Category: Stories

Does this Make Me a Psychic?

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date August 15, 2022
No Comments on Does this Make Me a Psychic?

By Erwin Coombs

Shark’s Teeth. Courtesy: Creative Commons

The credibility of a writer is important. Of course, anyone’s credibility is important because without it, you are keeping time with someone who is a phantom of a personality if they can’t be believed for one reason or another. One must trust that the person telling a story is not sitting in a Starbucks for hours at a time nursing a small coffee and babbling away about things that never happened or didn’t happen that way. Just to put your mind at rest, I’m not currently in a coffee shop, I never linger over coffee and everything I say happened, more or less as I describe.

Here’s where my credibility might be called into question: I am psychic. There, I said it, it’s on the page, a frank admission that makes most people start to wonder where the nearest exit is, or perhaps you are now looking for the nearest recycling bin for this peice. I remember saying this to a fellow at a party once and his expression froze. Not being the most socially adept creature, he was looking for a way to get away from me before I put a hex or curse or whatever it is psychic people do.

He grabbed his cell phone and said, “Sorry, I better take this.”

And as he backed away his phone began to ring. So, either he was pretending to have a call, or he was the psychic — one who knew it was coming. But he found an almost smooth way out of a conversation with someone who might just be an oddball. You do not have to fake a call and presumably you’re reading this with open eyes and an open mind, so let me tell you a bit about this nether, dark world that both fascinates us and repels us like standing naked before a mirror once you’re well into middle age. Here is a story that might not be spooky in the other world sense, but it certainly gave me pause.

It was an overcast fall day in an old room in an old school. How’s that for a spooky, atmospheric set up? I was teaching another class of basic level grade 10 boys. These poor devils have been committed opponents to English classes likely since their first day in kindergarten. Again, it’s not that they’re dumb, at all. But they sure didn’t like English class.

I came up with a brainchild of an idea to get them to work. I could always keep them quiet and seated, which is a feat in itself. But to get them to work I thought I would go right back to a depression era technique and told them I would give the best student of the day a prize. Now these poor working-class sods were not used to prizes. Mostly at home they got slaps across the head for transgression both real and imagined on the part of parent(s) whose only embrace of parenthood involved forgetting to bring a condom. Their faces lit up at the prospect of a prize. An award! They had spent their school years running into punishments, but a prize!

I felt a little bad when they immediately grabbed their pencils (this time not as a weapon), opened their books (this time not for a pillow), and began to read and write. There is no more stirring or heartbreaking sight for a teacher who cares than watching students try so hard to do something well for which they have no confidence. I sat at my desk and began to wonder.

The first thing I wondered was what could I give for a prize. I assumed they would scoff and make some kind of a sucking noise with their teeth. In 1991, this was a favourite of rappers to display dismissiveness. I had encountered it many times as a teacher. My defense was to ask, in a sincere voice, if they wanted some floss.

“Floss? For what, man?

“Sorry, I thought you had something stuck in your teeth from lunch. I do have some floss in my desk. It’s been there for a while, but it might just do the trick of dislodging that bit of food you feel the need to suck out.”

With a lot of teachers this might well have resulted in a small-scale riot. But my kids knew I liked them, and I tease and, as I said, they might not be bookish smart, but they knew sarcasm when they heard it and they usually just laughed.

But back to the problem of offering a prize that I didn’t even have. I cast a quick look around the room for possibilities. There were some posters on the wall of an educational bent that I could use. There was a lovely one of a parachutist drifting down to earth with the caption below saying: “The mind is like a parachute. It only operates when open.”

I could imagine telling some poor slob that they could take that home for a hard day’s work. I imagine I would eventually make it out of the class, but not in one piece. The pounding I would take would put me on long term disability. Not a terrible idea but the journey to get there would be hard.

I thought about the money in my pocket, full five dollars and some change. But wouldn’t that be a bribe or some form of prostitution? And the next class all behavior and production would come with a price tag. And when the principal got word that I was paying my students, it would mean a different route to long term disability.

I rummaged through my desk drawer when I saw it. My salvation! It was a glass jar of shark’s teeth. Now why in God’s name would a teacher have such a thing on his desk. Simple. It cost me nothing and was a gift. My wife’s uncle was this eccentric but genuinely nice man who collected things. It didn’t matter what, he would collect them. He had scoured the countryside looking for Indigenous arrowheads and tools and guess what? He found them by the hundreds. His collection was so impressive that the Royal Ontario Museum gladly took them when he offered them up out of the goodness of his heart. So, one day we were in his cavernous basement, strewn with rocks and fossils and bits of metal and God knows what else. It was a summer day, and his hay fever had the better of him. He let out a sneeze that no doubt shattered an arrowhead or two.

He blew his nose into a handkerchief that would likely never be used again for any human purpose. He looked down at the contents and said,

“Oh, I thought my nose was bleeding, but it’s snot (instead of it’s not, you see).”

That was exactly the kind of joke this guy made and one of the reasons I found him so much fun to be with. The odd thing was he had survived a German work camp as a teenager during World War II, one in which his brother had died. Yet here he was, in his seventies, bent and old and so full of life and always finding a reason to laugh. How could I not like him? And now was he related to some of Tina’s family? They were people who could find a dark cloud in the second coming of Christ.

“You know he really should have called first. This is really not convenient.”

Anyway, this jolly old fellow saw me admiring his countless bottles of shark’s teeth lined up on a shelf.

“Geez, just take one. I got plenty.”

“That’s awfully good of you, Bill. But all the work you took yanking them out of their mouths. It just doesn’t seem right.”

He would never laugh at my jokes, but I know he liked them.

“Here, you keep ‘em. Mostly they were lost in bar fights anyway.”

So, thank you very much, Bill. Now I could give my winner a reason to not add my teeth to the collection.

The class came to an end, and I knew I had my top student. I would have liked to have given them all something because they had all tried, and I was very proud of them. But if you give a prize to everybody then it takes away from the very idea of a prize which is a celebration of accomplishment in a field of others. It reminded me of the increasingly bizarre notion that had come up in education in the last few years, namely that everyone is special and stands apart and should be recognised as such. I am all for increasing students’ sense of self-worth but here’s the trick: if everyone is special, then nobody is special. If every child is recognised and labelled as having poor behaviour or attitude because of their genetics or how they were raised or because they weren’t tucked in at night in order to maximise their potential, then they all have an out.

Unfortunately, it gives every kid a playing card that they can pull in any situation. I remember breaking up a fight and as I guided the hulk along to the office, he looked at me wide eyed and said, “It’s not my fault…I have anger issues.”

This was a kid that was not exactly a future student of psychology. A future as a study model of aberrant psychology possibly. But he had been told by teachers and counsellors and no doubt his parents that his ‘acting out’, to put it mildly, was the result of this syndrome. It is to laugh for.

Though I wanted to reward them all, I knew that I had to choose just one. Bobby Mack (yes, it did sound vaguely like a cosmetic line) was the one. I don’t think anyone ever made fun of his name to his face. He was very tall and naturally very strong. His strength wasn’t achieved from holding big books in the library. His love of academics was an empty love. He was, however, a very good future plumber. That’s why he was at school. He was a likeable fellow with a good sense of humour, I knew this because he laughed at my jokes. 16 years old in grade 10, turning his life around to pursue his love of plumbing. It would also help him support the two children he had with two different girls similarly young. Ah, well, he had a goal and I felt he could do it.

With a few minutes to go before the end of class I stood before their expectant faces and said my piece.

“Well, after careful consideration, and after having fed data into the computer, it has been calculated who is student of the day and thereby the winner of a prize that will change their lives.”

I love a big build up, but the faces in front of me told this young teacher that they didn’t use computers, only had calculators for projectiles and didn’t think lives could change. I cut to the chase and told Bobby to come on up and get his prize. He lumbered to the front of the room with a shy smile as the class applauded. I’m sure the guy never won a prize in an English classroom in his life. When I say applauded, I mean a few did, several whined that they should have won. One fellow called out,

“Oh, sir, that’s not fair. You’re a racist.”

I looked down at this white face, back to Bobby’s white face and wondered where he got that complaint from.

“No, it’s not racist. For one thing I didn’t even know you were Chinese.”

“I’m not Chi…!”

He cut himself off realising that there was both a joke as well as a jab in there for him. Bobby stood in front of me and I slowly, for even more dramatic effect, took out my little bottle of shark’s teeth, took one out and put it in his outstretched hand. The smile didn’t run from his face, it sprinted. He looked hard at the tooth and held it as though he were holding a turd.

“What the hell is this?”

As he was genuinely angry and outraged, I let the swear word go. It floated up into the air not to be addressed by the tough teacher I usually was. It fled the room along with his smile and his joy at having won. He was angry. He was big. I was scared.

“That, my friend, is a shark’s tooth from Florida!” I said, pumping up the item like a door-to-door salesman.”

“I thought I was getting chocolate, or money or something not weird.”

“I want you to know why that is such a prize, far more valuable and lasting than chocolate.”

He still looked angry, but I sensed he would listen. I figured I better talk fast and good or start running. At the Faculty of Education, they taught us that running away from threatening students can chip away at one’s credibility in the classroom. I addressed the whole class as well.

“A hundred years ago there was a shark swimming in the warm waters of the Atlantic Ocean. It didn’t know about death; it didn’t know about anything. It simply existed. That’s all it wanted, to eat and swim and make little sharks, not because he thought those were good things to do. He just did what came naturally to him…stay alive and make more life. But he died, in some way we will never know. And now Bobby here is holding one of his teeth in his hand.

This is a reminder to all of us that life is beautiful, but it doesn’t last. That shark had a last day on this earth and so will we. We don’t know how or when. But one thing we do know is that we should treasure every day we have, and remember, always remember, this is the only life we have and today is the only day we get, so make the most of it. Value it. That shark, though he didn’t know it, has taught us that lesson.”

Bobby now had the tooth between his fingers and smiled.

“Yeah, that’s kind of cool sir…thanks.”

He tucked the tooth into his pocket and took his seat. The bell went a minute later, and I was pleased to see several kinds around Bobby as he showed off the prize that had meant less than nothing to him moments before. I was proud of myself for having taught a lesson, a life lesson that would hopefully stick with those kids for their whole lives.

I know it stuck with Bobby for the rest of his life. For his life ended that night. He was at a party, a drunken argument and another kid came back with a gun and shot Bobby in the head. I like to think he had the tooth in his pocket and that maybe his last day on earth, he might have valued the little things a bit more, his child’s smile, his mother’s farewell hug. I even fool myself into thinking he looked up at the sky for once, not to check the weather, but just to be happy.

Erwin Coombs is a retired teacher of philosophy, history and literature who has rejected all forms of retirement. He is an avid writer, reader, and observer of life. When not observing and reading and living, he is writing. Erwin has lived in Egypt, Jamaica, England and travelled a great deal but, in his mind, not enough. His writing is a celebration of people and opportunity, both of which life gives in abundance. These stories are from his, as yet unpublished book, Dusty the Cat: Her Part in My Downfall.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Tags Christ, Egypt, England, Erwin Coombs, German, Jamiaca, Royal Ontario Museum, Second coming, Shark, Starbucks, World War II

Stories

The Hatchet Man

By Paul Mirabile

Tonight, in accordance with what I generally find necessary to record, I have mustered the courage to give full account of the singular events that have befallen friends and neighbours. These nightly entries have drained me of energy and patience, produced unusual sounds in my home, like those caused by nests of bees or wasps. Unusual too, the grotesque belief that loneliness and long periods of silence and speaking to one’s self, will give rise to hallucinations or other such aural phenomena. Be that as it may.

In the edition of the May ninth 1973 Daily Mirror, I came across an article which reported a most daring escape made from the Mental Hospital not far from our quiet neighbourhood. In 1968, the escapee had been accused of excoriating the flesh of a sixty-year old widow, so it read. What inflamed the imagination of the good people of our village was the way in which he had let himself in. Knocking at the door he introduced himself as a salesman for an encyclopaedia publishing house. The unsuspecting woman let the killer in and even offered him a cup of coffee. Her husband had died a very long ago, so it was supposed that she must have had an urgent longing to speak to someone. After conversing with her at some length, he casually revealed his hideous companion, an axe, and buried it deep within her brain, so the autopsy showed. He then proceeded to excoriate the poor woman. This odious account he willingly, and I add here, with over-excessive enthusiasm, declared to the authorities shortly after his capture. Owing to the savage and cynical nature of the crime, the monster was committed to the mental institution, and there interred for life …

Quite understandably his flight created a disturbance in our village neighbourhood. The twisted-minded beast was no doubt lurking about the wood surrounding our tranquil homes. The police stated that they had discovered fresh footprints leading from pockets of underbrush in our general direction. They have identified these footprints as his ! He had found an asylum during the hunt, and now was in search for new prey. His bloody doings would not stop at one …

Some time passed before the police gave up hope of locating the mad murderer. No one had seen him nor had my neighbours made any attempt to form a squad of vigilantes to ferret him out of his lair. I, as usual, sat behind my desk as I am doing at present, gazing half dreamily upon my scribbled notes, regarding the affair rather apathetically.

Five nights ago whilst lethargically reading through my writings as was my wont, a scream tore through the stillness of an unusually still night. Looking up from my writings, I imagined a sulking figure dragging itself over a rooftop just opposite my home through the parted serge curtains of my bay window. I state emphatically that the hour was late, and that perhaps my eyes had grown weary. Thinking it was merely my imagination, I returned to my work at hand.

The following morning to my astonishment, the papers reported a grotesque killing during the late hours of the night only six houses from that of my own ! In fact, it was someone with whom I was acquainted. My blood ran cold. He had been found beheaded. Chunks of flesh had been hacked out of his neck and torso. A hatchet undoubtedly was used for this gruesome purpose. What proved singularly frightful was that the unfortunate victim had been having coffee with his killer. Two cups of half-drunk coffee were discovered unmolested on a small, sitting-room settee. As to how the murderer entered, it can only be assumed that his victim let him in. The state of the house was in ruin. Nothing, however, had been stolen. A clear case of premeditated murder, so the police concluded.

This of course brought myriads of police to our quiet street where investigations were carried out with much fanfare and discomfiture. I was visited several times, the police sniffing about my home like a pack of retrievers. The chief inspector questioned me as if I were the criminal.

Did he think I was deflecting his attention from something important to their investigation ? Did he suspect me of foul play ? Of complicity ? He had those shifty pink rabbit’s eyes of a police inspector ! In spite of this ferreting and harassment, I said nothing. He casually flickered the ashes of his pipe in a seashell which I kept on my writing-table, thinking it, no doubt, an ash-tray, then left without a word, a master mustering his hounds. You may ask why I divulged not a word about that phantom on the rooftop. This I have asked myself, and even now at my desk writing this entry, I have no rational answer …

That evening (of the murder), I uneasily noted that my mind had been wandering from its normal systematic chain of thoughts. I was continually straining my eyes to envisage that evil phantom dancing on the roof opposite my home. Suddenly, and I assert my eyes did not deceive me, there it pranced again, sweeping haphazardly from shingle to shingle … from chimney to chimney, brandishing something metallic which glittered in the blue moonlight high overhead. And in one emblazoned second, I believe he gaped at me, mouth open, eyes ablaze! Yes, I am sure of it! And in that one terrible moment I noted that he possessed the same facial features as me: flattened head, black, beady eyes, pug nosed, curled lips. He vanished, darting out of the moonbeams … Throwing down my pen, I clutched at my hair ; my head churned out a series of chilling, bizarre scenes. The uncanny resemblance unsettled me, even alarmed me. I finally lay on my canopy falling into a troubled, dreamless sleep.

How stunned I was the next morning when I read in the morning papers that my next door neighbour had been brutally butchered, ostensibly by the workings of the same maniac. The killing was identical, as was the means by which the killer entered the house. The police searched frantically. House to house inspections had been ordered and carried out. Again the hounds rummaged through my household belongings in the most disrespectful manner; had they snickered at the scones and boiled eggs I failed to remove from the kitchen table, crushing the shells that lay scattered on the floor under their muddy boots ? They had some cheek. And as they went about their sordid ‘duty’, the chief inspector eyed me with a strange mixture of pomposity and wariness, twitching his pipe inside his mouth from left to right and right to left, his nostrils quivering.

I felt my knees stiffen under that glare. Yet, I dared not return his pinkish rabbit stare, nor divulge my visions of the fleeing phantom. They finally left, then scoured the wooded area with dogs. I heard the howls and barks and yells of the chase. If I’m not mistaken they searched the surrounding woods and glens for days ; alas, the escapee was nowhere to be found. Many of my neighbours began to leave. To tell the truth, I felt no immediate danger, although I was quite naturally disturbed. Dull depictions flooded my thoughts of a hatchet-wielding man breaking down my door. And evening after evening, as darkness mantled the clusters of woods and lonely streets and lanes, icy droplets of fear gripped my heart ; I had seen this maniac, yet said nothing. Knocks rattled my door. Upon answering it, there was no one. Hornet-like droning and bee-like buzzing rattled the drums of my ears. Was it my imagination ? Could fear stir the mind to such heights of fancy ?

And so it was as four or five more nights passed. Two more murders had been reported in an adjacent neighbourhood, notched on the helve of the maniac’s gory weapon. I was in a quandary. Why did this evanescent shadow haunt my nocturnal solitude ? Why did he pertinaciously dance before my window ? Why hadn’t he knocked casually at my front door ? God if I knew. And why hadn’t I been to the police to notify them of this moonlit macabre rite ? Did the killer mock my terror … my timid reluctance to act ? Did he embrace me as his tacit witness … his accomplice ?

Yes, why hadn’t I gone to the police ? The words are so difficult to express ; they wretch themselves from my pen. How then would they sound, sputtered to the police, or to that pipe-wielding inspector ? Oddly enough, though, I always remained calm. And even as his crazed figure sauntered under the silver moonlight, I sat stoic, placid, squeezing my pen until my fingers and knuckles turned pale white …

The night of the double murder occurred a week ago. Since then the killer appears to have ceased his bloody onslaught. Perhaps he has been apprehended, or cornered in some distant wooded recluse like a wild animal. I haven’t seen him, and I must confess, on several occasions I’ve actually stepped out my door on to the porch to listen more attentively ; to see him more clearly ; to call out to him, discharging my savage, commingled phantasies and fears …

That night, as I toyed pointlessly with my writing tool, I fixed my bloodshot eyes to that hellish cornice of the roof opposite my house, a roof long since abandoned by its two or three occupants. Nothing. No one. I’ve wondered from time to time if the lunatic had really caught sight of me glaring at him in his frantic flights, my eyes pinned on his as he glided from rooftop to rooftop as if floating puppet-like in mid-air. All this had me chilled. It was unusually damp. My study felt damp and mildewy from insufficient heating. I hear footsteps coming up the street, hollow in the thick night. They halted.

I detect a slight rustling sound outside on my porch, like crispy leaves cracking under a booted foot. Why I write all this down just now is indeed troubling. A faint dizziness has sharpened my aural perceptions. And as I continue to write, in spite of myself, the porch door was opening, slowly … patiently as if the creaking wished not to intrude upon those sleeping at this late hour. And still I scribbled line after line.

There was someone knocking at my front door. I was chuckling as only a deranged man would when sensing foul play afoot, yet patiently waiting for it to strike ! And again, my pen continued to dictate to me. I was completely taken up by my writing. Is it because it mirrored the indelible mark of my solitude … my banal existence ?

There it was again that knocking. Should I answer it ? Perhaps it’s the old codger wanting a cup of hot coffee ! What a shuddering, stupid thought. No, probably some drunkard who noticed my light … or a neighbour in distress, no, better yet, the pipe-twitching inspector hoping to catch me off guard. Yes, I’m sure it’s that snooping blighter. God how my nerves were at an edge! And that tapping and rapping at my chamber door … Some late visitor entreating an entry? Ha ! Who could it be for Heaven’s sake ? Him ? Yes, him ? Rotten luck mate, I hadn’t a grain of coffee to offer him. That blasted door … If only I had a pistol … No, in the kitchen … the cleaver ! I fetched it and decided to see who fared better ! Hatchet against cleaver … I was sorry for the old sod — no coffee that night but a taste of my cleaver. To the kitchen. That hammering was driving me daft ; he’d wake up the whole damn neighbourhood … or what was left of it … First my cleaver, then the door … then to the rooftops … to the rooftops …

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.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Tags France, Paul Mirabile

Stories

Until we meet again

By Shivani Shrivastav

River Beas in Manali. Courtesy: Creative Commons

“Whatsoever is needed on the Path is always supplied.”

~ OSHO

I read the lines again. And yet again. They spoke to me. I felt like I knew the person who had written them, even though I had not met her. Reaching out, I gently touched the lilac handmade paper on which the poetry was written in purple ink. The lines touched my heart: it was an original poem, but unfinished.

I had never felt such spontaneous poetry coming from myself, but reading these lines, I felt some lines forming spontaneously in my head. I pulled out a pen and started writing some words in the space left on the paper. The stranger’s lines and mine now matched beautifully.

I had come to Manali on a whim. I was between jobs — just having had my fill of my first one and not yet wanting to start the next one. Idly looking at my Instagram feed, I had seen so much of the beautiful mountains, attractive waterfalls and serene cloudscapes that I just had to get on a bus and come to Manali. I could not believe that I, Kabir Kulshrestha, in all of my twenty-eight years on earth, had not thought of visiting this slice of heaven before. Up until now, I had been passively aggressive in my daily life, cribbing about the boring routine, the never-ending work pressures and imagining that everyone besides me had near perfect lives, as evidenced by their Instagram feeds and the stories and reels they shared. For the first time ever, I felt that belief dilute a little, as I finally felt more alive with a new awareness and appreciation of my surroundings growing automatically, as I watched the greens, blues and whites of nature all around me.

I had taken the overnight bus from Delhi to Manali. When the bus passed Kullu, I did not know, but when we reached Manali and I opened my eyes as we were entering it, I was in heaven. Or as close to heaven on earth as I could get.

All around were green mountains, tall 50-60 feet high trees, ancient paths leading to god-knows-where and the endless, cloudy blue sky. I inhaled deeply and felt some of the lethargy and humdrum sameness of the past months slide away.

Deliberately, I had not booked any hotel online, preferring to choose one upon reaching the place. The bus had dropped me in the middle of new Manali. I felt a little disappointed, surveying the hotels there. It all appeared like any other tourist town at the first glance – the same greasy restaurants, the shops selling cheap touristy memorabilia and tawdry conveniences. Fortunately, I had packed light — just a backpack of essentials and my camera bag. I decided to go off in search of a better place to stay – somewhere more authentic and closer to the real Manali experience.

After walking through a road going up and passing beside an untouched meadow with tall pines, I decided to cross over the river Beas to the other side and look for interesting homestays that I had seen pictures of on Instagram. Walking up the mountain, down the steps leading to the bridge across the raging Beas was a pleasure as I felt a bit stiff after the overnight bus ride. The tall, silent trees, some more than two arm-spans wide (yes, I had tried to hug one!) the birdcalls, the early morning pristine silence pervading the mountains and the tumultous Beas below, all framed a beautiful picture in my mind. Along the shores of the Beas were orange blossoms; I was surprised by their tenacity. Also, along the old Manali side were what looked like very interesting cafes, with names such as Nirvana, Café 1947, Bella Pasta, Dylan’s etc. Their menu boards were brightly handwritten notices or sometimes, simply blackboards on which the day’s menus were handwritten in white chalk. Their signboards were vivid splashes of hand-painted pictures, and Bob Marley and his ‘Ganja Gun’ anthem could be heard from many a café. Add to these, the colourful flowers growing beside the Beas and in the planters of the cafés by the window seats. It is not just an unforgettable scene but a nuanced one.

I promised to myself that I would visit them all one by one. Crossing over the bridge, I stopped to admire the scene — a slice of heaven on earth — the blue sky, the raging river foaming white at the edges and the tall, green, graceful sentients as far as I could see. Yes, I would definitely be back later, with my camera, but for the moment, I just wanted to enjoy being there, present with beauty inundating my senses.

With a deep breath of contentment — even the air smelled different here — I crossed over and started walking up the steep path. On both sides, cafés, restaurants and interesting shops continued up the road. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I knew that I would know when I found it.

More than halfway up the path, I paused and stood under a tree, to rest a moment. As I looked around, I saw a vibrantly painted, two-storied wooden house. It had red doors and blue windows! It was a little distance away from the main lane, with a tiny winding path of its own. I could see feathered dreamcatchers waving in the wind, on its second-floor wraparound balcony. Automatically, my feet turned to that path. Reaching the house, I had raised my hand to knock on the door when a voice called out to me, “Hi! What are you looking for?”

Looking up, I saw a young woman, a little older than me, walking towards me. ‘Colourful’ seemed to be the theme of the place, as even she was dressed like a rainbow, albeit an aesthetic one! Her multiple bracelets and necklaces of brass and colourful threads swayed as she came nearer. She was followed by three Pahadi Bhotia dogs, in varying shades of brown. I smiled and said, “Hi, I’m Kabir. I’m looking for a place to stay for a few days and don’t want to stay at a hotel. Could you recommend a homestay or something similar? For some reason, I was drawn to your place the moment I saw it from the path. Cute dogs there, by the way!”

The lady smiled and replied, “Thanks! I’m Ragini. This is my home and my homestay. You can stay here if you want. Are you coming from Delhi?”

“How did you guess?”

She gave a hearty laugh and said, “That is where we get most tourists from.”

“I’m from Delhi, yeah, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me a tourist. I prefer traveller!”

“Woohoo! Then we are kindred spirits! I think you will like it here. Come, I’ll show you the two rooms that are available. The rest are filled by a group of travellers from Spain.”

“Great! Lead the way!”

I found a home away from home there. Ragini turned out to be a wonderful host, having created a warm, welcoming space that immediately made everyone feel right at home. Having chosen the room at the back, which faced towards the mountains, I settled in. The homestay also had a small but varied library and a music corner, which hosted many impromptu musical duets in the evenings, where many a language and accent were heard.

The meals at her homestay were from all over the world. Ragini and her helper Jigme had a real talent in that department. Every breakfast was a medley of tastes from Lebanese to Italian to South Indian, and of course, the staple offered in all mountain towns — aloo paratha[1]with tomato chutney!

I had expected the typical Maggie or paratha option for breakfast, but these were veritable feasts! Lunches I preferred to have outside, wherever I happened to be at the moment, like the other day when I followed the main path in old Manali leading up all the way to the top, past the wooden Manu temple. At the top I found a Japanese man with a modest restaurant, making sushi, which turned out to be out of this world! The second day, I went the opposite way, towards the riverbank, and had the best tiramisu of my life, after a meal of falafel and gyros.

My trip was turning out to be a discovery of tastes. Between mealtimes, I explored outside and within myself, for it was also turning out to be a time of self-discovery; I had never felt closer to myself. I met people from different walks of life, exchanging life stories and travel experiences. I walked to various places. I hiked up various slopes, sometimes to just sit at the top, admiring the landscape and letting it soothe my soul, writing, taking pictures, meditating or simply sitting.

I found that the more I sat with myself, the more I was able to appreciate the without, and the better became the quality of my creations. I went where my feet led me, sometimes by myself, sometimes with other people I met at the cafés, restaurants and stores. I was developing quite an eclectic mix of friends — there was Pedro from Mexico, hitchhiking his way through Peru, Bangladesh and now India. He had met and befriended Francine, a French professor on a sabbatical of self-study, come to India to explore yoga in Rishikesh, Tiruvannamalai and later Goa, somehow ending up in Manali! She too, had interesting stories of her own travels to share. Then there was Loki, whose Japanese name was difficult to pronounce and hence shortened to Loki, who had made Manali his home for the past two months. He was slightly temperamental – some days jolly enough to sing with us in the evenings, the others sitting with his old ukulele and playing some nameless tune over and over again.

I admired the way these people lived, following the flow and just taking in all life had to offer. The evenings were spent either with these people or with the Spanish group back at Ragini’s, with music or a night of storytelling after a delicious dinner. And such stories they were! Enough to cause itchy feet in the most stalwart of homebodies!

I was enthralled to hear about the diverse backgrounds all the guests came from. At first glance, they appeared like hippies, with their ragged jeans, loose kurtas, thread anklets and jute bags, but one was a particle physicist, another a music teacher, and still another a biologist! I promised myself to never, ever again to judge a book by its deceptive cover. It could be hiding the most riveting personality behind its carefree façade.

The experience dispelled my long-standing bias to an extent too, that people are as good as they appear. This belief was further shattered by a teacher from England, who had been travelling to India every year for the past 15 years, to teach English to Ladakhi children, that too without any financial interest. This year, before heading back to his home country, he had decided to go to Delhi via Manali.

I was learning that people made choices, often difficult ones, leaving comfort and the complacency of lucrative jobs to do what their hearts guide them to do. I was learning, melting down prejudices and emerging with a more open mind and heart.

It was in this frame of mind that I went out each day to shoot pictures, capturing the natural beauty of the place and the simplicity of the people living there. I also found that there was in actuality, very little that one needs to live a full life — a good set of friends, good food, an open space to sit and contemplate and live with nature to embark on a journey of introspection and reflection.

One day, I sat in a riverside café after a successful morning of breathtaking photography session. I had just finished a gruelling session of yoga with Francine and then hiked to a special place that someone had told me about, to take pictures of a waterfall. Later, I had photographed the trees – pines and oaks. I believed some of the images taken that day managed to capture the silence emanating from the trees. Totally satisfied with a morning well spent, I ordered a sumptuous lunch of tofu sandwiches with an avocado salad, to be followed by a slice of apple pie. I had never eaten so much in one meal back home! I noticed also that so much of walking around was helping my body become much healthier, even though I was eating amazing meals at least three times a day, without worrying about calories.

While waiting for my food, my eyes fell on a notice board on one of the bright yellow walls of the café. It had a big notice board on it. As I walked over to it, I heard strains of ‘Bella Ciao‘ being played on a mandolin, from a corner of the café. A local group was singing there for the evening. There were various papers stuck to the board — advertisements, people wanting a homestay, people wanting to sell stuff, like watches, a guitar and even a Canon Mach III! I found the fantastic mix of things here a sharp relief from the overly organised things back home.

As the strains of the song got more energetic, I returned to the present. I noticed that on the lilac-coloured sheet, a few lines of poetry were written in Hindi. It appeared out of place amongst the notes in English, Spanish, French and Russian. The lines were –

“It is just a bubble of water,

Which loses itself in but a moment”

As I read, I felt some words forming in my mind. I took out my green felt tip and in my bold scrawl, which I liked to believe was very artistic, jotted down some lines on the sheet –

“So live fully in the moment, don’t be sad,

These are the moments of life, don’t lose them”

Satisfied and feeling some kind of connection to the original writer, I came back to my table to find that my order had arrived. For a while, the tofu sandwich and the food I had ordered managed to hold my full attention. But after a while, I found myself thinking about the lines on the paper as I ate.

I tried to create a mental picture of the person who had written the lines and found that I could only conjure a shadowy image. That image accompanied me as I paid at the counter, picked up my backpack and my camera and went down the path towards the river. I could not get enough shots of the foaming, dancing, raging river. In my mind, it seemed to be a young girl, full of life and poetry, dancing as she flowed through life.

The next day, for some reason, I felt pulled towards the same café. I tried to convince myself that it was because I wanted to try their Lebanese platter, but the lilac-coloured paper floats in front of my eyes. I was curious, “Would she have replied? Will I find more lines added to the poem?”

As I entered, I tried hard not to let the board be the first thing I saw, but even as I tried this, my eyes lifted that way of their own volition. And a jolt of electricity went through me — there were some more lines there! Even before ordering my food, I headed over to read them.

I smiled as I read, for even as I read, I was formulating the next few lines. And this went on, till we had completed three poems, and I had tasted all the dishes in the café. I felt as if I really knew her, but I did not write my number or pen a request to meet. I did not want to scare her away with my ardour.

The next day, I had this weird feeling, a type of intuition, as if something was changing, something was about to end and a new phase about to begin. Although I could not understand the feeling, I went about my day as I usually would. There was a crowd in the corner of the café that held the board.

I waited for the people to move away so I could see the board. As the people shifted, I caught a glimpse of the board. There was a single fresh lilac sheet there. Only one line appeared to be written on it. I rushed near and read it. It said – “Whatsoever is needed on the Path is always supplied.” It was a quote by Osho.

Suddenly, I felt a prickling sensation at the back of my neck, like someone was looking at me. I immediately turned back. As I did so, I saw a girl turn towards the door and step out. She held a lilac paper in her hand — the last completed poem. It took a little while for me to get through the throng of people crowding the place. That day was a live show, so there was a big crowd there.

As I opened the door and stepped out into the dusky evening, a sudden brisk shower started. I saw her get into an auto and move across the bridge. I tried going after her, but the sudden downpour had increased the traffic on the bridge and she blended into the crowd. I rushed back inside the café, to the single sheet on the board, took it off and scanned it hurriedly, as if to find some hint of who she was, her name, number, something, anything! As I turned it over, I found two words written in the same purple ink. ‘Leh Market’. I smiled. I had my next destination. I knew I would be meeting her again. When, how, I did not know. But somehow, I also liked the not knowing. And the search began again. With a new poem, in a new city!

[1] Wheat flatbread stuffed with spicy potatoes

Shivani Shrivastav is a a UK CGI Chartered Secretary and a Governance Professional/CS. She loves meditation, photography, writing, French and creating.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Tags Beas, Bella Ciao, Bob Marley, Canon Mach III, Dylan, Kullu, Ladakh, Leh, Manali, Shivani Shrivastav

Stories

Hard Choices

By Santosh Kalwar

The puppies’ mother accepted the baby girl, who was left in an alley unknown to anyone. The puppies all saw the baby girl and licked and jumped atop her. When it rained, the mother dog provided shelter for her and the rest of her pups. Then night fell, and the Nepalese streets were beset by dangers.

The alley was ripe with evils in the form of thugs and perverts. The mother dog knew that she had to guard her puppies. The men weren’t interested in the dogs, though. They were only interested in the tiny girl being protected by them. They wanted to hurt the girl. They enjoyed such distractions. However, the mother dog saw the girl as her own and growled at the men, baring her teeth. They got scared and ran away as the mother dog curled against the child, keeping her safe and warm until morning.

In a lowland region in southern Nepal, a girl child was a very different proposition for the human mother. She had not wanted to know the sex of the child. When she gave birth and the doctors told her that it was a girl, the entire room fell silent. There would have been celebration and adornment if it had been a boy. A hard decision would need to be made for the newborn girl that rested in her arms.

The mother wasn’t from a rich family and having a girl was forbidden. It was considered a curse on the family. Going home with the daughter would have caused an intense strain. Her husband would have deemed her a curse for giving him a daughter instead of a son and possibly leaving her for another woman that would give him a son. That didn’t include the intense financial strains to raise a girl in such a patriarchal ambience.

The mother looked down at the newborn daughter and knew that she would be living a harsh life no matter what. If she kept the girl, she could be left without money or resources to care for her. But as it was her daughter, she contemplated fighting for her. A girl in Nepal wasn’t only a curse to her husband’s family and her family. They would berate her and possibly disown her, leaving her with no husband and no family in her life.

First, this girl would not grow up with an education, for money would not be spent on educating a woman as she was seen to add no value to family coffers. On the contrary, the family would have to pay a large sum for her dowry. So not only would her daughter be subjected to illiteracy, but she also wouldn’t be able to marry a man who could care for her.

She left the hospital with the girl still in her arms tightly and was trying to make up her mind. When she came across an alleyway, she saw a mother dog taking care of all her puppies. This made the woman smile and cry. This mother didn’t need to think of the hard choices like she did. She knew she had to protect her puppies from harm, and the rest would work itself out, whether the puppy was a boy or a girl.

She felt lost staring at the dog protecting her babies. She looked at her own baby. She silently cried as she approached the alley and started to lower the baby to the ground. She didn’t want to leave her newborn baby. But, she felt left without a choice. She didn’t leave the newborn because she herself thought it was a curse for her and her family. She felt the baby would be unfortunate for being part of a family that couldn’t give her what she needed. She took off, walked fast, fearing that she would change her mind and turn around to grab the baby.

She lied and told her husband that a boy had died during childbirth.

Back in the alley, as the sun was rose, the baby was wailing, and the mother dog didn’t know what to do. She wouldn’t latch on like the other puppies and knew she couldn’t take care of her still, though she had compassion like a mother and tried to calm the baby down the best she could. Even her puppies didn’t jump and play rough, knowing that the human child needed a gentler touch. Finally, the noise from the crying baby drew the attention of a woman, who approached the child. The mother dog was weary and started to growl at the strange woman.

The woman only smiled and gently picking up the baby. The baby stopped crying. This woman didn’t know the baby or the dogs but saw what the mother dog was trying to do, though it belonged to a different species.

This woman had money and knew she could pay to educate the newborn and give her a decent life.

Santosh Kalwar’s new non-fiction, “Why Nepal Fails”, is forthcoming. His recent works have appeared in Every Day Fiction, Vine Leaves Press, 50-Word Stories, and Molecule. For more info, please visit: kalwar.com.np

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.

Tags girl child, Nepal, Santosh Kalwar

Stories

I am Not the End

By Aysha Baqir

Inside the ancient haveli [1]a young girl, the great granddaughter of a Mughal nobleman forced into Her Majesty’s Service, moved slowly as if she sensed my presence.

The city had fed on the foam-white sprays of the surging Himalayan waters, and swelled from the invasions and intermarriages between the Persians, the Arabs, and the Mongols. By the time the British arrived, a fortress of thick walls hid a maze of winding lanes jammed with narrow red-brick, stone, wood-worked havelis and long, deep stalls of silks, spices, silver, gold, and gems. Time pushed forward relentlessly, tides receded, wars were fought and lost, and the river shrunk and shrivelled into grey, brown sludge promising revenge. The shaded streets of the bazaars darkened and despair closed in like a swarm of locusts. The dwellers with means and motives, packed their belongings, and struck out towards concrete and glass housing schemes. Some tottered and fumbled like drunkards, unsure whether to venture out or hide within.

Every day, except Sunday, the girl woke up early for the call to prayers. She scrubbed, washed, cleansed, and dressed for her last prayer of the day. She ignored the rubbery slice of white bread and the blob of blood-red jelly on the dusty breakfast table, pocketed her mother’s medicine prescription and slipped out of the door with a backpack and a day bag. Hidden under the burqa, she walked swiftly and left the winding lanes behind in minutes. A grey car with tinted windows waited for her at the deserted crossing. She sat in the car and pulled out her phone. When she connected, I tapped into her.

Half an hour later the car stopped. The girl squinted at the tall glass tower that caught molten fire from the morning sun. She stuffed the burqa in her backpack before alighting. She wore a smart black and white suit, something she had picked out from one of the swanky mirrored shops in the mall. When she snapped a selfie, I saw and saved it. Whatever was online, was mine.

The girl had made herself up to please. Her round hazel eyes, set off by a dark liner, glinted under the bronze shadow. Her lips were pale but glossy. Her thick straight hair brushed her shoulders. She had cleared the six-month training with the highest score. No one could tell she wasn’t a bank executive.

She climbed up the wide marble stairs and the glass door with a metal latch sprang open. She cleared the security designed to recognise her thumbprint. There was no room for breach, not in this business. She entered the massive foyer adorned with wall mirrors and glossy planters, turned left, and pressed the button down to the basement. In a few minutes, she strode down a passageway and opened another door. The dim lights and murky matting matched the nature of the business, but she would have worked here for free to hide from the changing moods and madness of the city.

The room was mostly empty except for a few men behind the glass cabin who never left the office. She made her way to her workspace. It was bare. She had no mugs, photographs, or other belongings. The less people knew about her the better. The only equipment that sat on her desk consisted of one dark screen and the worn out keyboard. She pulled up her chair and pressed the button.

I sprang up, awake and alert. She fed in her details and hit enter. A vibe. A buzz. The girl jumped back feeling a current, something alive that pulsed and circled her. I smiled when she frowned. She felt me. I wanted her to feel my power. Within seconds her work order popped up, generated every morning at 6 AM for the morning shift and 6 PM for the evening shift. She had a busy day. She had to cover three areas, one park, one school, and the sabzi mandi, the wholesale vegetable market. The numbers rose and the lines of poor grew every day, and some even bribed to jump the cue. Who wanted to work when there was an easier way to make more money?

Her boss, Mr. K Shah, boasted of the brainwave he had while attending a six-week training on social entrepreneurship at a global leadership institute. Before sending him on the course, his father had urged him to make a difference to his constituency, his ancestral lands, and to uphold the honour of his ancestors, the revered Sufis who had travelled from Iran to the Subcontinent.

Karim Saab quickly grasped that there was opportunity in the chaos that fed upon millions of poor in his country. He discovered a win-win. For him, for his company, and the poor. In that order. He had asked himself three questions. How much money did the country make? How much of it was lost on the streets? How much could he get back?

He had returned to his country and funded an algorithm and business to do exactly that. He housed the business in the basement of the company he owned, and rumours ran that he made more money in the basement than in the bank. The business harnessed the poor across the city and then set them out on the streets. It ran upon a network of the drivers and guards belonging to the few hundred of the flagrantly wealthy and upon the millions of beggars, runaways, and ragpickers. The business model was built on detailed, precise communication and organisation in which the company excelled. The poor were happy to get a fixed income each day — three times higher than the national minimum wage. The calculations made sense even as the economy crashed, and the terror escalated. Even on the darkest days the numbers made sense. The more the people lost, the more they feared, and the more they gave.

The girl’s mind ran over the calculations. Fifty some beggars in one area per shift, add two shifts per day and then multiply it by over two hundred and fifty areas in the fast expanding city and the numbers swelled to a grand total of twenty-five thousand beggars per shift. With the average earning per beggar per shift coming to over two hundred rupees even on a bad day the total company revenue rocketed to over five million rupees per day. The costs were minimal.

There were problems. Sometimes, the children went missing. Part of running the business, shrugged Karim Saab. There were many more to take their place. The girl pushed back her chair and glanced around the empty, endless rows. In another few minutes they would be full. There were three rooms in total, one for each business. The model spared no one, not even the very young. There were rumours of a project up for a bid. Karim Saab said they had to keep innovating otherwise others would catch up. So now they focused on street children. The city that once exported cotton, silk, and gems, now sold something else.

[1] Palatial house

Aysha Baqir founded a pioneering not for profit economic development organization, Kaarvan Crafts Foundation, with a mission to alleviate poverty by providing business and marketing training to girls and women in low-income communities. and has authored a novel based on her experiences called Beyond the Fields.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.

Tags Arabs, Aysha Baqir, Beggars, Beyond the Fields, British, Himalaya, Karvaan Crafts Foundation, Mongols, Persian

Stories

‘Pus ki Raat’ or A Frigid Winter’s Night by Munshi Premchand

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date August 14, 2022
No Comments on ‘Pus ki Raat’ or A Frigid Winter’s Night by Munshi Premchand

Translated from Hindi by C. Christine Fair

Premchand is the pen name adopted by the Indian writer, Dhanpat Rai Srivastava (31 July 1880- 8 October 1936). He was a pioneer of modern Hindi-Urdu literature which focused upon contemporary social issues including caste, the treatment of women, day labour and other socio-political concerns. He remains one of the most heralded writers in South Asia. His oeuvre includes more than a dozen novels, about 300 short stories, numerous essays as well as translation of foreign literary works into Hindi.

Pus Ki Raat or Frigid Winter Night

(1)

Halku came home and told his wife, “Sahna has arrived. Get those rupees you’ve saved up and hand them over to him. We need to rid ourselves of this noose around our necks one way or another.”

His wife, Munni, was sweeping. She turned her head and responded, “We have just three rupees. If I give it to him, how will we get the blanket? How will you spend these freezing nights in the field? Tell him we’ll give him the money upon harvest. Not now.”

Halku stood there in silence for some time. He kept thinking that the coldest month of winter was already here. Without a blanket he wouldn’t be able to tolerate sleeping in the field. But Sahna wouldn’t accept this. He would hurl threats at him. As he thought this through, he hauled his heavy body — which belied the silliness of his name[1] which suggested he was slender — over to his wife. He grovelled, “Come one. Hand it over. Let’s be rid of this noose. We’ll come up with some other way to get the blanket.”

Munni stepped away from him. With arched brows, she retorted, “This was our other plan. Just tell me what your plan is. Who is going to give us a blanket for free? Who knows how much more money is left to be paid or how we are going to pay it? Why don’t you give up farming? You’re working yourself to death. If there is any yield, then you’ll pay off the loan. Come on, it’s over. We were born to pay off this debt. Let’s just avoid this kind of farming. I won’t give him the money. I won’t.”

Halku repined, “So what kind of abuses will I have to endure?”

Munni shot back, “Why should you suffer them? Is he a king?” But even as she said this, her taut eyebrows relaxed. There was a heart-wrenching truth in his words. She looked at him tenderly and withdrew the rupees from the niche in the wall. She brought them to Halku and placed them in his hand and said, “Stop share cropping. We can eat from our day labours in peace. We won’t have to deal with anyone’s bullying. It’s a good crop. Bring it in through hard work then chuck it…and the browbeating because of it.”

Halku took the money and headed outside towards Sahna. It took all the courage he could muster to give him the money. He had managed to save these rupees one by one for the blanket but today they would vanish. With each and every step, the weight of his debt was squashing his soul.

(2)

It was a dark night of Pus, the coldest month of winter. Even the stars in the sky seemed to quiver. Halku sat on a bamboo cot at the edge of field, shivering with his old, coarse sheet wrapped about him. Beneath his cot was his companion dog, Jabra, who was curled up tightly and shuddering from the cold. Neither of them could sleep a wink.

Halku curled his knees to his neck and said “Jabra, it is so damned cold. I told you to stay home where you can lay upon the pile of husks. Why did you come here? Now, you’ll have to suffer the cold! What can I do? You thought I was coming here to eat halva puri[2]!” Jabra ran to him. “Now go and wail to your grandmother.” Jabra, wagged his tail, took a long yawn then laid still. Maybe he thought that his whines were disturbing his master’s slumber.

Halku stretched out a hand to caress Jabra’s cold back and told him “From tomorrow, don’t come with me, otherwise you’ll freeze. God only knows from where this freezing west wind is bringing this frigid cold. I’m going to get up and fill my chillum in hopes of somehow passing this night. I’ve smoked eight already! These are the joys of farming! There are some fortunate beings whom the cold doesn’t even consider harassing because it knows it will be vanquished! They have thick quilts, comforters and blankets that are so warm that they can tolerate the cold. This is the nature of fate. Some of us work ourselves to the bone while others enjoy themselves.”

Halku got up and took a cinder from the pit and filled his chillum. Jabra also got up. Taking a drag on the chillum, Halku asked Jabra, “Want to smoke the chillum? It doesn’t make the cold go away but it does soothe the mind a bit.”

Jabru looked towards him, his eyes overflowing with love. Halku said, “Just put up with this cold tonight. From tomorrow, I’ll spread out the husks here. You can curl up in the husks and it won’t feel so cold.”

Jabra put his front paws on Halku’s knees and brought his snout near his face. Halku could feel his warm breath. After taking a drag of his chillum, he laid down. He was determined that come what may, he would sleep. But within a minute, his body was shivering once more. Sometimes he laid on this side, sometimes on that side. The cold sat oppressively on his chest like an invisible enemy.

When there was no way to sleep, he gently lifted Jabra, patted his head, and put him to sleep in his lap. A terrible stench came from the dog’s body but from embracing him in his lap, Halku felt a contentment which he hadn’t felt here for months. Jabra must have thought this was heaven. Halku’s soul was so pure that he had not the slightest aversion towards the dog. He never would have hugged a close companion or brother so eagerly. He no longer resented his poverty, which was the reason for his predicament. No. This extraordinary friendship had opened all of the doors of his soul and he was beeming from head to toe.

Suddenly, Jabra heard an animal. This special intimacy imbued him with a new verve that made him immune to the shocks of the frosty air. He jumped up and with a pounce bolted outside and began to bark. Halku called him several times with kissing noises, but he did not come. Without catching his quarry, he kept running around everywhere and barking. Even if he’d come for a moment, he’d run off again. Duty surged in his heart as if it were desire.

(3)

Another hour passed. The cold winds invigorated the night. Halku got up. He drew both knees to his chest and burrowed his head in the crevice, but this did little to mitigate the cold. It felt as if ice water was coursing through his veins. He looked off into the horizon and wondered how much of this terrible night remained. The Big Dipper hadn’t even climbed halfway into the sky. It will be morning only when it fully ascends. More than one fourth of the night remained.

There was a mango grove a mere tip of a bullet away from Halku’s field. It was early autumn. The leaves began to pile up in the grove. Halku thought, “If I can muster the strength to go and get some leaves to burn, it will give off good heat. If someone sees me gathering these leaves at night, they will think I’m a ghost. Who knows, there could be some animal lurking over there. But I can’t just keep sitting here in this cold. He passed through the pigeon pea field and plucked some plants to make a broom. He then walked to the grove with the smouldering cow chip in his hand. When Jabra saw him coming, he came along too and began wagging his tail.

Halku explained, “We don’t need to stay here. Let’s collect the leaves in the garden and warm up. Once we warm up, we come back and sleep again. The night is still long.”

Jabra whined in agreement and headed off in the direction of the grove.

The grove was pitch dark and, in the blackness, the ruthless wind crushed the leaves then blew them away. Drops of dew dripped from the trees.

Suddenly a gust of wind came in, carrying the scent of henna blossoms.

Halku said “What a lovely fragrance, Jabru. Can you smell it too?

Jabra was gnawing upon a bone he found lying on the ground.

Halku put the smoldering cow chip on the ground and began gathering the leaves around it.

Within a short while, he had gathered a large heap of leaves. His hands were chilled to the bone. His bare feet felt numb. Yet he was able to create a mountain of leaves. With this bonfire, he would turn this cold into ashes.

A short time later, there was a campfire. The blaze grew so high that it began to singe the leaves of the tree above it. In that capricious light, the magnificent trees of the grove seemed as if they had gathered all of the unfathomable darkness upon their heads. The light of the fire seemed to quiver and heave like an unsteady boat moving through that infinite ocean of blackness.

Halku sat in front of the bonfire warming himself. He removed the sheet and tucked it into his armpit. He stretched out his legs as if he were challenging the cold to do whatever it could. Having subdued the seemingly limitless power of the cold, he could not hide his pride of this conquest.

He asked Jabru, “Jabbar are you still feeling chilly?”

Jabbar whined as if to say, “How could I still feel chilly?”

“Had this solution occurred to me earlier, we wouldn’t have had to put up with so much cold.”

Jabbar wagged his tail.

“Good. Come. Let’s leap over this flame and see who can do it without getting burned. Son, if you get burned, I will not get you medicine!”

Jabbar looked at that fire in terror!

Don’t tell Munni about this in the morning. If she catches wind of this, she’ll give me hell.

Then he leapt over the blaze without injury. The flames grazed his feet, but it was no big deal.

Jabra circled around the fire and stood near him.

“Hey! Come on! That’s not fair. You have to jump over it.” Halku said and again bounded over the flames.

(4)

All the leaves had burned. Once again, darkness spread across the orchard. Some embers smouldered beneath the ashes which would begin to burn brightly when a breeze would arouse them only to be extinguished a moment later.

Halku again wrapped the sheet about himself and, sitting near the hot ashes, began humming a song. The heat entered his body, but as the cold intensified, he began to feel lethargic.

Jabra barked loudly and ran towards the field. Halku wondered whether a herd of animals had entered the field. Maybe it was a herd of nilgai[3]. The sounds of their running and jumping could be clearly heard. It seemed as if they were eating the crop as the sounds of their chewing were audible.

He reassured himself, “No. No animals could come into the field with Jabra around. He’d tear them apart. I must be out of my mind as now I don’t hear a thing. Clearly, I was mistaken.”

He loudly yelled “Jabra! Jabra!”

Jabra kept on barking but did not come near him.

Once again, he heard the sound of his field being ravaged. He could no longer tell himself otherwise. But the thought of moving from his seat seemed so difficult. He got up with a jerk. But going into the fields and running after the animals in this cold was unthinkable. He didn’t budge.

He called out loudly “You rascals! Damned rascals!”

Jabra again barked loudly. Animals were ravishing the field. The crop was ready. And what a good crop it was but these damned animals are destroying it.

Halku readied his resolve, got up and took a step. Then suddenly a frightfully cold, biting wind came. It felt like the sting of a scorpion. He returned and again sat near the fading bonfire and began to warm his frigid body by stirring up the ashes.

Jabra had barked himself hoarse. The nilgais were clearing out the field while Halku kept on sitting placidly by the warm embers. Languor clutched him.

He wrapped himself in his sheet and fell asleep near the warm embers.

He awoke in the morning after the sunshine has spread out in all directions. As he woke up, he heard Munni’s voice. “Are you going to sleep all day today? You came over here to laze about while over there our entire crop was being ruined.”

Halku got up and said, “Are you coming from the field?”

Munni said “Yes. The entire crop has been wiped out. Who else sleeps like this? Why didn’t you use the hut you built there?”

Halku, concocting an excuse, explained, “I was here trying to save myself from freezing to death and you are worried about the crop. Only I know how horrible it was!”

Both walked to the edge of the field. The entire crop had been flattened and Jabra was lying under the hut lethargically.

Both were surveying the field. There was sadness on Munni’s face, but Halku was ebullient.

Munni apprehensively opined “Now we’ll have to pay off the tax through day labour.”

Halku replied with joy on his face, “At least I don’t have to sleep here at night in this cold.”

[1] Halka means light in Hindi

[2] Semolina pudding and fried wheat bread

[3] Nilgai is the largest Asian antelope in Asia and is ubiquitous in north India.

C. Christine Fair is a professor in Georgetown University’s Security Studies Program. Her books include In Their Own Words: Understanding the Lashkar-e-Tayyaba (OUP 2019); Fighting to the End: The Pakistan Army’s Way of War (OUP, 2014); and Cuisines of the Axis of Evil and Other Irritating States (Globe Pequot, 2008). Her translations of Hindi, Urdu and Punjabi stories have appeared in the Bombay Literary Magazine, Bombay Review, Muse India, Kitaab, The Punch Magazine, and Borderless Journal. She reads, writes and speaks Punjabi, Hindi, and Urdu.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Tags C Christine Fair, Cuisines of the Axis of Evil and Other Irritating States, Fighting to the End: The Pakistan Army’s Way of War, Georgetown University, In Their Own Words: Understanding the Lashkar-e-Tayyaba, OUP, Premchand

Stories

No Rain on the Parade

By Tan Kaiyi

Singapore National Day Parade. Courtesy: Creative Commons

“No, I did not commit those murders.”

“But the evidence was overwhelming.”

“Overwhelmingly false. The judge dismissed the case and I was not convicted.”

“Everything, from the knives to the bags to the photos were found in your HDB flat[1]. How can you deny that?”

His eyes shifted. “I…I am not denying anything. If the public is unhappy, they are free to disagree with the ruling of the Supreme Court.”

The faces froze on the projector screen. Mahesh placed the remote on the table.

“There,” he indicated to Leong. “When you said you were not denying anything, there was a slip. If you did not do it, you should be confident. Viewers might notice these things.

Leong took a sip of water. For a thin sixty-five-year-old man, he looked radiant and alert. His appearance was such that it seemed to acquit him already from the murders he was accused of. But Mahesh believed that Leong could pull them off if he was half his age. Though his client worked as a simple administrative assistant for most of his life, Leong was one of the sharpest people he had media trained.

“Isn’t it natural to stutter? Even when I speak sometimes, I might not utter the exact words in mind,” Leong said.

“People are more forgiving in a casual conversation. Here, you will be in front of the nation talking about killings you did not commit.”

“It sounds like I’m on trial again.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Leong, you’ll always be on trial.”

When they first met, Mahesh didn’t think much of Leong. In fact, he was surprised that a man of Leong’s age knew about public relations and had the money for his services. The client had come through a fellow freelancer, Marcus. They had worked in BCW for many years until they decided they had enough of working for people. “Who commissioned the media training?” Mahesh asked. Marcus was sheepish and vague. All he responded was that it was someone from linked to the government.

“Wouldn’t it have come from GeBIZ?” Mahesh asked. Government contracts usually came strictly from the online tender portal.

“Would we be talking if it was on GeBIZ?” Marcus replied.

The circumstances didn’t matter. As long as he was paid, Mahesh was happy to oblige.

Mahesh and Leong ran through a few more practice interviews. Each time, Mahesh sharpened his questions, trying to steel up Leong for the upcoming onslaught on CNA(Channel News Asia). About an hour later, Mahesh called for a break. They sat down and had their refreshments.

“You were very hard in the last round of questions,” Leong said.

“Rather hard now than suffer later on TV,” Mahesh said, taking a gulp from his Coke Zero bottle.

Leong sipped on his green tea. During the break, Mahesh studied him. He looked exactly like how the witnesses described the National Day Killer in the report. Lanky and not very tall, the perpetrator looked as if he was a homeless cardboard collector. However, he had the fitness of an NS[2] commando. A police report stated that a pursuing officer was unable to catch up with a masked figure leaving the scene of a murder. The policeman was in his twenties and won numerous fitness awards in his cohort. Despite that, he couldn’t keep up. Mahesh examined Leong. The old man was certainly lean and walked in steady strides.

The media trainer shook off those thoughts once he was aware of them. He reminded himself that the Supreme Court’s decision was final. Leong was innocent and he was here to help him reinforce that to the public.

“Shall we go again?” Mahesh asked Leong. The old man nodded wordlessly.

“Let’s do one last round,” the younger man said.

Leong indicated that he was ready to go with a thumbs up.

Mahesh introduced himself as a fictional TV presenter and began the questioning. Leong learned fast. He now was able to deal with the unpleasant topics around the time before he was acquitted as the National Day Killer: the comments from the public, the stares and flashes he received from cameras when he was shuttled between the prison complex and the courthouse and the crushing sense of injustice that the real murderer was out enjoying the serenity and freedom that rightly belonged to him. He flinched before but now, it was as if he was truly innocent. As if, Mahesh caught himself thinking. There’s no as if. Leong was not the murderer.

“The killer left messages about how it never rains on National Day. What do you make of that?”

“I don’t know. Why not you ask him?”

“Him? What makes you think it’s him?”

“I don’t think I’m fit to answer these questions. It should be left to the police.”

Leong was getting more confident.

“In the notes he left behind, the killer said that his killings were a tribute. It appeases what he calls the great spirits of the earth and calls on their blessings for whoever rules the land. The fact that it never rains on the parade was proof of his success. What do you think of that?”

“I have no insights into the mind of a madman. I’m sure you’re curious but this is a question, again, for the police,” Leong said it assertively while maintaining a steady gaze at Mahesh. Good, the younger man thought.

“So, are you the National Day Killer?” Mahesh asked abruptly. He noticed that Leong tended to get tired around eight minutes into the interview. A direct question was meant to throw him off and test him.

Leong responded brilliantly and firmly, “No, I am not.”

Mahesh switched off the camera. “Fantastic, I think we’re done.”

Leong smiled, patted his hands against his legs as if congratulating himself on a good day’s work done and stood up. The old man thanked his trainer for the session and offered his help to pack up.

“You did very well today. If you need to revise before the broadcast in three days, just give me a call,” Mahesh said as he kept his cameras, laptop and other equipment.

“I’m afraid that’s all the money I have for this,” Leong said, chuckling.

“I hope it’s worth the investment. Not a lot of people would think to prepare themselves before going on camera. CEOs have frozen on screen for answers that were not as pointed as what you’ll be receiving.”

“Well, it wasn’t entirely my idea,” Leong said.

“Meaning?”

Leong had walked off to the far corner of the room to dump the empty cans of beverages they had consumed during the session. He returned and said, “That’s the last of it. Shall we?”

The two men left the room and Mahesh locked up the office he had rented based on a favour from a friend. The younger man offered the older man a ride to the nearest MRT[3]. “Thank you, it’s quite a walk,” Leong said. “This old man needs to protect his legs,” he said while walking untroubled to the car.

An MRT against HDB flats. Courtesy: Creative Commons

During the journey, Mahesh went through what would happen on the day itself again. He assured Leong that he’d be there on the 12^th of August and reminded Leong of what he should wear and when he should show up at the studio. When he discussed the schedule with Leong in the car, Mahesh was worried that he might be overbearing. He had run through these details multiple times with the older man, but he knew that people could be forgetful under stress, and it was better to be sure. The media trainer wondered why they would want to air such as controversial story three days after National Day, but he guessed that the producer must have been desperate for exciting content. He or she must have fought the government censors ferociously to get the green light.

Once he was satisfied that the Leong remembered all the details, he switched to other topics of conversation for the rest of the drive.

“Mr. Leong, do you ever feel that it’s unfair to you?”

“Unfair?”

“That you’re put on trial by the public like this and the real killer is out there still.”

“There’s no fair or unfair. You just accept what the world gives you.”

“That’s quite a grim outlook.”

“Not really. We just have to live with history, with what is given to us and what we should do next.”

Mahesh drove on quietly, taking in the Leong that was slowly unveiling beside him. During their time together, they were so focused on the media training that the younger man had no time to strike up a personal conversation with his client.

“What do you mean by live with history?”

“It was that outlook that made us. Our country went through a tough time before it got to where it is today. We forget that our streets were riddled with crime and blood. Just about sixty years back, we were killing each over the colour of our skin. And then, for some reason, we made it.”

“We had good leaders.”

“Yes, but facing the uncertainty of this world, even great leaders cannot succeed if they haven’t been elected.”

“But our people elect them.”

“I’m not just talking about people. History must elect them. That is the ultimate reason for success.”

“What do you mean by history?”

Leong went on, “The flow of events, the spirit of the ages, the soul of the people. All of these must be aligned for our success. And is it too much to thank these forces that have allowed us to flourish?”

Mahesh couldn’t really piece together these momentary revelations immediately. It was only after a few weeks after the broadcast of the interview, which went seamlessly, that he thought of whether he should contact the police.

The judge dismissed the case and I was not convicted. That line of Leong from the video replayed in his head.

The judge dismissed the case and I was not convicted.

The car approached the pickup and drop off point of the nearest MRT station. Mahesh, not fully knowing what to say, told Leong as the older man exited the car, “It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Leong. What you said was interesting. Perhaps, there are some truths to be learned from the pioneer generation.”

“There’s nothing. All we need is to be thankful,” Leong said as he smiled and shut the passenger door.

[1] Housing Development Board flats. Nearly 80% of the population stays in HDB flats.

[2] National Service or a two year compulsory uniformed service for all male Singaporeans and Permanent residents, normally served from age 18-20. Subsequently, the have to return and serve for a short period (few weeks) for a given tenure.

[3] Metro rail. Mass rapid transit

Tan Kaiyi is on a literary odyssey to unearth the wonders and weirdness within the mundane. His poems have appeared in the Quarterly Literary Review Singapore (QLRS). His play, On Love, was selected for performance at Short & Sweet Festival Singapore. He has also been published in Best Asian Speculative Fiction (2018), an anthology of science fiction, fantasy and horror stories from the region.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.

Tags CNA, HDB, MRT, Singapore National Day, Singapore National Day Parade, Tan Kaiyi

Stories

Hasan Sol: A Balochi Folktale

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date July 21, 2022
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Translated by Fazal Baloch[1]

Once there lived a poor man. Despite all his efforts, he could not beget any offspring. The grief of being childless had almost emaciated him. Most of the time he remained grief-stricken.

One day he left his home and took the route to the jungle where he reclined against a giant jujube tree. He decided not to move unless he was blessed with a child. A couple of days later a voice in the tree addressed him: “Man! Why don’t you leave me alone? I’ve named this tree after my own name. It is my dwelling. I have left the entire world for humankind and spared this tree for myself. Here I worship my Creator. Please leave me alone.”

The poor man said: “O, holy fakir! I am an unlucky man. I have no child. I have decided not to leave the tree unless I am blessed with a child. No matter if I die of thirst or hunger, I’m not going away”.

The fakir said: “Go home you will be blessed with a child, If it happens to be a boy, it is all yours but if it turns out to be a girl, you are bound to marry her with me. I will be your son-in-law”. The fakir continued, “If he’s a boy, his name will be Hasan sol, and in case of a girl, her name will be Nokmadina”.

The poor man replied, “Master! I am a Baloch. I will honour my promise”.

Nine months later he was blessed with a girl. As advised by the fakir, he named her Nokmadina. Time passed by and Nokmadina grew up. One day, along with other girls and womenfolk of the hamlet, she went to the jungle and walked over to the giant jujube tree to pluck its ripened fruits. The moment she stretched her hand, she felt her scarf had entangled with a branch of the tree. Despite all her efforts, she could not free it. She heard a voice addressed her: “Nokmadina! Ask your father to honour his promise”.

She immediately left for home but forgot to convey the message to her father. The next day when she went to the jungle, the same voice echoed again but Nokmadina couldn’t remember either. On the third day, when the jujube branch held her dress, Nokmadina apologised to it that she couldn’t remember his message.

The voice emanating from the tree said, “If you put your hand in the jar to pick up a dry date, a wasp will sting your finger and remind you of my words.”

She freed the hem of her scarf and quickly rushed towards home. Unmindful of the fakir’s words, the moment she ran her hand into the jar, the wasp stung her, and she broke out crying. Her father rushed to her and asked her what had happed to her. She recalled and told her father what the fakir had been telling for the past three days.

Her father did remember his promise. Though he did not want to marry his daughter with the fakir, he still wanted to fulfil his promise. His wife said, “May the Holy Quran cripple the old fakir! Do you have the heart to abandon your grown-up daughter in a jungle at the mercy of wild beasts? I am not going to allow you”.

The poor man said: “I’ve to honour my words. Let’s settle with whatever our fate has for us. First, we didn’t have any child. When we were blessed with one, it turned out to be a girl. And I have to marry it with the tree”.

Then he turned to his daughter and told her to be ready for he was going to leave her in the custody of the jujube tree the next morning. Everyone in the house including the girl and her mother cried inconsolably.

The next day he held Nokmadina’s hand and walked down to the jujube tree. Hasan Sol descended from the tree and they solemnised the marriage accordingly. Nokmadina’s father took the road back home.

Hasan Sol had already two ghoul-wives whom he visited every Friday in Mount Qaf and stayed with them for three days. He asked an old crone to stay with Nokmadina during his absence. Feeling envious of her, the old woman put Nokmadina in an underground den nearby and placed a huge rock on its opening so that she could not come out. When Hasan Sol returned, she produced her daughter before him and said, “Your wife has grown prettier than ever.” On the other hand, she secretly fed Nokmadina with just a few morsels.

On a Friday morning, when Hasan Sol was about to leave, a dove perched on the tree. He shot at the bird and put it in the oven to roast it. Suddenly, the birds said: “The old woman has put Nokmadina in the den and brought her daughter in her place”. The bird repeated it over and again.

Hasan Sol thoroughly scanned her wife to determine the truth. He concluded that the bird was right. Hence, he held her hand, spun it in the air and hurled it off like a stone in the sling. She landed beyond seven mountains. Nobody found any trace of her. Then he called out the old woman. He seized hold of her legs and thrusted them beneath the ground. Then he went to the nearby mountains to look for Nokmadina. He searched in each cave and cavern but could not find any trace of her. On his way back, he heard someone’s groan coming out of a jackal-den. He removed the rock from its opening and helped Nokmadina out and carried her home. When she fully regained her senses, Hasan Sol told her that he was going to Mount Qaf to visit her ghoul-wives. He warned her thus, “Never follow me. The road to Mount Qaf is long and tedious. You will wear out seven pairs of shoes made of steel, till you reach there. The ghouls will kill you there.”

When Hasan Sol flew off, Nokmadina made it to an ironsmith and ordered seven pairs of shoes made of steel and set out for Mount Qaf. After a long and tedious journey, having worn out all seven pairs of shoes, she finally reached the Mount Qaf.

A few children were playing at the door of a garden. She asked them if they knew anything about Hasan Sol. One of the children said that the very garden belonged to Hasan Sol and he would come there for his ablutions. She put her ring in the earthen jar, which he used to store water for cleaning himself, and hid behind a tree.

A little later, Hasan arrived there. When he noticed the ring in the bottom of the jar, he overturned and spilled the water on the ground to retrieve the ring. He assumed Nokmadina had disobeyed him and made it there. He asked the children if they had seen someone around.

The children told him about Nokmadina who was hiding behind a tree.

Hasan Sol walked over to her and asked her why she came there. He advised her to be careful otherwise the ghouls would eat her flesh. Hasan Sol transformed her into a knife and slipped it into his pocket and went home. The moment he got there, his ghoul-wives blurted loudly, “Human Smell! Human Smell.”

Hasan Sol said, “Where is the human? There’s no human but me. Are you want to eat my flesh?” He picked up spear and with great effort, he managed to silence them. He took his meal and strolled towards the garden where he transformed Nokmadina back into a human and together with her, he ate his meal. Then Hasan Sol transformed her into a pomegranate and tucked in a tree and told his ghoul-wives, “This pomegranate is meant for a sick man. Whosoever lays her hand on it, I will gouge out her eyes”.

When Hasan Sol left, the wives suspected it was a human. Thus, they cut a small piece and shared it together. When Hasan Sol returned, he asked them who spoiled the pomegranate in his absence. But they feigned ignorance. In the very instant, Hasan Sol transformed her back into a human and found out her that the ring on her little finger was missing. Infuriated, he shouted at them and said, “I swear by my sanctity, next time if you even touch her, I will tie you with chains and throw you before the dogs.”

One day when Hasan Sol had gone on an errand, one of the ghouls called Nokmadina and said, “You damn good-for-nothing human! Go to our mother’s house and bring us hair oil, comb and mud-soap.” They also gave her a letter as well. She complied and left. Midway through, she saw Hasan Sol who asked her where she was heading.

“I am going to deliver the letter to your mother-in-law,” she replied.

Hasan Sol asked her to show him the letter.

It read, “The moment this daughter of human delivers you the letter, kill her.” Hasan Sol changed the letter and wrote instead: “She is your granddaughter from your youngest daughter.” He further advised her thus, “Down the road you will see a dog with some grass before it and a goat with a piece of bone before it. Place the grass before the goat and the bone before the dog. Some distance further, you will find a mosque, replace its old mats with new ones. Then you will come across a dry pond. Unblock the watercourse and fill it with water.”

Nokmadina did exactly what Hasan Sol had advised her. When she delivered the letter, the ghoul woman hugged her and showered her with boundless love and affection. Nokmadina noticed a cage with four doves in the house. She asked her about them. The woman said: “One is my spirit; second one is your mother’s; third one is your stepmother’s and the fourth one is their grandmother’s”.

She took the cage and trampled the dove that was her co-wife’s sprit and ran off. The woman chased her. When she reached near the pond, she called the pond to stop her but the pond told her that she filled it with water a while ago so it would not stop her. When she drew close to the mosque, the woman asked the mosque to not let her go, but the mosque said that a while ago she replaced its mats, so it let her go. Then she asked the goat and the dog for the same, but they too refused as she fed them a while ago. At last, she reached Hasan Sol’s garden. When he saw the cage in her hand, he said, “Lo! You brought the cage along”.

“Why shouldn’t I? They don’t let me live. So now I’m not going to spare them either”, remarked Nokmadina.

“Alright. Kill all of them,” said Hasan Sol.

So, the story ended. And they headed home.

[1] This folktale is translated with permission from Geedi Kessah-4(Folktales Vol: 4) compiled and retold by Gulzar Khan Mari in Balochi, published by the Balochi Academy Quetta in 1971.

Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Tags Balochi Academy Quetta, Balochistan, Fazal Baloch, Geedi Kessah-4(Folktales Vol: 4), Gulzar Khan Mari, Pakistan Academy of Letters, Pakistani Literature

Stories

Murder at the ‘Pozzo di San Patrizo’

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date July 21, 2022
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Paul Mirabile travels to 1970s Italy to a crime inside a sixteenth century well

A visit to Italy would certainly do me wonders; I hoped my migraines and other aches and pains would disappear, and my academic life regain its habitual vitality and éclat. Yet, in spite of my joyous resolution, I couldn’t see myself going alone to a country so different from my own. I thus decided to bring along a girlfriend of mine, a colleague from the university who had been working with me on various projects both at the university and at my summer home. She would be an excellent companion for such an excursion; the long distances by bus and train would be spent in ardent conversation, the sites and experiences could be discussed with a sympathetic companion. Also, if my health would fail at any given moment, she could surely offer her fine qualities as a physical and spiritual healer.

We left at the end of June, taking a night train through sunny France then directly to Rome. After spending a stimulating week there, bathing in the glory and debauchery of the Roman Empire, exalting the works of the great Renaissance artists, strolling through the still present Pasolinian streets of proletarian squalor, we took a bus to Orvieto, a mediaeval town located in the lush green hills of Umbria, noted especially for its white wine. I like a good white wine, and I was sure this ancient Etruscan town would revive and rejuvenate my spirits. Rome had plunged me in a numbing, cultural lethargy ; it was much too theatrical for my tastes, too saturated in enormous works of art for me to assimilate. I needed a stimulus less exacting, less pompous, more submissive. Orvieto was just that submissiveness …

The cathedral drew me towards her like a lascivious hussy. The queenly black and white columns and the lightly faded frescoes depicting scenes from the ‘Apocalypse’ painted at both ends of the transept[1] heightened my appetite for the imaginative and the unknown. The ceiling towered ever so high above me. At times the long and lofty naves appeared like soaring prehistoric animals, zebra-coloured, ready to devour their squealing prey below. At these awesome moments, I forgot that my colleague was close at hand, a hand so tender, fresh. Her presence became unreal, fading away beyond the muslin ramparts of my intimate sanctuary.

When I returned to the real world, I took my girlfriend by the hand and pressed it firmly. She appreciated those penetrating instances, although I will confess they were few and far between.

After our visit to the Duomo, we stopped for lunch, and had some lovely Orvieto wine. I ate and drank like I never had before, gobbling down plates of pasta that I never dared touch at home. I felt like I was in a reverie, drinking, eating, laughing … even joking ! I had never joked in my life: Was I possessed by some spirit, or simply by the trellis of polychromatic vines creeping up the trattoria[2]walls that emitted the most sensuous perfumes?

We stopped off at our hotel to change after lunch. I threw around my neck my favourite silk scarf stained a violent red. As to my companion, she too dressed very smartly for the occasion, draped in a long, milky white muslin skirt, a resplendent black satin blouse and sporting a large hat with crape rose. Yes, it would to be a most rewarding plunge into the underworld, I thought cheerfully.

We left the hotel. Arm in arm we strolled like two young lovers towards the famous Pozzo di San Patrizio, a curiosity that attracted me for its absolute banality: a well dug out of volcanic tuft, hellishly profound, spiralling down and down into the bowels of the earth, where the coolness of its universe preserves and petrifies all that stumble into and within its dark, dank apertures. Are all wells similar ?

We descended the cool, glistening, humid steps, smoothed over by moss. Oddly enough, we were the only visitors. My colleague, startled by our chilly surroundings, grasped my arm tightly in an almost man-like grip. She slipped, nearly sliding over the low stone wall that separated the steps from the brackish waters far below. I peered down into them ; a diminutive bridge connected the two spiralling stairways on each side of the darkened waters. The bridge seemed so far away, so distant from our weary lives spent on the surface of the earth, working like slaves to earn a meagre living. I had been toiling so much, trying to gather new ideas for a book or short-story. But nothing emerged, no matter how deep I sounded ; only a spittle of words drooled on paper without meaning, and oftentimes, without form.

My mind wandered nervously from the moist walls to the lightless, stagnant waters … A story would surely form out of those dank elements, a murder committed on the spur of the moment as the killer descended ever deeper into the bowels of Hell … Yes, Saint Theresa’s Hell as she so vividly depicted it in her autobiographical writings; a depiction that I had memorised to comfort me during long sleepless nights, twisting and turning in moist, smelly sheets :

“…Whilst she knelt in prayer, she suddenly found herself amongst demons in a place which appeared to her like the entrance of a long, narrow small street, a sort of low furnace, obscure and anguishing. The floor seemed to be of a very foul-smelling muddy water, swarming with terrible vermin or worms. At the end of this road appeared a cavity with a sort of closet, cabinet or store-room where the saintly nun felt cramped. Here she felt as if she were imprisoned. Hence, I reiterate that the descent into Hell was one of the greatest boons that the Lord granted me because I gained greatly from it, losing thus my fears of the trials and contradictions of this life, so as to strengthen myself to endure them ; and I thank the Lord who delivered me from what appears to me to be such terrible and perpetual evils …”

How comforting did those words ring in my tortured ears under the weighty silence of starless nights. A murder, yes a murder … without premeditation, without vindictiveness … without meaning ! A murder pure in act, taintless of any scrupulous criminality to which mankind has been accustomed. A murder to be executed in this very well, in its unholy, hellish, malodorous enveloping coil. Its slimy aureole would indeed produce a horror-filled effect.

As I turned to my colleague to expound my budding thoughts, a hard, clanking noise disturbed us from above. It sounded like a rotating, iron machine, grinding, pounding, droning … droning like a million wasps or hornets. A torturing engine, perhaps, twisting and tearing the limbs of its hysterical victims. The weird cranking sounds made my head spin. I felt a pang of involuntary emotion for its victims, his or her sorrows and misfortunes, trials and tribulations. My girlfriend stared at me out of empty orbits. Above the cranking din, the droning wasps and hornets, now receded now grew louder. I poured out my soul to her about the imagined murder. My animation caused her to laugh meekly, albeit I sensed in her voice an anguish that if magnified would have echoed off the well walls. She noted my need to expurgate this relevant project, the desire to couch it on paper, the need to fulfil its account. She realised this tale could only be discussed in whispers, here in the bowels of Hell. Yet, how delighted, how encouraged, how spellbound even was I to enlist her sympathy.

Our footfalls were endless. The sun’s rays had long since left us to grope our way along the smooth, rounded walls. The clanking and droning had ceased for an instant, but again took up its place amongst the horrors of my imagination, in rhythm with the melodious words of Saint Theresa, still drumming inside my temples. And my tale thickened with obsolete details amongst those uncanny rhythms. The cranking lent it beauty and balance, the drake-like light, ruddy and rutilant, form and volume. But the tiny bridge still appeared so remote, so aloof, far below us. Would we ever reach the damn thing ? Its razor-sharp crossing? The descent … the razor-sharp bridge : “ ..it was the bridge over cold water … it was strong and stiff like a sword … and it had the length of two lances..…” murmured creepily into my ear a fey voice from some remote, unearthly Time and Space; one that I could not fathom for the life of me. I shook my head, ridding it of that vexing nuisance …

The story that poured out from my entrails would surely please my future readers. But did it have to occur at the bridge ? Could it not, for example, happen elsewhere, along the slimy passage downwards, high above the stinking waters ? Could the killer, anxious to carry out his crime, impatient of the countless steps, not throw his victim to a watery death from the smooth, slimy, low, protecting, stone wall ?

I submitted these new image-filled details to my colleague who merrily agreed to the novel developments. She deemed it amusing, and even cautioned a detail or two, apropos the way in which the murder was to be effected. Was the victim to be strangled or merely thrown over the stone wall ? I shook my head fiercely, no violence would be condoned, a simple push over the side. The killer would observe the frightened face of his defenceless prey as she plunged over the stone wall. Yes ! It had to be a woman ! One who was easily terrified, especially of well deaths ! I laughed so loud that its echo clanged above the clanging, iron clamour … the droning hordes of wasps and hornets. My girlfriend stepped back against the low wall, noticing that the laugh resounded far greater than the gyrating engines. She turned a ghastly white, her eyes frozen in their sockets. Her sudden soft smile eased my inner tensions, soothed my painful need to perform a physical achievement. Yet, I had to do something to alleviate the mounting tension in my chest and temples : that spiralling Theresian plummet into Hell …

I touched her arm, absorbed by the intensity of her presence. She suddenly slapped me away as if the torturous pounding had been impounded in the palm of my hand. Her face transformed into a mutilated horror, her lips stretched bloodlessly across her already livid, pallid face. Those lips curled into a snarl and sneered at me. Those hollow eyes tunnelled out two fiery rays in the inky darkness. Her slow and steady transformation, along with the droning machines drove me back a few steps. The well seemed so much deeper ; and where was that bridge ? The iron clanking and wasp-like droning came to a sudden halt … The silence grew unworldly, and as it did, all the terrors of the subterranean world began to jump at me in tainted colours. Indeed, the Luciferian world would soon gain on my own. I wanted to run back up those long steps, back to light and hope.

She caught my shoulder. I lashed out to protect myself. Who’s side would she be on ? There would be no turning back now, my mind was running amok. My story was not evolving any further, and there I was trapped within the entrails of Hell in company not with Saint Theresa but with a witch-like demon. A strong impulse grew terribly painful and seized my heart, a killer’s impulse that shot adrenalin through my arm as it involuntarily stretched out to grasp the witch’s leathery neck … to wring it to death. But ever so gently, as not to leave any ungainly marks on that creamy, pasty, ashen skin. Those marks never attracted me in the least ; they were done in the most barbaric fashion, passionately and without reflexion.

We are not savages, are we not ? We are children of mild words and sober acts. And here I was forced to perform such undistinguished rituals … I deemed it repugnant to prostrate before these base and besmirching deeds. Her lips touched mine. They were dry, wilting like the dying petals of a black tulip, no longer tempting, but welcoming infectious lust. My strength, however, did not yield, and lifting up this mindless, mirthless creature, I threw it over the wall, its screams in perfect harmony with the churning machines, the droning hornets. The screams vanished with a distant thud … and splash … I peered over the low stone wall : the body floated listlessly upon the calm, clammy waters. Suddenly it disappeared, and only the large hat with crape rose lay stiff on the oily surface waters like some dead gelatinous marine creature …

I continued to peer into those waters, so still, so tranquil, like my nerves, still and tranquil. A decomposing odour soon filled the air. Already ? It made me think of a slaughter-house on the edge of a polluted river-bank. Perhaps even of a burial vault. I searched for my colleague but she was nowhere to be found. Had she returned to the surface? She did seem so distraught at the stillness and profoundness of that Hell-hole. Someone did caution me about her oftentimes awkward, even odd, unpredictable behaviour.

Apparently she was capable of standing you up at any time for any given reason. I now believed it. She had left me to wane alone in Saint Theresa’s realm. But I was undaunted, unafraid of what others would say if they should find me amongst the dead. Their words could never pierce my brazen heart. I had been there before and knew how to handle poisonous platitudes. And besides, I could at last write my story… my beloved story that would earn me a grand reputation amongst my so called peers, they who, to tell the truth, were no more than the lackeys of market-targeting editors and courtiers of government officials. Perhaps they would all laugh at my naivety, at my indefatigable efforts. But I feared not their calloused mockery. I would not lock myself up like some raving maniac and let them tear me to pieces. Let them come ! The dark walls of Hell had welcomed Saint Theresa … They shall welcome me ! They shall be my lichened ramparts, my spiralling stairway to fame and fortune ! Hell will transform the cranking machine and droning nests of wasps and hornets into a deadly weapon of defence … cranking and droning my enemies to atoning tears. Had the goodly saint not whispered to me the bitter but bountiful benefits of Lucifer’s diabolical gardens ?

There on the diminutive bridge, razor-sharp (I finally gained the bridge), I waited for them, my indistinguishable peers, cranking my neck high up to the creamy waxing rays of a lunar light ; waited at that precipitous bridge for the great Crossing. Ô Theresa ! Ô Theresa ! Will my story rise to the dawn of rosy day, expurgated of its entombed overweening bondage ?

[1] Either of the two sides of a cross-shaped church that are at a perpendicular angle to the main part

[2] Italian eatery

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Tags France, Hell, Italy, Paul Mirabile, Pozzo di San Patrizio, purgatory, Renaissance, Roman Empire, Saint Theresa, Umbria

Stories

Bus Stop

By Rinu Antony

It was not the sound that bothered her but what it meant. Everyone would reach their destination except for her. She remained seated at one end of the bus stop bench. The screeching and rattling sound of the engine continued and then the tyres seemed to screech. She could hear the sigh of relief from some of the passengers in the window seats.

Marjorie avoided looking at a particular window where a little boy had been staring at her for quite a while as if wondering why she sat alone outside while others were inside the bus. Marjorie’s stomach churned with not only the odour of fumes but also with the idea that the boy could see through her.

She felt he could see that she wasn’t eager to return to her home.

To Marjorie’s relief and disappointment, the bus had started and moved towards its destinations. But no sooner was the bus gone that Marjorie regretted not getting in.

Maybe, I should have been on that bus. Maybe…

The night sky was aglow with bright city lights. Marjorie looked across the petrol pump on the other side of the road. Long queue of vehicles, both two wheelers and four wheelers, were seen stretching for several metres at the petrol pump. Her eyes lingered on a woman who drove by on her scooter. Marjorie had wanted to buy a scooter for herself for a year now. But she couldn’t save enough money to buy a scooter.

So lost she was with the activities at the petrol pump and the regrets of her life, that she didn’t notice a person occupying the middle of the seat. A sound made her look to her right. A chubby woman clad in saree was rummaging through her shopping bag. With her hand buried inside her bag, the woman looked up and met Marjorie’s eyes. Marjorie looked away.

A tongue clicking sound drew Marjorie’s attention towards the stranger.

The woman tossed some roasted peanuts into her hand from a paper roll and offered them to Marjorie. Marjorie looked at the outstretched hand and at the woman. She was disgusted with the idea that the woman offered her peanuts with her unwashed hand and with that hand she was going to eat the peanuts herself.

Marjorie shook her head and forced a smile, “No thanks.”

The woman shrugged her shoulder which irritated Marjorie. It reminded her of a school friend of hers who’d shrug her shoulder too often for no reason. It was also this friend who introduced Marjorie to cigarettes and cuss words and broke her friendship when Marjorie told her how her father caught her smoking a cigarette.

Bad influences can ruin your life. Her father used to say. It reminded her of her sister now. She lifted her wrist to check the time on her wrist watch and wondered what her sister might be doing now. Worrying about her child?

“Where are you heading?”

Home.

Once again, Marjorie turned to face the woman but didn’t respond. Only when the woman’s eyebrows shot up and the corners of her lips rose imperceptibly did Marjorie respond.

“Actually, I needed to go to a medical shop. Wanted to buy some medicine for my niece. She’s sick. I should have bought it while coming from work but I forgot. I was on my way home when the bus broke down here. All the passengers got down. Suddenly I felt sick. By the time the bus started again, I felt too dizzy even to stand up. So I decided to sit here till I felt okay,” said Marjorie.

God! Why did I have to say all that? Wondered Marjorie.

The woman smiled and shook her head. Does she know I’m lying? No, that’s not possible! Or is it easy to read me?

Marjorie knew she should have asked the woman in return where she was headed but she didn’t have the energy in getting involved in chit chat. So she remained quiet.

“How old is your niece?” The woman asked.

Instead of answering, Marjorie dug out her phone from her purse, opened it and showed her the picture of her sister and niece.

“She’s your sister?”

Marjorie replaced the mobile into her purse.

“Yes.”

“Younger sister?”

“Yes.”

How does she know?

The ominous sound of the siren of an ambulance drew their attention towards it.

“I don’t like to see ambulances,” said the woman and looked away.

Neither did Marjorie. She wondered if there was any soul on Earth who looked at ambulances with awe and interest as one looked at BMW.

Both the women remained quiet till the sound of the siren faded into the distance. Marjorie cupped her nose when dozens of vehicles stopped at the traffic signal. It wasn’t as Marjorie wasn’t used to the odour of exhaust fumes from vehicles. Maybe, it was the familiarity that bothered her. When she was a pre-schooler, every morning, Marjorie would accompany her father as he’d begin his work as an autorickshaw driver. She enjoyed those moments with her father — away from her bickering mother. Then, as the years rolled by, Marjorie got busy with her school and friends. But Marjorie was never a bright student and her father often expressed his disappointment in her. Few times, Marjorie tried but failed to take her studies seriously. Her father also never approved of her friends and blamed them for her poor performance in school. He firmly believed that Marjorie would never succeed in life. So, he shifted his attention from Marjorie to his younger daughter. Unlike her, Marjorie’s sister was quiet, obedient, respectful and studious. Her father had high hopes for her. Marjorie and her father’s relationship became strained over a period of time.

Marjorie was glad her father was dead, else he’d be heartbroken.

“What is your sister’s name?”

Once again, Marjorie looked at the woman. The woman’s face seemed to glisten under the artificial lights.

Why? You didn’t ask my name. Why do you want to know my sister’s name?

It was as if the woman read her mind.

“What’s your name?”

Marjorie couldn’t help but smile. “Marjorie. My sister’s name is Tara and her daughter’s, Urja.”

“I’m Mehak. Mehak, a unhappily married woman with no interest in life.”

A city bus stopped in front of them. Neither woman got in.

Despite herself, Marjorie was suddenly curious to know about the woman’s life.

Probably her husband has affair with another woman, thought Marjorie.

Again, it seemed the woman heard her thoughts.

“He’s like any other normal, common husband. I don’t have any complaints with him,” Mehak paused and turned her attention to the petrol station. “But I lost my mother and brother in an accident a few months after our marriage. They were accompanying me to my in-laws house when the accident occurred. They died on the spot. After recuperating in the hospital for three months, I walked out of the hospital like a normal person. But nothing felt normal afterwards. Nothing. It strained my relationship with my husband. But he doesn’t care nor do I.”

Strained relationships are difficult to mend, thought Marjorie. Her own relationship with her father had never mended. Their relationship was coloured with their occasional fights, her father’s disapproval of her friends, clothes, bad grades, dabble with smoking, impudent behaviour. The list went on. But it was his comparison between her and her sister that hurt her the most. He never stopped doing that till his last breath. Her mother was a silent spectator whose only concern was providing meal to her family at the right time and occasionally complaining about her husband’s low income.

“What does your sister do for a living?”

Why don’t you ask about me?

My sister does nothing!

“She has to care for her baby so —

For some unknown reason, the woman laughed drawing Marjorie’s attention towards her.

The woman met her eyes with the remnant of the laugh in the form of a smile now.

“She doesn’t work, does she? Perhaps, her husband does.”

The way she said it rattled Marjorie and she decided not to respond to the woman. There was something wrong with the woman. Maybe after losing her mother and brother, she had become bitter inside, thought Marjorie.

“What about you? What do you do?”

“I’m a web developer,” said Marjorie quickly before she realised her mistake. I shouldn’t have answered her.

The woman was silent. Maybe she doesn’t know what web developers did. Should I explain it to her?

“I’m an alcoholic,” said the woman in a rasping voice.

Marjorie was looking at the woman now. She wasn’t sure if she heard her right.

“Huh?”

The woman looked serious, “You heard me.”

“Are you drunk now?”

A humourless laugh sliced through the air.

“I had only one glass of whiskey before leaving house. Would that make me drunk? I’m childless and trapped in loveless marriage. My husband is also an alcoholic so I give him company now and then. Though we don’t love each other, we share our love for alcohol and that’s how we continue to live with each other.”

Marjorie checked the time on her phone thought of leaving. Instead, she remained seated. She was surprised that her sister hadn’t called her already. Then she realised she had turned on airplane mode. Another bus stopped in front of them and four passengers got out. Two crossed the road and two sat on the seat with them.

The woman scooted near Marjorie and leaning towards her, said, “Your name? ”

Marjorie could detect the alcohol in the woman’s breath now. “I already told you. Marjorie.”

“Nice name.”

“My father named me.”

“Fathers are good. Mine lost his sanity after the death of my mother and brother.”

Marjorie thought about her niece’s father. She didn’t know who he was. Despite asking her numerous times, her sister hadn’t revealed any details about her child’s father. Marjorie hated her for that. Hated her sister for keeping a secret from her who was taking care of her and her child. Hated her for being their father’s favourite daughter.

Not only Marjorie had to care for her sister and niece but also had to send cash to her mother who lived in their old house alone.

Marjorie’s life was like a monsoon sky with a grey veil of clouds.

“Is your sister nice to you?”

Marjorie turned and examined the woman’s face. Her eyes moved towards the other two people who were busy with their phones.

“Of course, she is nice to me. We’re siblings!” Marjorie didn’t hide her irritation.

“Not true. Some siblings are sworn enemies and some cannot stand each other.”

No, there was no sibling rivalry when they were young nor now. In fact, when she thought of her sister no emotion got hold of her. No hatred. No envy. No love.

She felt nothing for her sister. She knew her sister felt the same about her.

While growing up, Marjorie spent most of her time with her friends and socialising while her sister studied. Her sister was always the smarter one between them.

Where did you go wrong, Tara? How could you conceive a child out of wedlock?

Marjorie remembered that night vividly. It was past 10pm, and having done with her usual two cigarettes and halfway through a movie, Marjorie’s droopy eyes snapped wide open with the ringing of the doorbell. Her heart hammered in her chest as she peered out of the peephole. She couldn’t believe her eyes! Tara stood on the other side of the door. For a brief moment, Marjorie didn’t believe her eyes. Why was her sister here? She was supposed to be in her college hostel in Delhi.

Marjorie unlocked the latch and yanked the door open. Another surprise! Her sister who had always been lean had put on considerable weight. Her chubby cheeks glistened with sweat and her belly fat showed in her shirt.

“It’s getting hotter day by day,” Tara had said and smiled.

The next day Tara revealed her condition to Marjorie. Marjorie remembered her reactions. First she didn’t believe her sister, then she was shocked and then she was furious.

Tara didn’t complete her third year but could no longer stay in the hostel as her baby bump began to show. To add to Marjorie’s fury, Tara wanted to keep her unborn child. They didn’t tell their mother or anyone known to them.

You cannot guess how the future would unfold, daddy. I’m glad you’re dead or Tara’s condition would have killed you of broken heart.

Three years ago, her father had been diagnosed with tuberculosis. The costs of treatment were too high and he had succumbed to the disease. However, before he breathed his last, he called Tara to himself. Clasping her hand, he had wished her a successful life. He had also asked her to make their family proud. Then, he was gone.

Marjorie’s reverie broke as she noticed a bus in the distance. It was time for her to get back home. She turned to Mehak and met her eyes. The corner of Mehak’s lips rose but her eyes were a different story. Her eyes were soulless and distant, yet directed at Marjorie. Suddenly, Marjorie felt pity for the woman. Then, her eyes went to the other two seated on the bench and she wondered what their stories were.

The bus stopped before them and the conductor, standing near the bus door, shouted out the names of the stop and the destination at origin stops. One was Marjorie’s location. Marjorie stood up and moved towards the bus. As some passengers were getting down, Marjorie turned. For some unknown reason her heart ached as she smiled at Mehak. She felt as if she was leaving someone close to her. Mehak grinned back at her and Marjorie boarded the bus.

Rinu Antony is a graduate of Nagpur University where she earned her masters in English literature. She works as a freelance writer and lives in a small town, Chimur.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Tags Nagppur University, Rinu Antony