Category: Stories

The Road to Nowhere

Translated from Odiya by the author, Satya Misra

Like every city or village, every road too has a character of its own. The road which has spread out its clumsy, uncouth body here, aiming to touch some distant point in the south of town, has no character to speak of. It is ugly and chaotic. It has let its coarse surface to be abused daily by scores of vehicles, bicycles, pedestrians, rallies, wedding processions, hearses and more. Humans and their automobiles mingle with stray cattle and dogs in a sad spectacle of urban confusion. Pedestrians have surrendered their right of walking to assorted vendors whose unauthorised shops have blocked the footpath. Anybody bold enough to walk on the remaining part of road is under constant threat of being hit by vehicles zooming past in both directions.

Our protagonist here is not the road but a person walking alone on the road. His name is Narottam Chowdhury. His destination and intent are both extremely unusual. Tragic and extreme too. He is on his way to commit suicide by jumping before a moving train. He is aware that the road on which he is walking doesn’t touch the train line, so he has planned to leave this road and enter into a narrow lane on the right side after about half a mile. The lane ends at a shrubbery which has the look and feel of a small jungle. He will find his way through the bushes to the open expanse where he will find two silvery lines of steel on which the trains pass. He has no idea where these two parallel train lines originate and where they end. Narottam will throw himself in front of a passing train today, which he has planned meticulously. This is going to be his last walk on this road. This same road may be used to bring his mangled, lifeless body from the railway track, possibly in an ambulance, after an hour or two.

He has been contemplating suicide for a long time. Once he had accidentally blurted it out before a few friends, but couldn’t come up to the stage of actual implementation. Although almost five long years had lapsed since that date, he was still hanging on to his meaningless life shamelessly. But he was determined to accomplish the task today. His life was becoming unbearable with every passing day. He was not so immature as to die just to honour his word. He had to die because he was unable to live the life available to him.

He gently touched his chest while walking, but not to check his heartbeat, which is steady. He wanted to ensure that his cell phone was intact in his chest pocket. He was not in favour of carrying this device up to the point of death, but realised afterwards that it was an essential accessory for anyone dying outside home or hospital. A phone in the pocket of a fresh corpse would quicken the intimations to his kin. The body would get identified fast. He had also placed a neatly folded note in his pocket which contains just the basic information about himself, including relevant phone numbers. It would come in handy for the finders of his body. He wasn’t too sure if either the cell phone or the paper can be salvaged from the mangled corpse, but it would always be better to carry both in order to improve chances. He also carried some money in his pocket. His spectacles were in place on his nose. His old wrist watch stayed at its rightful place, his left wrist. These were the only earthly possessions he was carrying with him, apart from the modest clothes he was wearing. The noisy erratic traffic on the road did not bother him. He did not mind being hit today by a passing vehicle on the road, although he will be terribly disappointed if the accident left him maimed but not dead. It would be very difficult to plan a decent suicide again if he wer maimed.

Did he hear something? Some vague distant voice seemed to reach him in spite of the din and bustle of the busy road. He would have dismissed it as a disturbance in his own mind, but it actually sounded like some announcement through a microphone. Had he been caught? His secret exposed? A public announcement asking people to capture Narottam before he did something foolish? He chuckled at his own silly thought.

How could anyone even guess what he was up to? He had been extremely careful; knowing well that even the slightest slip from his side could abort the mission. True, he had once blurted it out before four friends; but that was five years ago. He had let his intent slip in a moment of carelessness, purely by accident. He was neither hungry for sympathy nor did he want to deliver a shock. His announcement had not jolted anybody. Nor had anyone asked him to desist from such misadventure. They just asked him not to blabber like a mad man and veered away from the topic which, in their judgement, didn’t merit any further attention. Narottam wonders whether any of those friends still recalled his intent. Or perhaps, they were silently waiting to see whether Narottam really meant what he had said.

He was satisfied that during the half hour since he left home, not for a moment did he waver or vacillate in his resolve. Sometime back, he had stopped briefly at a stall selling hot snacks on the pavement. A sweaty man with a balding forehead was passing on hot samosas on round paper plates while collecting cash with remarkable speed and efficiency. Narottam stood and watched silently as balls of yellowish brown dough, with fillings of cooked potato, were moulded into tiny pyramids and dipped in a cauldron of boiling oil perched on a huge hissing stove. The samosas were allowed to sizzle and dance in oil a few minutes before a large slotted spoon would fish them out and heap in a basket, for onward transmission to the paper plates. The entire process, right from making of dough to eventual annihilation of the end products in hungry mouths, presided over by the balding man, was taking place in full public view. Narottam saw life pulsating at every segment of this activity, but scampered away from the spot, afraid that such open display of life might weaken his resolve to die. He wouldn’t allow some silly distraction to interfere with his tryst with death.

Narottam could vaguely hear the public announcement which had become a bit louder by then. Slightly louder but still indistinct. He strained his ears but could not make out what it was about. He would have been happy to hear every news, gossip, message circulating in his world during his lifetime, but what was the point now? Even if the government was announcing a ban on use of this road for walking towards train tracks, it wouldn’t affect him. He would have gone before the dictum was enforced.

An assessment of his age and health had convinced him that number of years he could reasonably expect to live was by no means small. He could not wait so long for a natural death with his unbearable life, with every passing day renewing a blow to his desire to live, which was already at its lowest point.

He had even weighed all alternate modes of suicide to choose the method most suitable to his condition and temperament, with zero risk of failure. Swallowing some strong insecticide, or any other dependable poison, in solid or liquid form, would have been easier but with uncertain results. He had heard of people surviving such attempts with severely damaged organs. Jumping from the terrace of a high-rise had never appealed to him, for fear of hitting some innocent person or dog or car on the ground. He preferred his corpse to be delivered undamaged at his home; but he had to abandon that preference when his secret attempt to hang himself failed by a wide margin of error. That was almost a year back. He had rolled his wife’s sari into a coil, secured one end around stem of a ceiling fan just above the blades; but the art of making a proper knot eluded him. The sari was retrieved with a thick film of dust collected from the ceiling fan. Cleaning it secretly, folding neatly and placing it back in his wife’s wardrobe was no mean job.

Slicing a wrist to allow his blood to drain out was an option, but his research showed that the success rate was only about forty percent. Even swallowing handfuls of powerful sedatives, with its fifty one percent success rate, didn’t meet the rigorous, zero-error standards he had set before himself. Finally he was left with only the train line, widely followed and highly popular among the suicide aspirants. Easy availability of open train tracks in his town came as an additional incentive.

Not far from the rail lines stood the small temple of Shiva on right side of the road. Narottam suddenly decided to have a last glimpse of the deity. It was not a part of his plan, but why not? Like all Hindu temples, this too expected devotees to remove their footwear outside. But Narottam didn’t go in. Gaining an unhindered view of the deity from the road itself, he folded his hands, closed his eyes and muttered a brief prayer: “I haven’t come to seek anything, Oh God. I am leaving. This is our last meeting! Goodbye.”

As he descended back to the road, he halted briefly, training his ears to listen to the announcement which was now audible clearly. A rickety van came slowly , with a large funnel shaped amplifier repeating one sentence ad nauseam : “Please be informed that electricity will be cut off tomorrow from seven o’ clock in the morning to five o’clock in the evening , on account of urgent maintenance work.”

How did that matter to a person who would not be around tomorrow?

But no, he made a quick reality check. What would happen if the news didn’t reach his home that day? The next morning there would be no water in the overhead tank, no electricity for any work whatsoever, not even for charging a mobile phone – and all this while a mutilated body would be awaiting cremation, not to speak of the fast arriving crowd of friends and relatives. This piece of news had reach his home immediately. His hand reached his pocket for the mobile phone, but he stopped again. Could he call at this point just to pass on this information? He would surely subject himself to the obvious question: why couldn’t he wait till he returned home. Could he say he had no plans to return home? He surmised that a public announcement as loud as this must have reached his home too. So his cell phone went back to the pocket.

In fact he didn’t have to feel guilty about leaving such a petty problem as a temporary power outage outside of his life span unresolved. He had listed and attended to every single issue that a man of the world is expected to. All financial and legal issues relating to his home, money, mortgage, insurance etc. were taken care of. Keys, IDs, passwords, codes, ATM pins were all kept neatly and could be easily located. He had also kept an index of all documents clearly mentioning where they could be found. Content with the knowledge that his absence would not cause any material problem to his family, Narottam continued his death walk.

His preparation had been thorough even about action points during his final moments. His mind and body both were well prepared, strong and unwavering. He had planned out where exactly he would stand before his final leap. He had to hide behind the thick foliage nearby waiting for a train to arrive. The wait would not be long because this line, extremely busy in the evenings, had a train passing almost every five minutes.

Last week, he had seen three trains passing in about twenty minutes, two carrying passengers and the third one some cargo in containers. The second train was passing slowly; so he could see a bunch of giggling kids waving their hands through the open window, hollering something he could not hear. He had wanted to ask them why they were so happy while in a moving train.

Today it would not matter what or who were in the train. He would jump not more than five seconds before the train reached the spot, not allowing enough time for the driver to apply brakes. In those few precious moments, his tormented soul would have been released to heaven. Or hell ; it did not really matter.

It was entirely up to him on which of the passing trains he would bestow the honour of crushing him. He might let the first train pass, perhaps the second one too; but not beyond the third, lest his resolve lose steam. His day without a tomorrow would be drawing to a close even as the townsfolks would be preparing for next day’s power outage. The announcement, still audible to him even from a distance, irritated him. He had two questions for the announcer in the van. Had it been announced distinctly near his home? Was the man sitting in the van using pre-recorded audio or parroting the sentence in real time?

Nearing his destination, he made a quick calculation in his mind and realised that in fifteen minutes he would be at point zero. Within an hour he would be dead and within the next one hour, his body would have been located, identified and taken to morgue.

He felt a vibration near his chest and stooped to locate its source. The cell phone. It released a gentle alert, shook a bit and fell silent. A message for sure. Should he read? Let the message also die unseen, unread. He hadn’t brought the offending device with him to receive messages today. He decided not to touch the mobile at all, but could not approve the propriety of dying before reading a message specifically meant for him. He would remain in dark about its content for ever, even though ‘for ever’ for him means just an hour. His curiosity overpowered him. He fished out the phone from his breast pocket and stared at the screen.

Gosh! This? Of all matters on heaven and earth?

It was a shame that such careless, offending words would claim his attention at a sensitive and delicate moment of his life. He would have thrown the cell phone and crushed it in sheer disgust, but he didn’t. It went back to his pocket. Cursing himself for having read the message, he decided to ignore the message and walk on towards his tryst.

But he could not. A sudden feeling of helplessness overpowered him. The moment he read the single sentence, he had understood that he had lost. He could not ignore it and proceed on his own. Not today.

He walked back and entered a market he had left behind. He took out his phone, read the message again and felt like kicking himself for his surrender. ‘Bring flour, sugar and some vegetables on your way back.’ Just ten words.

What does ‘on your way back’ mean? He had no plan to turn back today. Silly. Humiliating. But that was that. His zero-error plan, carefully chartered strategy lay assaulted and shattered by rude, untimely interruption of these shameless words.

While trudging homeward on the same road, clutching a bag of grocery, Narottam resolved to wait and plan for another day. The setback was temporary, not strong enough to break him.

A glance at his watch convinced him that nothing would be out of place. This was the normal time for his homeward trek every day. He would reach home at the usual time and nobody would be any wiser.

Satya Misra writes short stories in Odiya , a regional language of India. Some of his stories have been translated into other Indian languages. This was first published in Odiya magazine, Katha, and subsequently included in his collection, Miccha Raastara Sata.

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

Tags Katha, Odiya, Translation

Stories

The Silver Lining

By Dipayan Chakrabarti

As the eastern sky turned red, Ileana woke up early in her bedroom. She stood by the window, tall and still, gazing absently at the blurred distance. The rays of the morning sun caught the zigzagging wings of quails and pigeons which created patterns across the sky in Siliguri. After some time, her eyes fell on the shades of blossoming bougainvilleas at the still waters of the abandoned pool which had a rusty drift of different pollens on its surface. She noticed some blue birds — they were house martins– take flight towards the open sky. A warm spring breeze ruffled her black hair. Nature was exploding with new foliage, and colourful flowers which filled her with hope and expectations.

Ileana was startled by a booming voice as her father rushed through the door in his own inimitable way. “How’re the online classes going, dear?” asked her old man, chewing methodically on his pipestem.

“Fine dad,” Ileana replied with a little quaver.

“You seem very busy with your laptop!” he said, curling part of the upper lip upwards.

“The online classes are already in progress today, dad.”

Ileana’s father left the room giving an indifferent shrug while she kept gazing out of the window at the snow-capped peaks of Mt. Kanchenjunga and their lovely little garden. She felt relieved when her father left the room. Ileana felt bogged down with online classes, exams, and pressure to perform, though her teachers had always addressed the critical concern with tips to maintain her emotional well-being during examinations.

Ileana was startled by a dull buzz on that afternoon. The phone rang continuously. She picked up the receiver and held it to her ear. She looked worried as her friend’s feeble voice wailed from the other end. “I’m Covid-19 positive, Ileana. I’m down with a little fever, dry cough and tiredness.”

“Don’t worry dear,” Ileana tried to lift her friend’s spirits. “Those are only mild symptoms and you would soon recover without hospitalisation.”

“Thank you!” said Ileana’s friend.

“Remember that healthy mind is very important for a healthy life,” Ileana advised, taking off her glasses.

“I’m feeling insecure and alone, Ileana.”

“Stay connected to your loved ones by telephone,” Ileana advised.

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” said Ileana’s friend.

“Practice breathing exercises during home workouts,” Ileana counselled, looking at the rotating blades of the ceiling fan as the power returned after a prolonged breakdown.

“Thanks for being so kind, Ileana.”

Later when the setting sun turned the western sky to an eerie orange, sunlight streamed in through the window blinds — dusty and mellow. Darkness descended. Ileana looked up, and then stared out of the room window, looking worried. She let the breeze cool her face. Streaks of lightning illuminated her. They rippled and danced. She gazed upwards till her neck ached.

At nightfall, Ileana walked through the dark corridors in an off-shoulder blouse and took the elevator to the roof of the building. There were thick gathering clouds in the sky, but she took no note of them. She shivered in the gust of wind. Suddenly, freezing drops from the sky pierced her bare shoulders. They were hailstones. Ileana shut her eyes and walked against the downpour feeling the sting of the pouring hailstones on her face. She caught the tiny hailstones in her palm and shoved them into her mouth to crunch them between her molars. She went inside.

Ileana listened to the tuneful sonatas of Beethoven’s third symphony on her headphones. After some time, she lent an ear to the pitter-patter rhythm that dissolved her troubles into cascading cadences of music. The sky and the sonatas grew darker and darker.

The rain fell gently on the roof of the apartment building. She heard the whistling wind fly over the stretched wire and buildings creating a droning hum. “This lockdown is threatening my physical well-being, my identity and also my self-esteem,” she whispered to herself. She kept gazing at the rainwater that had replaced the hailstones and was turning the ground slippery. She felt everything was an aimless slog. She conjured up the faces of her loved ones though they had fallen severely short of her expectations.

She felt that the situation was so bad that nothing she could do would change it. “I cannot endure this any longer. I want to escape from this living hell,” she whispered into the night air blowing in through her window. Only a draft of wind gushed through her curly hair. Everything appeared dark and there were no redeeming features that could give her hope. Death seemed preferable to her in comparison to the imagined future which seemed like a living hell.

It was nearing dawn. Ileana was back to the rooftop. She slipped and fell when she tried to walk on the wet surface slippery with rainwater from the night. She got up slowly and walked to the farthest end of the roof. When she reached the end, she peered down. Her face suddenly softened and tears filled her eyes.

Ileana gaped blankly as the sun crept over the lofty buildings into the horizon. The first light of dawn touched everything with ripples of gold. It was another beautiful morning. Everything looked cheerful.

Dipayn Chakrabarti (Jalpaiguri, India) is a novel and short story writer. His works have received numerous awards and have been published in several literary journals.

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

Tags Dipayn Chakrabarti

Stories

Rituals in the Garden

Flash Fiction from Argentina by Marcelo Medone

Every morning, when the first rays of the sun appear, Martha opens her eyes, takes a deep breath and smiles, grateful to be alive one more day.

She listens to her heartbeat for a full three minutes, leaps up and lands on the small Persian rug next to her bed. There, she flexes and extends her worn joints and stretches and massages her lean muscles.

Then she sits in front of the large mirror on the dresser desk and gently combs her long grey hair, contemplating her image and updating her wrinkle count. It is not because they bother her, on the contrary, she knows that each new wrinkle of expression indicates that her face remains vital. Her only regret is the increasing amount of brittle hair that gets caught in the old mother-of-pearl brush.

Then she goes into the kitchen and she prepares a breakfast of jasmine tea with almond milk, whole wheat toast with blueberry jam, papaya slices and a mango juice. She takes some minutes to enjoy these delicacies, without rush.

Only afterwards, she goes out into the garden, ready to soak her parched skin in the early dew. As the sun begins to cast shadows on all the shapes, she stands next to the scarlet rosebush that never stops blooming, a wide beam spreading over her face. She then gazes at the birds and insects that have risen earlier than her.

Soon she dwells on what treasures and that most visit her: her memories. Memories of when the world was young because she was young, life was carefree and love was everlasting. Memories of her mother combing her long blonde hair as she continues to do so, of her father presiding over the prayers at the table with a firm, baritone voice, of her husband Melvin holding her tenderly and of her son William saying goodbye over and over again.

Many years ago, she forgave Melvin and his absence no longer moves her. In fact, she doesn’t even know if he’s still alive on this planet that’s overcrowded with both good and bad people. Martha decided that her ex-husband belongs to another universe and even to another spiritual plane totally divorced from hers. She has only one or two pleasant memories of him left, embedded in her memory like tombstones.

The memory of her son is what hurts her the most, with a pain that has grown with her during all those years, not comparable to any other. A son hurts his mother when he grows up and makes her uncomfortable inside the pregnant womb, when he is born at childbirth, when he gets ill or undergoes some threat and when he leaves her side. Being a mother implies suffering eternally, in a way that cannot be renounced and cannot be delegated.

Martha knows what pain is first-hand. Nobody has to explain it to her.

Finding strength within herself, Martha chants an ancient mantra that is an epiphany of life and a litany for those who are gone. Her vocal cords vibrate with a magnificent, heavenly coloratura, rising in the breeze that sways the leaves of the poplars and maples that line the garden.

Martha has been at peace for a long time, in communion with nature and with life and death, which for her are only two sides of the same coin. She knows she will soon be transitioning from front to back, from the visible side of experience to the totally unknown.

All this is whispered to her through impertinent moans by her old bones and is confirmed by the latest report from the haematologist oncologist who has been treating her for a year for her leukaemia.

Then, she goes to her meditation corner in the garden, next to a pond lined with rounded white stones, where the water lilies grow under the watchful eye of a Buddha sitting in the posture of meditation with his eyes closed, who invites her to do her asanas and mudras. In those moments, Martha really senses she connects with herself and with the Universe.

The rest of the day finds Martha dedicating herself to small tasks at home, keeping her little world in order, engaging in nostalgia for the past and acceptance of the present.

When the sun starts to go down and the shadows grow long again, Martha returns to the garden with her weary stride and her eternal smile, goes to the evergreen willow tree and places a scarlet rose petal on the memorial of her son William who never returned from the war and still says goodbye to her every afternoon.

In her own way, Martha is happy.

Marcelo Medone (Buenos Aires, Argentina) is a fiction writer, poet and screenwriter. His works have received numerous awards and have been published in multiple languages in more than 30 countries.

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

Tags Argentina, Buenos Aires, Marcelo Medone

Stories

Do Not Go!

By Moazzam Sheikh

Pleased, beaming, yum yumming, she finished cooking pasta sauce the way he liked ‒ a bit more garlic and a dash of chilli powder ‒ and turned down the flame real low, the sauce simmering indolently. She was about to reach for a packet of flat spinach noodle to add to the boiling water when she fully realized that he wasn’t home yet. Mid-November and already dark beyond the windows, he could catch a cold, a flu, perhaps pneumonia. Touch wood, she whispered. One could trip, break wrist, hip, summoning visits to the hospital, restricted movement, crutches. A train of thought too frightening, she shook her head and cleared her throat. She set down the pasta on the countertop, unopened, reading the label mindlessly.

He went for his walk in the daylight though sometimes he did step out in the late afternoon. However, as far as she could remember he always returned before sundown. His routine she could depend on for the last two years. He must have misjudged, she shuddered, suddenly feeling hot in the kitchen. Although she breathed deep to calm her nerves, she couldn’t concentrate. The moment she tossed noodles into the water followed by a pinch of salt and half a spoon of olive oil, she regretted it. Pasta didn’t like to be left in water half-cooked. Agitation nudging her fear, she felt she’d have to turn off the stove and go out looking for him if he didn’t return in the next five minutes.

Five minutes passed and she frittered away a few more, paralyzed by indecision, when she cocked her ear to the noise of feet shuffling out in the corridor, nearing the apartment door. It turned out to be a sound conjured by hope. She snapped out, turned off the stove, and grabbing her keys and a light sweater, which Ronny had bought for her on her birthday, exited the building. Encountering the actual darkness which the onset of winter had ushered, despite the street pole lights, her heart sank further.

He could be anywhere, she inferred, and not knowing where that anywhere was, she could be walking in the opposite direction, away from him, lengthening his torment. She took a deep breath, again, and walked to the corner where her avenue intersected the busy street. From there she tried to scan the foot traffic in four directions. Her eyes traveling as deep as a block and beyond, and despite the thinness of the crowd due to the nippy winter air, she failed to spot a lost figure resembling him. She walked eastward unaware of the silent prayers her subconscious mind had been offering with little regard for her resolve throughout her adult life to not rely, as she put it many times, on the crutches of religion. She recognised it and let the prayers continue consoling her heart recalling the distinction she sometimes made between religion and spirituality. The fact that she also didn’t consider herself very spiritual, though nothing wrong with being one, amounted to very little right now. She was most concerned, at the moment, with his safety; her personal problems could wait.

A big sigh of relief! She spotted him outside Fresh Donuts, looking lost as she called out to him from across the street.

“I don’t know what happened. I just couldn’t figure out which way to go,” he explained, embarrassed.

She’d too felt like that many times, she came this close to voicing her thought, mesmerized by the doldrums, juggling personal life, work, moral obligations. As they walked home, she holding him by the arm lest he trip, he said he knew she’d be worried. The more he worried the more he lost his sense of reference. When he thought of asking a stranger for help, he shied away because he couldn’t remember the address or the cross street. He had enough sense to accept that he stood lost on Clement Street. That didn’t help much though, he laughed. She told him she was grateful and impressed he didn’t panic. Help would’ve come sooner or later. Nervous giggles escaped from their mouths as they neared the apartment. A combination of relief and premonition. At home, he went straight to the bathroom to relieve himself and heard her say that the pasta was going to be a little below his standard, not what counts for normal, a little soggy, fluffy perhaps, but the yummy sauce, she promised, would make up for it. She didn’t have to tell him about the tiny bit of rum she’d added to the sauce.

“Don’t worry, honey. Your father is hungry and will eat anything.”

She wanted to say thank god, you’re an easy eater. Not like Ammi, but she bit her tongue. When they sat down to eat, she hesitated but eventually wondered aloud if he remembered her phone number, which to her relief he rattled off without a hitch. Ah, the memory had returned. He said he’d eventually stop a passerby. She felt relieved and the food began to amble down to her stomach with more ease. The sips from her beer soothed her throat. She wished he’d share her beer, relax his strict adherence to the doctor’s advice. Perhaps another time. That night when she went to bed, her mind drifted to her brother struggling to survive in New York, in and out of rehab several times for the last couple of years. He’d already done his bit, taking care of their parents till mother died, mercifully quickly, without a whisper in her sleep. A silent heart attack, they said. Soon after her brother’s life unraveled. He couldn’t take care of father, who then faced a choice of moving back to Lahore or San Francisco.

She avoided sharing with Ronny the episode of father getting lost, but when she saw him a few days later she realized he had the right to know what’s been on her mind. Despite all the good qualities Ronny possessed as a human being, and lover, there was a cold side to him. A person is like a coin, Ronny relished using that metaphor, with two sides, at least. Where she saw his insensitivity, or impatience, towards certain things, he saw drawn boundaries, standing up for what was right, his rights, personal values, spaces, desires, likes and dislikes, cultural or personal baggage and so on. After having dated for more than a year, they were going through the process of exploring the possibility of getting hitched to each other. They both agreed they wouldn’t mind having a child or two. Her eggs were drying up. With a sense of urgency, one day Ronny did ask if she’d consider marrying him first in order to get pregnant. Though he was far from being Mr. Perfect, she’d already weighed the pros and cons of living with her boyfriend Ronald Ngyuen. Their plans got disrupted when Mr. Bhutta — that’s how Ronny preferred to address her father instead of by first name ‒ was brought by her to live in San Francisco. Despite old age, her father would’ve liked to live near his son. Even if that meant moving into a facility for elderly living. He also suggested moving back to Lahore. Neither choice was practical when emotional and economic reasons were taken into consideration.

Kausar initially cheered up to the idea of having father around. His liberal, open-minded side had pleasantly surprised her when he indicated that he considered his children adult now and the fact that they weren’t living in Pakistan anymore, his son and daughter had all the right to lead their lives without any pressure from the parents. Her mother turned out to be a bit more conservative than the children had realised, but she too sided with her husband’s wisdom. The couple tried their best to warm up to whoever their children were dating in college, and when a new partner showed up, they accepted him or her. There was a brief period, before the mother passed away, when the parents wondered if the mess their son had found himself in was, in fact, something do with their hands-off attitude once he went to college. But in their defense, they argued, Why, then, had Kausar turned out fine?

He went missing again. That time she couldn’t find him anywhere in the neighborhood. Blocking off a deep sense of foreboding, she called Ronny, busy assisting with the mounting of his photographs for an exhibition.

“I’d call police,” he suggested coldly. “They’ll spot him soon wandering around, lost.”

“I wondered if you were on your way, we could drive around in your car and look for him,” she said calmly, stifling her panic.

She knew he couldn’t come just like that. His suggestion made sense. Yet her fingers froze recalling the incident, was it somewhere in New Jersey? A cop seriously injured an elderly Indian man on a neighborhood stroll. He’d been visiting his son to help babysit his year-old grandson. A woman called the police about a suspicious looking man wandering around her neighborhood. The man from India, short and effeminate looking, in his mid-fifties, wearing glasses with thick lenses, did not speak English, only Hindi and Gujrati, was admiring neat looking cookie cutter suburban houses, their large fronts, mowed lawns, trimmed hedges. The already irritated cop lost his patience and slammed the visitor to the floor, paralyzing him forever. The jury, comprising of majority of white men, acquitted the cop because the man who’d come to help his son and daughter-in-law had ‒ the defense attorney pointed out ‒ committed a misdemeanor by leaving the house without identification papers. It made sense to people defending the cop. Don’t frustrate a cop; it doesn’t matter whether you pose a threat or not. The burden of failure to communicate is on you. She shook her head. She only hoped the San Francisco cops had more humanity and better training. Tonight!

In the end she dialed 911. Yes, an older man matching his name and description had been reported lost and an ambulance had taken him to General Hospital. Ronny had to stop everything and drive her to the hospital’s emergency ward. Thank god, he’s okay. He smiled sheepishly, his guilty smile although it wasn’t his fault. The old man had blanked out and made the mistake of approaching a passerby, who, unable to help and make father remember Kausar’s address, or phone number, had taken upon himself to call the ambulance. As per their procedure, by law, they had to run all kinds of tests now, check his vitals, to make sure he was fit to leave. It’s going to take a couple of hours. A senior nurse told her she’d have to be patient. Ronny had to return to help with the exhibition but would come back soon to take them home.

“What happened, Abba?” she asked, patting his hand, consoling a worried, defeated father.

She dreaded the moment she would have to contemplate the possibility of dementia snatching him from her. The fact that he actually stood right below her flat but couldn’t recognise it left Kauser stunned. What is he going to forget next? she wondered. As melancholy crept in, she tried to fight it off with positive thoughts. She was going to do everything in her power to make sure he didn’t succumb to the cruel malady without a fight. She admitted she could never have imagined it’d come knocking on her door so soon. She made up her mind to read up on the latest research, borrow or buy books on physical and mental exercises, and foods that help keep memory strong. She wouldn’t let him forget his wife and children’s names.

He didn’t forget their names or the names of his friends, past neighbors, even colleagues. As days went by, she felt relieved seeing him settle down a bit while accepting that he couldn’t venture out alone anymore. He’d never been the stubborn type. He could be feisty but not of late. She relied on Ron and one of her neighbors Doug to give company to her father when she had to go out. Thankfully, she could do most of her work from home. Both Ron and Doug enjoyed conversations with him on topics of mutual interest, especially foreign policy and history. Father’s humility impressed Doug, who besides having a crush on Kauser which he’d hinted at a few times, studied History with a minor in International Relations at Kent, Ohio State. On and off, he’d been reshaping the old man’s worldview crystalized by what he called Eurocentric education, although her father considered himself a political person, having taken part in ending General Ayub’s reign. Even when Bhutto was hanged, he openly criticized the military takeover under General Zia, right around when she left Pakistan. It’s a miracle that he didn’t lose his job at the Mayo Hospital.

“It’s the rigor, intensive studying at medical schools which kill critical analysis among most doctors. It decimates nuanced thinking. Otherwise, they’re very intelligent people,” Doug once said to her after he’d finished a long conversation with father on the topic of African countries and their independence from European powers. Ron and Doug, on the other hand, tolerated each other courteously. Doug saw Ron as a typical Vietnamese American unable to criticize America openly lest someone accused him of ungratefulness. Or worst still, telling him to go back to Vietnam! He found Ron’s critique of modern society, by which Ron meant modern western society, inadequate through his photography. Ron was content with what he’d been doing for the last several years, visiting Vietnamese seniors all over the country, photographing them in black and white, their faces, creased and ageless, eyes nostalgic and confused, capturing the front of their homes and apartments, the interior where east and west adjusted around each other. True, he avoided asking overt political questions, he still considered his work political. Kauser agreed with both.

Without appearing to be overt, Kauser played mind games with Father to see if he forgot important names. She asked him about their childhood, his childhood, when he first saw Ammi-jan, whether he remembered his grandparents, his neighborhood in Ludhiana before Partition. To her surprise his memory was crystal clear. She began to breathe a sigh of relief. What a scare he gave her! She’d hate to part with him, send him to a nursing home or back to live with one of her cousins. Better to be at the mercy of your own children, she insisted, however spoiled they might be, than the nurses or distant relatives.

“But what about your life, Kay?” asked Ronnie rhetorically one afternoon as they sat at a sidewalk table of a bar for happy hours near her apartment. She had set Mr. Bhutta up with munchies and a clean print of a classic of early Hindi cinema which she’d found on Youtube. One certain way to tie him down for two hours, she smiled sadly.

“What about it?” she asked, puzzled.

“I thought we were supposed to try living together . . .”

She picked up where he trailed off, “Get married,” she paused, sighed, “and make a go at having a child.”

Was she smirking or smiling? She couldn’t tell because her face had quickly reverted to appearing placid. Then as she took a sip of her drink, her forehead furrowed a bit.

“Kay, I know you have a lot on your mind and it’s affecting your work,” he waited for her to interrupt him, but she just looked away, far to the end of the block milling with neighbors out shopping. “But I am not sure what your plan is.”

“Plans about what, babe?” she asked without irritation.

“Oh, forget it!” he said, pretending to relax. “This is not the time.”

She fixed him with a stare. He dared her. Her face softened, a crease appearing around the side of her mouth. A beautiful woman, he thought. Still, he didn’t smile back.

“Are you quitting on me, sweetie?”

“No!” he replied. “I’m afraid I might lose you.”

She was tempted to ask how? Instead, she opted for silence. She knew the answer. Both Ronny and she had small apartments, and with rents the way they were, they couldn’t afford to quit their rent-control apartments and risk eviction. She hated to see her father as a burden or a barrier to her happiness. When he looked at her again, she nodded gently, conveying that she understood his apprehension. She placed her hand on his, then squeezed it.

“Me too. We have to trust,” she said.

As they walked back to Kausar’s apartment, they held each other close, her head nudging into his chest despite they almost tripped a few times when their legs bumped into each other. Yet they persisted, mimicking an image from a movie most likely, ignoring the awkwardness his short height had produced, bravely laughing it off. They kissed, outside the building, under the faint glow of streetlights, her ajar eyes catching an anti-Trump sign in a neighboring window.

“I’ll come over soon as he falls asleep,” she said.

She heard him puttering around in the kitchen when she entered. Had the movie ended? She called out, asking if he needed help with something, as she took off her shoes. He emerged, smiling nervously, like a child caught rummaging through kitchen closets looking for cookies and candies.

“How was the film?” she asked.

“I’d seen it before but had forgotten it. One of Dilip’s best I think,” he said. “His acting so subtle, so controlled.”

“So you enjoyed it. That’s good.”

The screen had been turned off. The plates were still there which she collected now. Only when she went to the kitchen did she notice one of his shirts slung across his shoulders. Was he thinking of changing into a clean shirt? A dress shirt? She observed him quietly. He stood in the living room for a long moment, then turned to the wall and took a step. She couldn’t see him, so she left the kitchen and hid herself from him, beside the door. He was looking at the calendar. She’d forgotten to change the month. Did he know it was the wrong month?

“Why do you have that shirt on your shoulder?” she asked casually.

He noticed the shirt, surprised, held it, examined it, still puzzled, then looked at Kauser for an answer, smiling vulnerably. “Did you put it here?”

“Me? Abba, why would I? You must have done it.”

“Why would I do it? You’re crazy,” he mocked her and put the shirt down on a chair.

She called Ronny a little later and made up an excuse about feeling a little ill. Could be a cold, no, not a flu, she hoped, but rest was probably the best option. He said, okay, he too was feeling tired and ready to hit the sack.

A few days later when she returned from Ronny’s place a little after one in the morning, he was gently snoring away. Relieved, she decided to take a quick shower. His snores had stopped. She changed into her pajamas and crawled under her duvet covers. She’d hoped to fall asleep right away, after a nice time with Ronny, but found herself tossing and turning, questioning if it was the absence of his snores that disquieted her. She zoned out briefly before becoming fully awake. She got out and tiptoed to his room only to be shocked to notice the blanket pushed aside. Not in bed. When did he get up? Is he in the kitchen or living room? Both rooms were unlit, though her eyes by now had adjusted to the dark.

“Abba?” but no response came.

Did he collapse? She rushed through the apartment switching on the lights. He was nowhere. And then she noted the unlocked front door. She almost fainted. It was ten after three in the morning. Oh god! she cried. She chided herself instantly as she recognized her first impulse was to call Ronny.

Standing at the corner, she looked as far as her eyes could see, north, south, east, west, deserted streets with shuttered down shops, a sprinkle of cars parked on either side of the streets. She felt paralyzed. Too scared to cover the neighborhood territory on her own at this time of night. An uncanny fear, a sense of embarrassment, made her resist calling police. What if they arrest her for elderly negligence! What could she have done to stop him from sneaking out like this? Tears began to roll out of her eyes. Who could she wake for help? She dialed her brother’s number with unsteady fingers. It rang and rang with no possibility of leaving a message. Unawares, she shouted into the phone, “Come on, for god’s sake, pick up the phone! Abba’s missing! Again!” She cursed a few times before hanging up.

Taking a deep breath, she dialed 911. A professional, sympathetic voice came on. She was about to offer Father’s description after a standard drill of questions when she heard the front door in her building’s portico opening. She was startled to see Doug and her voice faltered.

“Kay, your father is with me,” he said.

“What? . . . Wait. Officer, I think my neighbor has found him . . . Thank you,” and as she hung up, she asked Doug, “How the hell did he . . .” and she burst out crying.

Doug walked up and held her, escorting her back into the building.

“I’m so afraid of him getting hurt,” she explained through sobs.

“He’s back at your place,” he said. “Lights were on in every room, and I knew you’d gone looking for him. You can always wake me up.”

She thanked him before finding her own balance with her feet searching for the stairs. He followed her down the corridor.

She stopped. “What did he say?”

“I heard the knock. Honestly, I was worried,” he giggled. “I opened the door and there he was, standing, looking confused. He almost didn’t recognise me when I said, ‘What’s wrong Anjum?’ Instead, he said he was hungry.”

“Just three doors down he lost his bearing?” she marveled aloud.

She knew from his expression that the fear in her eyes was clearly discernible. She tried to soften the tension on her face. They now stood outside her apartment, momentarily, lost for words.

“You should get some sleep, Doug,” she said.

“I won’t be able to. I’ll be up if you need me,” he replied before turning.

“I won’t be either,” she paused. “You’re welcome to come in if you like.”

“You sure?”

She nodded before pushing the door. She could hear his snores. Instead of calming her down, the sound made her furious.

Kauser didn’t bring up her father’s encroaching dementia, only found it ironic, when Ronny began talking about his exhibition of photographs of the Vietnamese American diaspora. He found the population of elders divided into half and half, those who had somehow managed to live with or nearby their children and those who either lived alone or in nursing homes.

“I plan on visiting Vietnam after the reception. You wanna come with me?”

Insensitive! was her first reaction, but she rebuked herself for focusing on the negative.

“Is it to see your father?” she asked. “I hope he’s not ill.”

“No, he’s very fit. I just want to visit, not particularly him, but he’ll be there of course. I want to surprise him.”

“You know I can’t. I have to sort out . . .” she said.

Two weeks passed without an incident, except that once or twice he mixed up Kauser with his wife and his sister. It could be dementia, or it could be just old age. She, too, once called Ronny by her ex’s name John, the bread maker, always called him Johnny, never John.

Ronny flew to Vietnam for a month but left the idea of extending his stay open. Kauser understood now more than ever. He’d mentioned it before, though always wavering, afraid of encountering a father who, after defecting to the North, had abandoned him and his mother, who had no choice but to rely, as she put it, on the help provided by her brother employed by the Americans.

When Ronny, a year old, got sick, and was taken to the hospital, his mother and Ronny were eventually taken care of by an American soldier, a nurse until the Fall of Saigon. Thereafter, they continued with the American. The two younger sisters born in Cotati, California, lived together as a family. That was why it was always difficult to watch Vietnam War movies which portrayed all South Vietnamese women as whores for the pleasure of American soldiers, Ronny had explained it to Kauser and others. Dylan, Ronny’s stepdad died young from heart trouble, overweight, diabetes, and failed kidneys. It was more from grief that his mother, Ronny alleged, cursed Dylan for things which didn’t make sense to him or his sisters, having moved away to different colleges. One of the sisters, the elder, said that Dylan’s death was caused by his memories of American War in Vietnam. Kauser had met the mother and sisters several times and liked them very much, enjoyed getting together with them in Cotati, despite her dislike for similar places, over Thanksgiving and Christmas.

“Dylan was more a Buddhist, than Presbytarian,” intoned Ronny’s mother.

The sisters grew up more or less atheists, even before they moved to Cal, two years apart.

Kauser’s brother had promised to visit soon, said he’d been going clean and things were starting to work out on his end. There was something about the whole conversation which failed to convince her of a probable happy ending. After speaking with him she’d weep a bit. What is he thinking? she wondered. Is he going to take father off her hands? Abba was also becoming less and less conversant, even forgetting the fact that he’d just been fed, getting annoyed or angry that Kauser was depriving him of food.

“That’s elder abuse, Kauser!” he admonished her weakly.

She couldn’t stop laughing and hugged him tight, fearing she was losing her grip on him. She saw him one mid-morning sitting by the window, staring at the foot traffic, and heard a voice in her head whisper, “He’s gone!” She couldn’t help but shout, “Don’t leave me, father!”

He turned and, as if feeling caught, defended himself, “I am not going anywhere. What made you think so?” he pleaded rather than demanded.

Then she heard her own voice in the realm of silence, “No, you are. Abba, you’re already gone,” walking away.

Suddenly, her friend Miriam was back from traveling and offered to help out with being around her father when Kauser needed to step out for work. Doug was there too. Thanks to her supervisor, she could accomplish most of her work from home. Her brother had to postpone his visit for personal reasons, as he said with an added stress, not because of medical reasons.

“I understand. But I need you to sort this out before something happens,” she told him over the phone and regretted it.

In reply, she heard a sigh. She knew once off the phone, he’d weep too. Perhaps she could think about moving there, but the rent situation was untenable.

“I can’t find him, Kay,” he laughed a sarcastic laugh. “They say he just disappeared one day about six months ago.” She was speaking to Ronnie.

She failed to detect any pain in his voice.

“Oh my god!” she cried sympathetically. “What are you going to do? How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know. I have looked around at all the possible suspect places. I can’t do much.”

“Are you taking care of yourself?”

“Yes, I am. How about you?”
“I’m okay. Are you coming back then?” she asked.

There was a silence that seemed to linger a tad too long.

“Hello?”

“I’m still here,” he paused again. “I think I’m going to stick around a little longer.”

“I see.”

“There’s this guy, a very good photographer; he wants to do a joint project. About the war,” he explained.

She felt terrible, deflated after hanging up. It turned out to be a wise decision to go out on a stroll with her father. They grabbed fresh spring rolls and sesame balls and ate them in the park watching kids run around the play structure, kicking sand, shrieking, tripping, crying.

“You were like him,” he pointed to a little boy who seemed to burst with energy. “Maqsood was the opposite.”

“You mean Qasim!” she corrected him.

“Yes, Qasim,” he seemed startled. “Who’s Maqsood?” he added before he broke down, weeping.

She didn’t comfort him, simply watched him; just let him be, she reasoned. Perhaps that’s all that was needed to cure his dementia! He stopped soon, raised his head ‒ a complete absence of tears. As if he forgot he’d just wept a minute ago. The food preoccupied him now. She struck up light conversation now and then, but she really wasn’t in the mood. Her thoughts wandered. She needed to be in control of her thoughts or else she wouldn’t survive. The way things were, she told herself, she wouldn’t. She saw herself succumbing to mild depression. Or it is anxiety? she asked. She must preoccupy herself with chores to stop bleak thoughts from entering her head. She saw herself walking out of the park to 19th Avenue which turns into a freeway to Golden Gate Bridge, her thumb sticking up offering herself to be hitchhiked to never come back. His, “Look at that brat,” chuckling, brought her back from her reverie.

Next time they spoke she couldn’t share Ronny’s excitement over his trips into the countryside collecting material for his project.

“There are so many stories here to be told,” he said excitedly.

He went on and on. A method of deflection.

“I am reaching a breaking point,” she said.

“Babe, tell Qasim to come and help out,” Ronny advised.

“He’s coming,” she lied. “I’m just tired.”

The real reason Ronny went to Vietnam was to distance himself from her personal problem, she was convinced. Her father’s health had started to affect her work now, not to mention her personal life. Abba’s doctor had brought up the subject of looking into the possibility of admitting him to a senior facility such as Laguna Honda. It sent shivers down her spine. There would be no way to know if the staff abused him. She imagined forgetting to visit, spacing out, forgetting him. Or worst, he not recognising her. Although she let it sink in, those hard choices had to be made, she wished she could just take him to Pakistan, where relatives and neighbours still stepped in. There was no one she could now rely on, she mourned. Abba had not stayed in touch with anyone because he got tired of helping out for his children worked in the US. He also encouraged the children to not stay in touch with their cousins. And now she was on her own. Just last week she overslept and missed an important meeting. Last night, she had to decline an invitation to Sheila’s baby shower, and she already knew, unless she could get Doug or Miriam to be with Abba, she wouldn’t be able to go to Ajit’s party. An old news item resurfaced in her mind, about a middle-aged Indian immigrant in Foster City hitting his eighty-year-old, wheel-chaired father on the head with a hammer, not with the intension of killing him but so, he mistakenly believed, he could be admitted to a nursing home; he couldn’t look after the old man alone. Sick! She shook off the thought. How people could stoop so low in difficult circumstances, she cried silently.

Qasim was back in rehab. His estranged wife, Laurie, called to tell Kauser that she and her kids have washed their hands off. Narcissism, she said, was at the root of all his problems and now no one could help him, let alone expecting help from him. When Laurie enquired about Anjum, Kauser told her how he’d tried to sneak out again. “Thank god, he couldn’t unlatch the door from inside, and the noise alerted me. I can’t even go to the bathroom!” Kauser pretended to laugh. Laurie understood as only another woman could, relating to her own situation while taking care of two very demanding children without her husband. Laurie said she wished she lived nearby. That sentiment touched Kauser deeply. She didn’t want to worry her sister-in-law too much by telling her that his appetite had also dipped. Should she end father’s misery by suffocating him with a pillow? She thought of shocking Laurie but ended up feeling awful.

That night Kauser snapped at her father for the first time in her recent memory when he began about his father serving in the Indian British army on the African front. She told him curtly to stop beating the dead horse. He was taken aback and gave her a look of deep hurt. She felt remorse but allowed that feeling to be overtaken by a surging wave of melancholy. It also didn’t help that Doug and Miriam had hit it off while having dinner at Kauser’s apartment with Miriam going gaga over a dish brought by Doug. Doug knew Ronny wasn’t coming back anytime soon, then, why, Kauser wondered, hadn’t he made a move? She believed she’d given enough hints. Unconsciously, she blamed her father for this snub. Doug, too, had quietly moved on.

She opened a bottle of wine, thinking, bizarrely, of previous lovers and sat down by the window after tuning the radio to a jazz station. A trumpet seemed to be searching, frantically, for the bluest note possible. But only succeeding in finding a red, blazing hot one. She was on her second glass. The music changed. Then on her third glass, she contemplated the sun lowering itself behind trees and rooftops and actually dropping dead, unleashing a snowstorm. She felt an obscure rage darting in and out of her body.

She wondered, worried, though absent-mindedly, if she was on her fifth or sixth glass when she saw the world around her beginning to spin. She knew better not to get up. Just sit there and follow the movements of the shadows she could vaguely discern, pale ghosts tiptoeing across the hardwood floor of the rooms, faces contorted while smiling and angry making a go at grabbing her attention to say something frivolous or important, cackling and some shouting, a few mocking her, one even sticking its tongue out at her. Sitting at the bottom of a sea of stupor a shadow emerged from one room and dissolved beyond the door frame. A click of the doorknob eventually beyond the water ripples pricked up her ears, only mildly, but her body sank back into the chair of its own volition, drained of the will to assert itself. She thought she heard, as she took another sip, her own voice utter the words Do not go . . . into the night! But the memory of her own sound dissolved slowly.

Moazzam Sheikh is the author of The Idol Lover and Other Stories and Cafe Le Whore and Other Stories. He has translated across Urdu, Punjabi and English, notably the fiction of Naiyer Masud, Intizar Husain, Ikramullah and Nadir Ali. He is also noted for being the editor of A Letter From India: Contemporary Pakistani Short Stories (Penguin, India) and Chicago Quarterly Review’s special number on South Asian American Issue (2017). He is a librarian in San Francisco and lives with his wife and two sons.

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

Tags Buddhist, dementia, Fall of Saigon, Goden Gate, Moazzam Sheikh, Pakistan, Partition, Presbyterian, San Francisco, Trump, Vietnam

Slices from Life Stories

The Coupon

By Niles Reddick

Kroger opened at 7:00 a.m., and normally if I got there when they opened, I got the fresher produce, baked goods, and meats. Of course, I had to walk carefully through the parking lot to avoid slipping on the snow and ice. I had to put my mask on and remember to put my reading glasses on when I was checking the expiration date on the packages before the readers fogged. I learned the trick about checking the packages in the back or on the bottom as their expiration dates tended to be a few days into the future.

I gathered up the spinach, carrots, avocados, apples, and blueberries and headed to the meat area. The area looked dark, there was nothing in the glass case, and nothing I wanted in the display case. They had plenty of pork, but I tried to avoid that because of gout. I did see one of the butchers and asked him if he had any ground sirloin.

“Truck hasn’t come in yet.”

“You have any in the back?”

“No. We don’t open until 10:00 a.m.”

“10:00 a.m.? Why aren’t you open if the store opens at 7:00 a.m.?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why wouldn’t the truck deliver before the store opens?”

“I guess because of the snow.”

I laughed a little because I made it in the snow and didn’t even have a truck. I pushed my cart on to the dairy aisle, where I picked up the butter, cheese, and milk for our teenager. When I got to the bakery and deli, I found some blueberry muffins that were on the bottom that had a whole week before they expired unlike the one on top which expired the next day, so I got the fresher pack and pushed my cart to the deli counter. A lady was putting out fried chicken, and it smelled good, but it was too early for fried chicken, and I was interested in thinly sliced turkey for sandwiches. When she finally saw me, she said, “Hon, we don’t open until 9:00 a.m.”

“Why? The store’s open.”

She shrugged her shoulders. I thought about how I’d broken up with Wal-Mart the month before because when COVID struck, they changed their hours to 7:00 a.m. Before that, they’d been open twenty-four hours, seven days a week. I hadn’t paid much attention to the time, walked inside, got a cart, wiped it down with their alcohol wipes, and headed toward the cosmetics/ drugs/ personal hygiene section when an employee blocked my cart. “We ain’t open yet,” she snapped.

I didn’t correct her grammar. She was way bigger than me and I didn’t feel like she’d understand the lesson. “The door was open, the sign said the store was open twenty-four hours, and I walked past at least five employees who didn’t say a word.”

“Well, the store ain’t open yet. They never changed the sign.”

“What time is it?”

“Five ‘til seven.”

“So, would you like for me to walk across the store, go back outside for five minutes?”

“Well, you can stay, but you can’t check out until after 7:00 a.m.”

“I won’t,” I said. I stayed and shopped, but I decided that it wasn’t worth what little I saved to go there, and when I finished checking out, I told the lady at the door that I was breaking up with Wal-Mart.

“Okay,” she had said. I don’t even know if she heard me, was listening, or cared.

When I went to check out, there were no cashiers. There was one older man at the self-checkouts.

“I have too much to go through self-check,” I said. “Where is a cashier?”

“They don’t get here until 8:00 a.m.,” he said. “You’ll have to use one of these.”

First, I needed my glasses to read the screen, so I pulled the mask down below the bridge of my nose, so they didn’t fog, and prayed COVID was elsewhere. Then, I scanned the items and bagged them, but when I turned the bag holder to get to the next set of bags, the machine scolded me: “Make sure to scan your items and place them in the bag.”

When all four bags were full, I cleared space in the cart and put those bags in the cart, his tired eyes checking every move I made as if I were a common thief. The automated voice from the machine repeated: “Make sure to place the items in the bag. Make sure to place the items in the bag. Make sure to place the items in the bag. Press if you need assistance.”

“Can you please turn this annoying machine off before I knock the hell out of it?”

“I’m sorry. The manager has to do that and she’s on a smoke break.”

I’d seen this “manager” before. It gave new meaning to the expression “Good help is hard to find.”

I tried to block out the voice, found what looked like a cut in one of the Gala apples and handed it to him and said, “I don’t want that one. Someone’s cut it. Might be poisoned.” He set it aside, and I knew once I was out the door, he’d put it back in the bin and someone would purchase it, or he might add it to the ones they have prebagged so customers can’t check them.

I paid with my debit card, pushed the cart out the door, and realised I would need to go slow on the snow and ice, but I had no idea how difficult it was to push a cart through ice and snow. Plus, I had to walk past the empty handicapped spaces and the new and empty pick-up spaces before I got to my car halfway across the parking lot. I had noticed some of the other stores, banks, and even restaurants had cleared parking lots with snow plow equipment, but Kroger hadn’t. It bothered me they didn’t care much for the safety of their customers to do more. I wondered if anyone else noticed.

Later that afternoon after my nap, I wrote an email to their customer service and got an automated response. The next week, I got a form letter with a $25.00 discount coupon off my next week’s shopping if I spent over $200. We’d never spent over $200, and I’ll bet they knew that, too. If they keep raising prices to pad corporate salaries and taking advantage of the little people, even collecting donations for charities from customers and getting a tax a break for those donations, I’m going to have to break up with them, too. I’ll jump on the bandwagon, “go local”, and plant a garden, just like my grandparents did before capitalism spread like a cancer and made everyone dependent. In the meantime, I plotted how I might use the $25.00 discount and keep my tab less than a dollar over two hundred. I also figured I could tell my neighborhood association, my Sunday School class, and everyone at work how they could get a $25.00 discount, too.

Niles Reddick is the author of a novel, two collections, and a novella. His work has been featured in nineteen anthologies, across twenty-one countries, and in over four hundred publications including The Saturday Evening Post, PIF, BlazeVox, New Reader Magazine, Citron Review, and The Boston Literary Magazine. Website: http://nilesreddick.com/

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

Tags Niles Reddick

Stories

Froth

A short story by Dev Kumari Thapa, translated from Nepali by Mahesh Paudyal

Dev Kumari Thapa (1928-2011). Photo provided by Mahesh Paudyal

What a hen-pecked man! Not even aware of his wife wrapping him around her little finger, though he was a college teacher.

Mother was commenting with someone in the kitchen. Shyam thought, the gossip was about himself. Before that day too, his mother had counseled him many a time. Rupa cared for no one. She was beautiful and well-educated, having brought up in an atmosphere of freedom. Whenever Shyam remembered Rupa, he could not help a smile. It’s true that he had loved and married Rupa, in spite of knowing everything about her. On her part too, she loved and chose him from among numerous other youths and married him with her own will. Her character too was blotless; only that, she was quite liberal in her thoughts. It would have been better, if Rupa restrained herself in a little more. She was not just a woman now; she also was a daughter-in-law. But then, how much should anyone counsel her! She could not change her ways or did not even want to change them. In that case, what could Shyam do? Leave Shyam alone; every man in his position would be helpless.

Even the French warrior, Napoleon Bonaparte, who dreamt of conquering the whole world, could not keep his consort Josephine under control. Why so? Because, like Shyam, he also loved his wife very much. She was four years older to him, and a widow of a soldier in his own army. She was a spendthrift. Expenses for her clothes and cosmetics had rendered Napoleon’s coffers empty. When he was busy in the battlefield, she indulged herself in the lap of luxury. But then, Napoleon always gave in to her, and fulfilled each of her demands. He died alone at St. Helena, far away. Before breathing his last, he took the names of his motherland and his beloved Josephine. Some women are born merely to amuse their men.

Shyam smiled again, as if he was remembering a thrilling experience. His mother entered his room carrying a cup of tea for him. Beset by ill-feelings, Shyam could not raise his hood and talk with his mother. Instead, he kept himself busy flipping through the pages of a newspaper that lay nearby. Raising the issue of Rupa once again, Mother had said, “Good that you have got a wife, my child. But then, if your old mother has to do all the chores, what use is her presence here?”

He said nothing. Taking a deep sigh, his mother walked out of the room.

When it was fairly dark in the evening, Rupa entered the house. Seeing Shyam look dejected, she said with a smile, “Hello Professor!”

He giggled, but said with a grim face, “Why had you been so late?”

Rupa said lightly, “Am I your student that I have to give clarification?”

He shouted, “It’s not about clarification. I want to see that people do not critique you. That’s all.”

Rupa said in her natural tone, “Why should anyone critique me? I have not guilty of anything wrong. I cannot chang my inborn nature, no matter how much I want. Nor can you force me to change, Mister Professor! What are good and bad characters, after all? They are effects of the hormones one has. The pituitary gland in my head is more active; I am therefore more nimble, active and shrewd than others. Kamala nextdoor has less amount of thyroid, so she looks dull and people call her a good woman. That’s all you ought to understand.”

Rupa’s words made Shyam laugh. He was also rendered speechless. A lecturer by profession, he was a man of grave nature, a visionary, a lonely son of his mother. He loved his mother very much. He loved Rupa equally deeply. How wonderful it would be, if he could work a balance between the two people he loved! He could neither counsel Rupa, nor could Rupa appease her mother-in-law.

Shyam was spending his days amidst such dilemma, when his aunt — his father’s sister — and her young daughter, Shyama, paid them a visit. His aunt had come to town from the village to arrange for her daughter’s college education here. Shyam’s mother was meeting her after a long gap, and their meeting made both of them very happy. His mother requested her sister-in-law to stay with them at least for a month before returning to her home in the village. She advised her to admit daughter Shyama to her son’s college. Accordingly, Shyam got her admitted to his own college, and this made the mother’s quite contented.

After having lived with them for a month, the aunt returned to her home. Shyama started living under her aunt’s care, and studying.

Shyama from a wealthy and cultured background was of a serious nature and had a sharp mind. In no time, she had become everyone’s favourite at the college. Shyam was extremely delighted to see her progress. The brother and sister went to college together and returned home together.

With such a turn of events, the suffocating atmosphere at Shyam’s home improved to some extent, and there was some light now. Shyam’s mother started loving Shyama like her own daughter. Shyama also started helping her in household chores. Shayma established a friendly relationship with sister-in-law Rupa.

One day, Rupa asked Shyama to accompany her to the cinema. With all modesty, Shyama pleaded that she could only go after her examinations were over. Rupa went alone. By then, Shyama had come to know that her aunt had to do most chores in her own family, but she kept quiet, thinking it unwise to make a comment on someone else’s family.

After a short conversation with his aunt, Shyama went to her study. She could not focus for long; so, she went to the kitchen and started making tea. She gave a cup to her aunt, poured two for herself and for Shyam. She walked into Shyam’s room with the tea. Shyam was delighted on seeing her, and in a jocular way, said, “So you happen to be the cook of this family, isn’t it?”

With a smile, Shyama said, “Does it make one a cook if one does her own housework?”

Shyam said in a fond voice, “Sister, how happy mother is ever since you arrived here? I could not serve her as a son must. You serve her on both of our behalves. I congratulate you, and you have all my blessings.”

Shyama said, “Brother, you have me a place in your family. Else, I would be languishing in a hostel. You have also helped me with my lessons. I am obliged to you and can never pay for your favour. It’s my privilege to get this opportunity to serve you both.”

This way, brother and sister conversed for a long time. Shyam forgot the lack of a sister in his life.

Rupa returned home from the movies. Seeing Shyama inside her room, she said, “Shyama, the movie was wonderful. You didn’t agree to go with me.” Expressing his support for Shyama, Shyam said, “Can a student afford to go to the movies?”

Rupa didn’t like Shyam’s intervention. She gave a strange look and rushed out of the room. After Shyama was gone, Rupa returned and said to Shyam in a voice of dissent, “Two of you are together, both at the college and at home. I can see closeness growing between teacher and student.”

Shyam said in a light-hearted manner, “Are you jealous?”

Rupa said, “Go. Take the girl and leave her at a hostel.”

Shyam was astounded, seeing such a narrow outlook surface in Rupa. Counseling her, he said, “Pooh, what a mean thing you said! I thought you were educated and liberal.”

In the meantime, Mother came to ask Shyam to join dinner. The issue was dismissed.

That night, Shyam was restless for a long time. He could not manage even a nap. It occurred to him that Rupa, whom he considered an educated and magnanimous person, could also be envious. She had overlooked that jealousy was making her mean. Fie! Her thoughts were as mean as the froth on the surface of the sea. Where was the depth expected of an educated heart like hers? Shyama? Sister Shyama was a goddess born and brought up with ideals.

That night, he could not sleep.

After a few days, Rupa gave Shyam a new bit of information. She was pregnant. The news made Shyam extremely happy. Taking her into his arms, he said, “Congratulations! I think our baby will now make your pituitary gland smaller. Won’t it?”

Rupa blushed with embarrassment. Shyam was deeply moved by her newfound shyness — a novelty from Rupa.

Dev Kumari Thapa (1928-2011) is a story writer. She wrote stories both for adults and children. Though she was born and educated in Darjeeling, India, she later moved to Nepal and settled in Biratnagar. A nurse by training, she wrote form her schooldays. Her published story collections are Ekadashi, Jhajhalko, Seto Biralo, Tapari, Bhok Tripti, Pralaya-Pratiksha and Dev Kumari Thapaka Pratinidhi Katha. She also wrote some biographies and essays.

Mahesh Paudyal is a lecturer of English at the Central Department of English, Tribhuvan University. He is also a poet, fiction writer, translator and critic. He has the permission from the family to translate this story.

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

Tags Dev Kumari Thapa, Mahesh Paudyal, Nepal

Independence Day Stories

Brother Felix’s Ward

By Malachi Edwin Vethamani

Johan sat very still. His head was bowed low. His fingers were clasped together tightly. As he heard Brother Felix say, ‘Amen’, his fingers relaxed and slowly disengaged. He slowly raised his head. He saw Brother Felix’s radiant, happy, glowing face. Brother Felix’s gaze fell on him and he seemed to smile a little broader. The other boys were already leaving their seats. Johan wanted to linger a little longer. He felt a calmness within him. Johan knew where he ought to be and slowly made his way out of the chapel and headed to the mosque. Today, he had lingered a little longer than he should have.

Johan knew he was not supposed to attend chapel. At the sound of the last bell on Fridays, his Muslim classmates would leave school and head for lunch or sometimes go directly to the mosque for Friday prayers. Johan was a loner and did not go with his classmates. They found him aloof and different. Soon, they found out that he went for chapel at school before going to the mosque for Friday prayers. They were amused and did not care what Johan did. They did not say anything to the adults.

When his first year at his new school ended, Johan longed for the Friday chapel. Johan yearned for the music, the songs and the stories he heard each week. When Brother Felix mentioned certain prophets, he would recognize them as Adam, Ibrahim, Musa and most of all, Nabi Isa. He had been taught about all of them by his Al-Quran and Fardu Ain teachers.

Brother Felix had often talked about Jesus or Nabi Isa, as Johan had first known of him. Johan did not tire hearing stories of Jesus’ miracles or the parables with their teachings. Soon Jesus was rarely Isa to Johan. He did not go beyond these stories. Johan did not want to hear about the Jesus who was crucified and was said to have risen. He did not want to hear about the Jesus who was resurrected from the dead and whom the Christians called god. The Jesus alive and preaching love was enough for him.

Johan was drawn to Jesus, the man. He was drawn to Brother Felix. Brother Felix told the stories Jesus had. Stories about love, kindness and forgiveness. Soon, Johan wanted to be like Brother Felix. His young mind could not have comprehended the ramifications of his desire. Johan did not see in his young, innocent mind the transgressions he would be making by just desiring to be like Brother Felix.

Brother Felix treated Johan as he did all the young boys under his care. He was aware of the complex and complicated racial and religious situation in the newly formed Malaysia. He was glad that a missionary school like his could continue to operate in a Muslim country.

Brother Felix enjoyed playing football as a young man and continued to play when he found time. He had broad shoulders and a well-built body, a soldier’s body. He was strong and had felt ready to go to a distant country in Asia. Brother Felix heard his calling to come to Malaysia in his thirties. He did not have to wait long. One of the other Brothers who had just returned from a short stint in Malaysia informed him of a teaching position in a secondary school in Malacca and he immediately applied for it.

He arrived in Singapore and made his way to Malacca. He was welcomed by the other Brothers and Sisters who were already there in this small town. He was to teach English in the only school set up for boys by the Catholic church. His first day of teaching went by quite uneventfully. What struck him was the different colours of his students. They were certainly quite different from those in Dublin. However, the colours meant little to Brother Felix. They were all the same in his flock.

It did not take long for Brother Felix to discover that they were certainly not the same and a few had to be treated slightly differently. In his induction to Malaysian life, Brother Felix discovered the religious mosaic in the country. The main concerns were to be with the Muslim students. They were to be set apart and given different religious instruction in the Catholic School. Brother Paul, the Headmaster, had been very clear about it when he met Brother Felix for the first time. Brother Paul, now in his late 50s, had arrived on Malayan shores just like Brother Felix. Over two decades he had learned the ways of the local authorities and adapted accordingly. ‘There will be no preaching or conversion of Muslim students to Christianity,’ Brother Paul had instructed Brother Felix. That would be at the peril of closing down this school and the Brothers’ Provincialate. The La Sallian Brothers certainly did not want that to befall them, he was explicitly cautioned.

Brother Felix, however, wondered why Muslim parents would want their children to attend a missionary school. A local teacher gave him the answer. One day, a young twenty something Chinese English language teacher, Miss Esther Lim, informed him, ‘They want their children to learn English well and be able to go overseas for further studies.’ With that Brother Felix’s lessons on Malaysia and Malaysians, especially Muslim Malaysians, had slowly begun. It was made clear to him that Christianity was out of bounds for Malay boys in missionary schools. There was no compromise on this matter, none whatsoever ever.

Brother Felix was in his eighth year of teaching when Johan joined the school in a Form Two class. He was a precocious young boy. Johan was in Brother Felix’s English language class. Johan was a keen reader and his language proficiency was the highest among his peers. Johan had breezed through Enid Blyton stories and gone on to the more adventurous Hardy Boys mysteries. Brother Felix could not help but take notice of this young boy. He wrote excellent compositions but spoke only when called to answer a question. Johan did not enjoy sports, and this kept him very much on his own. He chose to sit in the last row in the class and was often by himself.

Johan was a fair-skinned lad. His facial features were not typically Malay. When he spoke, it was always in English. He looked like some of the Eurasian boys in the school. Johan did not join the Malay boys in his class, either. They spoke both English and Malay but seemed unwelcoming towards this new kid who spoke only in English. Most people did not think him to be Malay. Brother Felix was one of those who did not think of Johan being Malay, either until he saw the young man’s full name in the class register.

Brother Felix was given the task of conducting the weekly lessons from the Bible during Chapel. The students arrived for the sessions with mixed feelings. Most seemed reluctant to attend. It took a while for them to settle down. The other Brothers were present to help the boys settle down. Soon the chapel was almost full. Johan was among the last to enter the chapel and as usual, he sat alone and in the last pew. Brother Felix only noticed Johan after a few Fridays. Just as in the English Language class, Johan sat there quietly, listening with a faraway look. Lost in his own world. Brother Felix chose not to say anything.

Johan listened to Brother Felix’s Bible stories but rarely waited for the moral lessons that followed. His attention would wane as the stories drew to a close and as soon as the pedantic part began, his mind would switch off and he would quietly slip away before the others could notice him.

Johan’s thoughts often lingered on the stories he heard during Chapel. Many of these stories he had heard before about prophet Ibrahim and Ishak, Musa and Adam. Just the names had been changed here. He was fascinated when he heard the stories that Jesus had told. Johan understood sibling rivalry and envy in the tale about the prodigal son. In his gentle heart, he glowed on the kindness of the good Samaritan. These were new stories to him.

A desire slowly began to grow in Johan. He wanted to read and hear more about this gentle prophet who preached love and was later scorned by some of his own people and the Romans. Johan scoured a few history books in the school library and found the historical Jesus mentioned in passing. Then one day, by sheer chance he found a Bible stories series in the fiction section. And over the next few weeks, he managed to read the twenty-five titles in the whole series.

Brother Felix prepared for his English language classes with the same enthusiasm as he did for Chapel. In both, Johan remained seated at the back and Brother Felix thought it best to leave the boy alone. He sensed Johan was different and he was not sure if there was something troubling the lad.

During the double-period English language classes which were towards the end of a long school day, Brother Felix would play a game with the students. He would tell them a story and ask them to give an ending or ask the students to give a lesson they could learn from the story. These stories were short enough to hold their attention and the class would listen intently. The students would respond rather enthusiastically, knowing someone would get a small prize from Brother Felix. Johan listened intently like the others. He enjoyed the stories and knew the lessons they taught. He had read many of them in the books on the library shelves. His heart warmed when he heard Brother Felix now re-tell these stories. Yet, Johan felt no desire to raise his hand to answer Brother Felix’s questions. Hearing the stories was gift enough from Brother Felix. He also did not want to draw any attention to himself.

Soon there were only a few more weeks before public examinations. Johan and his classmates were busy with their preparations for the examinations. The school Chapel sessions continued as usual. One Friday, just as Johan was slipping away from the chapel and rushing off to the mosque for the prayers, his Bahasa Malaysia teacher saw him. The teacher called him aside and asked Johan what he was doing coming out from the chapel?

“Listening to the Bible stories, sir,” he replied in Malay.

The teacher gave him a stern warning, “Stop going to the chapel. It is not for you. If you go again, your parents will be informed.”

Johan nodded, thanked his teacher and fled. He knew why the teacher forbade him to go to the Chapel. It broke his heart that he had been caught. He sobbed all the way to the mosque, knowing he could not return to the chapel anymore. His mind was troubled throughout the Friday prayers. He found it hard to pay attention to the sermon that was being preached. As the prayers drew to a close and the worshippers began to leave, Johan remained seated in his place. His eyes were closed, and he tried to clear his mind. But the troubling words from his Bahasa Malaysia teacher continued to ring loudly in his head. After a few minutes, finding no solace, he got up and left for home.

Johan was back at his seat in his classroom on Monday. Classes went on as usual. Brother Felix was his usual self, completely unaware of what had transpired for Johan on Friday. The Bahasa Malaysia teacher came to class and taught his lesson. Just as the bell rang, and Johan was about to sigh a relief, the teacher called out Johan’s name and said, ‘Johan, jangan lupa apa yang saya kata pada kamu (Johan Don’t forget what I told you)’, reminding Johan of his warning. His classmates however, paid no heed to what the teacher told Johan.

As Friday drew close, Johan longed to go to chapel. He had grown accustomed to it. The whole of that Friday morning was a struggle within him. He could not see the problem of attending Friday Chapel, then rushing off for Friday prayers. Attending chapel had not turned him away from his religion. After the final class on Friday, Johan walked slowly to the mosque. He knew the chapel routine well and that by the time he reached the mosque, Brother Felix would be giving his weekly lesson to his schoolmates. Johan did his ablutions and joined the men in the mosque.

The last week of class finally arrived. There were a few revision lessons and “spotting” of exam questions for the examination. Brother Felix walked into the classroom with his usual bright smile. Johan knew that this would be the final class with Brother Felix. They would have a few days of study leave before the examination began the following week. Like the other teachers, Brother Felix gave tips for the examinations. Unlike his regular way of ending his lessons, today, Brother Felix had no time for a story for his students. He ended his class in an unusual manner. He looked at all his students and bid them farewell, “You have my best wishes and God bless each one of you.” He beamed at the students, picked up his books, and waited for their practised reply. The students shouted out, “Thank you, Brother Felix.”

Johan felt a sadness descend upon him. He saw the end of something he had treasured. This second year in the new school had been trying. His parents had demanded excellent grades from him so that he could enter the Science stream the next year, in a new school overseas. Brother Felix had been a beacon in his lonely life. English language classes had not just been learning the English language but listening to Brother Felix’s Bible stories, listening to his calming voice.

He remembered his English language teacher in the previous school. Puan Halimah taught English using so many Malay words, it frustrated Johan. He felt his Bahasa Malaysia was improving but not his English language. His classmates were generally weak in English and were quite happy with Puan Halimah’s style of teaching. Johan’s parents wanted more for him and got him transferred out of the school.

Johan knew this day would come. It had been scheduled and was expected. Not the way his attending chapel had suddenly been terminated. That had been unexpected and painful. He thought it cruel, even. He felt something he enjoyed and loved being snatched away from him. His young mind was completely oblivious of what could have happened if his Bahasa Malaysia teacher had made a complaint to the religious authorities.

Johan wanted to see Brother Felix. He wanted to say thank you for all that Brother Felix had done for him. Johan feared he might not see Brother Felix again, unsure when he would be leaving for England.

Johan knocked on Brother Felix’s office door. On the door, he saw Brother Felix’s name and job designation. It read, Brother Felix and beneath it, Senior Assistant. A familiar voice answered, “Come in.” Brother Felix was seated at his table. Johan had never been into this office. Brother Felix gave him his familiar warm smile.

“Ah, Johan! Wasn’t expecting you to be coming to see me. Sit down.”

“Good afternoon, Brother Felix,” Johan replied.

Johan sat on the chair in front of Brother Felix.

“Sir, I wanted to come and thank you,” he said.

Brother Felix was not accustomed to having students drop by his office to thank him. Most shied away from his office and some dreaded being called to see him. It often meant some disciplinary issue needed to be addressed.

“Johan, it’s been a pleasure teaching you. You should speak up more in class,” Brother Felix said.

“Brother Felix, I really liked your stories, too.”

“They are not my stories, they are stories from The Bible, Johan.”

“Sir, I know. I read a few in the library…. Brother Felix, could you give me a copy of The Bible?” Johan asked. Johan could not believe what he had just said. He had merely come to thank his English language teacher. And now, he had blurted a request for a copy of The Bible.

Brother Felix sat in front of Johan with the most perplexed look. No student had ever asked him for a Bible. And there sat in front of him a Muslim boy asking for a Bible. Brother Felix remembered Brother Paul’s words, “There will be no preaching or conversion of Muslim students to Christianity.”

Johan sensed a change coming upon his favourite teacher’s face. There was no anger welling up. Just some confusion and a sadness.

“Brother Felix, I’m not sure why I suddenly asked you for a Bible. I just came to say thank you for the English classes and for the stories during Chapel on Fridays. I will miss both.”

Johan quickly got up, gave Brother Felix a bow and fled from his office. Anyone seeing Johan leave Brother Felix’s office would have thought that he had just received a punishment from the school Senior Assistant.

Brother Felix sat at his table for a long time thinking of Johan and all his wards. He began to weep silently. He did not know why he wept.

Malachi Edwin Vethamani is a Malaysian Indian poet, writer, editor, critic, bibliographer and academic. He is Emeritus Professor with University of Nottingham. More details in: www.malachiedwinvethamani.com

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Tags Malachi Edwin Vethamani, Malaysia, University of Nottingham

Independence Day Stories

Bundu, Consoler of the Rich

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date August 13, 2021
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A story by Nadir Ali, translated from Punjabi by Amna Ali

Nadir Ali(1936-2020), recepient of the Waris Shah Award from Pakistan Academy of Letters in 2006.

A peculiar dream replayed itself in my mind recently. I am the kind of man who always thinks deeply about dreams. When I lost and then initiated the arduous task of recalling my memory, I went in search of all those times I could not account for by raking through my dreams. We rarely make sense of the surreal glue that holds dreams together, reconstructing them as if they are stories. Indeed, sometimes they chronicle our longings, other times they unfold our ardent desires reaching fulfilment, as in the union of a man and a woman! In essence, words lay the foundation, not only of the inner world, but also of our dreams. Words illuminate this journey we undertake in the pitch dark. They help us penetrate the maelstrom of existence!

This is how the dream began. I address a seated man, apparently a doctor, I recognize as Shahabuddin. He transmutes into a woman when I sit down across from him. She has the most beautiful eyes. Dark-complexioned, she appears to be Bengali. I find her very attractive. We take a stroll to the front of the Zamindara College in Gujrat. I point out Nawab Sahab’s grave to her. She moves closer to me as we approach the college hall. We continue onward to the back of the college. My heart turns tranquil as the dream fades.

I did not have to venture far to find the rungs that would help me comprehend my dream. Ah, I had recently read the translation of the Musaddas by Sir Shahabuddin. Since Shahabuddin had tanned skin, he visited my dream as a woman with dark complexion. Again, it was he who dissolved into Balo Jati in my dream because he belonged to the Jat caste. I rushed to Balo and narrated the night’s dream. “Lady, I have to remove curtain upon curtain to find you, even in my dreams!” She laughed and explained, “Such a distance lies between an old man and his youth!” I persisted with my interpretation of the dream. “I showed you Nawab Sahab’s grave to indicate that I am old and decrepit, yet I live on, like Nawab Sahab’s name lives on. We went to the back of the college to excavate my youthful days.”

“Lahore, Chaudhry Sahab, is overflowing with young lovers. My most prized beloved, though, remains this old man. He is a parent and lover rolled into one. People need conversations to share our joys and sorrows, no? Who would I converse with if I don’t see you Chaudhry Sahab?” Balo’s words lifted my spirits. My dream bestowed its blessings and then was forgotten. Two months passed.

Yesterday, as I sat reading the biography of Khwaja Muinuddin Chishti – the Consoler of the Poor^*, Bundu dhobi^* appeared in my thoughts out of the blue. Consider that one of Khwaja Sahab’s miracles or the secret of caring for the crushed! My mind was reminded of the two-month-old dream. I pictured the dark-skinned woman’s eyes. Ah, exactly like Bundu’s! So, the woman was in fact Bundu the washerman! Bundu is the only person I remember fondly from my two-year stint as a professor at Gujrat’s Zamindara College. He transformed me into a Sahab during those youthful days of surviving on the pittance I was paid as a novice professor. I wore the best starched and brightest white shalwar kameez in the entire college.

I also happened to be the college hostel warden. One day, Bundu appeared with a plea.

“Sahab, it is impossible to find accommodation in the homes seized after the exodus of the Hindus from the city. The Neighborhood of the Untouchables too is under the police’s control. They have escorted so many women there, turning it into their own personal cantonment. It is indeed not befitting for real men to spend nights at the police-station! Please if you get me a place at the hostel, I will manage.”

I arranged lodging for him at the hostel. Meanwhile, I found it hard to manage my expenses after sending two hundred and fifty rupees home each month. I had rashly jumped on the marriage bandwagon too. I ended up renting a house in Madina village situated on the outskirts of the town. Bundu would walk the two miles to my place. I had a bicycle at least.

Bundu never learnt to ride. “It has a mind of its own! What if the damn machine decides to carry me to Momdipur from Madina village?” Bundu would tease.

The marriage ceremony and monthly expenses drained us of all our money within a month of marital bliss. One day, my wife announced, “Someone named Bundu dhobi is asking for you.”

I stepped outside to meet him. “Sorry Bundu, I am penniless this month. I won’t be able to pay you,” I told him.

“Sahab, I am not here to receive my payment. I am here to pick up the dirty laundry. Moreover, I haven’t even congratulated you on your marriage. Your wife is one lucky woman. A good man usually finds a good match.” Little by little, Bundu developed the routine of picking up our laundry from my wife multiple times a week, instead of once a week. Thanks to the care he showered upon our clothes, my wife and I climbed up the social ladder. When the college let him go, he managed to rent a small place that used to belong to Hindus in Muhammadi village. We remained broke.

One day, my wife took out some old bills. “Bundu heard us fighting about the expenses. He left thirty rupees with me.” I expressed my anger. We didn’t have a penny. How were we going to repay him given how impossible it was to borrow from anyone in our village?

“He said we could repay him after one month. He placed the money in my hand,” My wife tried to allay my worries.

Bundu played an important role in my transfer to Lahore when our principal accepted a position at the university and took me along. “You are the best-dressed man in all of Gujrat!”, the principal had said. From Lahore, I went on to Dhaka University in 1965. My children and I took to Dhaka, but luck was not on our side. We were spared the perils of detention in 1971 as we had returned to West Pakistan for the summer holidays. But I remained affected by 1971. I became very ill. I lost my memory during my treatment. Once recovered, I made a trip to Gujrat after a gap of twenty-five years. Bundu had passed away by then.

Today, Khwaja Muinuddin, the Consoler of the Poor, reminded me of my Consoler of the Rich, a most loving and kind-hearted man. Perhaps even Khwaja Sahab had been softened by such love from people! After all, a poor person can also be a benefactor of the rich! Such are the links of love. The foundational bond, too. As in the love between a man and a woman! In my dream, he appeared as a beautiful, dark woman. He was a very handsome man. How can I ever forget his deeply telling eyes?

^*Also known as Khwaja Ghareeb Nawaz (Consoler of the Poor), he was a sufi saint and founder of the Chistiya Sufi order in the early 13th century

^*A dhobi is a washerman

Biographies:

Nadir Ali (1936-2020) was a Punjabi poet and short story writer. In 2006, he was awarded the Waris Shah award for his collection Kahani Praga. Coming late to writing, particularly fiction, Nadir Ali is credited with spearheading a unique style, blurring the boundaries between significant and petty, artistic and ordinary, primarily due to his preference for and command over the chaste central dialect understood by the majority of Punjabi speakers. He is also noted for writing and speaking about his experiences as an army officer posted in East Pakistan at the height of the 1971 war.

Amna Ali is Nadir Ali’s daughter. She is currently translating a selection of Nadir Ali’s short stories into English. She is a librarian and lives in San Francisco with her husband and two sons.

(Published with permission of the author’s family)

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Tags Amna Ali, Dhaka University, Nadir Ali, Pakistan, Translation, Waris Shah Award

Independence Day Stories

Flash Fiction: The Best Word

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date August 13, 2021
No Comments on Flash Fiction: The Best Word

By Maliha Iqbal

A solemn boy of seven was busily writing away without a thought about the world. He was perspiring and his clothes were damp. There were beads of sweat on his forehead as he knitted his brows in concentration.

Suddenly a woman in her thirties came into the room and looking at him said “Samad! Take a break! You ought to be tired by working like that since morning and that too with a power cut! It’s so hot!”

“Mother! Please don’t worry about me, the heat doesn’t bother me” replied the boy with an earnest look on his face.

His mother merely stared at him, mumbled “what a child!” and left.
She rushed to a quiet corner of the house with tears welling up in her eyes. Once she was out of earshot, she began weeping and muttering over and over again, “Oh! How the child loves to study! If only I could give him a better future! His books are his only solace from the grief and miseries of his life!” She soon stopped herself as she recalled her husband’s last words before he left the world. “You should be a source of inspiration, courage and love to Samad, never show your sorrow, face your troubles with a smile.” Yes! That’s what he said and that’s what I’ll do! She thought and smiled suddenly which lit up her face.

Samad lived in a war-torn country. Many had rebelled against the government and the country was at civil war. There was an epidemic of poverty, and all had fallen prey to this.

It was nearly 9 O’clock in the evening when Samad silently slipped out of the back door of his house and hurried through the lonely streets to a tiny, dilapidated building tucked away in a corner. A contented look came over his face as he entered the building and greeted his educator.

Ah! That was his school! How he loved going there! Samad went to school in the silence and aloofness of night — most children in the country did because of the fear of rebel attacks. Samad had few children in his school, only seven and he was the brightest among them.

They had recently started learning English and today their teacher had an interesting idea.

“All of you have to write your favourite word of English language on your slates and then one by one you will come out and tell the whole class why it’s your favourite. You have ten minutes,” announced Mr. Blake, their teacher. He wanted to test the children’s vocabulary and spellings.

Soon the room became silent as each child began to write. Samad finished his work much earlier than the given time and stared idly at the light bulb in the room which was flickering occasionally. It gave a dull glow and swarms of insects had gathered around it. Out of nowhere a loud explosion was heard followed by shouts of terror. The rebels!

The teacher shouted, “Keep calm! Don’t be frightened! Hold my hand and don’t let go of one another.”

Everyone slowly began walking out of the building in a single file but suddenly the lonely streets seemed to have come alive, and people bustled about. In the chaos and confusion, Samad was separated from everyone.

He did what any wise person would have done and began running towards his home which was nearby, the slate still grasped in his hands.

He was out of breath, but he wouldn’t stop at any cost. Finally, the front door of his house came into sight, and he ran faster still.

Suddenly there was a loud explosion and Samad saw large flames before he fell to the ground. Bruised and bleeding, he got up, limped a few steps and collapsed.

An agonized mother found her son the same night with a slate gripped in his lifeless hands. On the slate was the word “HOPE” written in a shaky handwriting. Isn’t it the best word? Doesn’t it provide you with the courage to strive towards your goal? Hopelessness itself is the end of life. Even insects are attracted towards a source of light for navigation and warmth, or should we say a source of hope?

Maliha Iqbal is a student and freelance writer based in Aligarh, India.

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

Tags Aligarh, Mahila Iqbal

Stories

The Protest Outside

By Steve Ogah

Here I am with my head swathed. The last time the doctor came to my room, I told him my demons hadn’t deserted me. I am losing confidence in this community health facility which is named after the military dictator. Do people ever get healed here? It has been a week since I arrived here. Things are just the same. I am beginning to have a fight in my head with the doctor and the nurse.

“I need to see the doctor,” I find myself screaming at nurse Nkoyo when she comes to check my bandages. Though she is innocent of the pain I feel, I still find myself barking and shrieking as though a dog gone mad.

She smiles her signature smile, the kind of smile all trained nurses are supposed to wear at all times. “Kune, the doctor is rather busy at this time of day.” She says to me.

Disappointed, I sit up against the pillow which I prop against the wall behind my head. I move my forefinger in the air as though a radio’s frequency tuning needle. Then I say to her: “I don’t think you heard me.”

She is about to say she is not hard of hearing when I scream again, this time invoking God angrily. I hear my voice run through the quietness of the hallway, throwing up a storm in the ears of others in the building. I imagine all who heard my voice are startled. Some walk to the window and look out hoping to find a demented man in crutches and bandages standing in the centre of the courtyard. Some hope to find a mad man hopping down the corridor. Those sleeping pop open their eyes; shake their heads in regret that a man just lost his sanity today.

“Okay, take it easy,” the frightened nurse says to me as she gently places the tray of medications on the side stool of my bedside.

“No. It’s not okay until the doctor gets here!” I slam the side of the bed. She is careful not to spill the tablets and water as her eyes look up to meet mine. I stare, not willing to drop my eyes, wishing for her to see the anger and urgency of a sick man in an equally sick country. Of course, she sees the colour in my eyes. It is the pigment of pain and frustration. It is the colour of a man wishing for revenge. She sees that I am more than willing to conjure a world of torment for everyone around me. She sees I can only do that if I leave my bed in good health. Perhaps, she is willing to help me get off this damned bed. There is overwhelming pity in her eyes for me. They get teary all at once. She is about to mumble some words of sympathy when I ask: “What would the problem be?”

“I will get the doctor.” She walks away. The soles of her white tennis shoes begin to echo in my head as though they were stilettos. I feel I am going to scream at her: Take those cursed shoes off your feet. But I can’t say that because I find myself feasting on her all the way down, wishing I would leap from the bed and tell her this is a hospital ward and not a clubhouse. She is gone now, and the door slams shut. All is quiet again. I begin to wait for the doctor to come see me and use his magic to drive away my pain and frustration.

I close my eyes shut and try to sleep. I do not sleep for long. I hear footfalls and voices in the narrow corridor. The doctor is checking his white coat to see if he carries a pen with him. But he finds a surgical knife and his stethoscope instead. He tells the nurse at his back to hurry up. She bears a tray, and in it, is a cocktail of huge tablets, a glass of coloured water and a scary syringe. He is sure he can take care of me without much drama. He has put countless troublesome patients to sleep before. But he still has the plan of calling in extra hands if I act like the craziest of the crazy. He could be violent with me if the situation demands it.

I imagine him at my side. He tries to appear like most doctors are — calm. Then he sees that his cultured ways are at variance with my primitive actions. I try to resist his caring touch. So, he lets the stethoscope slide down his neck. It hits the floor. It vibrates in my head a million times. The doctor hits me with his forearm. I collapse back to the bed. He lets out a jet of air, having overpowered me.

“Here,” The nurse says to him, as she passes the syringe to him. I am motionless as the tip of the instrument pierces my arm and the fluid in it travels through my veins and decides to stop in my brain. Nurse Nkoyo flinches as the tip of the needle is withdrawn from my body. But the doctor betrays no emotions. Mean doctor?

These images were in my head when Doctor Kpo walked in. He had a gift with people, and I had seen him offer sick people hope before giving them medical treatment. He would pray with them too. But it was that hope that the country needed. It was also in need of cure, and I imagined Kpo as the man for my country. He was the one to examine the heads of members of the supreme military council to tell them that only sick heads would lock up sane people who were merely asking for their rights and the freedom to associate among themselves. I also needed him to tell them that it was wrong of them to have armed men beat up people on the streets for simply nudging them in the arm unknowingly. He needed to tell them that the sight of soldiers smoking at street corners with AK-47 rifles was enough terror for the average Nigerian. Soldiers needed to be told that it was criminal enough to make people forget when they want to remember. They needed to know that military brutality was a crime, especially when committed against defenseless and unarmed people.

The doctor was unusually calm for my liking. His sky-white coat was in good shape. It was well-pressed with few creases and that made me think that perhaps, he hadn’t taken a seat since he wore it. He clutched a clipboard close to his chest as though it were a baby in need of comfort. And his stethoscope was slung down his neck. He walked like an angel who had come to transport me on wings to the judgment throne, without giving me the chance to receive the sacrament of penance, and without the chance to hug dearest ones for the last time. He looked like an angel who had come to transport me to mama. Mama, I believed, was glued at Jesus’ feet in heaven, free from the pain my country had caused her. I have never imagined mama in any place other than heaven. Mamas don’t go to hell or anywhere hurting. They are so kind and tender they deserve to dine with angels and saints and God. If God needed wives, he would have chosen all mamas. They never do wrong.

She had been a petty trader who sold tomatoes and pepper at the market in town which was named after the wife of the military ruler. Just like any other day in her quiet and lonely life, she had gone to display her articles of trade at her roadside table. She was trying to convince a young boy to add few coins to what he was offering her. She said that was the little profit she stood to make. Out of the blue, commotion rose all around her. She thought it was the usual anti-coup protest that had been taking place since the dictator sent the democratic president to exile.

“Hey. Run. Fast!” Many people had been screaming as she later narrated to me. But she wasn’t Usain Bolt. She had willed strength from her inner self but had found no youthful reserves. She was still at her stool when soldiers with blistering eyes, bearing horsewhips descended on her. They whipped with a searing horsewhip and kicked her while she called out for help that wasn’t going to come. The soldiers didn’t relent in their torture exercise. She believed some demons of sorts had possessed them. And the soldiers were so many that she thought a war had been declared on old fat petty traders who sat on low stools.

The soldiers had come from two angles, jumping down from ugly army trucks imported from some totalitarian countries. They were excited. They didn’t just beat hapless civilians and had them lie down on broken road; the heartless men were happy to destroy people’s wares with their jackboots. Mama had told me this on her hospital bed.

She had thought that by screaming and holding her head in her palms, she would find mercy with the invaders. But with each shout that she had made, she had gotten a heavier kick and harsher whip to her body. Soon, she found herself rolling in the mud and invoking God’s name to plead her case. That didn’t help. They brutalized her until the welts on her skin began to course with blood. Her screams were now dying. Slow. Slower. She rolled slowly and lay on her stomach, her face buried in the mud, her backside open to several jackboots and whips of a demented gang of military misfits. They only stopped beating her when she lay motionless on the ground. The pandemonium at the market was soon over, then the military men left, blissful that they had not been challenged. What was Mama’s crime? She had not been able to afford the high cost of stalls in the main market complex, which was already sold out, in any case. And that the curfew was due in thirty minutes, and no one had been expected to be on the streets.

In the weeks that followed, Mama never made it to the market area again. She was badly wounded. She could not understand why her country had done her so much harm. She found succor from the delegation of market women who visited her at the hospital telling her not to worry that all would be well. But Mama never got well. She was admitted to a local hospital. She had complained of pains in her stomach. I went to see her daily. I went one day and met an unusual calm at Hope medical center. I didn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary. I walked to Mama’s room only to find out that the door was locked. I went to the doctor’s office and there I was told the tragic news.

She had died. Now, I didn’t understand what death meant because I had never for one moment believed my mama would die. I thought death was a disease far from our home. I didn’t want to take the news like one takes a loving present home from teachers at school. I told the bearer of the news that he was a terrible comic act and should never consider a career in comedy if he was trying to make me laugh. But he insisted that he was serious about the tragedy that had befallen my family.

Truth. She had closed her eyes while a prayer froze on her full lips. She was Catholic and she had been praying the prayer for Nigeria in distress before she passed on. It was a prayer she knew by heart as she had attended masses without fail. Her death wish was that I prayed the prayer daily, but I had failed her religiously. I was still trying to shake off the memory of Mama from my mind when the doctor touched me; his usual smile was not on his round face. I wanted to ask what the issue was, but he spoke first. Doctors deliver tragedy best.

“It has been a bad day,” he said as he motioned me to lay flat. He placed his stethoscope on my chest and listened with that trained ear of his. He placed his left palm on my forehead and wanted to know if I still felt the migraines.

“Just yesterday,” I answered.

He reached for his clipboard and took down some notes. He was taciturn with the nurse who stood by. The Dr Kpo I had known would have asked about my night, would have poked fun out of the stories in the news of the television authority, and would have spoken about things in other wards. So, I had to ask him the question he had frozen a while ago.

“Doctor, I shouldn’t really be asking this. But is everything okay at home and at work?”

He looked at me and smiled. Or rather enacted what looked like a smile. He failed at hiding an emotion which wasn’t joy. He shook his head as if to shake the weight of my question away. He blinked rapidly and wrote hurriedly in his file. I wasn’t going to force him to words if he wasn’t going to speak willingly. I lay down for him to carry out his medical ritual on me. But he didn’t. He stopped writing instead. He hugged his clipboard with sadness.

“My country is wicked,” he cast his eyes in sad colours. He went to the window and parted the curtains into two halves, each stuffing into the iron burglary. He stepped aside. The sharp rays of the rising sun bathed me in full. They were people on the streets marching and singing that they had lost the fear of death. They had just carried away a dead man from the health centre.

“What happened again?” I sat up against the wall.

“The unspeakable happens in this country every day.” He was still speaking to himself. Rather, he was speaking to the sad, angry, and frustrated people outside the window, the trees down below, I thought. “We are told the police is our friend, yet they extort and clamp us into jails at will. We are told the army is to protect against external aggressors, but the army boys think civilians are enemies.”

I questioned him with urgency poking out in my voice. I had expected him to turn and address me. But he chose to glue his vision to the window. There was pandemonium outside, angry voices tearing through into the room.

“They snatched Amina away last night.” He spoke at last.

“And who is she? Who took her away?”

“My wife,” he said, and I imagined his eyes had grown distant as he searched for her in the cramped houses, broken roads, and dusty sky up ahead in his view. I imagined his eyes were teary too and he didn’t wish me to see the infant side of him.

“She had been returning from the market when soldiers and armed men in a patrol van screeched to a stop beside her and asked her to get into their van. The doors of the van were plastered with the words ‘Operation Sweep’. She had resisted casually by walking ahead. Then she heard rifles snapping with fury behind her.”

“So sorry to hear about this. What time of the day did this happen?”

“Just before sunset.”

He explained that they seized her plastic bag, which was filled with beans and plantain, meant for dinner. They spilled the contents on the road. And what was her offence? They claimed they had sighted her at a corner talking to a man in whispers. They had lost trail of the man. They feared he was an activist, and his wife was one too. He said his wife denied the claim. The patrol van swept up people at random at street corners, blinding them with sharp torch rays at first. They would simply be told that they were ‘security threats’.

Doctor Kpo walked away from the window and announced to me that I would be discharged in a day or two. He said my injuries were not so severe anymore and the migraines would go away soonest. He said I had been fortunate not to crack my skull when the soldiers raided the soccer viewing center I had been, searching for activists.

“Steer clear of crowded areas,” he admonished me. “They don’t want to see so many young boys gathered in one place, even if you guys claim it’s the English soccer season on satellite television.”

I nodded. The doctor left my room. “What’s going to happen to Amina?” I asked as he got to the door.

“She will be fine. She will be out. She will not be in detention for long.”

“How? When?”

“The director of the health centre has already petitioned the military administrator.” He shut the door. A vanishing act followed. Then he returned to the room without knocking. “Don’t join the protests outside. The Special Anti-Robbery Squad of the police just tortured a young man to death. I hear there will be end SARS protests in the days to come.” Another vanishing act was accomplished.

I closed my eyes, wondering why men with guns wanted to rule over us, bothered about what I would do to stop soldiers from flogging civilians at will, wondering if the confrontations in my head wouldn’t return. Then I saw myself joining the groups on the streets, confronting the army. The possibilities that I saw in my mind hit my eyelids, then they opened. I screamed for the nurse. I would discharge myself from the facility.

Steve Ogah is Voicesnet (USA) Poet of the month (Feb.2002) and fellow of the British Council/Lancaster University Crossing Borders online writing program. He is the author of Barack Obama’s Logic.

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

Tags Nigeria, Steve Ogah, Usian Bolt