 |
| Minotaur (Sunil Sharma) |
Chapter 2
They are called
the storytellers. They occupy a privileged position in the class. These are
usually ten-to-twelve male members of the group. They perform a dance around
the camp-fire and narrate the stories in their rich husky voices to the music
of drums and hand-held banjo type instruments of bamboo and bells, on special
occasions only, when there is full moon in the sky and a scented wind blows
down from the dark heavily-wooded hills looming in the fluid-dark of the
background. On such special occasions, the spirits of the forest emerge from
their gloomy resting-place and watch the humans perform stories through dance
and songs. During these moments, the forest rising like a giant over their
huts, falls silent and gets brooding. It was one such special occasion.
The
storytellers were arranged in a circle around the campfire. The village was
seated, in the same circular style, hundred feet or so away from the
storytellers.
The brilliant
light of the camp fire had lit up the surroundings in an orange color, in a
leaping irregular pattern, and the faces of the spell-bound tensed audience
were all red-hued in the dancing broken flames, listening to the musical
stories under a sky dotted with twinkling diamonds and a full silvery moon
washing the vast dome in her white cool light. Even the dogs and pet monkeys
were silent, adding to the mystique of the wonderful night. The head
storyteller, he older of the group, was reciting the story in a full-throated
deep voice travelling over the jagged tongues of the sacred fire vibrating in
the cold scented wind, the mesmerized faces, and over the melting centuries, at
this intense moment of time:
And listen you,
the clan of the Hararas present, listen hard all you, to our stories, told by
gods through us, the mere form, the humble medium, the chroniclers of time gone
and to be yet born, listen you all to the tales of past, present and
resent-to-come, when gods and spirits of the Hararas dead and resting speak to
all.
There comes a
time rare when past heaving restless reaches out to time present, the moment
living, the moment-yet-realized not, through us, who are not important, but the
narratives are, that speak through us, top you all, the stars, the moon the
size of a bowl and faced white and scarred, and to the wind whispering moaning
and crooning as it did in the past. I am nobody. You are nobody. But we are WE-
The ones who defeated the creatures strange and mighty who roamed the earth
before, WE- as ONE. Without this WE, all you and me, are helpless as a newborn
baby, as a body without soul, a soul minus body. I and me are we; we are I and
m. we and this forest unique who mothers us and our daily needs.
Must respect our dead,
The dead--------
Alive for us in
Forms unseen:
In shapes that cannot be
Seen by eyes mortal.
The dead walk the forest
And the night
Ready to talk
When the need arise.
Strange are their ways
And powers unique,
They talk like stars
And
Whisper like the winds.
Respect our dead.
Because of them
We live.
The drumbeats grew louder:
We respect them,
Those who walk the other
Side of darkly night;
The fierce denizens
Of jungles deep,
Where
Mortals
Can never reach.
The beats grew
louder and louder, the strains of flutes and tom-toms adding melody and
enchantment to the deepening night. The hypnotized clan clapped hands and
stamped their feet. Food and drinks were passed around. The glacial bowl in the
sky smiled and the stars broke into a silvery stardust that rained down in
shafts of moonlight. The head storyteller sipped a drink from the common bowl
and resumed:
We must recall
history. History forgotten is history dead. It must not be forgotten. It binds
the yesterday with today, today with day tomorrow: our past is present; present
is past, both them the tomorrow.
The chorus
added:
The louder
drumbeats. The storyteller stood up and started swaying in a loose manner
around the bright campfire. The frenzy was mounting. The head storyteller
continued:
The chorus
spoke loudly over the crackling merry fire and a wind dancing:
We are devil,
Our place & home-
The devil’s Island,
He butchers us all,
In the name of his King
And his Divine.
The White ways are different,
We, the ‘natives’, cannot
Understand them at all!
The head
teller, standing up to his height, sang:
Let us not forget
History that tells us
About wrongs,
To enable us
Right
The wrongs.
The chorus spoke:
The chorus added:
We fight not all Whites,
But only those
Whose greed and lust
Hurts us most,
Who treat us animals
A fate
We, the fierce Hararas
Refuse.
The head storyteller said:
Once again
A cruel wind
Blows down from the
Misty mountains afar,
And brings with it,
The man with the ruddy face
With his blazing guns,
We must be wary
Our lands are threatened,
The spirits of the dead
Inform us through dreams,
The eagle circle in the
Skies,
Let us be prepared
For an unjust unequal
Fight
With the greedy
Whites.
The chorus
sang:
This time
The fight would not be so
Unequal,
We have with us
The Harara White
Whose ancestors
Come from the land white,
The Harara White-
One among us
Lives in his offspring,
Whose bones are intermixed
With our ancestors,
In this, our Paradise!
The head teller
and the chorus started dancing wildly to the loud beat of drums and clapping of
hands and feet, almost in a frenzied state, their red-painted faces flushed
eyes blood-shot, feathered heads with their mops of frizzled hair moving side
ways and then heavenwards, shouting rhythmically:
Hail the dead,
Hail the forest,
Hail the Harara White
Hail the spirits,
Hail the gods
Hail them all-
For their dear gift
Of life.
Hail them all-
For protecting us
From the
Evil Eye.
The group of
storyteller, painted in the war-paint, leaped and danced in the air, reaching a
pure stage of ecstasy.
And, finally,
they fainted before the fire.
A tall figure,
white-headed, emerged from the shadows and walked up to the prostrate figures.
A hush fell over the gathering. A man carried a pot of water and respectfully
held it for the white-headed tall trim figure that sprinkled it over the
figures. Then he said in a deep booming voice in Hararas:
“In the name of
the gods and our ancestors, our kind protectors, I command you to rise from
your trance. Rise, the magnificent storytellers of the Hararas!”
The spell was
broken. The storyteller gradually came out of their sleep and looked refreshed
and happy. They shook hands with the tall man. The clan clapped. The feasting
began. The tall man, unusually tall for his clan, went to the comparative
solitude of his elevated corner, and sat down in a high chair, surrounded by
his harem off partly dark-skinned wives and two stocky Harara warriors. His
pets were there: a spider monkey and a full-grown tiger near the high chair.
The monkey chattered and the tiger growled. The local fermented whisky was
passed around in a large bowl. The wives sipped it and the senior-most wife
handed over the bowl to the white-headed sprightly man. The feasting and music
were on, the clan singing dancing and eating from common dishes.
The head
storyteller, short stocky, approached the high chair, bowed and said, “How was
it, chief?” The man looked at the broad, muscular man and smiled, “You did a
fine job, Buntu. Excellent!” Buntu smiled and answered in a rich voice, “I am
flattered. Rare to get A grade from the white Harara.”
The white
Harara smiled.
“The white
Harara appreciates good work. You are an asset to our clan. The warrior-poet.”
“Tomorrow night
then?”
“Yes, everybody
ready?”
“Yes, these
sessions always work magic on the warriors. We are ready.”
“So, tomorrow
night then.”
“Yes, chief.”
Buntu withdrew
discreetly. Chief does not speak English every day and with everybody. That
means he trusts me absolutely. A great honor!
I am the
trusted lieutenant of the white Harara, our chief!
The white
Harara suddenly got up. He took the leashed tiger and the monkey with him and
withdrew to the Long House of the clan to converse with the dead spirit of his
grandfather, the first White Harara of the clan, Henry Livingston, who was
declared the supreme leader of the lands of the Hararas spread over the
far-flung small islands in the south-east Pacific Ocean. He tethered the tiger
in the courtyard of the Long House and kept the spider monkey at the door and
went inside.
Tomorrow was an
important day for Mark Livingstone, the third white Harara of the clan, a day
of reckoning.
He needed rest
and blessing. Long House is also called the spirit House and still a common
sight in Papua New Guinea.
Mark went
inside the gloomy main room lit up by the candles and sat down on the mat
before the altar. The housekeeper, an ancient Harara, lit up the candles and
incense-sticks and placed them before the altar, then withdrew silently,
shutting the doors to the main-room. No women are ever allowed entry in the
spirit house. Only the chiefs, the shamans and the elders are allowed to enter
the spirit House and talk to the spirits of the ancestors, who may or may not
appear on the desired day or night. Mark Livingston prayed and waited before
the altar set on a raised level and in darkness fart the comfort of the spirits
who may not like to reveal themselves to their seekers. Mark Livingston waited
for the signs. He was fifty, trim as a coconut tree, almost six-foot among the
dark-skinned people of the clan. A powerful man, he could wrestle with three
warriors at a time, and ran like the mountain wind. The clans of the Hararas,
scattered on other islands, truly respected him as their overall leader.
The dark space
started vibrating with a hazy figure. Livingston, all concentration, went into
an intense state of trance, totally withdrawing from the objective world.
“What brings
you here?”
“I pay my deep
respects to you.”
“You are
strong-willed person,
What help you
need from me now?”
“I need your
blessings for tomorrow.”
“You always
have them.”
“Will I be
successful?”
“Doubts should
never haunt you, Son. Any doubtful mission should be abandoned quickly.
If you have no
faith in you, do not do it.”
“I come to seek
advice and the blessings.”
“Both are
granted. Go out with faith and firm decision.”
The apparition
was gone.
They were ten
warriors known for their bravery, agility and marksmanship. The white Harara
and Buntu brought up the rear. They arrived with the stealth of a leopard at
the gates of the fort.
They entered
the fort, bolstered up by the presence of their great chief. The fort was
forbidden place for the warriors since it housed the Sinister Spirits of the white
men, the evil ones who had massacred their ancestors and enslaved the weaker
ones for their plantations.
It had taken a
lot of coaching by the white Harara to dispel their dread of the fort. He had
selected the ten best warriors of the large clan; the men who could fight a
tiger with bare hands and hunt the wild boars with their spears; the men who
could mimic the sounds of the birds and animals and kill accurately in thick
dark jungle by the location of the sound of the intended prey. They ran like the
cheetah, climbed the tallest trees like monkeys, and fought as an angry ram.
They were best swimmers. The white Harara, as the chief, had trained them from
the childhood, in anticipation of such scenario, because he knew instinctively
that the outside world driven by lust for money and profits was going to find
out about the island again, and try to colonize and plunder their emerald-green
island of its sugar, spices, coconuts, coffee. Then there were silver mines,
bred in the south-east corner, under the shadows of the big hills, 150 km from
the fort. Mines were well-guarded secret of the Hararas and once out, were sure
to attract the merchants and miners and traders from all over the West, sealing
the fate of the island and the community. The warriors, called Jaguars by Mark
Livingston, were his task force and ceremonial body-guards, at his side at the
time of births, marriages, and deaths. And especially on the night of the
spirits when he communed with the dead along with the select band of the elders
of their clan. Mark Livingston’s fears had come true in the proceeding weeks
when the Harara hunters had spotted the white aliens in the groups waking and
resting on the beach of the island, much frequented by the children, women and
elders of their clan.
Mark Livingston
was faced with a moral dilemma. Should he kill these people coming from the
other side of the world to which his grandpa once belonged? Or spare them?
After all they were peaceful aliens and non-threatening. When he saw the
ammunition being loaded and taken to the fort, he was convinced about their
intentions.
If we do not
eliminate them, they will kill, enclave and dominate his tribe.
Again they will
be subjugated. After weeks, he decided: Kill some of them and then wait before
finishing them off in a swift move.
The two guards
were silhouetted against the dimly-lit background of the central chamber, its
old iron-doors slightly ajar, and the torches throwing a weak illumination on
the immediate square where the two guards re standing in a relaxed position.
They are not
expecting any danger.
Mark Livingston
had expected things like that. He surveyed the scene from the knoll in
comparative dark and found it satisfactory. The warriors, tensed, stood like
shadows, silent as trees. Mark motioned. Buntu and five warriors split up and
moved towards the right flank, remaining five to the left side, their chief
stationed on the knoll. After some time Buntu emitted the sound of a monkey.
Mark then mimicked a low roar of the tiger, which echoed down the square and
caught the two commandoes by surprise. They become alert. The low roar was
coming from the far-off hedges. The roar of an angry tiger! A few stones,
dislodged, scattered down the bushes, six hundred meters away, followed by the
low shriek of a bull caught up in the jaws of death. One of the guards
exchanged looks and gestured the other to remain alert. He glided don to the
dark hedges, AK-56 ready. Meanwhile the other sentry stood at attention,
cradling his weapon. The roar was coming regularly followed by an intermittent
strike. The first guard approached cautiously the irregular hedges and stood
there. The sounds stopped. He wanted for full five minutes and then spun on
wheels. Mark shot the poison-tipped arrow that pierced his heart and killed the
deadly killing-machine in a few seconds. The poor man had not the chance to
shriek.
The morning
brought death. Minotaurch woke up early from a bad dream and came out of the
dank and stifling chamber where two hours earlier he had made love to his
mistress who was part of the group of females being ferried to his palatial
house in Argentine in the ill-fated jet. He emerged from the humid gloom of the
chamber and noticed the absence of the guards. Unusual! It never happens.
Where the hell
are these f**king robots?
Morning sun had
splashed a deep reddish hue on the young fresh sky. A cool breeze was blowing
his way, kissing his rugged, deeply-lined face. The ramparts lit up in the
bright colors of the rising red-disc, looking handsome and masculine in the
distance. He exercised lightly in the breeze. No sign of the guards! A profound
solitude of uninterrupted ages hung over the fort and the jungle. A solitude
that had greeted the first setters here, thousands of years ago. On a morning like this, the first band of hominids,
dominated by the dangerous forest teeming with
strange creatures and a wild sea standing there, he looked beyond the
misty past and into the very beginning of Time. Nothing has changed in this preserve
of the history. Time sits still here. He surveyed the place and saw the
vultures flying in the sky. His animal instincts got activated. His uncanny
instinct for danger. He went inside and took out his pistol. Then he sprinted
down the roughly hewn footpath stones to the hedges, some six hundred meters
away, and saw the fallen figure of the dead commando, an arrow half-buried in
the heart, the face caught up in a surprised expression permanently frozen and
arranged neatly on the blue oval face of the soldier by the departing death.
My hunch was
true!
He turned
around and ran back. A careful search revealed the second body, near the
bushes, in rigor mortis.
I was right!
The Hararas have arrived and made contact with us.
The Group was
rudely awakened and hastily assembled in the courtyard. Minotaurch was in a
foul mood. The group stood patiently.
“The warning is
clear”, he said in a soft voice, his face grim, eyes cold and glittering
without any emotions, the vein of his smooth broad forehead standing out and
throbbing his predatory instincts sharpest at this time.
He is most
dangerous now, thought Gorilla nervously, devoid of emotions and on the point
of attacking his prey. His mind, drained of any other feeling, concentrating on
revenge only.
“They want us
out of here. Drive us out. To the sea. The only problem with their calculation
is that”, he paused, voice steely and low, “that … we are not going to leave
this island, a safe haven for all of us. Clear? Anybody objecting?”
The cold eyes
surveying the group in various stages of undress. They shivered. “Good. The
problem is we do not have good boats or a chopper to ferry us out of this
goddamned stinking hellhole. We are stuck. No exit.”
He paused.
“Problem no.2.
We are not good swimmers who can swim across this sea. So, we are just holed up
here. For good. They want us out. Ha, ha, ha.” A metallic hollow small laughter
that ran down in small waves over the group.
It scalds like
the hot lave!
He cleared his
throat and said, “Everybody wants us out- from some place or the other. We ran
away from our nation which we have built with our bare hands, from scratch.
They drove us out. Sure, we escaped a humiliating death there. Outwitted those
barbarians. Here these barbarians, with their arrows and javelins, want us to
run away to the sea. These primitive buggers, these forest people with their
crude weapons, want us to be the food of the sharks. Ha, ha, ha! What a silly
joke!”
The hollow
clanging laughter.
“Ladies and gentlemen,
let me assure these apes, on your behalf, we are not going to be the sitting
duck for these bastards. Agreed”
The Group
nodded automatically. “The world has changed a lot since the last invasion and
occupation of this small island some five hundred years ago. We are the 20th
century. Highly evolved and sophisticated. We are different from those early
Spaniards in every sense. I am unique as a leader, as a visionary, as a
tactician. I am the ultimate. The man who shaped up to 50 million destinies and
raised that dusty impoverished country to heights.”
The same
far-away look, the vacant look, the eyes unfocussed, voice low and hissing. A
man out of touch with reality.
A man gone mad!
Insane with self-importance and self-glorification. Such men are awfully
dangerous with and without power. Noted Chameleon. “Now, look, we cannot run
twice from a hostile situation. First time we had a choice. Now, we do not.
There are no escape routes than death. I am sure, nobody here wants to die
early in this remote goddamn island. At least, I do not.”
He paused. The
vacant look was gone. The determined eyes were probing the immediate space as
if searching for some clues of a hazy future, the seeds, and the shape in that
space that could calm him down. Any assuring telltale signs up there.
"Friends, the Gods are playing a cruel
game of the dice. Loaded, this game is against us. I had an emergency plan
ready. We were to spend out time in Lima, six months, in safe houses provided
by my friends in the army. When the uproar had died down about my escape in six
months, we would have moved to Cali, Colombia where General Balthazar and
others in the narco trade would have set us up. The Cali Cartel has always been
very hospitable to us. They were committed to back us up with arms and
ammunition to overthrow the regime of this traitor who is holed up in US.A. and
calls the shots from there, this traitor who was my best friend once." The
vein in his forehead started throbbing again, the eyes took on an expression of
hatred pure that spread up his features and contorted them in a dark mask of
fury. "How this ungrateful punk incited the once-loyal subjects of mine
over radio, set up a guerilla army in the mountains and seized power with the
help of C.I.A-well, well, I should have murdered him in the first place than
allow a safe passage to USA. under threat from that ambassador, that Yankee,
you all know. Bet I do not forget so easily? The cartel was ready with money
and their agents. Ready to topple the government within a year of its
installation. And I would be riding home to a rousing reception in the public
square - within a year of the pretenders accession to the throne - ha, ha ha -
The Gods playing the dice game, loaded against me. Well, well. The Gods won the
first game. Our plans came unstuck. The cyclonic storm, the jet losing
direction, breaking down -when the nature unleashes its elemental fury, we and
our toys are nothing but a mere speck of dust....N-O-T-H-I-N-G. Now, stuck in
the island for good, with no means of escape and contact with the outside
world, we are marooned like that English sailor Francis Drake, for totally
different reasons, in this place. Then Gods play the second round of the dice
game and we have these savages under the leadership of an Englishman or Scot-
what ever that jerk is- asking us to go out and drown ourselves in the shark-
infested Pacific. I find the whole thing very funny. They see us a threat- we
who are not even fifity in numbers! Very funny? Is it not?”
He laughed aloud. A dry
mirthless laughter of a hyena, unsettling and harsh.
“They have this
white-fixation. They dread us as mortals dread death. We equal death and
destruction for them. They do not know we are not even the White- I mean the
pure, lily-white! We are the light brown or wheatish white, a result of
marriage of the native and the European over the centuries. We are not pure but
bastards! And thousands of years ago the settelers that vast rugged hot
country. So you see, everything is so hotch-potch. We are part
Spanish-Italians, part native and trace our decent from the distant Asians who
themselves were Aryans or so they say. South America parallels our evolution,
culturally and racially. As professor has pointed out here that this is a
classic model that holds in majority of the cases: invaders marrying the locals
and producing a mix race of different strains. So, you see, we are like the
Hararas. They are also, at least some, descents of the Spanish and the natives
united in the marriages in the past.”
“You are a bit off-track!”
They were stunned. The
voice belonged to that little, unassuming professor.
A clear commanding voice,
despite a quiet tone, nobody missed the firm voice, issuing from such a small
but compact man, a voice that irritated and slightly disoriented the leader. “I
beg your pardon, professor Bloom”, the voice of the man called wolf or butcher
of the New Land was razor sharp. A flicker of old hatred, at being challenged
by an inferior, returned, flushing his face in red. Gorilla held his breath.
During such moments he had seen the Wolf losing his self-control and shooting
the person who had earned the displeasure of the leader.
During such intense moments
he loses touch with reality and gets truly mad. Arrogance of power amnesia,
Gorilla called this mental state when white anger and unbridled power sense
made him forget about social norms, his own standing as the Prez of the nation,
his good manners- everything. But that after happened to the powerful people
everywhere. Including himself. They do not like to be challenged!
He was fearing for the
safety of his prot├йg├й, almost like son to him.
“You have got your history
wrong, Your Majesty, as far as the Hararas are concerned.”
“Professor Bloom seems to
me a true admirer of these eaters-of-the-raw-flesh and cannibals.” The Group
naturally laughed at the expense of the mysterious Bloom who, to them, appeared
as arrogant philosopher showing off his wide knowledge to a class of the
first-graders and thus totally confusing those small minds. One of the group
had dryly commented, “Our own Voltaire in a pack of mentally –retarded
persons!”
The mysterious but
highly-intelligent ‘Professor’ Bloom stepped out of the line and directly stood
before the 6-feet-four-inches tall leader , a spectacle comic for the
onlookers, in term of the height-discrepancies, but they dared not giggle
loudly.
“I am being objective only
because”, here he looked at the Group in a mocking way, “we need an objective
and rational perspective when dealing with our enemy. A psychosocial and
cultural profile. To understand the workings of an alien mind before we make
our move to confront that intimidating enemy. False cultural stereotypes and
racial prejudices- the Western theories of looking at them as the ‘other’- will
not service our purpose here.”
The little bastard is
right!
Minotaurch smiled hi
sundering fresh-faced, innocent smile.
Gorilla heaved a sigh of
relief.
“As you remember, Sir, the
Hararas were the natives of this island. They were massacred and enslaved. Many
died of European diseases, of forced labour. The invaders treated their women
as their property and used them for their vigorous sexual appetites. The exotic
always turns on the male sexual drives and they used them as cultural trophies
and conquests to boost up their egos. I guess these women were mere low-grade
mistresses for these white invaders and nothing else. But, of course, not all
women readily agreed to this insulting arrangement, a humiliation resented by
the menfolk, since it was only-way traffic. I remember certain details from Henry
Livingston that is relevant to the profile of this clan and the purpose of our
present discussion. He says any Harara caught with any white woman was
castrated and then murdered most brutality by the white males. That goes for
the marriage and equality argument! Actually marriages were never solemnized
between the whites and these native women. They were picked up, raped and
abandoned. Some were part of the royal harem a slaves and exploited sexually by
the sexually active royal court. The children of such forced unions never got
royal patronage and acted as exalted slave labour to the rulers. Some clans,
tells Livingston, quietly slipped out to the outlying islands in their swift
canoes and dispersed in the thick forests and hills on those islands. The clan
founded by Henry, as per the oral traditions of their storytellers, itself
moved inside the then inaccessible jungle and remained hidden in the secret
caves in the steep hill range of the so-called Devil’s Island for a long time.
This way they were able to safeguard the purity of their bloodline and the
honor of their clan. The present clan claims their descent from these early
fierce Hararas. Thus you see, Sir, our Hararas are pure Hraras who never
compromised their integrity, honor and dignity. They hated the white colonizers
and refused to be enslaved and humiliated by an external force. We are dealing
with this clan whose fierce love of independence is now widely appreciated by
other marginal and aborigines like the Red Indians, the Maoris, the Australian
natives, the Bushman.”
Minotaurch nodded his
agreement.
“I see your point, Bloom.
My point is, we are all connected one way or the other, in a hodge-podge, and
many of races have also experienced subjugation and domination: France occupied
by the Nazis and South Africa, to give two examples of the recent contemporary
history.”
The Group also nodded
silently.
“The point is, Bloom, our
hand is being forced. Just ousted from our nation by engineered riots, protests
and worldwide outcry against the so-called suppression of the human rights;
now, in the middle of the Pacific, with no changes of going back to
civilization, we are stuck in this wilderness, in this old crumbling fort- no
better than an ancient series of interconnected caves, and this towering jungle
so strange to our citified sensibilities!”
Gorilla spoke for the first
time, “And two of our best commandoes dead. Murdered by these apes. I am going
to get even. My commandoes are more precious than gold to me.”
Minotaurch replied, pacing
up and down the courtyard. ‘You are right. Their deaths are to be avenged, at
any cost. They have thrown the challenge at us. They are testing us. Testing
our courage. Our feeling loyalty to our dead comrades. Our attitude towards
revenge. If we do not strike early, we are all doomed. We are visible to them.
Hey are not to us. Do, at any cost, we have to take a pre-emptive action?
Either we or they.” Gorilla said, “It is going to be they. We have
sophisticated weapons and enough R. D. X. To blow up this goddamned island
itself.”
“Let us think and evolve a
strategy”, asked the agitated Minotaurch.
“We have been put on a
notice. Time is running out. And, mind it, this time am not going o lose the
second game of dice to the Gods.”
Mark Livingston was
watching the rainfall in straight sheets. The dense rain and the greenery thick
as a vertical Colum intermixed freely, the greyness of the rain lending a
surreal touch to the
whole surrounding in the light-darkness of the afternoon. The heavy forest was
dripping with rainwater. The curtain of the rain was moving fast from the dark
skies to the damp wet floor of the brooding forest, a tall curtain joining
heavens with the mother earth. Rains had always fascinated the white Harara.
Rains that regenerated the forest and made it alive. The large settlement was
being lashed furiously by the divine waters, producing it’s our harmony and
sweet music. The bamboo huts with their conical roofs were arranged in a
semi-circle, in a vast clearing, in the middle of the forest. The centre of the
settlement was used for community purposes: Communal feasting, dancing and
singing, and, for sessions with the clan elders. The whispering forest provided
them the clan elders. The whispering forest provided them the green canopy and
the hunting grounds. Our limited universe! Now, this universe was again
threatened with the unexpected arrival of the aliens, a fact that saddened and
angered him. Why do they not leave us along? He knew that their isolation was
not going to be permanent; the world was going to catch up with them sooner or
later. A world with sophisticated weapon. We are no match to the. We stand no
chance! Our unique life-style, going back centuries, will be wiped out totally,
destroying a culture that can never be replicated in the ‘civilized’ world.
He had seen the flying bird
in the sky, broken, then going up in the flames. The Hararas were terrified of
the huge metal bird that self-destructed in red flames. For last five hundred
years they were leading an isolated life and knew nothing about the world. They
grew panicky seeing the bird, the fire spouting metals that killed games, the tall
ruddy white males and females. A strange world for the half-clad, bare-foot
forest children-almost frightening. He assembled them later in the day before
his large elevated hut and explained to them about the weapons and the jet in
their own language that had no words for these objects and that consisted of
forest sounds only and a limited oral vocabulary. No need for a formal written
system for a simple community with most limited demands. His presence had
calmed them down. Since then he was trekking ‘their’ movements. Three, four
scouts always watched the movements of the new arrivals from the treetops
facing the main entry of the forest. Things reported were not very assuring.
Generally the intruders came out in small groups for hunting and fishing. They
had made a canoe out of a sturdy tree trunk and went out in that hollowed-out
improvised canoe to the sea for fishing. They also regularly came down to the
beach for swimming and bathing purposes. A group of tall and heavy-set persons
carried guns, knives and daggers with them. The same group of the ‘warriors’
did the hunting and the fishing also. Nothing unusual! A small group frolicking
and enjoying their vacation on the island. But Mark knew something was a miss.
Beneath the calm surface, there must be some disturbance going on. The message of the killings was already sunk
in. What are they waiting for?
Naturally, they are
planning. What? He had no clues. With their exits closed, they have two
options: to die or to surrender. They cannot fight us in the forest, as it is
our natural home. We will not fight them in the fort. They will kill us with
their weapons there. We have to smoke them out of their hiding place and kill
them all. Or keep them as slaves. But given their violent nature, they will be
dangerous as a lion in the captivity. Either way, he was in dilemma. Killing
them means innocent blood on his hands. Captive intruders mean more trouble
since no person likes to be enslaved or kept prisoner. Both ways you look at
that bunch drop outs of the skies, you will find them troublesome. In keeping
with their character!
Two days earlier, Mark had
made his monthly trip top the Solomon Islands in his speed-boat, a gift by his
uncle, whose great grandpa had settled down on those island’s hundred years ago
along with other whites. They were successful merchants dealing in ivory,
spices, coffee and sugar. Their colonial house stood on the modulating
well-manicured lawns in the sprawling acres. The house of Livingston always
welcomed another ‘lost’ Livingston in their midst. The reception was very warm
and Mark always looked forward to these monthly meets with the ‘civilized’ family.
His uncle, the third generation of the Livingstone on the Solomon,
seventy-year-old spruced father and drove comfort from the company of old Uncle
Roberts. Mark had spent his teenage years at Uncle Roberts’ estate where he was
taught, in a informal way by an English governess, the 3 Rs. There, in the
company of his cousins, he learnt motor driving, riding, boxing and table
tennis. He read lots of books and picked up French and Spanish from the nearby
settlers. His father had never insisted that he continue as the white Harara of
the tribe. He, therefore, packed off his eldest son to Roberts’ estate and
asked his son to absorb the civilization. Mark liked the planned upper sections
of the capital there and other comforts of a city life but found the metro
‘civilized’ life awfully stifling and boring. It lacked the romance of the
jungle and the vast freedom, which it afforded to its children. The mysterious
nights and multi-colored glorious dawns and the sun-dappled morning; the
concert of voices emanating from the insect-and-animal world- the nature’s
grand opera; the quietly-flowing river Kan Kan near the village, and the
heavily-wooded hills towering above their huts. That excitement and rhythm was
lacking in the highly regimental city life. He worshipped nature, “as the
Hellenic Keats and Shelly”, and returned to his only world where he felt at
home. But he continued the family links with uncle Roberts. Two days ago, he
had gone there to spend a night with the ailing Roberts. After having a
sumptuous meal and strong coffee, he drove around the capital Honiara in their
car, uncle Roberts drinking in the sights, sounds and colours of the city.
There were the huge white-painted mansions, all done in the colonial style,
with vast lawns and flowering trees. The old man was getting nostalgic. He
recalled early days of the white rule, the tea parties, the endless discussions
about the World War II, the fish-and-chips and rum-filled evenings, the latest
about the governor’s many escapades, the breaking-up of the empire and the
emergence of the Yankee power. They returned towards late evening and drank
scotch in the book-lined small study. “I have seen it all”, the old man said,
“the rise and rise of the white man’s supremacy and its decline. The end of
colonialism. Once the sum never set in the British Empire. Now, look, where are
we? John Bull is now here. Uncle Sam, everywhere. Sad, very sad!”
Mark quietly sipped the
scotch. He had come to tolerate the conservatism of the old man.
“We were all driven by the pioneer’s
romance with the unknown. The Yankees call it the frontiersman’s spirit. A
restless spirit it was. We conquered lands unknown and the continents new. The
great period of the western civilization was, mark, from the 14th-to-the
19th century. The West discovered and dominated the rest of landmass
and oceans. 1492, the year America was discovered. Such a vast continent! The
soul of the early pioneers was as big as America. Nothing less, small could
satisfy the continental hunger of the soul, Ha!”
That was simply the year in
which sea pirates began to cheat and rob and kill them.....the sea pirates were
white.....color was everything.....they had the best boats in the world.....and
they had gunpowder. Mark suddenly remembered Kurt Vonnegut jr.
Uncle Roberts peered over
is cut glasses and asked, “You are with me, Mark?”
Mark said quietly, “very
much, Uncle Roberts. Go ahead. I am listening.”
“During those heady days of
progress, when Walter and i were growing up, the world was so exciting and
young. Walter, ‘courage, enjoyed that
jungle, you remind me of your father in every way, dear and i enjoyed Honiara.
Our worlds were so different......”
His voice, sad hollow,
trailed. The blue eyes focused on the space, seeing buried times in the
swirling grey fog the way only the aged and the lonely can see. Mark had the
rush of pity for this wasted-up gnarled skeletal figure who once could heave
tree trunks at one go! “Walter was awfully nice, caring and sensitive fellow.
Death and destruction, unnecessary, filled him with sadness and anger. He never
liked our hunting parties. You kill unnecessarily! He would say. Wounded birds,
rabbits and deers brought tears in his eyes. We called him Saint Walter! He
lacked in that aggressive, competitive feeling, which we civilized, have. The
killer instinct! We needed it to survive in our own jungle here!”
Mark listened hard. First
time he was hearing Roberts calling Honiara-life a jungle. How time changes
viewpoints!” actually sensitive folks like my cousin Walter, let his soul rest
in peace, could never adjust to the type of society inherited by us. It is very
lonely here, mark, my son......” The voice trailing off.
“This type of society, son,
is fit for the young, ambitious. A very violent society where individual has no
place. Yes, I am telling the truth, dear Mark who is more than a son to me.
This society has no place for the aged, the infirm, the invalid, and the poor.
A jungle so different from your jungle! It took me 70 years to realize all
this. Ha!” He lit his cigar and sipped the scotch.
“As a young colonizer, i
was driven by lust for land, profits, young women-all the usual good things! I
quarrelled and fought violently. I killed. I was a mini continent. Proud to be
white in color, male, young, Christian. What else you need? Our firm was doing
pretty well. We set up our firms in the French Guinea, Papua New Guinea. My
sons, let me tell you, were as driven as i was, God bless them and our clan! We
made a good deal of money. The whites ruled everywhere. The joke, at that time,
was, God ruled a just world, the God was white, male and British naturally He
favoured His children. Then things changed in the late 40s, 50s, 60s. The God
was white, male but American! He favoured His American children. Then even all
that changed. Our God was replaced by the black gods, yellow gods, and brown
gods. Then our women-so delicate, pretty things who earlier painted faces,
reared children and treated men as masters- they also said God did not exist
because he was male! See the fun! These dolls saying they do not believe a male
God! Ha ha! I could never believe all this trash! Freedom, everybody was
shouting. The Nigger, the Jap, the Indian, the Savage? It pained me a lot. So
you see, dear, i saw it all. The rise and rise and fall and fall of our power.
A world without the white God is a mad-house.”
He stopped, exhausted. A
deathly pale color spread over his face. Mark said politely, “Uncle Roberts, do
not work up your anger. Things change. We cannot stop them. You told me once,
way back, that the Greeks thought they were the most advanced civilization.
They had achieved the best in everything. Nothing could surpass them and their
achievements! The world began and ended with them. Now, it sounds so ridiculous
to us. Then came feudalism. They thought the earth was fixed and the sun
revolved around it! Even that ended. Things change. You cannot rule over people
on the basis of their color only!”
Roberts gulped his Scotch.
“You sound like Walter. Why should you not? Like father, like son. Ha, ha!”
They sat quietly in the
book-lined study with its heavy furniture. “The Livingstones are famous folks.
David Livingston was the most famous among us. There are two strains in our
clan. One mercantile and the other missionary. In a way, we served our God in
our own way.” You cannot impose foreign Gods on them for long. One day they are
going to hit back. You cannot suppress whole nations, peoples for long. Their
gods were bound to protest!
“Mark, my child, i love
you. I am old, wasted, shriveled-up. Waiting for my call from our Maker. I know
you treat me respectfully. Think i am sad, stripped of illusions. In a way, you
are right. My world has come to an end. You are right. We cannot stop history.
It just marches on. But it pains me awfully. Once we were the gods. Now, mere
mortals. Yes, it hurts deeply.”
The old man lapsed into
silence.
The second World War.
Hitler. Holocaust. All could happen because people like Roberts believed in
strange theories to justify their loot and aggression.
In a way, Mark felt
relieved also. Roberts was dying. Good! People like Roberts, if young but
bitter, could always resurrect Hitler and the fear of the other. Walter and
Roberts: two faces of the West but so
different. One worked with the non-whites; the other tried to dominate and
suppress them.
Next morning he opened the
Solomon Times and read it over coffee, bacon, eggs and toasts. A picture on the
international page caught his attention. The long, rugged, smiling face under a
big- rimmed hat appeared familiar. Where have i seen this fellow?
He read the item. It said
the president of the republic of New Land was absconding. The fugitive had
flown out of the country in his jet along with the select members of his group
on the very night when the people and the armed forces had set up a new popular
government of the general Oscar Wee Wee, an ethnic Indian-African Christian,
who had declared the ex-president as the most-wanted criminal and enemy of the
state. The general said the ex-president had robbed the poor nation of billions
and stashed away this loot in his Swiss banks. “This man is a criminal who
needs to be shot dead”, said one of the ministers in the new council. A hunt
was on to capture swindler and bring him to justice. Mark looked at the man in
the picture. Where have i seen him?
The item, six-column long,
went on: the new military government of general Oscar Wee Wee had announced a
million cash award to any informant who could give info on this runaway criminal.
The name was Caesar Constantine popularly known as the butcher, the wolf. And
Minotaurch. Suddenly, everything fell in its place.
Mark had observed the tall,
rugged by, handsome person from behind the trees. A tall, muscular person with
a regal bearing, and a booming voice that commanded the loyalty of the group
immediately. He was struck by the royalty and majesty of that man. So natural
to him. Then he had forgotten. The man, on the island, was same as the one in
the picture. Worth millions.
So, we have Minotaurch with
us for company, a man known as a mini-Hitler.
I am going to deal with an
insane fugitive, stripped of his powers. Minotaurch- half-bull, half-man! What
an apt description! Does not power transform us just into that a savage beast, an
insane man? This man sure is going to be a lot of trouble here.
He continued to read:
The popular government of
the general Oscar Wee Wee enjoys a broad support of the students who were in
the vanguard of the popular protest against the corrupt regime of Constantine
Caesar for last six months. Writers, doctors, lawyers, teachers and
all-important “Moms of the Missing Action group” (MMAG) have also extended
their moral support to the new regime. This has lent legitimacy to the military
rulers who have seized power in a coup and therefore badly need universal
backing in a democracy. This is a second coup, within twenty years, in the
history of his poor nation of 50 million people who live a sub-standard and
sub-human life in the town and villages. It may be recalled that the former
president seized power in a coup, in the year 1967, and set up a communist
model of government, characterized by rampant corruption, police rule,
repression and the overall suppression of the democratic rights. During his
rule of roughly 20 years, the country has seen large-scale corruption of
unprecedented nature, decline in the industrial and agricultural growth an torture
and execution of hundreds of thousands young dissidents, officially ‘missing’ their
homes. The foreign diplomats say these missing persons can never be traced
since official machinery of Constantine Caesar had no such records. The Western
intelligence believes these unfortunate persons were tortured and killed on the
order of the one-eyed chief of the secret police, hydra, who left no telltale
clues of his crime against the humanity, much like the Nazis. It is feared that
the dead were either gassed in the chambers or left to rot in the deep jungles.
The diplomats say that the one-eyed chief, called Gorilla for his brute powers,
was acting on behalf of the deposed president Constantine. “Both the gorilla
and the Minotaurch were monsters”, informs a Western analyst, “But of the two,
Minotaurch was definitely the Evil incarnate.”
Although U. S. A. Has
recognized the rule of the general Wee Wee, the fugitive Constantine Caesar
will be a source of trouble to the new ruler, as he may try to grab power in the
long run by fomenting unrest in the country. He can easily buy arms from the
international arms dealers, set up his guerrilla bases in the rough mountains
with his stolen millions. The Western diplomatic source, however, say he does
not pose any immediate threat. They point out that the C. I. A. Had actually
backed the General Wee Wee and set up his government. “Without their covert
support, the general stood no chance. As long as the General serves their
purpose, he has nothing to worry about” says a source. However, the general is
taking all precautions. The international hunt o the fugitive is a pointer in
this direction.
Mark Livingston went pale.
So, these are not some
shipwrecked castaways, the victims of some caprice of fate. They were
cold-blooded murdered, mass-murderers, running away from justice! Washed ashore
to their paradise by the hands of cruel gods.
When the gods play the game
of dice, you do not know what have you in store!
An old Melanesian proverb!
The morning had no charm left for the white Harara. His first instinct was to
reach the embassy of the New Land and inform them of the sightings of the man
wanted by the military rulers of their nation. But prudence prevented him. He
knew once C. I. A. And rest of America come to know about this man and the
island he is staying on, they are finished. The closely guarded isolation of
last centuries would be over and their unique life-style, threatened by the
so-called advanced civilization of the West.
A sure death of a culture
that can never be repeated elsewhere. A culture which attracted his grandpa
Henry Livingston, the missionary, who got converted to the natural style of the
social existence of the Harars, the forest children, and who guarded the
isolation of the clan with the zealousness of a fresh convert. In this book, My
Tryst with a Vanished Time, Henry had spoken of finding his god in these
children of a lesser God. In a passage, which had moved Mark deeply, Henry had
written.
I have found Jesus in these
small innocent children of Mother Nature. They are totally guileless people;
still not corrupted by money, exchange systems, lust for power. They are the
children of God, not a western God, who trust each other, share everything they
have with the neighbours, never experience jealousy or hatred. Everything
belongs to the clan. The women enjoy the freedom of selecting their own mates
and can leave them easily also. They quarrel and forget as quickly as the
children. They are free. As free as the wind and the singing river. The
community is important, not the individual. The forest looks after their very
basic needs. They lead a much fulfilled life organically linked with nature.
The fight over private property is unheard of here. All things belong to all.
This sharing approach, so refreshing, lacks in our materialistic culture. It is
not the community of believers we all miss? Is it not the Eden we all dream
about? Catholicity we no longer find in people of our own culture. Jesus, our
Lord, talks of love, compassion, and kindness. Love thy neighbor! These
‘barbarians’ practice precisely this type of Christianity here. That way all
the civilized Christians were Jews, all Jews Romans, all Romans Greeks, and all
the Greeks pagans- in a manner of speaking- the early man was savage. So it
boils down to same thing: all mankind has the savage blood by way of descent.
We have it in our bones. When i arrived here, they welcomed me as they welcome
a lost brother. Gradually I came to appreciate their culture. I found mental
peace and my lost self here in their midst. I discovered a simple humanism here
that appealed to me a lot. The same humanism which Christ talks but which later
Christianity forgot to practice. The church, as an organizing system, simply
drifted away from the Christ itself. Of course, I know i sound as heretic but I
speak well-known truths. God reveals Himself in various ways. Mysterious ways.
All creation is His. Including the Hararas. But the West sees the world through
the stained window of the Church only. The Church drives its power and influence
from the human figure of Jesus Christ. Naturally it wants to cast the whole
world in its image. Like many other religions, Christianity too asserts the
superiority of Jesus, to the exclusion of all others. When you come down to
this island and to the Hararas, you find that all this looks so remote here, in
the isolated forest. You get a feel of the spirit of nature and of the
essential human mind. You come to realize the politics of power and religion
clearly here. Religion as a means of the spiritual and political subjugation of
people. The Hararas practice the communism of human spirit, no longer possible
anywhere else. Historically, it is not possible. God made me discover this
clan, this lifestyle, lost in time. I feel privileged. My calling in life. God
guided my destiny in such a way that I stumbled upon this lost civilization,
the delight of any anthropologist. I knew my destiny lay here. My Jesus
understands me. This is my tryst with a vanished time.
Mark had treasured this
book and read it many times from cover-to-cover. “Our Bible”, Walter had said
often, in a reverential tone. The book had been an encounter of the white
civilization with the so-called savage mind and tried to see that mind from a
different point-of-view, refreshingly novel at that time, a view that
questioned the received assumptions about the clans still clinging to their
prehistoric methods of survival. Henry Livingston had not painted the
Melanesians or their descendants found on the Devil’s Island’ as the noble
savage or romanticized them; he had simply underlined the fact that the organic
relationship between man and nature, now no longer possible in the advanced
world, is still the best model of human development”, his father Walter would
say to him during the long jungle walks, “There are no artificial needs
generated in such a life-style. No excesses of consumption. No heavy
expenditure on wasteful things. A simple system of needs satisfied by the clan
in the forest.
Ain’t it, Mark?
He would nod his head.
“It is our sacred duty to
preserve this type of culture, come what may. We owe it to the memory of Henry,
my father and your grandpa.” Mark was growing up and quite fast, “like a tree
in the rain-forest”, his dad would say with pride in his voice. He alternated
between the island and the capital of the Solomon, Honiara. His rowdy cousins
called him Tarzan of the jungle cave. It took him many years to understand that
these comics were the artistic version of the white imperialism and ideology:
the white man, the lord of the jungle and the beasts, and the ultimate
harbinger of the rule to the dark-skimned people of that jungle. Tarzan and
Phantom were two faces of this ideology. The actual world of the Hararas was
totally different. A tough world out there in the wilds. Mortality rate was
very high. There were no medicines or regular hospitals for these poor
forest-children. Malarial deaths were brought under control by Henry and Walter
by a constant supply of the anti-malarial drugs. Then there was the problem of
malnourishment and early child mortality. The city-regimen was not possible
here but even then a minimum health-care programme was taken up by his grandpa,
pa and he, himself. He had trained under the supervision of a white doctor at
Honiara of a certificate as medical nurse and got minimum knowledge about the
tropical diseases, dressing and injections. This helped him a lot in the
jungle. Although Shaman hated him for his ‘white witchcraft’, the old man never
showed it because of the status of Mark as the chief. The devotion and
dedication of Henry Livingston was so intense to the Hararas that the then
elders of the clan had adopted him as one of their very own and later on, made
him the Chief of the large clan. The native chief was already indebted to the
foreigner for saving his first-born’s life and averting the divine wrath. He
willingly stepped down in favour of this white man. And soon, the legend of the
white Harara spread everywhere, to Honiara, to Bismarck Island, to Port Korsby,
the capital of Papua New Guiea. Once anointed as the Chief, Henry felt
compelled to safeguard his fragile territory he was committed towards the
preservation of the isolation of the settlement. So, carefully, he built-up the
image of the clan as the most fierce warriors and dreaded hunters of the heads
of their enemies. The Hararas were told by the new chief to do or die for their
freedom. Over the years, the Hararas did grow into a most dangerous tribe of
the island scattered in the Pacific. They spared no body. They Henry did
another important thing. He wrote a book in which he described the island as a
place not worth investment by any outside power. He did not mention the
existence of the silver mines on the island. This secret was known to the
Livingstones and the Hararas only. The plan worked. All Western nations ignored
the small island as a worthless place. The Hararas got their much-treasured
isolation!
Now, it is going to change!
The afternoon was a
pleasant one.
Uncle Roberts, a bit
refreshed, looked better. They sat down in the covered verandah. Roberts lit up
hi pipe and looked at his nephew. He was still pale-faced, the typical
Livingston fire gone from those gray-bluish eyes.
Mark thought he was looking
at the magnificent ruins. Sadness gripped the young Livingston. He is more than
a father to me. His days are now numbered. I will be very lonely after he is
gone.
“What ya thinking, kids?”
Uncle Roberts’ caressing voice hovered over him. “Aha...Nothing... Just
remembering good old days. Uncle Roberts. I am feeling awfully wretched ....
You look so wan tired... I am miserable...”, Mark’s deep voice cracked suddenly
and trailed off. Roberts drew on his pipe, held the smoke in his mouth for few
seconds coughed and then exhaled it. He looked at Mark with affection.
“Nothing, my son, is permanent in the world. When mighty empires come and
go-crash easily, then who are we? Mere mortals... ordinary folks... No more...”
Mark recovered quickly.
“Uncle Roberts?”
The old man looked up “You
know something about a man called Constantine Caesar?” Roberts looked at him
hard. “The Butcher of New Land?”
“Yes, yes. He goes by
several names.”
“Yes, I know.”
“What do you know about
this man?”
“Why?”
“Oh! Just plain curiosity.”
Roberts looked across the well-kept
lawns of his mansion. The local gardeners ere working upon them. The afternoon
stillness lay hanging on the vast estate. “I had a few chances to meet the bastard
in person.”
“What?” Mark almost jumped.
“Yes. I met the butcher
here at Honiara and at Port Korsby. The governor had called a meet of the
prominent businessman of the Solomon’s at his residence. A working lunch, so to
say. Caesar was interested in meeting the businessman. I met him first there, some
10 years ago... Then, at the governor’s banquet, two years later... After that,
maybe three years later on, at Port Korsby.”
“How was he?”
“What do you mean?”
“I, er. How he looked and
acted?”
Roberts paused, mind going
back.
“The bastard was a great charmer....
and a womanizer.”
“Charmer? Very interesting.
The international press calls him a mass-murderer, psychopath.” Robert laughed.
“Western press has no fixed
yardsticks. He was the blue-eyed boy of the conservative Dixon administration
in U. S. A. At that time, U. S. A. Media played up his positive side, his
American connections.”
“He went to America?”
“Yes. Most of them do.
These rich kids from the third-world.”
“Interesting!” Mark
exclaimed.
“The swine was
well-educated. A lovely rogue, we would call him. He was trained as a doctor.”
“A what?”mark sat up
suddenly.
“A medico? Unbelievable!”
Uncle Roberts laughed. “You
see, sometimes i feel, all of us are living in Ripley’s world, Believe it or
not, or whatever. The humans as species always puzzle me. They are so
unpredictable!”
“Where did he go for his
medical degree?”
The old man paused. Tapped
his cigar and then, “U.S.A. where else? He did his M.D. from the Johns Hopkins
university. A heart specialist! Ha, ha, ha! A doctor specializing in bypass
surgery, transplants, what not? The same man, later in his life, just killing
people. A paradox of life? Is it not?”
Mark took some time to digest
the latest info about the fugitive.
“Was he successful doc?”
“Sure. An eminent Doctor.
Popular too. He had a very successful practice.”
“What were his parents?”
“Oh! If I remember
correctly, his father was a wealthy exporter and a hotelier, his mom was a
piano teacher and a failed poet who wrote sentimental poetry in French and
Spanish.”
“French and Spanish?”
“Yes. She was half-French,
half-Spanish. His father was a native.
Caesar’s grandfather had
married an English woman. Bloodline was all hodge-podge. That is why
Constantine Caesar was such a strikingly-handsome person, thanks to the
cross-breeding.”
“So he came from a wealthy
family?”
“Yes, he did. His pop
wanted him to be a doc. He became one. Then one fine morn, he left everything.
And went into the jungle.”
“Jungle?” Mark was
speechless.
Roberts eyed him for
sometime.
Then he broke into a grim.
“Yes, kiddo, the jungle. I told you we all, at one point or the other, come
across Ripley’s Believe It or Not, ain’t we?”
“But old man paused and
looked across the lawns. For a long time, he said nothing.
“You see, life is so
strange! Here we have a hugely successful doc, a tall handsome fellow,
America-educated, awfully wealthy, living in a large apartment in a posh
locality. A terribly successful bloke. Then he decides, one fine morn, to leave
everything and joins a group of communist guerrillas in the jungle, just
outside the capital city of Anaconda of his country.”
“Communists?” Mark was
stunned.
“Yes, communists. His
comrades.”
Mark said nothing. He was
absorbing the history of the new guest on his island. A strange person!
“in fact, Constantine
Caesar had founded the communist party in his country, the New Land. Those were
the revolutionary days, late 50s and early 60s. The Western universities were
in turmoil. The radicalism was in the air. The young restless students, from well-off
families, were searching the ideal everywhere- in politics, personal
relationships, society at large. They were angry, bitter and critical. They
rejected the Western bourgeois assumptions and revolted against the state. The
French student’s revolt of 1967 is well known. In America, the hippie culture
was spreading fast. Drugs, beat generation, flower children- they called it the
counter culture. Constantine Caesar was the young gifted child of such an
intellectual age, which favoured Marxism to capitalism. Understand?” mark
nodded.
“Yes, I do. As usual, you
are pretty enlightening.”
The old man laughed.
“Books, dear Marks! The
desire to know what is happening right around you. Still I read a lot, despite
my failing health.”
The bugger is right! He has
a great passion for books of every type. And he has a prodigious memory. The
other white planters and estate owners never bothered about books but uncle
Roberts always bought books and arty journals from the Paris book stores on his
semi-annual ‘pilgrimages’ to that fine centre of Western refinement, as he
would dub Paris. And his wine and champagne from the Southern France. “The
influence of Marxism was all pervasive in the universities all over the Western
hemi-sphere. The children from the rich families came under its sway.
Surprising?
These young well-fed minds
were fired by the revolutionary appeal of Marxism. Naturally they adopted it as
a mantra. They wanted to bring an exploitation-free society, a sort of Eden, to
the earth. These bright minds all went astray. They searched and found a utopia
in this theory. I do not blame....all of us do search for something, aspire for
something, need something as our faith. Call it our Holy Grail. Call it our
golden fleece. The point is, mark, we quest for something or the other in our
conscious, adult life.”
Our cultural totems; our
dreams; the faith in our own faculties, in the power of our dreams in certain
ideals that are universal.
Thought mark.
“Our Caesar was communist b
his political leanings. He was a voracious reader. He read all the classics of
Marxism-Leninism. He was appalled by the poverty of his third-world country. He
said he felt trapped in his luxurious existence and bored. Totally fed up by
his life of luxury, he gave up everything, saying his social conscience pricked
him a lot. Said he was unable to bear the prick of his conscience.”
“Where did you learn all
this?”
“Oh! Caesar was the darling
of various power blocs during the checkered career as the president. As
communist leader, feted by the Russians and the left French intellectuals. Le
Monde carried many articles on him. Then, the Americans wooed him, using him as
a pawn, in their international power games. He needed their tanks and dollars.
Then, he was the darling of the American media. The New York Times
carried a couple of interviews with him, CNN profiled him. He wrote a
highly-readable essay ‘Why I became a communist?” he gave a lucid account of
the society of his early youth and the intellectual influences at work there.
Need not to say. It became a sort of manifesto for his own party.”
“So he was a nice sensitive
guy.”
“Yes, now –a-days, at the
turn of the century, we no longer hear of any radicalism, of social-conscience.
Idealism and radicalism are missing. Conservative spirit has set in.”
“You are right.”
They kept quiet. Roberts
was feeling exhausted, the pallor in the face again pronounced. After fifteen
minutes or so, mark said, “Something went wrong somewhere. The doc turned into
a mass-murderer.”
Robert said, “Look, mark,
this happens often. Power corrupts. Constantine Caesar started with the noblest
intentions and ended up as the most-hated person of his own country. A
hero-becoming-a-pariah. Classic third-world case. A young, revolutionary, ideal
hero. Ushering in a new age. Then growing smug. A close group bleeding the
country dry. Rampant corruption. Nepotism. The stifling of democracy.
Opposition going underground. There is lot of repression. Police brutality. And
no accountability.”
Mark studied his uncle: if
he had not become a businessman, he would have become a university don or a top
editor of a newspaper.
“You are right, Uncle. Most
of the African countries, Latin American countries, Asian countries and
countries like Philippines- they all undergo this type of a volatile process.
Generals taking over from the duly elected governments. The governments getting
corrupt and hugely unpopular. Then the generals themselves following the same
router! Monkey and power- it becomes a deadly cocktail.”
Roberts nodded his head.
The bright afternoon lay spread before them. A cool breeze was blowing. The
covered verandah was dark and pleasant. The local gardeners were silently
tending the rosebushes. In the distance, across the empty afternoon street,
rose the belfry of the church. A lazy hair circled over the posh locality.
Roberts coughed and then stretched out his long bony legs before him. The
family dog, a German Shepherded, stirred itself lazily and eyed mark with one
half-open eye and then went back to sleep.
The perfect British
upper-middle-class culture!
“See, dear nephew, these
third-world countries have recently come out of colonial experience. Got
independence in a short span. Naturally they do not have stable apparatus in
their countries. No long traditions of democracy. No long history of democratic
institutions. They are terribly volatile nations. The masses have awakened and
grown nationalist but the rulers are the same.”
“Sorry I lost you, sir”.
“The politically-conscious
masses are very demanding. They know they were earlier ruled by the whites. The
whites left and the newest of rulers took over. These are the blacks or browns
with white masks. The brown Sahibs. Naturally, once awakened, the people will
not tolerate these new whites from amongst their own.”
“So they drove out Caesar?”
“Yes. People’s power, as
they call it now-a-days. Interestingly, majority of these nations follow the
same pattern. Their democratic aspirations get thwarted, they get annoyed, take
to streets, get violent. Thus the whole nation rises up in anger. You simply
cannot avoid people’s overall expectations. Once roused, no power can stop the
masses.”
Mark nodded at the
analysis.
“The country Caesar ruled
for roughly twenty years was called the sleeping giant’s country in their
native language. The local beliefs say that the giant goes underground and
sleeps there for twenty years and then, well, comes over ground and shakes the
country, at its foundations, like a tree. The angry giant demands sacrifices.
Once placated and fed, the giant goes back to his resting place, for another
twenty years. This time, the giant woke up and.......”
“Got Caesar as his reward”,
said mark, smiling, “A good folktale. Full of folk wisdom. The Hararas also
have such tales. Call them the myths or the legends.”
Roberts kept quiet. His
eyes had that far-off look again. Trying to see the fogs of time.
“Constantine Caesar was a
fine young man.”
“How?”
“A sensitive, intelligent
person. A product of liberalism and humanism.
Now we do not get folks
like them.”
“Well, I dare say, I have
to agree.”
“One more tid-bit about
this highly remarkable fella.”
“Yes.”
“He used to play the game
of chess with you know whom?”
“Any rewards for guessing?”
Roberts laughed. The blue
eyes twinkled merrily.
“Guess who?”
“Umm....lemme see. Kazoo?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Bobby Fisher.”
“What?”
“Yes. As president, he
invited the reclusive American to his nation. The temperamental American, who breathed chess
only, said he would come and stay if......”
“If?”
“If the President played
chess with him.”
“He played with the
master?”
“Very much, and defeated
the world champ.”
“You must be joking.”
“No, the American became
very fond of his host, said nobody could play better than Caesar!”
“Wonderful!”
“You see, Caesar is a fine
young man. Brilliant. He plays chess with grandmasters. His mind is awfully
fine. Analytical. Sharp Gabriel Garcia Marquez, another buddy also praised
Caesar for his fine understanding of the current literature.”
Uncle Roberts paused.
“Very good as a friend.
Dangerous as a cobra, when an enemy.”
I am prepared, thought
Mark.
They were watching the
rain. The two solitary figures. Couched low.
In the pelting rain. Thick
vegetation was around them, screening them off them off from the settlement.
700-hundred yards away.
A large, settlement of
bamboo huts with conical roofs. A spacious hut, on elevated ground, stood
detached and slightly aloof from the rest of the colony. The clearing where the
huts were arranged, in a semi-circular manner, was surrounded by the deep
forest. The rain was coming down in torrents, hissing angrily. A strong wind
hit the lonesome duo in the face. “Damn it, “said the tall athletic figure, “we
are doomed. From one stinking hellhole to another.” The companion of the
irritated man, a short and compact person, said softly, “We are almost there.
Let us see how the reception goes.” Audacious! That was the word to describe
the plan of the tall person. They spoke about the audacity of the idea but
dared not oppose it. They were all mortally terrified of the tall person. But
they also admired the guts of the man. Not for nothing, his aides called
Minotaurch the fearless hyena.
“You sure?”, asked
Constantine Caesar of his short companion.
“yes, sir,” said Chameleon
alias professor bloom alias a the
correspondent of La Monde, “it is the Harara settlement. By the looks of
it. Semi-circular. Conical roofs, big clearing. The elevated hut is that of the
local chief.”
“The white Harara?”
“I guess so?”
“Yes ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let us go.”
Mark was watching the fury
of the rain. I am prepared, thought the white Harara. I know a great deal more
about my new visitors than the older Hararas about the first wave of invaders.
Constantine Caesar is an excellent chess player. A renowned doctor. A voracious
reader. A brilliant tactician. An ex-President. A deadly combination of mental
skills! It is going to be a game of chess now between him and me. For a stake
in a little-known territory. I am not going to let him win this time.
“Chief?”
Mark spun around on his
heels. The patter of the rain was very loud in the empty covered verandah. The
curtain of rain was moving rapidly, driven by the harsh wind.
A gray day!
“Yes?”
It was Buntu.
“The trouble is here.”
Mark was immediately alert.
“What trouble?”
“Two of the aliens are
here.”
“Here? “Mark was
speechless.
“Yes, Chief. In the middle
of the village.”
“Village?”
“Yes. They just walked into
our village. Their tall chief. And his short companion.”
“J-e-s-u-s!” exclaimed
Mark.
“Where are they right now?”
“we are holding them in the
hut on the east edge of the colony.”
Mark was dazed.
Disoriented. He played chess with Bobby Fisher!
Uncle Roberts was right.
This man sure is devil. You cannot beat him so easily.
“O.K. I am coming with you.
Wait here. Let us find out how our guests are behaving.”
The large hut with conical
roof, on the eastern edge of the village, was called the house of the dead. It
was built away from the settlement, on a rising ground, under the canopy of
tropical trees, almost overlooking the Kan Kan River flowing below in the
distance. The house was built on a platform supported by the stilts and could
be reached by a short bamboo ladder. It was a gloomy, windowless, vast room- a
single room, where the Hararas brought up their dead before a formal burial.
The male members of the clan generally held a wake before burying the dead in
the early dawn. The Shaman, an old sprightly person, would supervise the
washing of the body and its final anointing in orange-and-white colors. Then,
at the crack of dawn, he would briefly hold a conversation with the
spirit-world, from where it could easily watch the world of the living. On rare
occasions, those willing could easily invoke the spirits of their ancestors, in
the spirit-houses, some half-a-km away. Normally, the house of the dead was a
place to be avoided and only their chief and the Shaman had an unrestricted
entry to this dismal place, a halfway house between the living and the dead
worlds. Mark, along with Buntu, reached the house under ten minutes. A group of
the short, athletic, young, male Hararas was guarding the entry of the house.
They looked very excited but under control. They bowed before their chief. A
furious rain was pounding upon the roof of the house. The white Harara, his
heart all a-flutter, entered the dark bowels of the house of the dead, to meet
his new guests.
They started at each other
in the semi-darkness lit-up by big torches.
The white Harara and the
Minotaurch. The two arch enemies. Starting at the other. Evaluating. Mentally
making notes and comparing, their minds, alert and anticipatory. In turmoil,
yet in control.
So, this is Minotaurch!
A man declared fugitive. On
the run from the law of the land. Carrying an award on his head. A deposed
dictator who stole millions from an impoverished third-world nation; a butcher
responsible for the mass-murders of hundreds of thousands of innocent people.
Mark looked hard at the man. Ruggedly handsome, radiating charisma, almost my
height. He looks like a cross between Che Guavara and Castro. He emits a raw,
wild energy and earthy appeal. So, this is the white Harara!
Constantine Caesar looked
at his adversary. This is the man. My challenger. A threat to our survival.
He carefully examined his
enemy. Well, well, impressive! The guy is handsome! A Sean-Connery look-alike!
Tall, commanding, powerful.
This guy sure is a leader.
Has a terrific presence. Almost aristocrat, despite the stay in this tropical
hellhole. He has already set up his white empire in this far-flung obscure
island, lording it over the natives. He is an oriental Raja here!
Caesar suddenly recalled
Kurtz, the hero of Heart of Darkness. Conrad is still relevant! The white man,
always enterprising and adventures, still rules the non-white world like a
master.
Well, do not worry, you got
competition.
They looked hard at each
other for a long time.
“Good Afternoon, Mr.
President. I mean, er, ex-president”, “Mark spoke in a low but clear tone.
Caesar was astonished but recovered quite fast.
“Good Afternoon, Mr. White
Harara, I mean, the chief of the Hararas”, said Caesar with an innocent,
charming smile.
Now, it was the turn of
Mark to be surprised but he did not show it.
He is a good chess-player!
“You are welcome to our
ancient and unspoilt civilization. The Hararas are the children of a world,
where Gods still rule their destiny.”
Caesar bowed reverentially.
I am honoured, Chief, to
discover and make contact with a lost culture.
“I am aware how the tribe
still maintains its primitive style of existence in the deep forest. And let me
tell my distinguished host here, I am also very appreciative about the
contributions made by the Livingstones to the noble cause of the preservation of
the purity of the Harara culture.”
The scoundrel sounds like a
seasoned diplomat! Damn it! He is good with highbrow words.
“Oh! I profusely thank my
unexpected guests for their highly perceptive and effusive comments. Let me
tell my new guests that their awareness level is pretty good about the Harara
culture. Mr. Caesar is, in particular, extremely knowledgeable and also very
effective communicator.”
They are the mirror image
of each other! Thought Chameleon.
“Well, Mr. White Harara...”
“Mark, Mark is the name.”
“Call me Caesar.”
They formally shook hands.
Mark gestured towards low stools. Both sat down face-to-face. Others simply
stood around, at a safe distance.
“Well, mark, I am sorry for
any inconvenience to you or the tribe but my companion and i were awfully
interested in knowing your primeval culture at first-hand. Allow me to
introduce my companion professor Bloom, a world-renowned anthropologist.”
Professor Bloom, short,
compact with dishevelled hair and bifocals,, stepped forward, his eyes lost, a
permanent look of preoccupied mind clear to even the blind.
“Hullo, Sir! How do you
do?”
“How do you do?”
The Professor adjusted his
hair, which kept falling over his forehead. Absent-mindedly, he kept pushing
the bifocals on his nose, which gain, kept sliding down.
“I am delighted to make
your acquaintance, Mr. Mark. You and your grandpa are legendary figures for us,
the poor anthropologists.”
I am honoured, Sir.”
Something in the quality of
the voice of professor Bloom alerted the well-honed instincts of the trained
hunter in Mark. His danger instincts told him this man was dangerous. He looked
carefully: A typical absent-minded professor lost in his own world of idea!
Short. Ordinary. Of not much consequence. But the instincts were alert. He
could sense danger the way the hounds scent it. The man was short and compact.
No problem. Many academics go to the gyms for a sculpted-look.
What is it?
The man is harmless. But
the sound did not match his body and overall behaviour of an academic. There
was a wide discrepancy between the voice and the demeanor of this man. As a
trained hunter, he was proficient enough to judge an animal by its voice, and,
to kill it by locating its voice. A difficult skill but native to the Hararas.
I must be cautious!
“Please have a seat, professor.”
“Oh! Thank You.”
Bloom took a tentative step
and nearby fell down in the gloom.
He, almost, lost his
bifocals.
Caesar helped him sit on
the stool. The short man sat down on the stool, running his fingers in his hair
and then rubbing his nose in a preoccupied manner. A pitiable creature! I am
getting unnecessarily alarmed. Paranoid! This man is a helpless, forgetful
person who cannot kill an ant!
“What brings our
distinguished professor to our modest backward settlement?”
“Oh! “Answered Bloom; eyes
with their typical far-off look in them, “i have been an ardent admirer and a
junior friend of Margrat Maed. She is.......”
“I know who she is. A
world-class anthropologist who went to Papua New Guinea.”
“We are amazed”, boomed
Caesar, all surprise, “All Livingstone are simply wonderful but you are just-
well, fabulous!”
Mark smiled.
“So you are a disciple of
the famous Margrat Maed!”
“Intellectually, yes! Her
work was a pioneering one for all of us in the field of anthropology. She
taught the Western world to look at the so-called primitive people...”
“You mean the savages?”
“Oh!”, Bloom sounded
apologetic. “i appreciate your feelings.. er... on this delicate subject. Maed
just taught us to look at these folks not as the ‘other’ but as a distinct
culture with its positive sides. She challenged our deep-seated biases and
prejudices and compared our Western culture with the primitive culture...and
showed, er, the ugly side, the ills....”
“Plaguing the so-called
advanced Western civilization”, said Caesar in his deep voice. “As a
matter-of-fact, professor Bloom introduced me to the exciting world of
anthropology and to the works of the likes of Franz Boas, Edward Sapir, Leonard
Bloomfield and Margrat Maed. Since then, my views about the surviving tribes of
the world- for example American Indians, the Maoris, the Bushman- have
undergone a dramatic change. I have come to respect the indigenous cultures. I
know we have to study his unique mind in order to arrive at our distant past,
when well, all of us were like them.” Mark had never heard people speak like
this before. The civilized world had always ridiculed the simple, uncomplicated
life of the children of the forests and pushed them to the margins of the
social life. Even, in America, they were not better than the marginal’s like
the Hispanics, the Blacks, and the gays. Or Britain, where perceptions about
these tribes were as hostile a their attitude to the Asians, despite two
ancient universities there and a lot of research in this field. He felt touched
and his angry animosity dissolved, to some extent.
“See, Mark”, continued
Caesar in his soothing honeyed voice, a voice that hypnotized million once, a
gentle innocent smile hovering over his broad rugged face, “When we
accidentally discovered this paradise, we were not aware that we have also
discovered another paradise here. The Eden of mankind! A life-style that
stretches back to hundreds of thousands years, to very beginning of the time, a
life-style uninterrupted for thousands of years. I was so excited, no,
euphoric. Believe me, dear friend; I could not believe my luck I was about to
part the curtains of the Time and peer through the mists at a unique tribe, a
tribe, let me put it this was, that has
preserved for us the very innocence and charming childhood of the
humankind. As you poetically said, they live in a world still supervised by the
gods of the early humanity. That is why, even at the pain of death, at great
risk to our life, we two ventured out to eek you and your great tribe.
Tomorrow, when we go out into the world, we can say we saw through the misty
time a lost civilization!”
And Minotaurch bowed
deeply.
He plays chess with Fisher.
The voice of Uncle Roberts echoed in a remote recess of his mind. He is
harmless. And in our territory. And sounds sincere!
Very few people can resist
Caesar, thought Chameleon admiringly, when he decides to be nice to them and
turns on his magic or them.
“I am touched by your
openness and unorthodox view about the so-called primitives and savages”,
answered Mark in a slow voice, “You are a well-read man with a wide-ranging
interests, Doctor Constantine Caesar.”
Doctor looked at his
adversary, for a fleeting second, a startled expression on his face.
“You seem to be pretty
well-informed, mark. You now more about me than i know about myself.”
Phantom! Going to the City,
leaving his skull-cave under the care of Goran and other pygmies, Phantom in
the overcoat, hat, followed by his wolf! Chameleon thought.
“Just plain curiosity!”
remarked Mark modestly.
“The world seems to be
shrinking fast!” said doctor in his usual light vein.
“Yes, doc. The world is a
small place.”
They were quiet for
sometime, each mentally assessing.
“Sorry, Mark”, spoke Bloom,
clearing his throat and rubbing his nose, “Can we have the privilege of looking
at the life-style of the Hararas? I mean, a God’s gift to any anthropologist,
this stumbling upon a lost culture. It i like discovering a gold mine for a
mercenary digger. I just took the risk. I fervently hope we would not be turned
down by our new hosts.”
An alarm bell sounded in
Mark’s brain: these are dangerous fugitives. Running away like felons from the
law. I should be wary! He looked at the mismatched couple. The first one
towering and the second one, an ordinary, puny academic. He thought quickly.
They are on our territory.
We have our own guards here. The great warriors of the Harara tribe! What can
they do to us?
“You are welcome.”
That night, in the deep
solitude of the jungle night, sleeping, in an alien hut; Constantine Caesar had
a dream. The outlines of the Harara ghosts came down to visit him. H was on top
of a mountain. Evening shadows were lengthening. He was standing near a
cavernous cave. Suddenly many insubstantial figures popped out and surrounded
the lonesome human form. They started hard at him; he could feel those
invisible eyes fastened on him. Intruder, go back, your hands are blooded,
screamed a floating ghost. He checked. His hands were dripping with blood! He
looked back. Now, their eyes were glowing. You are not welcome here! This is
our land. You will be killed here. Go, go, go!
The shadows tried to grab
him. They started dancing around him. Their fierce stare just knifed him in two
halves. Petrified, he ran out, the shadows chasing....
He woke up. Sweat was
running down his spine. He came out of the hut and stared at the two Hararas
guarding his hut. They sat stock still, like a stalking tiger. Gave their new
guest a sweeping glance. Resumed their watch over a merry crackling fire. As
immobile statues carved in stone. He sat down on a log, under the bright stars,
enjoying the fresh outdoors air. The jungle was alive with nightly sounds. Then
he saw him, a sight that simply stunned him with its abruptness.
The horseman!
The same royal horseman was
smiling at him from 500 yards!
He was struck speechless.
The majestic horseman smiling, in the very middle of the camp of the Hararas!
The white Harara was roused
from his deep slumber. The ancient spirit was calling. He could feel it. He
stepped out and into the outside air. In the deserted outside space, he saw
what he could see only. The ancient spirit of the Hararas. It beckoned him. “It
beckons like the spirit of Hamlet”, he thought. He followed. On the edge of the
village, h stood near a pile of sacred stone lying on an elevated ground.
The spirit spoke clearly:
“Beware of the man who
feeds on your trust! He comes in many shapes. A devil who returns faith with
murder!” Mark bowed and started to ask something.
“Question not, mortal.
Listen. The power-hungry spare not anybody. They are friendly not to anybody.
They chase power as men chase women beautiful. Trust not the man who has faces
many but only ambition one. How to rule the weak, the unwary, the unseeing, the
fool- that ambition drives certain men, in ages new and old. Strike before he
strikes and destroys all things.”
The Ancient Harara
disappeared. A warning from the spirit-world!
Mark was in turmoil.
He plays chess well. Uncle
Roberts. I have brought death right in my courtyard. The first round i have
lost to my enemy.
Now, let us plan our round
no.2
Or our Act II?
He searched for answers but
there were none.
At least, immediately.
They stuck the very next
night. The dark ghosts blending with the thick gloom of the forest night. A
dozen or so elite commandoes. Camouflaged. A was their custom, they come around
three o’clock, and surrounded the village, led by the one-eyed giant called the
gorilla. The guards, outside the hut of their royal prisoner, were sleeping and
offered no resistance. Gorilla, despite his bulk, was as agile a young predator
and killed them both with his jungle knife. The raiders spread out in the
village and captured the Hararas-young and old-and killed those who resisted.
Within twenty minutes, the operation was over.
Constantine Caesar finally
emerged from the shadow. A bonfire was burning bright in the middle of the
village. The captive were all huddled around the fire under the watchful eyes
of the carbine-toting royal commandoes. They smartly saluted the imposing
figure who looked down upon the captured Hararas with naked contempt. Gorilla
addressed him reverentially, “operation successful, Sir”, Constantine Caesar
smiled broadly and said in the Harara language a sentence he had picked up from
his guards: “i am your new Chief. Your king.”
They returned his contempt.
“Where is Harara? The white
Harara?”
Gorilla said softly, “The
white Harara has escaped.”
a!”
ReplyDeleteThat was simply the year in which sea pirates began to cheat and rob and kill them.....the sea pirates were white.....color was everything.....they had the best boats in the world.....and they had gunpowder. Mark suddenly remembered Kurt Vonnegut jr.
It is rapidly becoming interesting respite missing the previous part
Best wishes fir the this novel the uncommon event for the common people
Devi nangrani