two chat.”
After Sadia leaves, Shopna says, “Sadia’s father, my present husband, was a widower when I met him. He married me after my first husband abandoned me. Another day, I will tell you about my life. I had thought, the ordeal I went through with the army animals during 1971 was hell. But another fiery dozakh[7]awaited me when my husband came to see me at the Rehabilitation Centre. He and his family could not accept me. To be fair, they tried at first, but could not when they found out I was pregnant. I, too, wanted to die, but failed. I recovered from the abortion. And the day after your aunt and you came to the Rehabilitation Centre, I joined a sewing course and decided to live in a women’s hostel. I started to work as a seamstress. One day, I met Sadia’s father. He had a small business in London…”
Shopna pauses and looks towards the open window. “Some might consider Sadia’s father to be an ugly man. But I only saw a beautiful heart. He came like a fereshta, an angel who took me away. I was granted a new life.”
Naureen follows Shopna’s gaze, directed, she realizes now, not at the lofty faraway hills. Shopna, a smile like a tremor on her lips, is looking nearby, at a shard of sunlight on the open windowpanes, one of them reflecting a tiny balcony with baby clothes drying on a stand.
*
That long ago February winter morning in Dacca was not as chilly as Shopna’s eyes were, as she recounted her ordeal, in bits and pieces. The room at the back of the Dhanmandi Rehabilitation Centre was quiet at this time.
Fahmida put her hand on Shopna’s head and said, “You must allow the tears to come.”
Shopna let out a hysterical laugh. “I watched my parents being shot dead in front of me, my mother’s blood and father’s brain splattered on the verandah by the military. I was dragged away to the hellhole of the army camp. For months we women underwent torture. All my tears dried up. Forever. Even on the day we heard ‘Joy Bangla’ shouted all around us and we were released and rescued by some Bengali brothers and kind Indian officers who wrapped us in blankets, I had no tears of joy. And the day my husband sent me the message to not return home, I had no tears of sorrow.”
Suddenly Shopna burst into tears. Wild tears. She howled in fury. Her eyes were molten lava: “If only one day I could find that razakar, the neighbour who betrayed my family, led the military to our house as the family of freedom fighters, thrust me into hell fire…. and if I could avenge myself, that day I would find peace.”
“Do you know his name, where he lives?”
Shopna sighed. “Yes. But he’s not there. He escaped.”
Naureen blinked back tears and let out her breath.
Fahmida said, “I wonder what happened to him…and to other devils like him….”
Shopna was silent. And each of them burrowed into the silence of untold, unspeakable stories.
Neeman Sobhan,Italy based Bangladeshi writer, poet, columnist and translator. Till recently she taught Bengali and English at the University of Rome Publications: 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 When the Mango Tree Blossomed, edited by Niaz Zaman, for the 50th anniversary of Bangladesh.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Mrs Heather Richards’ aeroplane landed at the Bangkok airport after a gruelling eleven-and-a-half hour flight.
Her initial enthusiasm since leaving Stevenage and England seemed to flag a bit even before the landing. The uninspiring food lay heavy on her stomach, the people sitting by her – mostly Brits — made no attempt at casual conversation. The choice of pictures bored her to sleep. Mrs Richards squirmed in her seat as the faces of Francis and Jonathan floated queerly in her somnolence; the first in grievance, the second in indignation. Had Jonathan found her quickly scribbled note? Would he ever understand her sound resolution, however painful for him? Thick clouds suddenly hid the late afternoon sun. The aeroplane began to descend. How glad she was when they finally landed and could rid her mind of these disturbing, contorted faces.
Bangkok’s early evening heat and humidity made her gasp for breath as she stepped out of the airport into a taxi which wildly drove her to the Lamphu House. The sultry air seeped into her hair, silkily, penetrated the pores of her kneaded, wizened skin like the bites of tiny insects. She rolled down the window but the hot, oily air left her panting. She felt like candle wax melting under the ardour of the flame.
Shown to her pleasant, airy room at the Lamphu House, Mrs Richards dropped onto the bed and stared blankly at the slow turning sails of the ceiling fan, turning and turning lethargically. –No, there was no other choice — a fey voice reminded her. No other choice ! She pricked up her ears. Let Jonathan relish his despondency, you must bear the burden. You must now find what has gone so mysteriously missing.
After a cold shower she felt much relieved. Then at the downstairs café-bar she ordered a fine dish of Pad Krapow Moo[1] which she enjoyed immensely. At the reception desk she enquired about buses to the coastal town of Mawdaung in the province of Prachuap Khira Khan where her son had been teaching. According to her plan, she would begin her investigations there. She refused to believe that Francis had become a monk to hide from the law; refused to think of him as a criminal, although she was perfectly aware of the accounts of the drowned children at his school through newspapers and her hired detective’s report. But she wanted details of these facts. Where that evasive detective had failed she would prevail. Mrs Richards knew her mission would not be a sinecure, but it was her only hope; perhaps her last gesture of maternal love towards her only son, whom she believed to be still alive.
And this gesture of maternal love brooked no concessions … no repining after-thought.
Bright and early the next morning Heather Richards, dressed in a flowery robe of light cotton, agreeable to the skin, sandals and a huge straw hat, made for the bus terminal. The heat had already begun to rise. “Was it possible that Francis relinquished his British upbringing to embrace Buddhism?” she mused as her clear, blue eyes followed the swaggering gait of a bow-legged dwarf crossing the dusty street. His hunched back oscillated wavily through the particles of dust that his erratic movements caused. The sun rose ever higher. She stopped to wipe the perspiration off her wrinkled forehead.
Soon, through a concussion of vehicles, animals, men and women in sarongs, and locals in Western clothes, Mrs Richards caught sight of the bus terminal wavering dreamily amongst the colours of this moving spectacle. It all so amazed her. The scents, too, of juniper and camphor from the temples, jasmines, all amazed her. She experienced moments of unexplicable excitement, of enigmatic fervour; an almost religious experience.
The man at the ticket office spoke excellent English. She bought her ticket without even queuing up, an exploit she considered odd, given the fact that her guide book warned visitors to South-East Asia that queuing up at train or bus stations could last hours ! Be that as it may, armed with her ticket, she regained her hotel, had a quick lunch of tom yum goong[2] at the café-bar and packed her meagre belongings. She would leave on the morning bus.
Indeed, she had chosen to travel light and fast. Heather Richards had not come to Thailand as a tourist but on a mission … a very special mission. On the bus speeding to Mawdaung the morning sun, glowing orange, crept slowly over the crests of the bamboo forests. She brooded over Francis’ misfortunes, his mysterious disappearance. Intuition told her something had gone amiss. Something had not been touched upon during the investigations. All her thoughts converged on that ‘something’
The bus didn’t pull into the Mawdaung terminal until the following afternoon due to several unexpected delays and two flat tyres. Exhausted but determined, Mrs Richards followed the indications on the map and notes she had taken in England until she spotted Francis’ school perched on the brow of the hill overlooking the tragic bay, now, however, having regained its initial configuration, although the scars of that terrible event could still be detected here and there. The security guard escorted her to the office of the headmistress, a certain Anong Saetang, who on the phone two days back sounded not overly enthralled to meet Mrs Richards, judging by the frostiness of her voice.
Her ‘welcoming’ phrase stunned Heather as she strode deferentially towards the woman who throned behind her majestic mahogany bureau: “What did you expect by coming here, Mrs Richards, a letter of recommendation for your son’s exemplary teaching and moral qualities?” Mrs Richards stopped dead in her footfalls, stunted by the violence of such a ‘greeting’; Her face sunk. “The deep wounds of the parents who suffered loses of their loved ones remain open,” rasped the headmistress. “Do not expect any help from them nor from our school. Besides, your son has gone fugitive for over eight years, and I can assure you not one of the parents who lost their loved ones caused his equivocal disappearance.”
These words, spoken with pontifical stiffness, jolted Mrs Richards to the core of her pride. She had not come either as a defender or accuser of her son’s conduct, but only to learn more of Francis’ flight. To call his disappearance equivocal made her blood boil. She clenched her fists …
“He ran off like a coward,” pursued Miss Saetang, happily noting her ‘guest’s’ surging rage. “And perhaps like an arrant renegade he is still hiding behind his monkish mask.” She snarled. “And I will also inform you that because of your son’s irresponsible attitude, the headmaster was sacked!”
Mrs Richards’ glowered at her, eyes ablaze. She thrust out her square jaw in defiance: “Well, I’m sure you had no qualms about that since you’re now seated in his fine cushioned chair!” she riposted with overt disdain. Miss Saetang, shocked at the barely disguised insinuation was about to retort but her ‘guest’ put up an authoritative hand: “I’ve heard enough of your overbearing uncouthness towards my son. Whatever had been the fault which caused such a tragedy, I apologise for him. But do not try to overwhelm me with your supercilious self-importance and contemptuous righteousness.” Miss Saetang remained stoic in her sephia-upholstered chair. “And may I ask what has been done with his belongings?” Mrs Richards added tersely, staring at the headmistress with overt contempt.
The other threw back her haughty head: “They’ve been burnt and his bungalow fumigated with juniper leaves. At present, a pleasant gentleman from Scotland is teaching at our school, and I will add, is doing an excellent job of it.”
Mrs Richards jeered : “I’m sure he is!” She turned her back to the headmistress and walked out of the office without a goodbye, leaving the door wide open …
Infuriated but undaunted by the unsophisticated welcome of that brazen hussy, Mrs Richards took a last glance at the lieu of her son’s mournful destiny, and that too of those poor school children, a shared destiny that only an act of God could have brought about … and perhaps, too, a bit of heedlessness on the part of her son …
Although weary from a sleepless night and from that woman’s disdainful bantering, she directed her footsteps to the bus terminal, bought a ticket for Bangkok, and waited patiently for the night bus, a three hour wait, time during which she struggled with her thoughts. She needed to travel to Laos, but first had to meet the Laotian consul, Mr Inthavong, who had issued the visa to Francis. He would surely provide her information about her son … information and hope! As she ruminated these thoughts, she ploughed through a delightful dish of gaeng daeng or red curry. Indeed, the former barmaid was beginning to enjoy Thai food, spicy though it be. More tasty than that British Airways slop or that over-cooked fodder at the Lawrence’s Duck or Grouse …
Once in Bangkok, she bought a ticket for Wiang Kaen where the Laotian consulate was located. She had to change buses, but thanks to the smooth roads she was there the following afternoon and lost no time in locating the charming two-storey bungalow. She had spoken to Mr Inthavong on the phone from the Lamphu Guest House and he was expecting her, his voice as excited as hers to get to the bottom of Francis’ imbroglio, which he considered scandalous given all the rumours that his name had produced in Laos and abroad.
To tell the truth, bus travel in Thailand had become somewhat of a second nature to Mrs Richards. Those passengers who spoke a smattering of English greeted the ‘old lady’ from England warmly, plied her with coconut milk and gaeng daeng. She was beginning to feel quite at home here ! Some passengers even taught her several words in Thai, especially the names of the savoury dishes she now so relished. The ‘old lady’ from England began to sense her son’s fascination for this country, for Southeast Asia. There was something large and generous about the inhabitants, and the looming mountains mantled in thick forests, something so unbridled. A something that lacked in England, so regulated, so close-fisted. Francis had deciphered this nobleness of spirit, this betokening loftiness. Was this why she too had come ? And Jonathan ? She hadn’t written one letter to him as of yet. Well, he would just have to wait …
Before meeting Mr Inthavong, Mrs Richards indulged in her favourite dish at an outdoor eatery near to the consulate, a sai gok [3]! Delicious. How Mrs Richards loved those sausages …
At nine o’clock sharp she was at the consulate gate. The same puffy-eyed, indifferent security guard who had sized up her son some eight years back now sized up his wizened-face mother. She quickly explained (or rather gestured) her urgent need to see Mr Inthavong. The guardian nodded lethargically, then shuffled off to the front door of the consulate with her passport. Several minutes later Mr Inthavong came flying out to greet his friend’s mother. All agog, he ushered her into his spacious, air-conditioned office.
“How delighted I am! How delighted!” an enthusiastic Mr Inthavong tooted sonorously. Mrs Richards smiled unable to put in a word. For the loquacious consul had read the police reports, had even made enquiries with the secret police in Laos, coming to the conclusion that Mr Richards had not been abducted and was alive, living in Upper Laos in one of the Mekong River temples. Mrs Richards’ eyed glowed with renewed hope. She even stamped her feet in joy.
However, in order to ferret out the whereabouts of her dear son, Mr Inthavong would arrange for her to be accompanied by one of the monks at the Jin Jong Jaong Temple in Pak Beng where Francis had been studying. The proposition brought tears to Mrs Richards’ sleepless eyes. She did not know how to thank the kind consul, given the fact, too, that his non-stop volubility left no intervals to do so.
He picked up the phone and called his wife upstairs, notifying her that they would have a very important guest with them for a few days.
Mrs Richards objected: “But sir, truly … “
“Please … Please, it is our pleasure. We had your son stay with us for three or four days. Our conversations were most illuminating. He even played with our two children like a big brother.” Mrs Richards hardly believed that one could converse with the winsome Mr Inthavong. Nevertheless, the consul’s wife, a middle-aged woman of exceptional beauty, attired in a silken sarong of ochre, over which she had thrown a beautifully embroidered black shawl led her upstairs to the guest room of their lightly furnished flat.
Heather Richards spent a wonderful three day sojourn at the Inthavong’s, listening to Mr Inthavong enlightening her about her son’s prodigious teaching talents and odd, but heroic plunge into Buddhahood. Mrs Richards and Mrs Inthavong, tea-cups held high, sat politely, nodding their heads in approval, oftentimes quite perfunctorily. As to the children, they ran amok, upsetting furniture, fighting over toys or books, much to the stoic displeasure of their mother and to the manifest joy of their father.
To make her stay all the more enjoyable, Mrs Inthavong, a marvellous cook, served her guest with mok pal[4],tam mak hoong[5], and her very favourite dish, sai gok, those mouth-watering sausages served with khao niaw, sticky rice. And the more Mr Inthavong jabbered on, the more Mrs Richards’ images of Jonathan, Stevenage and England faded from her mind. It were as if she had returned home after having spent many years as an immigrant in the West. An odd sensation really that she herself could not quite fathom …
With many tears shed by both parties, Mrs Richards parted from her benefactors and boarded the same Nam Ou boat that had eddied her son to Laos. Whilst the sturdy vessel cleaved the waters of the Mother of all rivers, Heather let her thoughts drift back to Jonathan. How was he spending his time? In idle gloom, drowning himself in self-pity, wandering aimlessly from one room to another … from one pub to another, pissing it up with that fatuous Andy, plunging into the hissing cauldron of lust? She knew that leaving Jonathan alone for so long would be devastating to their marriage, but Francis … Yes Francis … He was alive somewhere in the wilds of Northern Laos, waiting for his mother’s maternal embrace. This she knew. And this Jonathan never understood. Would she ever write him a letter to explain this inexplicable presentiment ? She pursed her lips. As to Francis, he had been right from the very beginning: their home, neighbourhood, England as a whole had been too tiny for his august ambitions and dreams. “I’m sure he takes after me,” she gloated aloud as Ban Houei Sai rose to her extreme excitement.
The same collective taxi that sped the ‘Western monk’ to Pak Beng now sped Mrs Richards. The sun rose high. The heat too. She patted her neck and cheeks, fanning herself with her straw hat.
Stepping daintily out of the packed taxi at Pak Beng, she was warmly welcomed by two monks and quickly escorted to the Satu or Venerable Father. There in a spacious room for visitors, the ceiling fan stirring up the midday heat, he reminisced over her son’s seven-year sojourn at the temple. The wiry Father did not believe that Francis had been killed at the Pak Beng Grand Hotel, nor that he had been kidnapped by a group of Thais. Witnesses confirmed his presence in Upper Laos, albeit the reasons for his leaving the temple and travelling to Northern Laos remained obscure.
“And where would my son be?” implored Mrs Richards, wringing her knotty hands. The Venerable Father eyed her compassionately and in a mild voice intoned :
“Reports from wandering monks say that he may be living in the temples of Hatsa, Chao Dan Tra or U-Thai. I have received several letters from Mr Ithavong and assured him of my staunch collaboration in helping you locate your son. Please, stay with us several days and gather strength, the journey up north will be strenuous. You will be accompanied by Jai, one of your son’s former students at Luang Prabang.”
Mrs Richards clasped her hands in gratitude and stammered humbly that she would be honoured to spend a few days at the temple. “You will be given Francis’ cell, quite comfortable if you are not too accustomed to five-star hotels.” She smiled, waving her hand. The Satu stood, a sign that their audience had come to an end. She immediately rose out of her cane chair, bowed and was escorted to the ‘Western monk’s’ cell by Jai, who an hour later, knocked at her wooden door with a huge dish of tam mak hoong and khao niaw.
For those three days Mrs Richards did indeed relax, partaking of the temple’s excellent food, sauntering in the gardens, observing the monks’ morning and afternoon exercises. On the second day of her stay, she strolled to the Grand Pakbeng Hotel and thought of doing some enquiries there, but on second thought let it drop. No doubt, the staff would have changed by now, and the personnel would not even understand her questions.
On her last day at the temple before setting out with Jai, the Satu offered his honourable guest an ochre-coloured robe of pure cotton and a new pair of sandals. She placed a hand to her forehead and bowed, so beholden was she to this revered, saintly man.
Like snakes slithering with difficulty upstream, Mrs Richards and her guide Jai, slid their way upon the sullen waters of the Nam Ou River on an eight-padded chaired vessel. They were the only passengers. The stoic Jai. The uncanny silence of the surrounding jungle. The muteness of the navigator frightened her. Jai sat alongside her, face taunt, eyes alert, back straight as an arrow. His English was excellent. But his translated information to her was always measured in a very bland, monotonous tone, like a machine registering the input and output of data. She wondered whether or not the monk had chosen to accompany her or was chosen, against his will. He never sought to converse with her, nor did he ever smile, unless perfunctorily. Mrs Richards did not take this badly ; it was no doubt Jai’s personality, and she respected that. His presence alone comforted her in the mission to be completed. Nevertheless, Mrs Richards experienced this ghastly silence as an equivocal omen; a silence mantled by thick wavy wisps of mist through which oftentimes she caught fugitive glimpses of frail floating barks or dugouts, catamarans, rosy water buffaloes bathing, gigantic rhizomatous configurations of elephant ear leaves arching over the swirling waters.
The navigator had heard of this ‘Western monk’ praying in the temples of Nong Kiaw further upriver. But this was a few years back. Mrs Richards winced. Jai nodded his tonsured head.
The days wore on and on. They slept in village guesthouses, or in temples, eating sticky rice and fish served by monks clothed in saffron-coloured gowns whose velvety footfalls stealthily stole across the marble floors of the temples, their tonsured heads blending dreamily into dim corridor frescoes as the sun set behind the incandescent forests.
At Muang Khwa, Mrs Richards hired a dugout paddled by a huge muscular man. Here the river churned up a frightening white foam. The brittle hull shook at each cross-current, at each turbulent whirlpool of the dappled greys of the dangerous shoals of sunken rocks. The towering cliffs cast ominous shadows on their frail vessel. The sun was at its zenith. The courageous Heather beheld the most startling images: gutted jungles, lush foliage suddenly illumined by flaming orange foliage, bevies of buffaloes bathing in the mud of the banks, kingfishers perched on their coarse backs. Her eyes feasted on these primeval scenes, and with each lattice-work of aerial or gossamer vines, with every grunt of the black pig or sight of a stilt-home precariously sinking into the ever shifting clayey banks, she became more and more fascinated by the marvels of this living spectacle; by the savage vortex of energy into which she felt drawn. She no longer envisaged a Jonathan … a Stevenage … an England. She had penetrated the pristine world of Francis! Yes, she knew she was drawing nearer and nearer to him. She felt the horrors of his forced solitude, his lonely struggle for survival … the horror! The horror!
Meanwhile the dugout struggled upriver where former guesthouses lay in ruins, covered with thick vines. Where the eateries were scarce. Rare were the temples that offered them food.
One morning, the dugout hauled on to the bank, the navigator ran off to fetch water whilst Jai to gather mangoes and papayas. Mrs Richards sat upright in the dugout, weakened by a diet of one meal a day, exhausted by lack of sleep and the incessant mosquitoes. Haggard, her face red and sore from the heat, her lips swollen from insect bites, she had the nerve-racking impression that the jungle was closing in around them … slowly … ever so slowly. The navigator suddenly emerged from a thicket, threw a gourd of water into the dugout and pushed it out into the current.
“The Western monk is at U-Thai!” he shouted out hoarsely as he turned to her.
Words that Mrs Richards hardly understood but whose coarse inflexions she deciphered instinctively. He began paddling in strong strokes, the muscles of his naked back breaking into runnels of sweat. But where was Jai? She looked back towards the bank: No one! Nothing! She tapped the navigator on the shoulder. He smiled, nothing more. The dugout waded through a gaggle of reed and thistle. Above, the spiralling precipices arched over them, the sun had long since vanished, and a creeping blackness enshrouded them. Mrs Richards was now on her own … all alone, like Francis. She fixed her fatigued eyes on each bend of the great river, on each scene of their long-awaited reunion rehearsed again and again … and again …
As the steaming mist of evening tide rose off the white-crested waters, Mrs Richards’ vessel disappeared into their thick folds, the splashing of the navigator’s paddle fading … fading away, borne into the darkness and distance …
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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Short story by S Ramakrishnan, translated from Tamil by T Santhanam
It was Malavika who sent me the video of the monk who plays guitar. Malavika is my daughter. She is pursuing fashion designing course in Kingston University, England. Her desires and interests are a puzzle to me. Some days ago, she sent a recording of a poem by William Blake in her voice. After that, she sent a photo of her carrying a placard in a demonstration against global warming. As clouds change to forms unimaginable, her interests keep on changing. After watching a butterfly, she had sent her impressions in writing. It seemed as though it was from a seasoned writer.
Children who leave home for far off places, in a sense, leave us. She was no longer the girl she was in Chennai. The new country and new environment have changed her. The changes are reflected in her appearance and deeds. My wife did not like these alterations. Below the video of the monk who played guitar, she had given the caption: “Music is Meditation”. I could not understand her. At the age of twenty-two, I thought she would be fondly giving herself to worldly pleasure. But she was immersed in meditation, agitation and museum visits.
In the video sent by Malavika, the monk must have been about thirty years old. His head was tonsured. He wore a robe coloured orange. His ears were slightly big. He had a sharp nose and small lips where a smile was frozen. It was hard to find out if he was a Nepali or a foreigner. On his left arm, was tattooed the image of Buddha.
It was funny to see a Monk with a guitar. The image we have formed about saints and the looks of current day saints are not alike. Perhaps, we refuse to update that image. Perhaps, the meaning of sainthood has changed.
The musical piece was given the title “Falling flowers”. From the way he was playing, it seemed as real as the blossomed cherry leaves falling gently. The normal rapidity and gush associated with guitar music was not there. Like an insect that moves in the water, his fingers moved on the guitar strings. Music tunes to the past more easily than photographs. A small piece of music is enough to take us back to our school days.
I saw the video once or twice. I felt the urge to listen to it again and again. While listening at night, I felt as if the fragrance of incense was wafting into the vacant spaces of my heart. I found His name was Limang Tolma while searching for his other videos. There were hundreds of musical pieces by him. All of them were only seven minutes long. Evidently, he played the guitar for only seven minutes in a day. That too under the sal tree in Coben Monastery seated on a stool. Hundreds of people from various countries pour in to listen to his performance. All this I gathered while browsing the internet. His music was melodious and sweet. Why did he play for seven minutes only at each stretch was beyond comprehension.
To know more about Limang Dolma, I called Malavika on her mobile. She sent a message that she was observing silence for the past five days. Why this silence? Tongue can be tied down. But the mind?
I told my wife. She responded that she had scolded Malavika and that was why she was doing this.
I could not understand. What was the skirmish between mother and daughter? I sent a message to Malavika asking her how long her silence would continue. “God only knows,” was her reply.
As I am a senior executive in an automobile company, I had to conduct two to three meetings in a day. My blood pressure sometimes would rise after returning from these meetings.Sometimes, I would have a headache too. At times, the meetings would last for ten hours. After the meeting, I would feel as if somebody has placed a pile of iron on my shoulders. I would feel sick, wondering why we could not conduct our work without talking, discussing or fighting.
One day, before the commencement of the meeting, I started to listen to the monk’s guitar music from my cell phone rather impulsively. I closed my eyes for seven minutes as though I was in a deep meditation. It was as pleasant a feeling as a moist breeze caressing my body. There was peace in my heart and an exhilaration I had never known before. On that day, I could sense the change in my voice and the way I was moving towards a solution. Somehow the officials of the sales department seemed to understand this. After the conclusion of the meeting while coming down in the lift, Amarnath said, “There was something new in your speech today. You spoke like a Zen Master.”
“Yes” I nodded approvingly with a smile. I was just wondering how a small piece of music could bring such a tremendous change in me.
I wanted to know more about Limang Dolma. Searching through the internet I was more and more astonished. The real name of Limang Dolma is Christopher Cane. He was born in Milan. He had pursued Anthropology. After coming into contact with a Buddhist monk, he has embraced Buddhism and become a monk in the Buddhist Monastery. He plays the guitar only under the tree of the monastery and nowhere else. Young people throng to him. They listen to his music. Some of them stay there for days together to savour his music. They wear T-shirts bearing his image with the words, “Buddha plays Guitar”. In an interview, a young lady asks him. “All saints in India hold one or other instruments. Why does Buddha not play any instrument nor is seen holding one?”
“He himself is a musical instrument. One who knows how to tune himself finds no need for a musical instrument. In the same way, Nature tunes itself. Is there any tune better than what the water plays?”
“Why do you play only for seven minutes?”
“Seven is the symbol of consciousness in Buddhism.”
“Seven minutes is not enough for us. Can’t you play more?”
“Will you take honey in a gulp? Is a spoonful not enough?” he asks.
I admired Limong Dolma fo his speech, poise and the way he handled guitar. I too felt like wearing a T-shirt bearing his image. I sent the video of Limang Dolma to some of my friends asking them to listen to his music. Only Mohan Muralidharan, a neurologist and my school mate, sent a reply saying that a man from Turkey played better than the monk and shared the video. Why should one musician be compared to another? Can’t this foolishness be avoided?
I called Mohan and blurted out my irritation. He said in a mocking tone, “You’re aging. That is why you listen to a monk playing the guitar. Music should make us feel young. It should twinge our nerves. You have never touched a musical instrument in your entire life. Can you whistle atleast?”
Mohan was right. I haven’t even played the mouth organ which many played during my school days.
I felt like owning a guitar. The same evening, I went to a musical store in Leo mall. I showed the video of Limang Dolma and asked for a guitar like the one in the video. The face of the girl at the counter brightened. “Limang Dolma?” she asked. I felt glad that she too has listened to the music. She brought a guitar from inside. I told her, ” I don’t know how to play guitar. This is for my daughter.”
The girl told with a smile, “Limang Dolma was a thief. He was in prison. After his release, he became a Monk. People say he speaks to Buddha through his music.”
“Really!”
“I overheard two girls talk of it when they came to purchase a guitar.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I believe it partially.”
“Which part?”
“That he speaks to Buddha,” she smiled.
She looked like my daughter when she smiled. Perhaps for young girls Buddha is a different personality. May be, the Buddha known by the ones who have crossed fifty years like me and the Buddha these young girls adore are not the same.
When I brought guitar home, my wife chided me.
“Why have you brought this? Who will play?”
“Just let it be,” I responded.
“Is it a show piece to be kept just like that?” she asked.
I did not reply.
I placed the guitar in Malavika’s room close to her bed. I had a feeling that Malavika had returned. I sent that night the picture of guitar to Malavika by WhatsApp. She sent an emoji of two clapping hands. Also, she sent a message “We are going to visit Limang Dolma.”
Though I felt happy, I was eager to know who was the other in the ‘We’. I did not venture to ask Malavika. Instead, I asked, “When?” She did not respond.
After five days, she sent a picture to me. She was among the hundreds of youngsters before Limang Dolma, as he was playing the guitar. My eyes were cast on a young man with long hair, not on Limang Dolma. The young man hung his arms around Malavika’s shoulder.
Who was this fellow? How long had she known him? I could not see his face properly. I widened the image. An European face. Perhaps was he also a musician? I thought of asking Malaviika. But I curbed that thought and went on to ask about the musical event, as I called her. She was full of cheer. She told me,” Listening to Dolma’s music, one feels like a kite fluttering in the air. I do not know what to say. Flying to heaven.”
“I read somewhere that he was a thief,” I said.
” Oh, that’s a myth constructed by magazines. When asked about this, Dolma says raindrops do not have a past. Jonah and myself were in the Monastery for three days. Wonderful experience!”
A question arose on my mind as to who Jonah was. I was not sure whether to ask her or not. Why wouldn’t she talk about him?
I asked, “Is Jonah a musician?”
“Dad, how do you know? Indeed, he is. He plays the guitar well. It was he who introduced me to Dolma’s music.”
“Is Jonah your classmate?”
“No, he works in a bar where I hold a part time job.”
“You didn’t tell me,” I pretended to be angry.
“Dad, don’t tell Mom about this.”
“About your working in bar?” I asked deliberately.
“About Jonah too?” she laughed. As she was so laughing, she seemed to be some other young girl. After she hung up, I was thinking about Jonah. Was he a good person or bad? Was he also a thief earlier? Or could he be a drug addict? Who were his parents? Was he in love with Malavika? Had I become old? Was Mohan right? I
admired a Monk playing guitar somewhere. But I do not like Jonah who also plays guitar. Why? I was perplexed. Suppose if Limong Dolma put his arm around the shoulder of my daughter, would I dislike him too? I was confused.
Two days later, Malavika forwarded a video of Limang Dolma downloaded in her phone. Limong Dolma walked as though he was floating in the air. He sat under the tree. Peace was on his face as he tuned the guitar — the same music that I savoured earlier. No longer did I feel close to that music. Somehow, instead of Limang, Jonah’s face came before me. I felt as if a bitterness had settled down on my tongue.
The same night, Malavika called me. Before my asking anything, she said, ” After visiting Limang Dolma, I do not feel like listening to his music again”
“Why?” I asked as if I did not know anything.
“I do not like it any more just the way I suddenly liked it before.”
“How is Jonah?” I asked intentionally.
“Do not talk about him. I hate him. I hate whatever he introduced to me.”
Inwardly I was happy.
” Any problem? Shall I talk to Jonah?”
“Why should you talk to him? The days I moved with him, it was a nightmare. Daddy, why do you not rebuke me?”
“You are not a kid, after all.”
“But you think of me as a kid only. You don’t know me as Mom does.”
I was flummoxed. I could hear Malavika sobbing for the first time ever. I did not know how to console her. I hurriedly gave the phone to my wife. She started walking towards the kitchen with her words of consolation. What has transpired between her and Jonah? Why was she weeping? I could not make out. At the same time, I was happy that she disliked the world she created for herself and moved back towards my world. A thought arose that she was coming home. I asked my wife what Malavika had said.
“That boy is not good. I told her from the beginning itself. But she did not pay heed.”
“Did you know about Jonah before?”
“She told me six months back. I scolded her saying that your Dad will not like this. I have spoken to Jonah also.”
“To Jonah? You?”
“Yes, I could not understand a bit of what he spoke.”
“What is the problem now?”
“It’s over. No use talking about it!”
I could not understand what happened. But Malavika had been closer to her mother than to me. She had shared everything with her mother. I was pained at this. Why then did she asked me not to tell her mother? Why this drama? Children after growing up, treat their father as a plaything. The daughter I know is now the girl I do not know. I could not reconcile myself to this.
I heard the guitar music of the monk that night. I was more attracted to the tree than to the music.
Leaves do not stay on the tree for long. When a leaf falls, the tree does not reach out to catch it. When falling leaves sail along the wind, the trees can do nothing but look at them in silence. Somehow, the music stirred a grief in me.
As I prepared to leave for office next morning, I saw my wife keeping the guitar next to dustbin. What was the fault of the guitar after all?
” What are you going to do with this?” I asked.
“Anish told me, he will take it. What do we do with this? Malavika does not want it any more.”
I nodded giving the impression that she was right. But I felt sorry while doing that.
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S. Ramakrishnan is an eminent Tamil writer who has won the Sahitya Akademi Award in the Tamil Language category in 2018. He has published 10 novels, 20 collections of short stories, 75 collections of essays, 15 books for children, 3 books of translation and 9 plays. He also has a collection of interviews to his credit. His short stories are noted for their modern story-telling style in Tamil and have been translated and published in English, Malayalam, Hindi, Bengali, Telugu, Kannada and French.
T Santhanam is a retired Bank Executive in Bangalore, India. He has a passion for literature with a special affinity for poetry. He writes poetry in Tamil. He is also a blogger.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
The big day will be here soon, tomorrow, to be exact. School life had been going on, dragging its feet. They say time flies when you are having fun. I do not remember having any fun, but it flew by anyway. Whenever I start thinking of the future, time seems to be ticking like a time bomb. There is so much uncertainty, and so much can happen. So, I tell myself to tread one day at a time. The best thing to do is not to think too far ahead. But then, that would make me no different from my father, would it not? Enjoy today of what is uncertain tomorrow.
Today is Sunday. The restaurant is closed after lunch. I have been helping out at an Indian restaurant near my house to earn some extra cash to pay for my school fees, the fees that my father refuses to pay. In his eyes, I am old enough to earn for the family, not draining from it. Money is always not enough.
I have some free time. As promised, I decide to meet up with Johnny to discuss some matters about the coming examination. I have not been feeling well for the past few days, with constant lethargy, malaise, body itch and muscle aches. I passed it off as the stress of facing one of my biggest challenges in life, the Middle Certificate Examinations.
As I walk towards Johnny’s house, I run my hand over the back of my neck to scratch. I thought I felt a small globule there.
“Oh no, is that something serious?” I ask myself. “Maybe Johnny can examine it for me.”
Johnny runs his hand over the area.
“Thamby, you have many spots like that over the neck and back. It could be smallpox that they are saying on the radio,” he says, “I think we better see our schoolmaster, Mr Peter. I know his house. He stays in the school compound. Let’s go.”
We race to our school master’s house. In no time, we are banging on Mr Peter Tan’s gate. Standing on his balcony, he acknowledges our presence. “Boys, what are you all doing here?” he says. “Johnny, your father isworried about your examinations. You better be at home, studying.”
“Sorry, sir,” I interject. “Mr Tan, I want to tell you something. I think I have smallpox.”
“What? Smallpox?” he implodes. “Thamby, you better go to the hospital and get yourself admitted. You cannot be walking around spreading the illness to every Tom, Dick and Harry that you see on the street!” he starts preaching. “You can sit for the exams next year, not this year, no way.”
“But, sir, I am all ready for the exams.” I object. “It’s not fair.”
The first thing that goes through my mind is working for another whole year all over again to pay another year’s school fees. I had to think of another way to sit for the public examinations I had been waiting for so long.
“I tell you what,” Mr Tan continues, “you check yourself into the General Hospital. I will talk to the Headmaster to get a refund for you. You go now.”
I am not going to throw in the towel so easily.
“Sir, can I sit for the test in the hospital?”
“No way, boy,” he exclaims. “In my ten years of experience, I have never heard of such a thing. If you are sick, especially with pox, nobody would dare come near you. Sorry, I can’t do anything!”
By now, I must be appearing like a nagging pain in the neck to my teacher, but like a rabid dog, I do not seem to let him go.
Upon my insistence, he tells me, “I tell you what. Try the good offices of the Director of Schools of Penang Island, Mr Ingram Bell.”
He, however, quickly adds, “He stays just around the corner, but don’t keep your hopes too high.”
With a heavy heart, I drag my feet to the living quarters of Mr Bell. Johnny and I stood at the gate after ringing the bell hanging in the corner. A thin and tall, moustachioed Indian man, who must be his servant, starts shooing us away from the premises. Our attires and appearances must have been out of character from the government quarters and its whitewashed walls.
In between the shenanigan of the coolie telling his employer that just some uninvited pests had shown up at the premises and his trying to get us just to buzz off, a muscular man with a build of a pugilist appears.
“What is happening here?” he asks as he looks toward us. “Who are you, and why are you here?”
Before the coolie could utter another sentence, I rushed in, “Sir, I am supposed to be sitting for my MCE tomorrow. They tell me I can’t sit for it tomorrow. They say I have to sit for it next year. I am from a poor family. I cannot afford to pay another year’s school fees…” I rattle on without catching a breath.
“Hold, hold on to your horses, young man,” he says. “Come in.”
“Mani, open the gate, let them in. And get some juices.”
He invites us to sit at the verandah. I tell him my whole life story in a single breath and end it with my dire straits of affairs. Mr Bell listens to the saga intently and looks up at the ceiling as I finish my story in a time that appears forever. Then, like looking for a flower to blossom, I waited with bated breath for his words of wisdom. Time stands still. I can hear my heart pounding. I think I heard a gecko chirping.
“Tambi, listen to what I have to say.” he finally vocalises. “You get admitted now. Take the treatment. Come tomorrow, I will make sure that you can sit for the examination. Trust me!”
With a heavy heart, I admit myself to the Penang General Hospital. Luckily, I have chickenpox, not smallpox, as I had dreaded. I have to be hospitalised anyway as per orders of the State Director of Schools. (gulp…!)
The night proves to be a very long one. The uncertainty of events of tomorrow and the febrility of the illness kept me wide awake. I did not want to be the one who slept through the examinations, though.
“Why me? Why now?” I keep asking myself. “Did I incur the wrath of Goddess Mariamman, the guardian of pox illnesses?”
Maybe the Gods are angry with me for not paying my respects to the Divine forces since Ma passed away. I have not gone to the temples for so long. But then, Ma used to be a loyal temple-going devotee who never missed her chance to perform penance, fasts and rituals. See how she turned out — stripped of her lifelong dreams of self-empowerment, entrapped in an awkward, unhappy marriage, afflicted with a deadly disease at a young age, suffering and dying in a gruesome manner, not seeing her offspring blossom to adulthood.
“Shouldn’t the divine powers at the level of a Creator, from the status of a Mother or Father, be protective, not vindictive, not demanding salutations and showing narcissistic tendencies to gloat in the joy of being feted by His parishioners?” I wonder sometimes.
Slowly, I conclude that I decide my fate, not the intergalactic planetary constellations of the stars. The philosophical labyrinth were so exhausting that I doze off eventually.
Dawn comes with the murmur of the hospital attendants and their paraphernalia. I wake up in a daze. I soon remember the events of the day before: the admission, the chicken pox and … Oh no! Today is examination day. My pulse raced. I run my hand over my neck, and I feel scores of fluid-filled blisters, many more than I had felt yesterday.
It had spread downward to my back and my limbs. I have an intense desire to scratch the lesions, but I know I am not supposed to do that. And the body aches and the fever have not subsided. I shower, pop in two Aspro fever tablets, eat the hospital breakfast and wait.
Is the Director of Secondary School going to live up to his words, or
were his words mere rhetorics to get rid of me and my poxed-self from his abode? I glance at the large Smith clock with the Roman numeral on the ward wall. It is 7 am. The first paper is due to start in two hours. What is it going to be? Am I going to sit for the test, or will it be another disappointment, just like the many uncertainties that had plagued my family? Every turn in my life seems to hit a dead end. Is there no future for me?
I decide to have a last-minute glance at my books before the reckoning, but it is only an attempt at futility. The butterflies in my tummy and the pulsatile gush of blood to my head are too disturbing. I keep glancing at the clock. Time ticks slowly. It is fifteen minutes before nine. The background murmur of the ward suddenly comes to a halt. Piercing the silence is the sound, rapid staccato of heels. I rush out of my quarantine.
The scene of neatly dressed shirt-and-tie-donning men walking across the medical ward is a sight for sore-eyes. They must be the education officers that Mr Bell had promised. I give out a sigh of relief. I feel like I have already done and passed the examinations. And guess who is moving in with them? It is none other than the pessimistic Mr Peter Tan who told me, in not so many words, to go back home and sleep off my chicken pox away and kiss my exams bye-bye. What is he doing here? He looks pretty pleased with himself, gleaming from ear to ear like Punch and walking in long strides to keep pace with a Caucasian man, probably an Education Department staff.
As if the wards are devoid of action-packed activities, everyone, the nurses, ancillary workers, and even patients, stop whatever they are doing to give full attention to the visitors who seem to walk in boldly even though it is not visiting hours. They must have been wondering what was about to happen. The Caucasian man stops in my room to ask, “Young man, are Nalla Thamby?”
I tried to vocalise, but my voice seems stuck. I clear my throat to give out a feeble whisper, “Yes, I am, sir.”
“We are from the State Education Department,” he rattled on. “We are here to supervise your MCE examinations in this hospital.”
A trail of busybodies flock around my room to quell their sense of curiosity. They must be wondering who in the devil’s name is this unassuming young boy who gets visits from Government officials! Pretty soon, they understand what is happening with all the desk arrangement, clocks, papers, ‘Exams in progress’ notices and the flashing of cameras by photographers. The tests progress without much fanfare.
The most amusing thing about this fiasco is what is reported in the next day’s newspaper. Mr Tan is pictured patting me on my shoulder, no more the persona of the day previously who shooed me like a bug from his compound. He is seen patting me in the part most visibly infected with pox vesicles, ironically. In his interview, he mentioned that he was instrumental in ensuring that I did not miss my papers, and it is unfortunate that I should be inflicted with this illness at such a wrong time. He boasted that he knew about my true potential and that I would turn out tops in the examinations. I also found out later that my seating of the Senior Cambridge examination in the hospitals was the first of its kind in the history of the state, and Mr Tan took all credit!
I smile to myself. It does not matter who takes the credit. The important thing is that I completed the examinations. Like what Mr Tan had predicted, the examination results proved to be in my favour. I was successful. The vesicles dried up fast enough but not the memory of this whole brouhaha and all. One thing that I learnt through this debacle is that you hold the reign to your future. Nobody owes you a living. What you want, you have to search for it. Perhaps the guardian angels are there to help me to think out the correct things at the fastest of times. Maybe all of Ma’s prayers played a role too.
.
Farouk Gulsara is a daytime healer and a writer by night. After developing his left side of his brain almost half his lifetime, this johnny-come-lately decided to stimulate the non-dominant part of his remaining half. An author of two non-fiction books, Inside the twisted mind of Rifle Range Boy and Real Lessons from Reel Life, he writes regularly in his blog Rifle Range Boy.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
The alarm-clock rang at seven as usual. Jonathan, puffy-eyed, yawned and slammed down the catch violently. He then rolled over towards Heather, his wife, who always needed a firm nudge to get her up in the morning. Alarms had absolutely no effect on her eardrums. Roll he did but the left side of the bed was empty! Odd, Jonathan, a light sleeper, had not heard the creaking of the bed. Besides, he had always been the first to rise in the mornings.
He threw off the blankets, blurry-eyed, and shuffled to the loo. Throwing a bathrobe over his pyjamas, Jonathan glided barefoot into the kitchen. No one! Into the sitting-room. Empty! He opened the door to their son’s now unslept in room and took a peep. Nothing! He shrank back when he saw the large map of Southeast Asia scotched to the wall over his son’s desk, and two books laid out open: André Malraux’s La Voie Royale[1] and Somerset Maugham’s The Gentleman inthe Parlour: A record of a journey from Rangoon to Haiphong. He closed the door quietly with a religious deference.
A bit ruffled by this unaccustomed morning void in the house, Jonathan quickly washed, dressed, drank a cup of coffee and decided to investigate the strange absence of his wife. First he telephoned her bridge-club mates, Molly, Susan and Julie. Not one had seen or heard from her since their last get-together last week. Nonplussed, Jonathan dialled Heather’s sister’s number, Hazel at Luton. She had no great love for him but …
Hazel answered the phone, yawning, vague and aloof. No, she hadn’t spoken to Heather since Tuesday. It was Friday. “Maybe she’s out buying a mink stole,” she scoffed with unaffectionate irony. And she slammed the receiver down. Jonathan winced, poising his phone over its hook. He let it drop with a dull thud …
He fell back into a wicker chair chaffed by Hazel’s customary curtness. From the large bay window of his Town Council flat he gazed musingly out at the dwarfed pine trees that separated the pavement from his tiny front garden. The autumn leaves, sad, spiralled up and down against the grey sky, tumbling about the yellowing grass. He rocked back and forth meditatively. Wherever could she be? This was not like her, he repeated over and over again. He suddenly thought of the detective’s report…No, it had nothing to do with that. He was sure of it.
Jonathan shot out of the wicker chair and stepped out the front door. He would make a few rounds of Stevenage before doing anything too hastily. He got into his brand new 1975 Ford Cortina and roared off to their favourite pub, The Duck or Grouse. Why she should ever go there at this time of the morning seemed absurd. But one never knows … Heather worked there in her younger days as a barmaid, perhaps she popped in for a chat before shopping.
The inside of the pub was cloaked by the darkness of early morning emptiness. The owner, Lawrence, a squinty-eyed bloke, was busy juggling bottles of liquor and whistling some ridiculous television series tune. His huge, round, pink, hairless face lit up in surprise at the sight of Jonathan. The pub-owner stopped juggling, staring at him out of his squinty, shabby eyes.
“A bit early for a pint, mate!” he boomed in that portentous fatuous voice of his. “Where’s your better half ?” And he gave Jonathan a conspicuous wink. Jonathan, in no mood for Lawrence’s boring humour, came to the point :
“Heather has gone off, or I think she’s gone off.”
“With who ?” came the other’s equivocal repartee.
“Don’t mess about, Lawrence. Just tell me whether she’s been in or not.” Lawrence rubbed his hairless chin thoughtfully and shook his head. He turned towards the kitchen in the rear and cried out, “Have you seen Heather about, love?” A faint voice between splashes and the clanging of kitchenware answered in the negative. The pub-owner shrugged his burly shoulders. Jonathan pursed his lips, turned his back to him and strode dejectedly to the door. As he reached the low door Lawrence shouted out huskily: “Cheerio old boy ; give my regards to the misses … when you find her … Mind the head, duck or grouse!” Jonathan bit his lip, disregarded the caustic remarks and stalked into the streets.
Back in the car he weighed up the situation, fuming over Lawrence’s uncalled for insinuations. Heather was over sixty ! He frowned. The cheeky sod believed the whole thing to be a joke. Gone off with who?
Perhaps she’s at the pictures. No, at this time of day? What’s on? Oh, that stupid action film. She’d never go in for that.
His eyes lit up — the grocer’s, yes, of course, she went out to the grocer’s shop just across from the Cromwell Hotel. Jonathan headed towards the Cromwell in downtown Stevenage Old Town without a second thought.
The dumpy, red-cheeked Mrs Whitby was all smiles when she caught sight of Jonathan stumbling into her empty shop, although the redness of his face and his bloodshot eyes startled her — that is, piqued her curiosity.
“All right, Jonathan ? You’re not looking very jaunty this morning,” she began in her hoarse, cocky voice.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he lied. “But listen, has my wife been in this morning?”
“Can’t say that I’ve seen her. Why? Has the misses been playing hide and seek with her mate?” She gave him a sly wink. Jonathan stiffened. He never liked Mrs Whitby and this feeling was manifestly reciprocal. Nor did Heather for that matter. She thought her vulgar. Alas, this was the closest grocery shop to their flat.
“You must take this seriously, Mrs Whitby,” responded Jonathan sharply. “She’s nowhere to be found, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Go to the bobbies,” she suggested tersely. “It’s their job to find missing people, right ? Be quick about it though, she might have been abducted by some romantic stranger stirring about Stevenage.” Mrs Whitby chortled, rolling her crossed eyes in a grotesque manner. Jonathan pulled a dour face.
“Oh don’t talk nonsense. There are no romantic strangers stalking about Stevenage, and if there were, they would never have chatted up a sixty-five year old woman.”
“Well, well, well. How do you know that a woman at sixty-five couldn’t seduce a man?” Mrs Whitby riposted dryly as if she herself, in her sixties, had ensnared a few ‘romantic strangers’. “You should know, sir, that old birds do catch the worm.” Jonathan was shocked by the vulgarity of the metaphor. Then she added lightly, “Go to the police station or call Scotland Yard. You know, Scotland Yard always finds missing people. Mind you, most times they’re dead, but they find a few alive.”
Jonathan stared at the ungainly woman in disbelief; the words stabbed at his chest with poignant thrusts. She noticed Jonathan’s ghastly mien and wanted to retract her statement but it was too late. She quickly said, “But sometimes they find them alive, they do. Don’t worry about Heather; she can take care of herself good and proper.”
He left the grocery shop as if in a drunken stupor, staggering into the cold, wind-swept streets. Melancholic leaves twirled about, descending in crispy clusters to the pavement. Above they dangled precariously from naked boughs, then down they plummeted from the high arching tree-tops, floating like fairy lights, bouncing to the pavement and street listlessly, their silken colours obscured by the mud. Jonathan followed intensely their errant adventure; the spiralling leaves drew him ever closer to their Fate. Suddenly, he drew back from the scene lest he become emotionally devoured by it. The morning events grew more and more estranged to him, like a bad dream or a doctor notifying you that your cancer was incurable. Plucking up courage he took a deep breath, dashed for his car and raced off to the police station in Stevenage New Town.
Jonathan stopped the car abruptly. There, tottering along the pavement was his neighbour Andy. He had no overcoat and sported a stained starched white shirt. His long, wavy hair had visibly not been combed. Andy was certainly drunk! Jonathan pulled up beside him and called out, “Andy! Do you have a minute?”
Andy, indeed drunk, stopped short in his footfalls. When he realised it was Jonathan, he danced over to the Ford flapping his arms like a bird. Andy was in a delightful mood.
“Blimey, Jonathan old fellow, fancy meeting you here.” Andy skipped back and forth, jovially tapping Jonathan’s car window with his tobacco-stained fingers.
“Stop dancing for heaven’s sake,” an exasperated Jonathan yelled out. “Have you seen Heather about ?”
Andy froze in his side-stepping and posed as if to have his photo taken. He turned his beetle-like eyes on his neighbour, “Have I seen Heather ? Well … “ He put a finger to his temple. “Yes, I might have dreamt of her last night or the night before … lambent eyes sparking like wine, teeth, milky white.”
“Stop mucking about and just tell me whether you’ve seen her or not,” the wife-seeker lashed out, beside himself. Andy had always been the ingratiating neighbour, ‘stepping in’ uninvited for tea at four, or more often, for a few shots of Jonathan’s expensive Armagnac at seven!
“I can’t say that I have, Johnny.”
“Stop calling me Johnny! Are you sure? You look absolutely sloshed.”
“Yes I’ve had a few, but I am able to peer through the fumes of Glenfiddich[2] and grasp the dire urgency of the situation. Now let me see,” and he rolled his eyes about in their orbits. “Sorry mate, I haven’t seen your wife since ‘mi owntroubles and strife’[3] buggered off with the manager of the Cromwell.”
“What are you insinuating ?” Jonathan eyed him coldly.
“Nothing old boy ; no need to make a row over a flown bird. You know what they say, when the cage is left open birds will fly out.”
“Drunken fool !” Jonathan rolled up the window and sped off to the police station. It soon dawned on him that he had no time to lose. All these ridiculous enquiries led him nowhere. No one took either him or the affair with any seriousness. But was it all that serious? What would the police do? Would they snicker at him, cast amusing glances at one another as he narrated his morning’s ordeals? Would they twitch their moustaches whilst rubbing their clean-shaven chins? Before he had any answers to these questions, he had parked across from the local police station.
Unexpectedly there were no twitching of moustaches or amused glances for the simple reason that behind the desk, congested with sheaves of documents and notes, sat one very clean-shaven police officer, his corrugated, oval face beaming with absolute boredom. As Jonathan staggered forward, the police officer peered at him out of steel, blue eyes. The frosty peering of those eyes examined him from head to toe. Jonathan suddenly felt very self-conscious, like when one forgets to put on underwear on an outing, or trying on shoes at the shop with holes in your socks. In a state of exhausted excitement, he reported everything he had experienced since the alarm-clock woke him up at seven sharp. He even had a photo of Heather in his wallet. The officer obediently jotted down every word in a very professional manner. This show of professionalism put Jonathan somewhat at ease, although he did feel his energy flagging, his verbosity aimless.
The officer held the photo in front of him, studying it carefully. After a few minutes, he turned his attention to Jonathan whom he studied for a minute or two. Those steel, blue eyes bore into his. Jonathan felt terribly awkward.
“I shall have Scotland Yard check all English citizens having left the country on flights to Southeast Asia,” the officer finally stated, beating his brows. These words were spoken as if they brooked no questioning. Jonathan, however, was in no mood to be brow-beaten by a young police officer whose cryptic words left him more in a muddle than when he arrived. This being said, he did express a tinge of anxiety as if the officer were keeping him in the dark by withholding a piece of information that concerned him personally.
“Why Southeast Asia ?” he stuttered.
“Why not Shangri-La for that matter?” The other, amused by Jonathan’s caustic humour, leaned over the desk with an enigmatic smile.
“Are you not Jonathan Richards, father of the teacher who went missing in Thailand some six or seven months ago ?” Jonathan, abashed, fell back.
“Yes I am. But I fail …”
“To see the motive of your wife’s disappearance in connection with your son’s? In that case, allow me, sir, to put you in the picture. Instead of contacting us or Sotland Yard, you went about hiring a private detective whose reputation, as far as our files show is a far cry from Sherlock Holmes’.” He chortled at his own comparison.
Jonathan remained stoic, unamused by such a preposterous assumption. Was this officer making fun of him ?
“My son’s disappearance has nothing to do with my wife’s!” he managed to retort tartly.
“Does it not?” came the other’s terse rejoinder. Jonathan unzipped his vest and unbuttoned his collar. The air had become sultry, laden with danger, unexpectedness.
“I shall not be misled or abused,” he objected without conviction.
“Misled ? Abused ? Dear sir, here you are whimpering about your missing wife after having whimpered about your missing son. What have you done for both ? You sent an incompetent fool to Thailand for an extravagant fee, when in fact, if I am not mistaken, your wife urged you to go contact the police or Scotland Yard.”
Jonathan, aghast, went pale, jarred by the officer’s personal details. He was at the edge of despair, but at the same time was beginning to understand …
“How dare you pry into my family affairs ? Did my wife come to you in secret ? Are you in league with her … hand and glove ?”
“Secret ? Hand and glove ?” he chuckled. “I should think not Mr Richards. It seems that all this is a secret only to you!”
At that blow Jonathan took hold of the officer’s untidy desk. He immediately straightened up, “Am I then responsible for both their disappearances?”
“Now, now, let us not get all rattled over an incident that has been in our files for months. Yes, your wife, Heather, I believe, informed us of your son’s misfortune after Sherlock Holmes had given her his trashy report. You know that the police keep abreast of these foreign matters.”
“That means you urged her to leave then…?” Jonathan shouted, his peevish, bloodshot eyes blurry from anger and insult.
“Not exactly.” The officer replied coolly, twiddling a pen about his thumb. “The police do not urge, as you put it; we merely suggested that since the detective in question happened to be a crank, or charlatan if you wish, other means of locating your son would have to be adopted.”
“Such as?” Jonathan’s voice rose a pitch.
“Such as you yourself going to fetch him, old chap! And since you haven’t made a move for over six months, well, it appears that the misses has taken it upon herself to do what you should have done.”
The accusation addressed so pointedly at him drove him to a frenzy.
“Are you accusing me of parental misguidance ? How dare you …” he shouted, flushing red in the face.
“Let us not get nasty now, Mr Richards. Would you prefer that I send you packing with trite remarks or stencilled phrases like ‘oh, not to worry, it can happen to the best of us. Keep a stiff upper lip’?”
“Rubbish! Anyway, how can you be so sure about all this? Has she left you a note?”
“Police intuition, my good man. Intuition,” snorted the officer all smiles, his cold blue eyes gleaming with rakish roguery.
“Intuition ! What nonsense !” Jonathan exploded.
The officer resumed in a mollifying tone, “Just go home and wait for a letter or a phone call. We, too, shall do our own investigation. No need to put yourself out.” The aloof nonchalance of the police officer’s reaction and comportment infuriated Jonathan even more. He turned on his heels and scuttled out of the station as if having been tutored by some old nanny.
The late morning sun lay hidden behind layers of thick, grey clouds. He felt a sudden chill. A sudden urge to scream at passers-by that eyed him with either indifference or overt suspicion. A scream that would bring back his Heather … his son !
“We can go find him together, Heather … please …,” he lamented to himself. A few drops of rain fell on his feverish forehead. He let the drops drip down into his parched mouth. He needed a drink. The whole sky was engulfing him in a white cloak of despondency. The chills grew longer, succeeded quicker.
“No, impossible ! She couldn’t have gone on her own. She knows nothing of travelling nor of taking care of herself. I’ll call Heathrow to confirm it.”
That officer’s smirk burned his insides. “How dare he tell me more about my wife than …” Jonathan’s train of thought came to an abrupt halt, “A conspiracy! Yes, everyone is ganging up on me; that blasted sister of hers, Andy, Mrs Whitby, Lawrence … even the Stevenage police ! The whole lot of them are in on it. How dare that officer address me as an old chap ! Heather planned this behind my back in connivance with a pack of deceiving scourges …”
In a savage rage he kicked at the water-logged leaves that clung to the pavement. He struck at them violently whilst the pitter-patter of rain fell heavier and heavier. Several leaves rebuffed his vicious assaults, clinging all the more securely to the now drenched pavement. He flew into a tantrum beating the rebellious leaves, “I’ll show you!” he cried aloud, wrenching them out of their refractory state, tearing them to pieces with his boot.
Several women passing by stopped to observe this unusual spectacle. Jonathan, suddenly conscious of their regard, ceased his petulant outburst. There he stood, cutting a gloomy, lonesome figure in the now pouring rain. He felt like a helpless child. He moved swiftly to his car, flung open the door and sped off home, thoroughly disgusted with the police, his neighbours, Stevenage … with Humanity as a whole …
Once at home, wet as a rat, he immediately threw himself down on the sofa in the sitting-room. He wanted to cry but could not. He thought of Heathrow. As he reached for the receiver, his bloodshot eyes fell on a folded piece of paper stuck between the blue china bought in Amsterdam, the artificial wax orchids and two family picture frames on the mantelshelf of the hearth. Why had he not seen that this morning? He stood and looked at it carefully. Heather’s handwriting had scribbled his name on the fold of the paper. With a trembling hand he unfolded it. A sudden sadness overwhelmed him…
Dearest Jonathan,
Off to Southeast Asia to find our Francis. I’m sure you understand my decision given the fact that for six months you have made no move yourself. I had no other choice love, believe me. You’ll be on your own for some time, but you’ll get on just fine without me. I’m sorry I said nothing of this to you, but woman’s intuition told me what you would have been very cross with me if I had. Now that I am gone pray for my safe return with our dear Francis securely at my side.
Love, your Heather.
P.S. I shan’t tell Francis that his poor Patty died. It would break his heart. I’ll let you handle that on our arrival.
Resignedly Jonathan let the note drop to the carpeted floor. He returned to the sofa and lay back exhausted, brooding over his wife’s leaving … her lack of affection … of honesty towards him. “A conspiracy!” he whimpered, planned by the police and Heather. “And strike me dead if Hazel wasn’t involved in the whole thing ! That brazen hussy probably put her up to it …”
His face dropped into his hands and he began to cry softly. He dried his tears and fixed his attention on the picture of sixteen-year-old Francis on the mantel shelf with his dog Patty, at that time just a puppy. The reality of the situation creeped into the empty house. His whole existence seemed suddenly forfeited. What had prompted his conduct? He had only himself to blame for the whole mess. It was true, they were right. He had done little for his only child. Hiring a detective had been his idea, a way of compensating for his apathy, indifference … even his obtuse disregard of the whole affair as if Francis had been a victim of his own puerile doings, and would just have to find a way out of the mishap himself. Alas, at that time he had no means of weighing the consequences of his indolence in his wife’s eyes. She surely despised him! Jonathan, jaded by these unwelcoming but candid thoughts, stretched out on the sofa and dozed off into a troubled sleep.
A very troubled sleep during which he dreamt that his death had awakened him to life. Little did Jonathan Richards know his wife would never return …
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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
The butcher had written many poems without any dream of compiling those for a book. His shop assistant, a college-student, did a part-time job to fund his education. Being a reluctant bachelor, the butcher nurtured his romantic side through poetry and managed to convey a fairly youthful visage of his personality rarely found in men following his métier.
Mohsin independently handled the job of dealing with pesky customers haggling over price and quantity without displeasing them while Yunus sat in a corner, propped against a cushion, lost in the universe of verses, oblivious of what transpired around him unless he was called out to tender the change to any customer. Whether Yunus managed to create something valuable when Mohsin did the chopping and grinding mincemeat hovered in the realm of doubt. His trance-like state seemed to suggest he was engrossed in a creative exercise that ordinary mortals would never associate with a meat-seller.
“Sahib, your poems stab the heart. Honestly saying so – what will I get by flattering you…” Mohsin repeated this sentence like mantra at least twice every day. Though Yunus did not accept it with a smile, Mohsin knew his quick rise as an employee was on account of the litany of praises sung in favour of the blossoming poet well past his prime. With years of experience and loyalty piling up in favour of Mohsin, he was given further responsibilities to shoulder. Managing cash and transactions empowered him and delivered greater freedom to Yunus to pursue his art with singular focus and minimum distractions.
Whenever Yunus was mired in doubt regarding the finesse of what he had written, he sought feedback from Mohsin. Before he could complete the couplet, Mohsin broke into applause that made Yunus suspect a ring of fake appreciation.
“Deewar ki kya haisiyat, dooriyaan toh pehle se thi[1],” Yunus began with promise.
As the din of wah-wah[2]rent the air, Yunus looked disgruntled with the premature reaction of Mohsin, and repeated his two cents on suitable behaviour of admirers, “A sincere listener should have the patience to hear the whole thing first.”
Being an educated youth, Mohsin qualified as the ideal audience who measured the impact of words flowing from Yunus’s pen. It was tested on young listeners to find emotional connection. Unfortunately, the growing disenchantment with Mohsin disheartened Yunus who sometimes felt he was not getting what he was expecting from Mohsin even though he had been generous to give him more than what he deserved. On the other hand, Mohsin hesitated to be candid and did not speak his mind as he was scared of earning his boss’s displeasure. This part-time job was crucial for his education and he had do idea whether he would be kept employed if he did not eulogise the poetic renditions of his employer.
Sensing a losing battle, Mohsin pumped up his self-confidence with a meaty response, “You felt offended for no reason, Sahib. I wanted you to have full faith in your words. Too much modesty is never good for talent,” Mohsin rallied forth as a rabid admirer who stuck to his assertion that he never doled out fake acclaim.
Mohsin sounded firm and decisive. Yunus specified non-existence of spite in what he explained. As a conciliatory move to validate the observations made by Mohsin, Yunus said wholeheartedly, without rising from his seat, “Okay then, let us hold a small gathering at my residence – where I read out some recent works. You can bring in some of your friends to comment on my work.”
Mohsin accepted the invitation with an enthusiastic, ingratiating smile, confident that his friends would happily tag along for an evening of poetic ambrosia.
Leading a group of friends with literary taste, Mohsin arrived before time to make the necessary arrangements. When Yunus opened the hall door, he was delighted to see a beautiful college girl in the group. Perhaps they were expecting a younger poet without the protruding belly and shades of pepper in the beard. Yunus ordered Mohsin to arrange snacks and serve drinks to the guests. Mohsin rose from his seat and tapped the shoulder of the girl next to him, without hesitation, asking her to assist him in the kitchen chore.
Despite knowing that his friends already knew what he did, Yunus explained he was a butcher by profession and dabbled in poetry for solace. Arriving with a tray full of munchies, Mohsin did the rest of the introduction in front of Yunus, raising a thundering applause from his friends who valued the existence of contrast in his personality.
The befitting introductions were soon over. Yunus also praised Mohsin in front of his friends. Then he took a seat on the diwan covered with a satin sheet and began to select verses from his diary. Mohsin urged him to recite love-related couplets on separation and heartbreak. Just once Yunus had briefly disclosed how he lost his beloved partner to another man who showed promise of a better future than what a butcher could provide. The positive outcome of this setback was that he did not turn into an alcoholic but channelised his frustrations into poetic outbursts.
After listening to some of his couplets, the young group celebrated in collective euphoria, as if they had discovered a remarkable poet in the most unlikely place. When a friend of Mohsin egged him to quit the profession and embrace poetry full-time, Mohsin shot back in defence of Yunus: “A job is a job after all. Nothing is less dignified. He is not a terrorist killing innocent people in the name of faith. I also work in the same place, and I am your friend. How does it matter or change our relationship?”
“What you are saying is true, but don’t you think if he has to read out in a mushaira or a large, diverse gathering of poets from all over India, he will find it difficult to explain he is a butcher? No introduction would ensure better reception of his work as the snob poets, who associate creativity as the preserve of the privileged few, would baulk at such a background,” his friend added, looking straight into the eyes of Yunus who mustered the courage to ask for her name.
“You are Madam…,” Yunus managed these words hoping quick completion of the sentence from her.
Choosing to defend Saira, Yunus confronted Mohsin, “I think Saira ji is right. She has a valid point regard the background factor. I have been through this experience for years and I fully agree with her. I should avoid any introduction that shocks them.”
Mohsin had silenced most of his friends before the humble submission of Yunus came forth. The brief exchange enabled emotional investment in Saira and Yunus. When he resumed his recitation, his eyes focused on Saira with whom he had established some familiarity. Holding forth like a seasoned poet who had been through many renditions, Yunus read out his works on love and angst, on conflict and subtle violence in relationships.
When Mohsin disclosed that Yunus would like to bring out a collection of poems some day, though he had never expressed the desire in all these years, he was generalising the trend and did not expect Saira would be the first to react. Her response surpassed what others in the group came up with later. This put pressure on Yunus who felt he had to get the stuff published by leading publishers or face ridicule for grand declarations that never saw the light of the day. A believer that art should spread its own fragrance was now exploring ways to push his art through, to reach out to audiences. This made him somewhat uncomfortable with himself – a self-loving poet craving for recognition.
Mohsin was entrusted the job of sifting the best poems and he outsourced the task to Saira who had a very good ear. When Yunus handed over the diaries to Mohsin, he expected Saira to come forward and receive it as a custodian of his creative wealth.
Saira suggested the name of some leading publications. Before Yunus could frame a reply, Mohsin said, “Yunus bhai[4] is ready to invest in getting his poems published. These have potential and must reach out to young readers. What do you say, Saira?”
Saira looked blank for a while and then gathered herself to utter a few words of encouragement. “Yes, it should not be allowed to rot because of the lack of publishers who are money driven these days.”
“Once he reaches out with his work globally – nowadays it is easy to be heard, seen and read via digital platform. We can make an online push on various platforms and see him through,” Mohsin chipped in with his strategy.
“You are suggesting pay and publish. I would never do that,” Yunus said firmly in front of the group.
Friends disappeared after hearing the stern refusal. Mohsin and Saira were disappointed that he would not cave in with ease. A good amount of persuasion would do the trick. After a month of peace, Yunus delivered a surprise by agreeing to the proposal and asked Mohsin to rope in Saira to manage his launch.
Mohsin quickly agreed to whatever Yunus had said – before he underwent another change of heart that would disappoint. There was a growing circle of young, local admirers who heard from Mohsin that Yunus was an entertaining poet.
Mohsin got back with another offer. Saira knew a publisher who launched talented poets and did everything for them, for a nominal fee of one lakh rupees. Saira would work in tandem with the team to ensure a successful break for Yunus. Without asking for details, Yunus agreed to shell out the full amount within a week. He asked Mohsin to withdraw cash from his account and pay the publisher and get the book released before his next birthday.
“Actually, Saira’s friend’s father runs the printing press, and I would personally request for an upfront discount,” Mohsin proposed.
The mere mention of Saira gave Yunus assurance that he was in safe hands.
“Make sure everything happens on time, without delays,” Yunus stressed, resisting the urge to suggest him to take Saira’s help in the execution of the project.
For a quirky launch, the approved idea was to launch it in the meat shop as it would gather attention and stir curiosity. Meat and books – unusual companions though they have a lot to do with flesh.
Some 20-odd people turned up for the launch, mostly Mohsin’s friends. The space could accommodate around fifty people like any small bookshop. The smell of meat was hanging in the air even though rose perfume spray was used a lot. The gritty reality of the setting was something they could not let go of.
The poet was dressed in traditional casuals. Mohsin updated him that one hundred copies had been ordered online, and some free copies were also given to friends to write positive reviews. The entire print run of 500 copies would get sold out within a month was what Saira’s friend had promised.
Yunus was hoping the launch would be covered by leading newspapers, but he was not aware he was expected to pay for that as well. On the dais to launch the book were Saira and Yunus. The poet held a small portion of the book with his chubby fingertips while Saira clutched the rest of it firmly.
Mohsin clicked pictures of the poet alone, and left Saira, looking gorgeous in sequined turquoise, out of the frame except the solo snap. In that, she had uncovered the wrapped book and showed it to the cheering crowd that included some old friends of Yunus, who were expecting nice announcements to follow, some declaration that the two would marry. It was disappointing when nothing of that sort happened on stage, and they had to leave with a packet of sweets for the launch along with a complimentary copy of the book.
Yunus displayed some copies of his poetry book inside his meat shop, on a tall, wooden rack that was visible to meat buyers. Within a month of answering queries regarding the book, Mohsin stopped reporting for work. For some days, Yunus waited for him to come back. But when he did not turn up or receive his phone calls, he suspected something fishy.
Now Yunus had to serve customers, pack meat and do everything that Mohsin used to do. Poetry took a backseat as the whole day he was busy with this job. He understood how valuable the guy was to him after he left. Late one evening, a message popped in from Mohsin, saying he was quitting the job on health grounds, and he should look for a replacement. It was a confirmation that he was never going to turn up.
Yunus messaged him with the promise of a salary hike, but the bait did not work. He hoped to get a chance to allure him with some perks. Since poor health was not a convincing reason to leave the job, Yunus thought he had secured better opportunities. But this abrupt end to their five-year relationship was not the proper way to wrap it up. He did deserve some better explanation of this sudden disappearance – given the fact that he had been quite good to Mohsin all these years, treating him like a brother instead of an employee.
Hoping he would build a loyal base of readers, Yunus distributed the copies he had in stock, absolutely free, to those who showed interest in reading his work or those who bought a kilo of mutton. His strategy did not achieve the goal as nobody came back to give reviews. Some of them stopped patronising his meat shop altogether.
Yunus pondered why he lost loyal meat buyers when he tried to convert them into lovers of poetry. Perhaps they felt guilty that the state of art had been reduced to such a pitiable state or they felt bad that a poet of his worth had to sell meat to survive. He had inflated the hope that his tender poetry would win praise like his tender meat. The only good outcome was that the stock of books came to an end.
The departure of Mohsin intrigued him at times. He wondered what had happened was beyond the realm of his imagination. It was perhaps the handiwork of Saira or maybe Mohsin sensed his growing attraction for Saira had to be curtailed as he could soon try to get closer to her. Negative thoughts exploded within, and he wished to unravel the truth although there was no way for him to trace the fellow or seek answers from his band of friends.
Six months passed. One or two customers who had stopped coming now reappeared with praise for his work, urging him to read more classics and write more about society and relationships. He received their feedback with humility and disclosed his career as a poet was short-lived as the book did not get traction or positive response from critics. The middle-aged gentleman was direct in advice and urged him to write about the plight of Muslims. Yunus kept quiet as he was not a radical fellow. Fearing misinterpretation of his silence, he answered in a roundabout way without mentioning the names of the countries, “We are better off as a community here. I thank my forefathers for not going there.”
The customer was persistent. “Many did not go because they didn’t want to, but many were not allowed in there as they could not feed them all. Also, there was no meaning in creating a poor homeland.”
This was a critical observation. Yunus preferred to conclude the conversation without a rejoinder. The meat was packed and handed over. While making the payment, he repeated the advice of writing politically charged poems, to awaken the masses. The incendiary content could foment trouble between the communities. He was cautious of his words inflaming passions on either side. As a sensitive poet who operated in the orbit of love and heartbreak, this dangerous territory could prove counter productive.
A few weeks later, when a mob lynching episode was reported in the media, he felt like pouring forth his emotional turmoil on humanitarian grounds. He imagined he was a potential candidate to be delivered similar treatment by fanatics. Out of sensitivity for the lynched person, he wrote a few lines but did not muster the strength to put it out in the public domain. The growing trend of persecution made him an advocate of peace on both sides.
Yunus felt charged by the power of his own voice and somehow managed to overpower the urge he felt to vent it out and reach out to the masses. He was drawn to the idea of making a transition to the political fray through poetry of rebellion, making it a point to give an outlet to his hurt sentiments.
The desire to showcase his new poems to Mohsin and Saira bothered him. He imagined they would summarily disapprove of the switch from romance to politics. The mass media overdid it so there were not going to be takers for his poetic take. Mohsin was not there to speak his mind and his absence meant a deep personal loss. Unable to recover from it, Yunus was ready to mount a full-fledged attack through his feisty, no-holds barred pen.
His tendency to be sensitive was challenged as he suffered twin blows. Even though Saira had not been a part of his life, he felt her absence deeply, no less than how much he missed Mohsin. The bitterness within was in some way inextricably linked to their cold disposition. When the sight of bloodshed fails to rouse people, poetry cannot be expected to perform miracles. Youth have a deep, intense connection with romance in literature. As they keep falling in love, they need new voices and expressions to relate to and communicate their feelings instead of recycling the treasures of the past with waning impact.
One afternoon, Yunus received an invitation to attend a mushaira in front of a strong crowd of five thousand people. The nominal fee of Rs 1000 did not matter as he had spent many times more in the past without any gains. The temptation of a sizeable crowd was high, and it was a formal invite. The names of the organisers were listed but he did not know any of them personally, so he believed it was the result of his hard work put into his previous collection that had finally got noticed and he was being given the chance to read in front of a large gathering based on his literary worth alone.
Yunus loved this idea more than anything else and he started rehearsing for it. He bought a microphone to practice in front of it – to hold it and know how much distance was ideal so he wouldn’t fumble during the reading session. He got a Sherwani[5] with special zari[6] stitched from the tailor for the event as he wanted to flaunt a royal look where nobody would identify him as a butcher. He did riyaaz[7] to make sure he did not forget the lines and shortlisted some of his best works. From love to separation to intimacy to politics to culture, the potpourri was nothing less than a heady cocktail.
On the day of performance, Yunus reached the stage and was surprised to find Mohsin and Saira seated in the front row. As he established eye contact with Saira first, he smiled, but she looked the other way, leaning heavily on Mohsin’s shoulder. As he read out a new one on betrayal, Mohsin was the first to clap and soon there was a climax of resounding claps, including Saira putting her hennaed hands together to applaud Yunus the poet.
For a while Yunus was lost in the maze of questions related to their disappearance but he composed himself thinking this was the best opportunity to perform well before the large crowd who could breathe life into his lifeless career that was close to the last stage. Having been a failed lover all his life, he resorted to his pet theme with the fond hope of impressing the crowd. Despite the mehndi in his hair and beard, he managed to set young hearts ablaze with his bass voice and choice of words.
As the cheering rose and reached a crescendo, Yunus was encouraged to recite his political poems. After fifteen minutes of holding the audience spellbound, there was a sudden outbreak of violence inside the hall, with a stampede-like situation developing fast. People of another community had barged in with lathis to stop the mushaira that was streamed live on social media channels.
Mohsin rushed to the stage to save Yunus from the angry crowd. The mixing of unruly elements to create mischief had vitiated the atmosphere. Yunus embraced Mohsin and had a volley of questions that Mohsin promised to answer later after managing a safe exit from the troubled spot. Saira also escorted him out from the backstage, through the VIP exit gate and made Yunus sit in their tinted car.
“Why did you read out political poems here? It earned you the wrath of the other community. Yunus, you have gambled everything for fifteen minutes of fame. See how thirsty they are to butcher you now. The mob, I mean. Your session has gone viral, and they are baying for your blood. Lakhs have already seen it and it has fomented trouble for the administration. Why do poets need to be politically vocal? Stay restricted to the tender subjects,” Mohsin went hammer and tongs like never before.
“Why should I be afraid of the mob? I am a poet applauded by listeners here. Invited to read out,” Yunus justified his right to express his political views with full freedom.
You mean thousands of admirers? Let me correct you – thousands of enemies you have created. And yes, let me clear your confusion. Saira insisted we should invite you through a friend. Her father organised the mushaira this time after returning from abroad. Anyway, we are dropping you by car to the railway station and from there you board a train. We are not responsible for your safety during the journey and thereafter,” Mohsin said with final authority.
“Why are you doing so much for me? Let me die here – throw me in front of the crowds baying for my blood. Let them butcher me, lynch me right here.”
“You helped me when I was in need. When I was courting Saira and waiting for her yes to my offer of a relationship. Then she agreed and we got married. She belongs to a rich family and wanted me to look after her family business. So I had to leave your job. There is nothing bad in progress and selfishness. But Saira did not want you to know this –she felt you were beginning to have a soft corner for her, and this news would break your heart.”
“Lucky fellow indeed – succeeded in love in the first attempt and made it big, unlike me who always failed in love,” Yunus sulked in the back seat of the car while the couple in the front glanced at his expression in the mirror.
“You have spoken a lot, just tell me one more thing. Why did you want me to be a poet? I was happy as a butcher, writing for myself, why you wanted to bring my works to the world? Did you really think my voice matters?” Yunus asked without much hope of a satisfactory reply in the presence of Saira.
Before he could say a word, Saira answered on his behalf in a firm voice. “NO – let me break this illusion. What you write is entertainment and not poetry in the league of great poets. You do not have anything immortal to offer. But it is a good hobby for a person who does a ruthless, brutal job, to nurture the sensitive side. That is why I liked your efforts and praised it. That’s it. For the youth, anything with a touch of romance sparks interest. The same applies to poetry.”
It was heartbreaking for Yunus to hear these words from a lady who had launched his only book, the lady he liked to treat as his muse. The clapping audience, he was told, had been tutored to do so, since most of them were employees of the company owned by Saira’s family.
At the railway station they looked around to see whether there was any person following them. Yunus was safe from the irate mob. He boarded the train to his hometown and was seen off by the couple from the over bridge. Yunus waved through the window as the train inched out of the platform, but they had already left. He felt he was leading a meaningless life, and he should cut it short by jumping off the moving train.
When he reached his destination early morning, he took an auto-rickshaw to his meat shop. He was greeted by the sight of ruin. There was no tender meat shop as everything was gutted. The house behind his shop was also torched. It was punishment meted out for being a political poet who needed to be silenced in this fashion.
An old neighbour walked up to him, to console him and rested his frail hand on the shoulder. He played on his smartphone the poetry Yunus had read out yesterday and waited for its completion before praising him: “You said it very well, Yunus. Speaking the truth makes one pay a heavy price. May Allah grant you the strength to rebuild your life.”
Yunus controlled his tears and moved inside the shop where half-burnt pages of his poems lay scattered on the dismantled Yunus Meat Shop signboard. Observing all this wreckage worsened his grief as he could not avoid thinking of Mohsin and Saira and their savage words. How they had teamed up and flourished while he touched the lowest ebb, chasing a dream that was a mirage for a man of modest talent. His copious tears were apparently flowing to regret the loss of property, but nobody here would ever know the other big loss he had suffered that left him heartbroken.
[1] What can walls do, the distances were there earlier itself
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Mr Richards, employed by the British Council, had been teaching English at a posh, private preparatory school in Thailand for more than four years in the Province of Prachuap Khira Khan in a coastal town named Mawdaung. His first and sixth form pupils enjoyed his humour much more than his tedious grammatical explanations, and Mr Richards had no qualms about this.
Mr Richards taught twelve hours a week which offered him ample time to learn Thai, travel extensively throughout the country, especially up North in the dusk-filled jungles and along the Mekong River shores exploring villages and temples.
The one-storey school, perched high up on the brow of a hill, overlooked the turquoise-tainted Indian Ocean. The large windows of his class afforded pupil and professor much visual pleasure when grammar became too much of a bore, and Mr Richards too weary or hot to break the boredom.
“Now, instead of casting cursory glances out of the windows,” shouted a nettled Mr Richards, one very grey, windy day, “who can tell me what function the word ‘chewing’ plays in the composed word ‘chewing-gum’ ?” All the smiling faces and darting eyes happily translated their perfect ignorance of the answer. However, a minute later, a very pretty girl, one of the brightest in his class, excitedly cried out, “A verb, sir !” Mr Richards gave her a benign smile and shook his head.
“No, no. It is not because it ends in -ing that it is a verb,” he lectured in a paternal tone, so overtly exercised by Mr Richards, and so perfunctorily accepted by the pupils. He scanned the eager heads of the others ; alas none had the desire to crack the enigma. He checked his watch : “Oh well, I’ll let them out ten minutes or so before the bell rings. I have to catch that bus to Bangkok,” he sighed, still waiting for an answer that never came.
“No bother. Tonight think about it and tomorrow morning let me know, right ?” He stood up. “Go on now … down the hill … off to the beach, I’ll give you a treat this afternoon.”
Before he had even finished the word ‘afternoon’ the whole class, besides two girls, grabbed their books and scrambled for the door. Out they stormed, racing downhill towards the shingled beach of the crescent-shaped bay. Mr Richards observed them from the large windows. Their delightful screams made him a bit queasy: he had been told never to allow the pupils out before the bell. He, nevertheless, had done so on several occasions. He shrugged his shoulders, picked up his books and papers from the wooden desk and was about to make for the door when a terrible thundering or roaring sound froze him in his footfalls. He swivelled on his heels and gasped in horror as rolls and rolls of water smashed against the plate glass of the window panes. The violence of the impact threw the two girls to the floor screaming, but besides a few chinks through which spouts of water gushed in, the windows had miraculously withstood the brunt of the tidal wave. For a tidal wave it was, and a tremendous one! The two girls remained lying on the floor, crying but unhurt.
Mr Richards ran to the windows. The waves had receded, but what he espied below on the crescent-shaped seascape, or what had been a crescent-shaped seascape, caused him to fall back and scream involuntarily : “Dear God! There’s nothing left!” Indeed nothing remained: no palm trees, no vendors’ shacks along the shore, no boulders. No shore ! Only a vast ocean that lay several metres below the school, now churning a glaucous thickness under grey, sultry skies, upon which floated a myriad bobbing flotsam: uprooted palm-trees, lifeless cows and dogs, shoals of bloated fish, roofs of straw, pots and pans, planks, bright coloured robes with or without their proprietors’ bodies inside them !
“Bodies !” he cried covering his mouth. “My pupils … Have they all …” He dared not finish his sentence. The two girls stared at him, mouths agape, eyes deorbited. “The boys and girls floating in the water … Dear God they’ve all drowned !” He wept and wailed, stamping his feet, grabbing at his hair. The girls too began to weep and wail.
In an instant he came to himself. “Their deaths are my fault,” he mused. “I let them out too soon … against all school regulations. Blast ! Why did I do that … just today ?” He soon realised that the headmaster would be on to him soon enough; he feared his starched character. And the parents ? They would accuse him of manslaughter. He would be arrested and put in prison, even hanged for involuntary homicide ! He had every call to be frightened …
Taking hold of himself, Mr Richards knew he had to flee very quickly from Thailand before the headmaster and the parents learned about his unpardonable blunder. And they would learn about it soon enough when the panic and hysteria had died down.
He leapt over the still supine girls and rushed out the door. Once outside he noted that the town near the school had hardly been damaged. But below, he caught glimpses of undulating corpses being poled out of the waters by villagers and policemen in pirogues, rowboats or catamarans. The tidal wave had been gigantic. He turned his attention away from the catastrophe and fled home …
He jogged up to his bungalow further up the grassy hill at the edge of town. Speedily he gathered what he could, for the alert would be out for him at any moment … Or, so he believed. A change of clothes, one or two books and his official documents he stuffed into a small backpack, and without locking his door quickly made a bee-line for the bus station, where luckily he managed to jump on a bus for Bangkok. Apparently no one recognised him, nor followed him. He paid the fare, settled into one of the many empty seats and stared stony-eyed out of the window. His red, puffy eyes filled with tears. What a blithering fool he had been ! And now, what had he become ? A fugitive … no, worse, a murderer ! “Dead ! All dead !” rose a ghastly whisper in his ear. He had to get away as far as possible as the scenes of the bloated pupils danced before his bloodshot eyes.
Once in Bangkok he wasted no time. Further North he travelled by bus into the Province of Chiang Rai. There, in a village whose name he hardly recalled, he spent two nights pondering his dilemma, assuaging his jaded nerves, chary of leaving any sign or evidence of his frantic intinerary, thinking only of a plan to save his neck. He couldn’t possibly stay in Thailand, the police surely were now on his trail, or would be very soon. Neither could he return to England: the bobbies would be waiting for him at the airport, ready to handcuff the murderer of over a dozen innocent children !
Then in the middle of a hot, sleepless night it suddenly occurred to him: he would shave his head and eyebrows, don a monk’s robe, change his expensive Russell and Bramley shoes for sandals and set out for Laos. He had travelled widely in Laos and could even speak a smattering of Kra-dai. He had taught in Luang Prabang for three years and had many friends amongst his former pupils, two of whom had entered monkhood in Pak Beng at the Wat or temple Jin Jong Jaeng. “I shall escape naked from the shipwreck of mundane life,” he murmured, smiling inwardly at his little metaphor which he recollected from his childhood upbringing. But would he ?.. Mr Richards sunk into his lumpy bed: the figure of an outlaw, a pariah, a self-exile stood before him like a shadow … a double of himself: -swollen little bodies drift like flotsam in waters,darkly … that fey voice droned above a tumult of incongruous thoughts.
Mr Richards shook his head and said aloud, “To Pak Beng. There I’ll join the sangha[1] of the Theravada monks. There I shall seek spiritual solace, rid my mind and spirit of those drifting bodies of cheerful boys and girls, swept away from the joys of life because I had a bus to catch!” So he hoped.
Yet the obstacles of reaching the temple caused him concern. The Laotian government frowned upon Western spiritual-seekers cluttering their monasteries and temples. He needed a visa. Where would he find a consulate in the North of Thailand ? And would they issue one to a ‘Western monk’ ?
He jumped up from the bed, and as he did his mind cleared of all that tumultuous tossing. He had befriended many of his pupils’ parents whilst working in Luang Prabang, and he knew, by correspondence, and his frequent voyages to Laos, that one of them, Mr Inthavong, had been appointed consul in one of the North Thailand consulates. He rushed down to the reception and asked at the desk where the nearest Laotian consulate could be found.
“You must travel by bus to Wiang Kaen near the Mekong River, sir.”
“Are there any other consulates ?”
“Not that I know of, sir.”
Mr Richards heart skipped a beat; Mr Inthavong must be working there. He had to take the chance.
The next morning the ‘Western monk’ got on a bus for Wiang Kaen, carrying only a small bag for his passport, photos and a bit of lunch. All along the tedious journey to the North-Eastern town Mr Richards prayed that Mr Inthavong would be there; it was his only chance to obtain a visa for Laos.
He reached Wiang Kaen by nightfall, found accommodations at a temple guest house and spent a horribly sleepless night, tormented now by the thought of the failure of his plan, now by the screeching rats and buzzing mosquitoes.
At nine o’clock sharp he was at the front gate of the bright new consulate, a lovely two-storey bungalow-like edifice enshrined by lush gardens carpeted with the most perfume-scented fruit trees and flowers. He rang. The security guard strolled out and sized him up. Mr Richards politely mentioned his friend’s name. The unshaven security guard raised two quizzical eyebrows, but took his passport and photo and left him to ruminate the events that were about to unfold behind that iron barrier, inside the lovely bungalow. It all seemed hours to him as that voice repeated “irresponsible murderer !” Suddenly the security guard stood before him, together with a small, portly man dressed in a suit and tie.
“Can that be you Mr Richards? A bonze? A monk? What have you done? Where is all your beautiful black hair ?” All this was said in imperious tones much to the delight of the monk who sighed in relief: his pupil’s father had recognised him! He wiped the perspiration off his furrowed brow. “Step in, please … out of the heat,” the consul pleaded. So they both strolled into the air-conditioned consulate, Mr Inthavong wearing Russell and Bramley shoes, recently polished, Mr Richards, a pair of worn-out sandals.
Inside the monk was served tea and a bowl of rice in Mr Inthavong’s office, he himself abstaining from joining him since he had already breakfasted. “I’m so happy to see you Mr Richards,” began the enthusiastic consul. “What brings you here, and dressed like that ? Are you really a monk now ?” Mr Richards broke into a tapestry of lies that, as time went by, he himself began to believe: Living so long in Asia had infused his soul with the compassionate virtues of Buddhism, and in Laos, he hoped to pursue his path deeper in the compassionate depths of Buddhahood in order to glean its treasures. The consul smiled like a child does when listening to his or her favourite nursery rhyme.
Mr Richards then got down to business: his visa ! Mr Inthavong nodded, examining his passport and two photos. “You shall have it in three days. Meanwhile, you are to be my guest here, upstairs with my wife and two children.”
And so the first snag had been circumvented. For those three days, Mr Richards, plied with food, drink and homely conversation, had all but forgotten the wave, the floating bodies and merciless whisper … the abominable figure of a self-exiled …
On the morning of the fourth day, armed with a three-month visa, the Western monk set out to cross the Mekong River to Ban Houei Sai on a Nam Ou boat with six other passengers. It had been so long since he had been on the Mother of all Rivers. He inhaled the tropical river air in silent jubilation. As they navigated slowly downstream, his thoughts interlaced with the flecks of foam, wandered back to his days spent on the Mekong at Guan Lei on the Chinese border, where having been temporarily stranded, he finally was welcomed aboard a small six-cabin dai, a Chinese boat, heading for Thailand.
What a voyage! They had anchored by the soundless jungles at night, machetted through them in the evenings in search of mangoes, navigated by bathing rosy water buffalows and by tiny golden stupa-tipped isles. What an adventure! The crew had left him off in a small Laotian village where he made his way to Luang Prabang on one of those blue, wooden box-boats, gliding by stilt-home villages under whose piles lounged or snorted huge black pigs, scenes so reminiscent of Alix Aymé’s paintings[2] housed at the Luang Prabang Royal Palace. Then the real adventure began, upstream on the Nam Ou in a frail six-seater river boat, slowly weaving between treacherous snags and swift cross-currents. He passed the Park Ou caves, Nong Khiaw and Muang Khwa, sleeping in bungalows and eating rice with thick pieces of pork in the pristine territories of the Hmong tribal peoples. Alas, his grand voyage to Hatsa ended in Sop Pong near the Vietnamese border, the authorities refusing him an entry visa to cross Vietnam then back into Laos where he wished to continue on his river voyage to Chao Dan Tra at the Chinese border.
Ah yes, those were the days of freedom … of existential sovereignty. And now ? A fugitive … a prisoner to his own wretched egoism, Mr Richards suddenly felt overwhelmed by a deep loneliness. His mixed recollections were suddenly interrupted by shouts from the shore : they had reached Ban Houei Sai.
Once the formalities were completed, Mr Richards managed to hop on a collective taxi which sped him towards Pak Beng on a smooth road. He reached the town before nightfall, and to his joy he spotted his two former pupils seated on the temple steps. Were they waiting for him ? Indeed they were, thanks to a letter sent by Mr Inthavong who had explained in great detail to the Satu or Venerable Father of the temple-sangha Mr Richards’ religious fervour and enthusiastic intentions to enter monkhood. The consul had added that nothing should be said to the police or to other state authorities of his entry into Buddhahood.
His former pupils, who had grown into full manhood, heads shaven and bare foot, happily led him to meet the Satu Father. To tell the truth, Mr Richards hardly recognised them. But that made no difference. As expected, he deposited a large donation (all the cash he had on him which amounted to some six hundred pounds), then was given three bright new ochre-coloured robes of pure cotton, shown to his splayed window cell, through which he had a slight view of the inner temple gardens, and was told the daily procedures of his initiation as a pha or a novice: collective prayers in the Prayer Hall, breakfast, Sutra readings until lunch, discussion, rest period, an hour or two of manual labour such as gardening, restoring frescoes or termite-riddled woodwork, personal perpetual moving meditations, yoga exercises, then a light meal before the final collective prayer and sleep until the sound of the gong at four o’clock in the morning.
When the two monks had left him, Mr Richards lay back on the straw mat on the earthen floor that served as a bed. He had been given immaculately clean sheets and a pillow. A mosquito net had been nailed to the splayed window. The walls bore no images nor any other colour than a light beige. Putting his hands behind his head he followed the slowly turning ceiling fan with his eyes: yes, his plan had succeeded. No one would ever find him here. Yet he had no reason to rejoice. He would never again see his aging parents seated at the hearth reading or conversing in low voices, his trusty Irish Setter … his friends at the pub. A sharp pain of remorse, or better put, compunction stabbed at his chest. “Dead!Drowned ! All dead !” the whispers hammered at his temple. Would that relentless voice ever grant him respite ? Would anyone ever forgive him ? Only penance. Only the fires of tribulation could scrape away the rust of vice that had corroded his being. A life of contrition would be the most appropriate path for him, the most responsible. Tears again began to well up in his eyes. He fell asleep and awakened to the cascading sound of two or three vibrating gongs.
So began Mr Richards’ initiation into Therevada monkhood. He had to learn the akkara alphabet in order to read the sutras, the Buddhist acriptures. His practice of many languages enabled him to accomplish this in two months. What he enjoyed most was the tham nong or the musical rhythm method which empowers the monks to memorise the hundreds of sutras of the Sacred Books ; it formed part of the didactic games that the bonzes played every morning and afternoon. These didactic games also included dancing and chanting sessions. The ‘western bonze’ adapted quite rapidly to his new lifestyle … his new home … No doubt his last …
As time passed, the rigours of the monastic code, the kindness of all the monks towards him, his slow but steady immersion into the Kra-Dai language and the marvels of the modality of Buddhist life attenuated, to a certain extent, the mortifying effects his spirit and body had suffered since that horrendous wave. Images of the drowned bodies did wake him up in the middle of certain nights, heaving and panting in one sweaty mass of anguish. However, the whispered voice had long since been silenced. His prayers and ruminations served as a watershed for those waves of guilt, an oceanic ointment for his slowly healing wounds. He was so glad to do service at the temple, run errands for the personnel who worked in the kitchen, wash and hang to dry the three robes of all twenty or so monks.
Gradually he succumbed to the beauties of Buddhahood, of attaining inner peace, his mind having all but vacated that remorseful past. His wide struggles between jubilation and despondency, gaiety and sorrow, ecstasy and debasement dwindled to a few chinks of dread. In short, he enjoyed his laborious leisure …
It was his seventh year at the temple. In spite of his three-month visa having expired, the Satu Father allowed him to take up his begging bowl and go into town to beg for donations, and even have a bite to eat at one of the roadside stands if he so desired. Mr Richards beamed with joy. In all those seven years he had hardly stepped out of the temple. He knew nothing of Pak Bent besides several photos that had been left behind by some tourists on the bench of the veranda of the main Prayer Hall.
He strolled about the crowded streets of the main arteries admiring the colourful markets and smelling the cooked food that had once given him pleasure, especially the pork and prawns. He went from shop to shop, his bowl filling with dented coins and frazzled bills. He was about to order himself a vegetarian meal in one of the market eateries when a group of well-dressed men addressed him in broken English. He shrugged his shoulders, prudently. They then spoke in Thai which he feigned to understand a bit. They appeared to be part of a large tourist group. One man placed a five-dollar bill in the monk’s bowl. They spoke very politely to him, and even invited the good monk to their hotel for a bite to eat … vegetarian of course ! The monk hesitated at first, but finally agreed. Who knows, perhaps these good men, quite wealthy-looking, would donate a fine sum to the temple-sangha.
They hailed two taxis and soon stood outside the palacial Le Grand Pakbeng, a sumptious five-star hotel. The finest in Pak Beng. In the lift that shot them up to the Presidentielle Suite, he looked at himself in the lift mirror ; he hadn’t seen his face for over seven years (the temple-sangha had no mirrors) and noted that the corners of his eyes had shrivelled into crow’s eyes. He winced.
ThePresidentielle Suite was fabulously fitted out with an outdoor spa and living area. The majestic terrace looked out upon the rolling Mekong which snaked through the rich greens of the mountainous forests.
The door was slammed shut and locked behind him …
And that was the last time anyone ever saw the monk from the Wat Jin Jong Jaeng, alias Mr Richards.
An investigating detective, sent by the Richards’ family, after a year or two of intense enquiry, believed that their son had been abducted by the group of Thai tourists who had checked into Le Grand Pakbeng. The detective, once learning their names, discovered that three or four of them were the parents of the pupils who had drowned in the terrible tidal wave that struck southern Thailand some nine or ten years back. Alas nothing could be proven against them. What proved very odd was the fact that Mr Richards’ parents had no idea their son had been the cause of the drowned children in Thailand, and even ignored his entry into monkhood, having received no letter from him for over seven years ! The detective had nothing to say about this silence. Nor did he wish to say anything.
The detective concluded in his report to the grief-stricken parents, rather sententiously, that no human being has ever disappeared completely, however altered his or her appearance. This trite remark hardly brought a ray of solace to them.
[2] (1894-1989) French painter. She discovered the use of lacquer in her landscape paintings of Southeast Asia.
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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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
It took me a long time to understand that before each ‘episode’, Ma would have her mood. I was eleven on the first occasion. It was a Sunday and already noon, but Ma hadn’t bathed nor started preparing lunch. Still in her faded printed nightgown, she sat staring at the opposite wall, her small thin face drooped in confusion. Suddenly her expression turned stony, her right hand twitched as she waved it about, shooing something away. She got up hastily, asked for my earphones and plugged them in to music on her phone. Still her hand twitched. Her grey eyes narrowed in a strange mix of fear and hate, mostly fear. Her kinky uncombed hair felt alive with electricity. She muttered that her limbs hurt, her head felt on fire and that the voices wouldn’t go. By evening, she sat armed with a rolling pin and once threw it wildly across the room, bringing a copper jug crashing. Then she turned towards me, the rolling pin still poised in her hand. My fear was like electricity throbbing down my spine. But she only broke down and wept. Often, she felt that a snake had coiled around her — alive and poisonous. I would miss my father terribly. He would know what to do, for he was gentle and caring, but worked as a geologist far, far away in Saudi Arabia.
Before my father came and visits to the psychiatrist began, I spoke on the phone about Ma to Nani, my maternal grandmother. A widow, she lived in a distant town with her son’s family. Her voice crackled with concern, not so much for Ma as for me:
“Sushma has been possessed by a spirit. If only I could take her to the village. We would call a jagariya[1]to get rid of this…this evil thing. We don’t know when these spirits can come, take possession. Sometimes after 10, 20, 40 years. You be careful, Meenu. Just pray to Goddess Gaura Devi. She will protect you. She knew what it was to suffer, to be poor and hungry. Will you be alright, Meenu? Will you be brave? Talk to me often, theek[2]?”
“Evil spirit”? I gulped. My heart thudded like a big drum, its dull boom echoing through my body. My eyes filled with tears. Could Ma’s trouble be infectious? Would I also hear voices? Would I need ear plugs to shoo them off?
Ma began to sleep less and less during the nights. She would wander about and switch on lights wherever she went. Yet she was particular that she woke up on time to prepare my school tiffin. For this she used two phone alarms, each going off with different musical tones that rang without cheer. She cared less and less about how she looked as she walked me to the bus stop. Hunched in her night clothes, her hair all frizzy, her gaze faraway, her face unsmiling, she stopped joining other parents who chatted with each other. From my bus window, I would watch her slump away alone. More than discomfort, I would be embarrassed by what others thought of her, scared they would know that there was something wrong.
Baba[3]’s trips from Saudi Arabia became more frequent, though they continued brief. First there was a long tussle between him and Ma on the need for a psychiatrist. She said she was fine, except for this constant sadness, the same thoughts repeating themselves like objects stuck in a groove, in voices that seemed real. One evening she announced: “I have royal blood, the blood of the Panwar kings. We ruled for many centuries. The Nepalis came, they tried to destroy us, occupy our land. But we are rulers of Dev Bhumi – the land of the gods. We drove them out. Nobody can destroy the Panwars. Nobody.”
“Yes,” said Baba after a long silence. “Nobody could destroy the Panwars. They were righteous kings. The British helped them drive out the Nepali invaders. The Panwar Kings paid the British their military dues, but gave up their kingdom when we won our Independence from them.” After a thoughtful pause, he continued: “But we are not Panwars, nor royal, Sushma. We are landowners, simple landowners. Every year, our land holdings get smaller and smaller. As our families split up, so does our land. Without consolidated land we have no income from it. We are not royal Panwars, just small landowners.”
I could see Ma’s agitation mounting. Her hands trembled as she picked up the copper jug and stood up menacingly. Baba remained calm, not returning her gaze, just looking down at his hands clasped tight. Ma collapsed on the sofa in a heap, her breath ragged, tears streaming down her cheeks. Only when her breath calmed did Baba reach out to take her in his arms. It was then that visits began to the psychiatrists and Baba carefully monitored her medication cycle, long distance.
Baba would have been Ma’s best psychiatrist, but he was hardly around. It was when he was absent that I missed him most as a father and a friend. For he was fully absorbed in supporting Ma’s role as a housekeeper, in maintaining household expenses, in managing her episodes and most of all in motivating her to stick to her doctor’s appointments and to the medicines prescribed. By the time I was twelve, I would have heard his advice to me a thousand times: “You have to be strong. You have to be there for Ma. You must study hard and do well. Yes?”
“Yes? No…” I had flashed back once, in suffocation. “How can I be strong when I don’t know what will happen next? Whether she will fly into a rage or plaster me with kisses? I…I can’t talk to anyone except to Nani. I don’t want people to know. When she doesn’t sleep at night, I also can’t. How can I study and do well… all the time do well…do well?”
Baba had looked sad, but I was surprised that Ma had looked confused but stricken. For tears had run down my cheeks. Neither reached out physically, but some terrible gloom broke. My classmates had avoided me at school, calling me ‘sad girl’ behind my back, laughing their silly laughs with their silly normal lives. It was my old friend Rabiya who remained at my side. But then her home life was not normal either. Her father was an alcoholic. My mother had a mental illness that even Baba would not name. Rabiya and I couldn’t share much. We were frozen in our individual situations, but bound to each other by this sense that we both suffered.
Sometimes I thought about my own sadness and wondered if it was what they called depression. Some mornings Ma never woke up in time to make my school tiffin. Even though I would tell myself it was her medication, I would feel a terrible sadness as I buttered bread to take with me to school. The ‘sad girl’ remarks would ring in my ears. I would sleep more, study less, feel listless and sad, as if invisible chains were holding me down. Baba must have sensed this for, after one visit to the psychiatrist, he said: “Meenu, your fourteenth birthday is coming soon. Why don’t you plan something with your friends, take them out for lunch to some place where they also have games and things? Ma can take you. The doctor feels she is more stable now. Maybe some of your friends’ mothers would also join.”
“I don’t feel like it, Baba. I…I don’t have many friends…very few. These years….nobody has come home. Nobody, and I haven’t gone over either. Ma….it won’t work. If I could just focus on studying, that would be enough.” For the first time I saw my father slump in helplessness, twist his hands in his lap. But before he left for Saudi, he gave me a beautiful spiral bound notebook with the title, “In Peace”, and suggested gently that I keep a journal.
My first entry was an untitled poem:
Entry 1:
She is just like anyone else
Cooking Phaanu in the kitchen
Humming, tasting, smiling
She lets go of the ladle
Stands listening, asks if I
Hear a baby cry.
I don’t answer,
Just switch off the gas
Search the fridge for
Leftovers.
She is not like anyone else
I don’t know why.
*
Entry 16: I dread her rudeness for I never know what it will lead to. She broadcasts her thoughts, talks against members of the family, my father – how he has abandoned her, left her to cope alone in this cruel world. She calls me a lousy daughter – lousy at housework, lousy at caring for her, lousy at studies. Today, it all led to an episode. She stared at me, her grey eyes minced, her hair alive like snakes in the air and said, “You are not my daughter. You are someone else. Get out.” I felt my intestines twist in protest. My words came out in a flash: “You are not my mother either. Does a mother behave like this? Hot cold, hot cold. Only you count. Only your troubles count. I count for nothing. My sadness….I feel so helpless.” She reached up for a suitcase, opened my cupboard and started throwing my clothes in it. Halfway through, she stared at me, her eyes minced. Abruptly, she left the room. The half-full suitcase lay on the floor like the open mouth of a shark. I hated her. Yet, I found myself fully alert to the sounds in her room. She was talking to Nani. She would be alright.
*
It was a few nights later that she came into my room. It must have been around midnight. She had not put on any lights in the house. She walked in like a ghost and sat crouched in a chair near my bed. I don’t know if she was aware that I was awake but she must have been, for her voice flow was normal:
“I know I have not been a good mother, Meenu. But I really want to be. Nani tells me all the time to pray to goddess Gaura devi. I do. All the time, so I can be normal for myself, for you, for Baba. I don’t know what happens. It is as if I become someone else. Someone terrible – full of anger and hate. I say things, do things over which I have no control. There is no Gaura Devi then, no you, no Baba. Just this other….person. Sometimes I want to take all my medicines in one shot, so I either die or get well. But Baba is very strict, tells me to keep these thoughts out. He gets angry, begs, pleads. When I feel normal, there is still worry for you which makes me ask myself, will I ever be free of worry? Free.” After a pause, she said, “Can you forgive me, Meenu?”
I nodded in the dark. Ma must have sensed this for she stretched out her small body in the chair, clasping her hands as if in prayer. I didn’t know this goddess Gaura Devi. But I thought if I imagined her like Nani – plump and smiling, creased face and rosy cheeks with the snowy Nanda Devi peak as her backdrop – I could also pray to her. Ma left quietly and I began to visualise Gaura Devi as a kind lady, like my Nani.
Entry 36: Today on the net I read a mental condition that matched Ma’s exactly. Something called S. I can’t remember the name. It said it could be controlled but was generally incurable. Incurable? How can Ma’s state be incurable? Will I have to live with this forever? This is not possible, simply not possible. What if I could help cure it? Like Baba tries -- all the time. By being gentle and patient. By reasoning with her when she is calm. But I am not gentle nor patient. But I could do stuff that I can. Like take her for a walk. Or put on YouTube music that she likes. Like old film songs. Sit with her as she listens. Or maybe get her to mother me. Ask her to make me a chocolate mousse cake. No, no. That would agitate her if she can’t. A plain cake will be fine. Maybe I can get Rabiya to talk to her sometimes. Normal things like school things, projects. Anything.
Incurable?
Ma did come to me to say
That sometimes she was two people
Not one
Maybe if I can see Ma as Ma
And the other person also as Ma
Then maybe, maybe I will see the two
As my one Ma.
She sees me weep sometimes
When I don’t let my rage follow hers.
That’s when she minces her eyes,
Tries to see
She is not two people
Just one
My Ma.
*
At school, it was time for career counseling when each one in our class was scheduled individual sessions with a career counselor. Rabiya and I were no longer a twosome. We sat excitedly in groups trying to figure out our subject streams. Rabiya was consulted a lot for she was excellent in Maths, almost as good as a tutor. Classmates who were clear they would take up the commerce stream but unsure of their competence in Maths, asked her if they should substitute Maths with Business Studies or Computer Sciences. Rabiya never gave sweeping advice. One of her answers struck me as pretty wise. She said to Anjul, a short fat girl with a nervous tic: “See, if you feel Maths is a challenge, then take it up. If you rise to its challenge, it will not trouble you again, whatever course you take up. But if it depresses you and feels like a burden, then don’t!”
The career counselor had been allotted a room near the gymnasium – a large and well-lit room with many windows. Her face was like that too – large and well-lit. Though I knew my choice for a stream, I was tense. Miss Sridhar smiled as she studied my report card, then turned to her laptop to look at her comments against my name.
“Meenakshi Nautiyal”, she said. “You have a definite slant towards the humanities. Is that right?” She added laughingly, “Mind you, you could certainly improve your overall grades.”
I nodded. She asked what I liked about the humanities.
“Literature and history”, I said.
“What do you like about literature?”
“Poetry, I write poetry…”
“How wonderful. And what sort of poems do you write?”
“I write about my mother. She…she..she..”
It was as if a dam had been released. I couldn’t hold the waters back. They rushed out all stormy and sad and self-pitying, begging to know why Ma had to be like this. Not once did Miss Sridhar close her window-face. Not once did she say this was not her subject. Her handkerchief was large when she passed it to me. At the end, when the storm waters became a trickle, she said: “Yes, you will do very well with literature. Keep that journal going. Write your poems. Someday when your poems are not only about your mother, you will be able to read them to her. She will feel happy. She wants very much to be your mother, to be proud of you.”
It was not till my fifteenth birthday that I was able to approach my parents on a subject that had been churning within me. I wanted to celebrate my birthday. Ma was half asleep on the living room sofa, slumped towards Baba as he watched the evening news on television. I shook her awake. She looked up confused. My words came out in a rush:
“Ma, I have these friends I wanted to take to the mall for my birthday. This is their mothers’ list of names and phone numbers. My friends say many mothers join these get-togethers, so they get to know one another. Will you call to invite them once we decide on the venue?”
Ma suddenly looked alive and awake. Her hand trembled as she took the paper from me. Baba looked up at me, relief flowing from his face into his body, like a stream rippling through.
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[1] A priest from the hilly region of Uttarakhand who uses drums and music to perform the elaborate ritual of Jagar. The ritual aims to invoke gods and a specific local deity to rid the possessed of the evil spirit by awakening divine justice that balances out some wrong committed in the ancestry.
[4] A soupy Garhwali dish made of a mix of lentils soaked overnight and cooked with spices
Neera Kashyap has published a book of short stories for young adults, Daring to Dream (Rupa & Co.) As a writer of poetry, short fiction, book reviews and essays, her work has appeared in several national and international literary journals and poetry anthologies.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
I am not sure what propelled me to take my cup of coffee out into the backyard and gaze longingly at the rose plants my wife nurtured with so much care. Though my object of concentration wasn’t the roses themselves. It was a perfect morning. I wasn’t yet bombarded by office calls. The kids hadn’t woken up and Kusuma was preparing a batch of pooris[1]and aloo[2] curry with the aroma wafting through the entire house.
I was within the moment, cocooned in a momentary sense of serendipity that only the morning could offer. It was when I was trailing the path of a butterfly that I caught my neighbour’s wife in the backyard, her back turned to me, watering her plants. At first, I thought it was their maid, but there was always something different about the wife’s frame, bent as if she was prepared to spring into action- like a lion hunting for its prey or worse, about to be hunted.
She also appeared to be at peace, watering her plant.
I didn’t want to intrude or disturb. So, I tried to quietly move back into the house when my mug caught a branch and shattered to the floor.
Kusuma came running out and began yelling at me. The commotion caused the wife to turn around and catch my eye. A small smile passed between us as if we were sharing a joke.
*
In the following weeks, my mind was tainted with the wife’s smile. There was something appealing about it that I couldn’t wrap my head around. Was I cheating while another woman’s smile played on my mind?
A part of me felt rebellious but mostly guilt flooded my heart. My marriage wasn’t failing, it was however stagnant. I was occupied by work, and my wife with all the household work, we fulfilled our duties as parents and raised our children. Our marriage had fallen into a routine where romance wasn’t important, just occasional tenderness was. We were as happy as a married couple could be. But that evening, I took Kusuma out for a movie, telling myself that it had been a while and it was not actually because of the embarrassment I was feeling.
*
And yet my neighbour’s wife haunted my thoughts. I didn’t go out in the morning for two days straight, hoping that the feelings would eventually dissipate. On the third day, I was confident that I was perfectly fine and was prepared to go outside to test the theory, but my office called, and I had to leave early.
I saw her beautiful smile again only the next Monday.
What happened in the forthcoming weeks wasn’t intentional. But we ended up meeting up every morning. We never spoke. I paced around, savouring the bitterness of coffee while she went on watering her garden. We just shared our silences. I even went out to buy coffee bags because I was drinking so much every day.
*
I noticed that there were bruises on her face and arms, but she always managed to cover it. I never asked for fear that she might not answer or worse might stop coming outside.
But it was on a particular day, weeks after we had started meeting up, that there was a large red welt on her forehead. I didn’t question it and she worked in a hurry to go back into the house.
Was the husband hitting her? Why would he ever lay hands upon her? Should I report it to the police? Did this constitute abuse? What evidence did I have to back me up? These thoughts intruded on me all through my office hours.
When she didn’t come out the next day, I instantly knew something was terribly wrong.
I went to Kusuma, hesitant at first, and explained to her the situation.
” I think our neighbour is hitting his wife. We need to report to the police. Now,” I demanded.
I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to see her kohl-rimmed eyes, her face so iridescent in the morning sunshine, her red lips, her smile.
” What neighbours?”
” What do you mean what neighbours? The ones who live next door. Don’t be stupid,” I snapped, irritated.
” You’re the one being stupid. We don’t have neighbours. They left almost a year ago.”
“Then who’s the woman who waters the plants every day?”
“Again, what women are you talking about? That garden is as dry as a desert. No one’s been watering it since they left. What is going on?”
“Nothing. I just….” I tried to piece together what my hand had conjured up for me but it just left me with more tangible memories of her.
JahnaviBandaru is currently pursuing her bachelor’s degree in computer science. But her heart lies in writing. She is a complete book nerd and enjoys writing short stories with a good cup of coffee.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
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