Showing posts with label 201906E. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 201906E. Show all posts

She Spoke in Tongues - 9

Glory Sasikala

Serialized novel, by Glory Sasikala

CHAPTER 9
There's so much going on below,
Oh my! Dear Me!
Said the Moon, overwhelmed,
“What all I have to see!”

Meanwhile, all was not well at the Tharani-Sushanth homestead, if it could be called that.
“So,” said Sitara, conversationally, sitting on the kitchen counter, “We have the same boyfriend. You—my mamma—and I. How does he treat you?”
Tharani coloured and didn't answer. She pretended to stir the curry. “Does he rub your back? Or does he...?? You know...” She looked teasingly at her mother, “Because he likes to rub my back with...you know!”
“Sitara!” called Yamini, from the doorway, “Come and help me with this.”
Sitara got off the counter and made her way to her sister, “Yo! Yamini to the rescue!”
She went with Yamini to the bedroom and helped her lift the bed on to the cot. Yamini had been cleaning up and dusting her bed.
“Sitara,” said Yamini, quietly, “Spare her.”
“No, I won't,” said Sitara, shaking her head from side to side, her curls moving too, “Why should I after what she's done to me? She's sold me, she's sold you. You want to call her mother, that's your call. I'd like to rename her as ‘Pimp’ or ‘Whore’.”
“Shut up, Sitara! You're just making things worse.”
“Am I?” said Sitara, throwing down the mattress and moving belligerently towards Yamini, “Am I the one who's creating the trouble? Did I ask for this? Ask her to give my childhood back! Can she? Can she??!!”
She was hysterical, and she pinned Yamini to the wall. Tharani opened the door and came in. She grabbed Sitara by the shoulders, “Sitara, please come with me.”
Sitara shrugged her arms off angrily. “Don't touch me! You make me sick!”
And she stalked out of the room.
Yamini and Tharani stared at each other. Tharani could feel the pain and terror in the girl’s face. Yamini’s lips were trembling and her hands crossed her chest. And then, CRASH!! The sound came from the hall. They ran into the hall and found that Sitara had overturned the table and everything in it. Crockery and dishes and spoons and books and other paraphernalia lay on the floor, scattered. The table had toppled to one side and lay like a man shot dead. A few chairs had been shot dead too and lay on their backs, their feet up in the air. And Sitara was seated on the sofa looking defiantly at her mother. Tharani took a step forward, then checked herself, warned by the pure hatred in the girl's eyes. “Give me my food,” she ordered. Tharani went into the kitchen, took out a plate, placed a couple of idlis in it and some chatni and brought it over to Sitara.  She took the plate from her mother. She seemed to have quietened down. Tharani turn to go back to the kitchen.  CRASH!! The plate was flung across the hall and landed at the petrified Yamini's feet. Sitara got up and went into the bedroom and locked herself.
Tharani, who had run out of the kitchen at the noise, looked at the food on the floor. She turned to Yamini, “Go and get dressed and leave for school. I will take care of this.”
Yamini nodded. But even as she turned to go, the bedroom door opened and Sitara came out with her clothes and towel, went into the bathroom, and shut it.
“Go to the other bathroom and have your bath,” said Tharani to Yamini. She nodded and went into her bedroom.
Sitara came out in her uniform, went into the bedroom and shut the door. Soon she was out, dressed, hair combed, and her bag ready. She went and sat on the sofa and waited for Yamini. Yamini was soon ready too.
“Have some breakfast,” Tharani coaxed Yamini. She shook her head and said, “No, we're late.”
Sitara walked out the door and Yamini followed. Tharani watched out of the window as the girls made their way to the bus stop. Thankfully, Sheila studied in a different school and had left earlier. The child was too young and she was indeed protected well from whatever was going on.
Tharani sighed and turned to go in. She took in the mess. The food splashed across the floor and on to the walls. Mess and chaos everywhere. She sighed.... And slowly, and feeling very tired all of a sudden, she set about cleaning up.
It took her a couple of hours to set the house right, but it was finally done. The dishes had been washed, the clothes hung, everything set in its place. She made herself a cup of tea and sat down by the side table where the landline phone was, and she dialled out Shanthi's number.
“Hello!”
“Tharani, hi! How are you?”
“Not so well, Shanthi,” and she proceeded to tell her about her woes.
“Relax. She is young and wild. She will temper down by and by.”
“Yes...Shanthi, I haven't heard from Sushanth in quite a while now. It's been two months...”
“Oh...”
Something in her voice made Tharani sit up, “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Shanthi, if there's something I should know...”
She heard a sigh. “Yes. Yes, there is. Sushanth....he, well, likes a woman.”
“What do you mean ‘likes a woman’?”
“He's been living with this woman. She joined the store as cashier.”
“He's having an affair with her?”
“Yes...he stays at her place. She's middle-aged and a widow. She and her brother share an apartment.”
“And Sushanth stays with them.”
“Yes. Yes, he does.”
Tharani's heart went cold. She was silent, trying to process the information.
“Tharani?”
“I'll...I'll call you later. I need to think.”
“Yes. Okay. I understand.”
And Shanthi rang off. Tharani sat there, feeling numb. Her mind was not really working. What....How?? Where do they go from here?
Suddenly, the phone rang. She picked up the receiver automatically, like a robot. “Yes?”
“Madam, is this Mrs. Tharani?”
“Yes.”
“I'm the Correspondent from the school, Ma'am. Your two girls study here. Sitara and Yamini.”
“Yes,” said Tharani, her heart going icy cold, “Is there something the matter? Are they okay?”
The Correspondent's voice sounded uncertain, “Yes, Ma’am, they're okay. But we have had some trouble from one of them. Sitara... The Principal wants you to come over immediately. Could you please come in right now?”
Tharani relaxed. The girls were physically okay. Sitara of course. She had acted up.
“Yes, I'll come immediately.”
She cut off the call and called Shanthi. “Shanthi, I have to go to the school.  Sitara...”
“I'll come over right now. We'll go together.”
“Thank you Shanthi.”
She placed the receiver, and went and got ready.
At the school, they made their way to the Principal's office and were shown in. The Principal, Mrs. Lalitha Shankar, looked up. She was a dignified looking lady in her early 40s. She wore a crisp cotton sari and her hair was coiffured elegantly. She looked up from the papers she had been signing and gestured to them to sit down. She did not smile. She completed signing the documents and she rang the bell. A peon came in and took the folder and went out. She then gazed at the women seated before her, “Which one of you is Mrs. Tharani?”
“I am,” said Tharani.
The Principal removed her spectacles, and rubbed it with a piece of soft cloth and put it on. She looked directly at Tharani and said, “I will not mince words, Mrs. Tharani. I will come straight to the point. Both your girls have been expelled.”
Tharani's eyes widened in terror, “But...”
The lady lifted her hand, "There is nothing you can say that will make me consider otherwise. You daughter Sitara walked into class today with her blouse buttons undone. When the teacher reprimanded her, she undid the last two buttons too...leaving her blouse completely open.... This is a school of repute, and it's a co-ed school. I'm sorry, but there is nothing we can do, no way we can reconsider keeping them.”
Tharani pleaded, “Yamini...”
“Yes...Yamini. We are really sorry this has happened and she has to leave too. A brilliant child. In fact, our one chance of a state level student. That's why this is not a hasty decision. We did a background check...”
She did not elaborate, and indeed, there was no need for her to elaborate. A background check would have revealed the shady family history.
“I would suggest that you take the girls home immediately. You can collect the TC and other documents later. In such cases, it is generally preferred that we warn other schools from admitting such students, but in this case, I am not going to do that. In fact, I will write out a recommendation to another school explaining the circumstances and requesting them to admit your daughters. They will do so on the promise that this kind of behaviour will not be repeated. It's not a prestigious school, but it will do very well.”
The women were silent. Tharani was looking down and tears poured incessantly down her face.
“You may leave now. Thank you.”
And the Principal got up and went over to the window and looked out.
Shanthi placed a hand on Tharani's arm. “Come, let's go.” She led Tharani out and they walked down the longest corridor of their lives. They were ushered into a room, and they walked in and saw the two girls seated in a corner, looked forlorn, lost, and terrified.
Sitara's eyes were wide with fear as she looked at her mother. Gone was the angry defiant girl of the morning, and in its place a terrified child. Yamini's face was red with crying and she buried her face once again in her hanky and cried. Shanthi moved forward and said briskly, “You girls pick up your bags. Let's go.” No one moved.  She then picked up the bags and moved to the door. Tharani looked at her, then back at the girls. She moved forward. “Yamini, let's go.”
Sitara tugged at her sari, “Ma!”
Tharani ignored her. “Yamini, come on, let's go!”
The tug increased, “Ma!”
Yamini got up and followed her mother. Tharani turned to Sitara. “Come!” she said. Sitara got up. She ran over to her mother, flung her arms around her and burst into tears. Tharani let her cry. Then she disengaged herself. “We have to leave now."
Sitara nodded and followed her out. No one was out there except the management staff and the office boys. Classes were going on and they could hear the distant voice of a teacher talking, explaining. The girls felt extremely humiliated and walked blindly out, only wanting to get away from it all. They felt eyes boring down their backs, passing judgements. The cab was waiting out for them, and they climbed in.
Once back home, Tharani went into her bedroom and locked herself in. Yamini moved to the other bedroom and closed the door too. Shanthi placed the bags on the table. Sitara moved to the far corner and curled up on the sofa. She looked around. There was a sheet hanging outside, in the porch. She got up and pulled it down and covered herself with it and curled up again. Shanthi watched her, “You might as well take off your clothes now and get comfortable.” A sarcastic comment that came to her lips was not voiced because she knew that they, the adults, were the actual perpetrators, not this child who had lost her innocence out of no fault of her own. She held her peace and went to the kitchen. She made tea, poured it into two cups, placed the cups on a tray and a plate of biscuits and came back to the hall. She shook Sitara and said, “Get up. You must eat something.”
“I don't want anything.”
“You must eat. Get up.”
The authoritative voice worked and Sitara got up. Shanthi handed her two biscuits and a cup of tea. She then took two biscuits and a cup of tea and sat opposite the girl. They were silent for a while, concentrating on eating.
“Sitara...sorry this happened.”
Sitara looked at her, “Why are you sorry? What did you do?”
“I...we immigrants are all the same. It doesn't matter if your mother apologizes or I do. It’s all the same.”
Sitara sipped her tea, “If this is life, I don't want it,” she said.
Shanthi looked at her sharply, “This is life. You are alive because we never thought along those lines…ever. Not when our houses were bombed, taking with it everything we had and the life that we knew. Not when we walked across the Himalayas; not even when our kith and kin died in front of our eyes. We always thought we'd survive, we'd live, we'd make it work. It's that spirit that has kept us going, kept us alive.”
“At what expense?” asked the child, sadly.
Shanthi sipped her tea thoughtfully, “Maybe that wasn’t necessary. Maybe that was greed. Maybe your mother has fallen so low that she did not know where to draw the line. And maybe it's up to you to draw the line and place boundaries.”
Sitara listened carefully.
“Your father might not be coming back.”
Sitara looked sharply at her, “Why?”
“He's with another woman now.”
“What! I’ll kill him!”
“Sure,” said Shanthi, “take a train to Mumbai and kill him.”
Sitara was quiet, “He’s not divorced. He’s still my mother's husband. Bastard! Pimp!”
She spat.
Shanthi had finished her tea and biscuit. She got up and took the cup from Sitara and placed both cups on the tray. “Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing that happened at school. Maybe you would have had to drop out anyways.”
“What about the money that we got from...you know. From Ramesh?”
“I think your mother sent it all to your father in the faith that he will invest in the business, and I think it has now disappeared into the woman's pocket.”
Sitara's eyes filled with tears. She did not notice that her mother had come out of the room and had heard the conversation. “He sold my virginity to a prostitute?”
“She’s not exactly a prostitute.”
“She's living with another woman’s husband. She’s worse than a prostitute. And yes, I am aware that my own mother stoops to the same dirty levels. I don't want this life!”
Shanthi turned and saw Tharani standing there transfixed and staring. She took the tray and moved past her to the kitchen, where she stayed, washing up.
Tharani did not move. “Ma!” said Sitara, but Tharani did not answer. All that she could think of was that her world had come crashing down, and the debris lay at her feet. Her husband was gone; the hard earned money—even if it was dirty money—was gone; and her children had been expelled from school. She had nowhere to go, no money, and she had three girls to look after.
“Ma!” Sitara came over to her mother and shook her, “Ma! Wake up!”
Tharani moved like a zombie to a chair and sat down, looking glassily ahead, staring at nothing.
The other bedroom door opened and Yamini came out. She came over to Sitara and said, “I want to talk to you.” She took Sitara by the hand and led her to the bedroom and closed the door. “Sit down,” she said to Sitara. Sitara sat down at the edge of the bed. Yamini stood over her and looked down. There was sadness and love in her eyes, “I'm sorry, Sitara.” She sat down on the floor and took her little sister’s hands, “I'm sorry I did not protect you. Forgive me.”
Sitara looked her sister's gentle face looking up at her and her lips trembled, 'I'm sorry too, Yamini. I was so selfish, thinking only about myself. I forgot that you…that you…I was thinking...oh! I wasn't thinking! I'm so sorry I did this to you!!” She burst into tears. The two girls hugged each other and cried their hearts out.
Eventually, they disengaged and Yamini said, “Sitara, I promise you—and this is a promise for life. I will never ever allow anything to happen to you any more or to Sheila. That is a promise.”
Sitara shook her head, “That's not the promise I want. Promise that we—none of us—not you, not mom, not Sheila, and not me—will ever do anything like this again. We will never ever sell our bodies for money. Promise me that.”
Yamini placed a hand on her Sitara’s head, “I promise. We promise.”
The girls felt a sudden strength in their resolve. They felt strength in knowing that the wrong window had closed shut and that they will surely find the right path soon.
“Did you hear about Daddy?”
Yamini nodded, “I did. We must wait for things to come to a head. They will. Meantime, I have to look out for a job.”
“Me too.”
“And Sheila must continue to go to school.”
“Yes.”
Out in the hall, Shanthi had taken leave. She had not bid Tharani goodbye as Tharani continued to stare into space. She had pressed her shoulder, “I'll come back later. We'll work out something.” When there was no answer, she said urgently, “Don't do anything foolish. Keep the girls in mind.”
She then left. Half an hour later, there was a knock on the door. Tharani did not bother to open it. Yamini and Sitara came out of the room, and Yamini crossed over and opened the door. It was Ramesh. “Can I come in?” he asked.
Yamini hesitated, 'It’s not the best of times,” she said.
“Please.”
She opened the door wide and he came in. He took his seat opposite Tharani and took her hands, “I heard,” he said.
She looked at him, “You heard that the girls were expelled. Did you hear that my husband is now with another woman?”
“What! No, I didn't hear that. I’m sorry. It’s all come at the same time, hasn't it?”
Tharani did not answer. “Listen, you, Tharani and the girls, I want to talk to you.”
“But we want to talk to you first,” said Yamini, 'There is something I...we wish to tell you.”
Tharani looked up at her daughters, startled, “Yes?” asked Ramesh.
“We...my mother, myself, Sitara, and Sheila...will never go down the wrong path again. We will never do anything that is hurtful and wrong. We will never sell our bodies for money again.”
Tharani and Ramesh listened to them. Tharani's eyes were wide in surprise. How were they going to survive? But Ramesh smiled, “Yes, I think that is a wise decision. I’m sorry I was the way I was. I don't want to be like that anymore either.”
They looked startled. “You don't?” asked Sitara, incredulously.
“No. Look, I know it's a bit too late, but I would like to think of you girls as my sisters...my family.”
Despite herself, Sitara snorted, “He’s reborn. So now it’s all incest.”
Ramesh glared at her, “I’m surprised they took so long to throw you out.”
“At least I grew up faster than you did, possibly because I’m not a zamindar kid. Boy! You people take your time growing!”
Ramesh laughed and Yamini smiled. And somehow everything was alright between the girls and him, possibly because they were all so young.
“I came with some good news,” Ramesh continued, “my sister studied in the ___ convent. My family...my father is one of the trustees. I have spoken to the Principal. I...I told her the truth. I told her it was bad judgement on your part, Sitara, and that I was giving her my word that it would never happen again. So, if all of you will come with me now, we can wrap up the admissions and you girls can continue with your education where you left off from next week on—and in a better school.”
They stared at him incredulously. He turned to Tharani, and he took her hands, “I also have other news.... I am getting married. I am getting married this coming Saturday. My father, he knows all about....us.  He spoke at length to me and he feels it’s time I settled down and took over the responsibilities of running the estate.”
“What!!” said Sitara, the outspoken one, “A girl is actually willing to marry you? She must be bonkers.”
Ramesh looked hurt, “That’s true. I’m past redemption apparently.”
“Who’s this girl?”
 “I don't know. Some schoolmaster's daughter,” Ramesh said, uncertainly, “Daddy said she was the only girl willing to marry me because she has a dosha in her horoscope and that she was squint-eyed and one leg is slightly shorter than the other.”
“Squint-eyed and limping? You're okay with that?”
He shrugged, “I’m worse off than her, am I not? I don’t deserve her…or anybody.”
They were silent.
“Anyway, this might be my last visit…at least in a while. I…my wife and I are leaving for Malaysia after the wedding. We have an estate there and my father feels I should get away and take care of it for a while. For a couple of years, in fact. So I want to ask you something,” he turned to Tharani, “I want to fund the girls' education completely. I want to see them through college, all three of them. Please allow me to do that.”
Tharani stared at him as did the girls, “But…but why would you want to do that?” she asked.
“Because you're family. Because I like your spirit, the way you fight out your way in the world. You came here with almost nothing, but you fought to hold. And now, they are my sisters. I want to see them happy. I have the resources to help them, and I want to do it. Please don’t say no.”
Tharani looked at the girls with tears in her eyes. She could not speak. The girls were crying too.
Yamini put out her hand, "Ramesh, you don't know how much we are indebted to you. Our own father has betrayed us…but you… Thank you! On behalf of my mother and sisters and myself, thank you so much!”
He took her proffered hand, “I understand. But it will be easier, now that I'm taking away the burden of education. For the rest...”
“For the rest, I have my sewing machine,” said Tharani. They all looked at her. She actually smiled. “Relax, all of you! I'm good with my needle.”
They smiled too, “Yey!” said Sitara.
“We must move,” said Yamini, “We must move to a different locality.”
“Yes,” agreed, Ramesh. "I'll give you the money for the advance and the first month rent.”
Yamini looked embarrassed, so he added, “Look, I'm quite sure you’re going to earn well. You’re too smart and intelligent. It’s only a matter of time. You can repay me then. I promise I’ll take it back with interest.”
She smiled then. “Okay then, come on, let's go to this school and sort out the admissions.”
It turned out to be a beautiful day after all. The girls were admitted in the school, and it was an even more prestigious school than the one they had been in. Ramesh took them out shopping after that and they got the material for the school uniforms, which, of course, would be stitched by their mother. They bought other necessities, and then, they lunched out.
“Let’s go to the temple,” said Sitara. “We all have solemn vows to take. To never go down the wrong path again. You too, Ramesh.”
He nodded. So they went to the temple. Soon, it was time to say goodbye. “Well,” Ramesh, “This is it.” He looked at Tharani, and then at the two girls. “Take care. I’ll always know your whereabouts. I’ll always find out. And I will keep sending you money.”
“Thank you,” said Yamini, on behalf of all of them, “Have a wonderful married life. And wish you all the very best.”
Ramesh turned to Sitara, “Be good.”
She smiled, “I will.” But her lips trembled and she turned and ran into the temple.
Ramesh turned to Tharani and a look of understanding passed between them. He nodded to her, then turned and left without looking back.
Despite so many setbacks, it was a fairly happy set of women who went to sleep that night. But the next day held a different kind of nightmare...
The older girls had no school the next day, but Sheila did. So while Yamini and Sitara slept, Tharani got up to get the little girl ready and off to school. Her bus came in at 8 am. Hardly had she seen the girl off and settled down with a cup of coffee than the doorbell rang. Tharani got up and opened the door. Sushanth stood at the doorway. Tharani looked at him with hatred, hardly wanting to let him in.
“May I come in?” he asked, and she moved aside to let him in. He was carrying a small suitcase, and he placed this on the sofa. He then sat down and removed his shoes. He looked up at Tharani, standing and staring belligerently at him. “How are you?” he asked. “Still alive,” she replied, her face wooden and devoid of any expression. “What brings you here?”
“Please Tharani!” he reached out for her, and she moved back instantly, “No! Don’t you dare touch me!”
He put down his hand, defeated. "How long have you been living with that whore?”
“She's not a whore!”
“Really?”
“Look...I...I'm sorry...”
About what? You gave her all the money, all the jewels I sent you?”
He did not say anything. "Do you realize what your girls and I have been through to feed your girlfriend?”
“Yes, I know. I know I've been a bad father and husband. I'll repay, I promise.”
“With what?”
“I'll send you and the girls money every month. Please Tharani.”
“But you're going to continue to live with her?”
"Yes. Actually, that's why I came here. I...I want you to sign the divorce papers...”
Tharani left the room. She came back with a broom and started to hit him with it, right and left, right and left. His screams woke up the girls and they came running out.
“Mamma! what's going on? Oh, Daddy!”
Tharani stopped beating him when she saw the girls. They stared at their father, and he stared back at them. And then, Sitara said words that no father should ever have to hear, “Why did you stop? Hit him harder.”
Tharani raised the broom, but Yamini intervened and took the broom away from her and threw it. “No Mamma! No. He is our father.”
Yamini turned to her father and said quietly, “Why are you here?”
“I want a divorce...”
“Oh, okay.” She turned to her mother, “It's your decision. You can hand it to him and get it over with or refuse and punish him for being unfaithful. He will never be able to marry her that way.”
“Ooooo!!” said Sitara, “I like that!”
“Keep quiet, Sitara!” said Yamini, “Mom, I would advise you to give him the divorce and let him go. It will be closure for you.”
Tharani nodded, “Yes, I don't want to remain married to this dog!” She spat at him.
Sushanth slunk over to his suitcase and took out the papers. She signed them and threw them back at him. “Now get out of the house!” she said.
He picked up the papers, put them in this suitcase and walked out.
He did not see the panic building up in his girls’ hearts. Sitara moved restlessly from one foot to the other, her eyes brimming with tears, and Yamini stood there crying, the tears flowing down her face. “Daddy!” said Sitara, and he turned. She ran towards him and flung herself into his arms. “Don't go! Don't leave us and go!”
He held her close. She was crying loudly now. Tharani went into the bedroom and shut the door. Yamini looked uncertainly at the closed bedroom door. Should she go after her mother?  She turned back to look at her father. Their eyes met over Sitara's head buried in his chest. Yamini came over.
“Do you have to go?”
He nodded shamefacedly, “Yes.”
Sitara's tears stopped and she became still. She extricated herself from his arms.
“What do you mean you have to go? You're leaving your family, your wife, your children, and you have to go?”
“I...”
“You what? You love that lady? Is that what you're saying?”
Yamini laid a warning hand on Sitara's shoulder, “Sitara!”
And suddenly, the man standing there was no longer their father. He was a stranger. A dirty unprincipled, unscrupulous stranger.
“Get out!”
“Sitara, don't!” pleaded Yamini, although she was sick to her stomach.
But Sitara removed her hand from her shoulder. “You go right now. Go back to your whore. And don't you dare come back!”
She looked around for something to throw at him, but Yamini blocked her and turned to Sushanth, “Please leave!”
He turned, opened the door, and walked out.
---------------------------------------------------------/-
“So what's all this? Who're you getting married to?” asked Ramesh's friend, Vivek.
They were all there on the terrace, Ramesh's friends, on the eve of his wedding, his bachelorette party, if it could be called that.
No fanfare at this wedding. Just some close relatives had been informed, and Ramesh had invited his friends over. They were to stay with him overnight and till the wedding was over the next day. They were young men who had grown up together. It was night and the moon was out. It would be full moon tomorrow, on the wedding day. Stars shone in the sky, bright and big. The cool night air blew around.
Ramesh poured out a drink for Vivek and handed it to him, “I don't know," he said.
“What do you mean you don't know? You don't know who you're marrying?”
“No,” said Ramesh, half-sitting on the railing, and sipping his drink. “She's the daughter of a schoolmaster in one of our villages. A very remote village...a very village girl.”
“And why did you agree to this?”
Ramesh was silent. He looked up at the night sky, the almost full moon. “It's time I settled down.”
“So...settle down. Why do you have to get married?”
“Because my father wants me to.”
He turned back to his friends, “I've been in a relationship with somebody...you must have heard.”
“Right! We heard that!” Rashid said from his perch on the floor. He opened his mouth to tease, but Vivek flashed him a warning look.
“People say they're not good…. People who don't know them. You know...”
They nodded understandingly, but not really understanding. Rashid looked confusedly at Vivek. So he voiced it for them, “How can they be good? How can a family that enamours a young man and takes all his money be good?”
“The parents maybe, yes, but there are the children. Three girls.”
“You....??”
Ramesh shrugged, “I think of them as my family. I love them.”
“So do you intend going back to them after your marriage?”
“No. That's over. And I won't be doing anything stupid anymore. But the point is, I haven't been a good person. I've...I've robbed from my mother...jewels...money. I've gone astray.”
“And so, you let your father talk you into this marriage to a strange girl.”
“I trust my parents.”
“Right!” said Rashid, unable to contain himself any longer, “It's dawned on you finally, I suppose.”
Ramesh turned to him, “Yes, it has. It's late but at least it’s dawned.”
They laughed.  “How's the girl? Any idea?”
Ramesh stared intently at the glass, “I'm told that she is well educated and ran the school with her father. Her father died recently. I'm also told that she squints...and that she limps. One leg is slightly shorter than the other.”
“What??!!”
His friends stared at him incredulously. “And you said yes because...?” asked Anil.
Ramesh turned to him, “Look, I'm not perfect okay? If you could see my soul, it's black and perforated. Squint eyes and limp weds perforated black soul. We're the perfect couple. Well matched. Who am I to choose and complain?”
“But...” said Vivek.
But Ramesh held up his hand, “This is my wife you're talking about, and I'd rather you did not say anything more. Please!”
Vivek sighed. “Okay. But I need a strong drink.”
They all laughed and went back to partying.
The day of the wedding dawned bright and sunny with a blue blue sky and lovely white clouds. Despite the temperance, there was the unmistakable air of festivities in the air. Everyone looked happy. It seemed that the animals felt it too. The horses neighed, the dogs wagged their tails, the cat sat on the wall, preening and cleaning itself and basking in the sunlight.
A servant was sent to wake up the boys early morning, and they got up reluctantly. The servant was an old man who had been with the family before the children were born and he was treated more like a family member than a servant. Ramesh and Meenakshi called him “Babuji Uncle” and neither of them knew why they called him that. “Babuji, please pulled down the curtains! It's too bright!” Ramesh complained.
“Get up baba. The girl’s people will be here soon. You're getting married today. You can't afford to sleep. Wake up.”
He soon had the disgruntled boys out of bed. They bathed and came down to breakfast. In the big, wide hall, the swing had been tied up out of the way and the mandap had been set with the brick stones in a square at the centre for the wedding. A fire would be lit there. Ramesh donned the white dhoti and he sat down on one side, leaving a place vacant next to him for his bride to sit. The priest began the ceremony. Soon Devika was brought in, and she walked ever so gracefully and sat down on next to Ramesh. And that's when all of Ramesh’s friends had apoplexy. They gestured to him wildly and pointed to the girl. He did not turn in her direction but instead he watched his friends, puzzled and confused. “What?” he asked, and they gestured again wildly, pointing to Devika. Rudra and Savitri and Meenakshi were grinning from ear to ear. Then, Meenakshi bent and whispered in her brother's ears, “I think they want you to look at the girl.”
And Ramesh turned and looked at her. She turned to him and gave him the sweetest smile. Before he could stop himself, “You don't squint! You're beautiful!”
The smile disappeared and she glared indignantly at him, “Of course I’m beautiful. And excuse me! I don't squint!”
“Ah, but she limps,” said Rudra, who was standing close by and looking blissfully innocent.
Devika glared her father-in-law, “Appa! I don't limp!”
He roared with laughter, so infectious, it set everyone laughing.
The priest looked around disapprovingly. “The auspicious hours are slipping by. Can we get on with the marriage?”
They nodded, but it took a while for everyone to settle down and stop smiling. When Ramesh got up to go around the fire with his bride, he could see that she was indeed extremely beautiful and walked gracefully and without any limp.
“Appa! How could you do this?” he whispered fiercely to his father.
Rudra grinned at him happily, “You should have seen your face. Priceless! So worth it! Payback time!”
Later that night, Ramesh stood in the terrace and his wife, Devika, walked in and up to him with a glass of milk. He turned to her, “Why did you marry me?” he asked her abruptly, “You knew I was not a good person, didn't you? Or did they fool you?”
She placed the glass of milk on the railing, “No...no one fooled me. You married me long back.”
“What??!!”
"I was lost in the fair and you found me, and when you took me home, you put a chain around my neck and said, “Now we're married.””
“Oh!! So that was you! You were a kid then!”
She smiled, “Yes. I was 10 years old. But see!” She searched among the numerous chains around her neck, and she took out one—multi-coloured gypsy beads strung together, “I still have it.”
“Oh my!” said Ramesh, overwhelmed. “This is...” he looked at her, not wanting to tell her how absurd it was, “I don't know what to say! Is that why you married me?”
She nodded happily, "And I saw you. I saw you daily, going by on your bike…with your friends. I was in school, then college. I saw you!”
She was blushing now. Comprehension dawned on Ramesh’s face, “Ah! And you fell in love with me.”
“Yes,” she said, now quite rosy with embarrassment.
“You know, I'm so glad to hear this.  It’s not...Oh! Never mind what it is and is not!”
He put his arms around her and pulled her close, “I promise you this: I will never ever cheat on you. Ever!”
And the full moon and the bright stars bore witness to his promise.

[To be continued ...]

Setu, June 2019 - Contents (Anniversary Issue)

Setu

Volume 4 Issue 1 

June 2019


Setu PDF Archives

Editorial

Special Edition: Celebration of Local

Poetry

Novel (In Serial Form)

Fiction / Flash Fiction

Author of the Month

Essay / Articles

Book review


Editorial: On local and other observations

This month the local gets celebrated by a diversity of literary voices through poetry, prose and pictures, giving us a whiff of the sights, sounds and colours that come to constitute the rich fabric of that recorded reality. It also continues, except a brief break, the practice and tradition of themed editions, guest-edited by some of the top names of their chosen fields of art, lit and criticism.

Jaydeep Sarangi has earned international respect for his credentials as a writer and public intellectual. He curates the June Setu by making a careful selection of the lyrical and critical and artistic talents on the given subject of local, majorly irrigated by the cross currents of memory, heritage, urban planning, architecture and its deep and intrinsic appeal to a creative wanderer in search of inspiration.

When a street in Dublin or a turn in a bend arrests the attention of a critical observer, the end result is a classic work of art that strikes a similar chord or kinship with a reader in UK, USA or India, or any other location.

It is a unique capacity of art! Of being here- and -there in the same instant, in the simultaneity of the psychology of reading and dynamism of aesthetics and its individual reception;  the ability to transport the reader, a la flying carpet, over  the different and variegated geographies of mind and place. The chronological time or date of production gets suddenly transcribed onto an altered time sequence and the RT (received text) becomes re-animated and re-vitalized in a changed context and venue, thus cleverly establishing new kinship and textual affinities and resonances.

Call the process, simulation by glance.

A King Lear suddenly looks so familiar to its middle-class patrons, in the year 2019 in a Mumbai or Madrid milieu!

All writings are basically about the local only. In the hands of the gifted artists, the local becomes transcendental and universal and time defiant. The greatest writers like Balzac or Dickens or Tolstoy or Gorky introduce a local that strangely mirrors the universal for a reader embedded in a different time-space continuum. A new millennial reader finding solace in Dostoevsky is as amazing as the theatre of Ibsen or Shakespeare or the paintings of Raphael, in an age different than the original.

What quality is there in these objects of great and timeless art that continues to speak across changing stages and eras of time and space? It is the humanist vision of the artist that uplifts the artifact and elevates it into a higher realm of experience of human condition; an act that speaks to the humanity and on its behalf. All great art is located in the local, the immediate, and the instant. The locale is important to frame the narratives or the visuals but the underlying vision of the artist turns that setting, moment, mood into something permanent and surprisingly live and energetic---and inspiring. Kitsch does not have such suppleness and vibrancy!

In this selection, you will find the local becoming real and your lived- own. Kind of affinity photography or painting or cinema brings to us through a shared sense of immediacy, intimacy of gaze, history and cultural affinity---a transcendental experience by which we are able to rise above all the socio-political constructs and barriers and enjoy arts as something uplifting and enlightening.

We thank all the contributors and Jaydeep for their support to this open call and hope for their affection in future as well.

This time, there are no other writings except the featured ones on the given theme. Of course, Author of the Month and Book Review are an exception to this.

Next issue is going to be general.

Please immerse in the milieu and discover the global in/at the same instant

Sunil Sharma

Editor, Setu (English)
India, June 30, 2019

The Northern Rivers NSW Australia

A Place to Hang My Hat

by Robert Maddox-Harle

This photo essay celebrates the place I call home, the Northern Rivers area of NSW Australia. This district is a large regional area which extends from Grafton in the south, to Murwillumbah in the north, out west to Tabulam, and eastward to the infamous, Byron Bay. Cape Byron is the eastern-most edge of the large Australian continent. Mt Warning (Wollumbin) near Murwillumbah enjoys the first rays of the rising sun each day, and was so named by Captain (then Lieutenant) James Cook when he sailed down the east coast of the great south land on his voyage of discovery in 1770. Wollumbin, the correct indigenous name of this mountain is the central volcanic “plug” of a long extinct volcano, when this erupted for the last time it formed the Caldera, gouging out the valleys and river beds as the lava made its way to the sea.



Wollumbin  (Mt Warning) warmed by the sun’s first rays. Photo courtesy Gold Coast Bulletin

The major rivers start with the Tweed in the north, then the Brunswick, further southwards the Richmond and Wilsons rivers, Evans river, then the mighty Clarence and further downstate to the Bellinger river. The Clarence River is the largest river in the region having its headwaters in the wild hilly country west of Tabulam and reaching the sea at Yamba/Iluka.



 Robert navigating down the Tweed River

Iluka is a special place for me (and clearly many others) and becomes the main emphasis in this essay, it means “place by the sea” in Bundjalung language, these are the local indigenous people. I have spent a lot of time at Iluka over the years, but presently reside in Lismore after moving from Nimbin where I lived for thirty years. Nimbin is considered the centre of the Rainbow Region and an important part of the Big River country.

Lismore is irreverently referred to by some as the “underwater city of the north” due to massive flooding which occurs far more frequently than locals would like. The whole area has very high rainfall and massive catchment areas which feed into these various rivers consequently causing disastrous flooding. The rivers were the connecting life lines in the early days of white (British) settlement, using these rivers. made it easier to transport the precious logs, especially Red Cedar, off to the larger capital cities. The demand for these timbers made it easy for the arrogant British mentality to destroy the unique forests and rainforests of the area, known as the Big Scrub.

Recent (2017) flooding in the CBD of Lismore, this block of home units is nearly one kilometre from the river, photo courtesy Heinz Riedel

Iluka is flanked on the eastern side by a unique nature reserve which is a littoral rainforest, one of very few remaining in the southern hemisphere. This reserve is home to numerous species of wildlife, unique to Australia, including the extremely rare coastal emu. To the south-western side the Clarence flows into the sea, across the river is the port and town of Yamba.


Looking out to sea from the Iluka breakwall beside the Clarence River.

Iluka, southeast of Lismore, is somewhat isolated which has kept the population and built environment very small, part of its charm! It is home to the Clarence River Fisherman’s Co-operative which is now small compared with the past, but still sees trawlers heading out to sea and up-estuary to catch fish, and especially prawns. Most of these rivers are clean and unpolluted, especially  by world standards, so the seafood quality is excellent. Iluka has a special kind of magic which I hope the following images help convey.

Safe anchorage in front of the Fisherman’s Co-operative


As mentioned Iluka, and the northern rivers is home to a huge variety of wildlife, many on the border of extinction, such as Australia’s unique Koala. The natural beauty of the area together with its wildlife far surpasses the built environment which like much of Australian building, especially housing, is very ordinary indeed, derisively called “the great Australian ugliness.”


Three Tawny Frogmouth owls trying to look like the gum tree, photo courtesy of Heinz Riedel


High from harms way an Osprey guards her young, keeping a vigilant eye



A Sacred Ibis meditating, no, waiting for some of my lunch.




Clarence River with the ferry and boatshed wharf. The ferry goes across to Yamba
saving a forty five minute drive around.


Iluka mermaid, created by a friend of mine looking out sea


The Mermaid

Keeping her lone vigil
the enigmatic Iluka mermaid waits,
arm raised shielding her moist eyes,
the setting sun glistens
dancing across the mirror-glass water.

Her ancient ancestor Atargatis,
great Syrian goddess
not to blame really
though the legend remains.

The trawlers head seaward,
wave to their protectress
crucial for a safe return
no guarantees in this work,
the sea is a cruel mistress
but the spiritual connection remains.

Ploughing through the plankton-green sea
engine humming a tinnitus tune
a perfect beat,
a heartbeat for the fishermen,
slowly
the dark of night nudges in.

The Iluka mermaid breathes easily again,
the trawlers return
the sun pushing them in,
a gentle bow wave slides across the bay.

Her eyes are dry,
now she settles in for the day.




Sandra learning to be a mermaid who keeps constant vigil waiting for the fishermen’s
safe return





Some of the trawler fleet which works out of Iluka each day. Iluka has a very safe bar,
which allows more regular access to the Blue Waters of the ocean than many of the other bars up and down the coast.


“Notorious” replica of a 16th century Caravel resting in Iluka Bay hand built by her owner from recycled timbers






Notorious

Hove To “Notorious”!
had I slipped through a time warp?
I felt uneasy, anxious;
the black Caravel lay at anchor
circa sixteenth century
gently circling the tide.

This was Iluka Bay
circa twenty first century;
I stood wide-eyed
as if a lost ghost had materialised,
past lives flashed before me.

Ten years in the crafting,
built from recycled timber
by a man and his wife,
gallons of tar to seal her hull
gallons of rum to whet their souls;
sailed from Melbourne
across an oily ancient sea
resting at peace in Iluka Bay.

Another ration of rum I order
fixated on a Black Pearl,
I’m marooned at Sedgers Reef pub,
“Notorious” taunts me;
my mind spinning with questions
my heart revealing secrets,
I’d sailed these ships before
many centuries ago!




Metaphorically the speed of 21st century life at Iluka

NB: All photos other than those credited were taken by myself.

Celebration of Local: A Place Called Home

Karen O’Leary

Karen O’Leary 

            “Did you say West Fargo, North Dakota?  Glad I don’t live in that frozen tundra, a half century behind the rest of the country.”  The Virginian rolled his eyes.
********

            All right, the scenario is a bit exaggerated, but people do have the tendency to think of the state as backwards in many ways.  I say it isn’t so.  We have iPods, cell phones, computers, and other modern gadgets that are wrought with their modern-day problems.

            We drive cars not horse drawn carriages.  In fact, few of my neighbors can afford a horse, board, and vet bills--not to mention a saddle and other riding gear.  Most are middle class families, many whom have been challenged in these economic times.

            Nestled along her bigger sister, Fargo, West Fargo has a population of about 36,000 and is one of the fastest growing cities in North Dakota.  It is a 14.72 square mile (38.12 km2) community of mixed heritage tucked in the Red River Valley. West Fargo was founded in 1926.

            West Fargo citizens enjoy clean air and the freedom to step outside at midnight without fear of being mugged. Churches have expanded and added editions.  Work ethic and Midwestern values continue to flourish.  Many neighbors can cross yards without fences.

            Winters can get ugly with below zero temperatures and white-out blizzards.  Sunny California looks mighty tempting at times in mid-January.  Then, I remember spring is just around the corner with its green grass and flowers.  It gives me pause to smile.

            My husband and I started our lives as newlyweds here in 1983.  We raised two daughters in safety and security.  Our lifestyle is honest and comfortable.  God has blessed us with riches that cannot be measured with dollars.  I am grateful for this place we call home.

Karen O’Leary is a writer and editor from West Fargo, ND. She has published poetry, short stories, and articles in a variety of venues including, Frogpond, A Hundred Gourds, bear creek haiku, Shemom, Creative Inspirations and NeverEnding Story. She edited an international online journal called Whispershttp://whispersinthewind333.blogspot.com/ for 5 ½ years. She enjoys sharing the gift of words.

Short Story: Centre Stage

- Arpa Ghosh


    As it is in rural colleges, the lunch was sumptuous. There were jumbo prawns and tenderized mutton richly cooked with giant potatoes, rosogolla and vanilla ice-cream, creamy dal with giant fish-heads and succulent aubergine fries. Mrittika ate daintily, conscious of her exquisitely embroidered tussar silk. Over the years Mrittika has mastered the art of enjoying her meals while holding forth elegant conversation with perfect strangers.
       Mrittika Sengupta, professor, Matangini Hazra University, was an academic celebrity and, in this part of the world, a goddess. The principal, sitting to her left wanted to know more about women’s movements worldwide. Guests from other colleges buzzing like bees round a queen requested her signature on their copies of her book I am Durga that they had lovingly brought to the seminar. The local councilor hovered like a benign magus mindful of her comfort.
            Mrittika had just delivered her keynote address. The theme had been female empowerment, and Mrittika had simply talked about herself, her meteoric rise from a humble beginning in a Government sponsored college in Murshidabad. All the time she smiled compassionately at the suburban audience, mostly sweat-shiny male teachers from neighbouring colleges in shabby bush-shirts, and puffy, saree-wrapped, vermillion-smeared women, clutching shapeless hand-bags while straining to retain the flow of her stylish diction. Mrittika could make out they were in awe of her and it gave her a high. The cosmopolitan had deigned to pay a visit to the periphery.
         Well, some might see it that way. Mrittika had friends in Saturday club who were first-class snobs. But she was a feminist intellectual and the people, entitled, empowered or subaltern, were her strong-hold. She loved centre stage and the way her well-built, inspiring ideas stunned her audience.
             Twenty years ago, Mrittika had erupted in the academic scene with her vibrant and stimulating address on women’s rights in India in a Cornell University conference that she had attended as a greenhorn. Her address had been lauded by the American audience and she had been requested to stay back and deliver lectures in other Ivy League universities that autumn. It didn’t take long for Indian dailies to promote her as the new kid on the block, the next academic force to reckon with.
        Since that golden autumn there had been no looking back. Whether it was academic work, creative writing or simply an evening among learned friends brainstorming ideas on poetry, cinema and theatre; whether it was a formal lunch with an global guest or a paid academic soiree to London, Sidney or New York, Mrittika had aced it every time.
            And her engaging trait was she rarely refused invites. This invite for instance. The college was in Gosaba and usually Kolkata people were terrified that Royal Bengal tigers would be loitering in the corridors of such colleges, but Mrittika accepted the invitation with poise and professionalism. “I would like to visit the nearest women’s homes,” she requested in her soft pleasant tones knowing well that with all the garlanding and speech-making, there would be no time for any such visit. But such promises never failed to impress. 
     “Will it be tussar or sambalpuri?” she asked her husband, gently leaning against her wardrobe. “Really, one of these days Sabita will have to rearrange the shelves. My wardrobe is turning into a nightmare,” she groaned peering into its chaotic innards.
        “Shouldn’t you be brushing up your speech? I don’t see you working on your lectures these days,” mused Pratim her husband.
        Mrittika grinned. Where would she be without Pratim? Whosoever complained about uncaring spouses had clearly not met Pratim. What a wonderfully supportive man!
        “I have my lucky charm.”
        “Cornell?” Protim raised eyebrows.
         “In those far-flung, mofussil places Cornell magic is enough. They won’t be able to digest stronger stuff.”
          “Like Swamiji’s “Brothers and Sisters of America,”?”
            Mrittika chose to disregard the light irony in Protim’s tone.
****
       Once her speech was over, they all rushed to lunch. Mrittika was a little surprised. She had expected a modest discussion of sorts. But most of the participants came from beyond twenty kilometers. Also the college was feeding all its workers and members of the students’ union. They couldn’t afford to be late with the mid-day meal. Any laxity was enough to kindle the fire of violence in these underdeveloped areas. And frankly, she was famished.
        The harried coordinator trotted up to her table just when she had daintily inserted a spoonful of mango chutney in her mouth.
     “Madam, are you ready?”
      “Yes, I have finished my meal. I just have to wash my hands.”
The organizers had promised to drive her back to Kolkata post lunch. It was a four-hour drive and she was leaving for Delhi in a couple of days. She had to be home by seven. 
      “Madam,” continued the coordinator ingratiatingly, “There was a request. Yours was the main speech. We were eagerly waiting to hear it and it was magnificent. But if you could be kind enough to… I mean, a generous person such as yourself…. I mean…”
        Mrittika looked at him askance. “What do you mean?” she asked gently.
      “There is a young boy. He happens to be our ex-student. He has made a film on the Sunderban local women. Our students are eagerly waiting to watch the film. Some of them come from very far and have the evening ferry to catch. So we are screening it right away. Parimal is keen for you to watch it. He is right here,” said the organizer dragging forward a tall, spare young man who was quietly waiting in the background.
       “Madam…,” Parimal began.
       “How long is your film?” Mrittika asked.
       “About an hour, Madam. I would be very grateful if you could comment on it. After watching it, of course. ”
 With visible reluctance Mrittika agreed.
                 When she returned to the auditorium a muted roar greeted her. The room had been darkened with black curtains. Yet Mrittika could make out that the audience had doubled since her lecture. The familiar bird-song of young voices troubled her in a way she couldn’t pinpoint. Her taking a seat in the first row coincided with a ridiculously harsh spot-light being focused on the gangly young Parimal who smiled warmly at the crowd.
                “Our students adore him,” vouchsafed the organizer, “He is a gifted boy. We are proud of him too,” he added.
                 Parimal explained the nature of his film. He spoke with a strong local accent, peppering his Bengali with apposite film jargon. Yet listening to him was like bathing in a clear mountain stream, so passionate and well-argued was his presentation. He talked to his audience who responded collectively by making approving noises. His lecture was strewn with film and theory jargon and he took time to explain abstruse terms clearly and concisely. It was obvious he hadn’t learnt them by rote. He had lived them. Even the teachers were relaxed and happy. Mrittika sensed in her bones that with a dancer’s effortless charm, Parimal was soldering the room into a single entity, filling it to the brim with love, passion and knowledge, taking upon himself the sacred duty of educating his younger brothers and sisters in the heady craft of film-making. Using a humble hand-camera he demonstrated several cine-techniques that were studiously jotted down by the young members in the audience. They interrupted him fearlessly and he stopped every time to clear their doubts.
                When the film finally commenced there was a respectful stillness in the hall. It was a simple story about a girl who happens to be the solo bread-earner of her family and who is reportedly dragged away by a tiger when she goes into the forest to collect honey against the wishes of villagers. Her mother’s dauntless search uncovers the covert flesh trade that goes on in the region.
                    A film with a predictable ending. Yet one that was ably and artistically made. Even to Mrittika’s inexpert eyes it was apparent that the boy had studied the legacy of Ray, Ghatak, Benegal and Tapan Sinha. It was also obvious that he practiced his craft with a panache that was ardently appreciated in his neck of the woods. At the end of the show, Mrittika was requested to comment on the film which she did by heaping lavish praise on Parimal and wishing him the very best in life.
                 So, on her way home, a packet containing an expensive dhakai jamdani saree, gift from the Gosaba college, reposing next to her, the greenery receding on both sides with reassuring speed, why did Mrittika experience a sinking feeling of unease? She stared out of her window, she fiddled with her smartphone, she rearranged an already organized hand-bag and repeatedly asked her driver to increase and decrease FM volumes, yet the picture of a boy with lean corded muscle, trembling with passion and gesticulating wildly about the architectonics of film-making refused to leave her head.
              “How did your day go?” asked the ever dutiful Pratim.
               Mrittika’s dry response stopped him on his tracks. Tuned to the most delicate shifts in her mood, Pratim sighed. The tussar had finally stopped working as he had feared it would someday. Pratim felt oddly relieved. Off late, he missed the fiery feminist he had wooed in his youth.  Maybe she would resurface now.
---

Arpa Ghosh is primarily a short story writer who began publishing her stories in the national daily The Statesman from 2004. She is also into academic and feature writing and has published widely in national and international journals. She teaches literature in Vivekananda College for Women. She has completed her doctoral project from Jadavpur University on white South African apartheid fiction. Contemporary fiction and theory are her areas of interest. Her stories majorly center on the urban experiences of the educated Bengali middle classes. Humorous depiction of social foibles and portrayal of the single woman's experience are her forte. She also enjoys writing on movies, watching films, travelling, music and reading autobiographies. She lives with her parents in Kolkata. 

Short Story: Stopping by a Neighbor’s House on a Summer Morning


By Mark Kodama


I.          The Walk
            I am ill.  I have stage 2 bone marrow cancer and diabetes 2.  So my doctors told me I needed to take more walks, get more exercise.  So this morning I took a walk.  Despite my fatigue and my damaged eyesight, I must admit it is the best walk I have ever taken in my life.  Indeed, there was nothing extraordinary about the walk but the way it was experienced.  So the fact I am ill and I am nearly blind made me enjoy it in way that I could not have otherwise.  
            We have lived in this neighborhood in McLean, Virginia, a suburb of Washintgon, DC for maybe 18 years. We lived in on the other side of McLean High School for ten years and moved to our new house about 8 years ago.  We knocked down the old house and built another one in its place that I must say to me seems palatial.  I used to joke we were the poorest rich people in McLean.
            I live there with my Chinese wife of 30 years and my mother in law who is 91. My two sons Nathan and Willie live away from us at the universities. Nathan is working on his Ph.D in neuroscience at Case Western Reserve in Cleveland, Ohio and Willie is now going into his sophomore year at the University of Virginia. I am a third-generation hamburger eating Japanese American.  I am trial lawyer by occupation.
            I had my breakfast of apple cinnamon oatmeal and then took all my medications and vitamins which is like a meal in itself.  I put on a sweat shirt and set out under the gunmetal gray morning sky. I walked toward Westmoreland Street.
            The neighborhood is unusual in that it is a mixture of a few old houses probably built in the 1930s - flat wood houses with one car drive ways and garages interspersed with large expensive looking brick houses recently built by tearing down the old houses. It dominated newly rich Asian immigrants –principally Chinese, Korean and Indian families.   

II.        My Neighbor’s House
            As I walked on the concrete sidewalk toward the Westmoreland, a small gray rabbit with white tail emerged from the trees and bushes that divided two houses.  He scampered across the black asphalt driveway and then across the perfectly cut green grass of the front lawn before stopping to look at me looking at him.
            It was still early and the house was quiet.  Two SUVs were parked in the driveway of the two-car garage.  The first SUV was black Mercedes Benz and the second an old American model.
            There was a large oak tree that dominated the yard.  I thought of an episode of Cosmos where Carl Sagan said that humans and oak trees were cousins and that we were idenitical in chemical composition.  At the time, of course, it was the first I had ever heard of the idea. As I watched the rabbit I thought that if the oak tree was my cousin what did that make the rabbit?
            The rabbit was an advanced animal with a brain with an outer cortex.  He had two eyes, a  nose and mouth like me and a bone and organ system identical to mine.  I once read that a frog had exactly the same number of bones in its hand as I do.
            Now that I was ill with cancer, I was told that I had a year to 12 years to live.  The rabbit looked like it was young. I wondered if I would outlive the rabbit.  But in either case we were both temporary travelers here on earth.  That like every other creature here on earth and that ever walked this earth, we were destined for short lives and would someday turn to dust.
            I saw a flower and recalled that flowers are relatively recent developments in evolutionary plant development. Plants have been around for 420 million years.  The earliest flowers appeared a mere 120 million years ago. Modern human have existed for 300,000 years.
            The Greek philosopher Heraclitus once said a man can never step in same river twice.  The world only appears to be permanent when it is in fact ever changing as is the river.
            Before me my neighbor’s house appears so permanent with its red brick fa├зade and its faux black shutters which are not functional but decorative. Underneath the thin red brick facade is a structure made of wood beams and particle board.
            I saw a documentary on Fukushima on how just a few years after the nuclear disaster forest and wild animals took over the city where people had recently lived. So many things in life are so illusionary.
            I thought again about Carl Sagan and the last interview he gave before he passed away. Carl Sagan once said we are star dust.  So soon, maybe one year, may be twelve years, my corporeal body will be lifeless, inanimate.  I will become part of the earth again, nutrients for plants which will be nutrients for other animals.
            At some point, the sun will expand and the earth and everything that is part of the earth will be swallowed by the ever expanding sun and I will be turned into energy. And at some point in the future, the sun will explode and I will be stardust again.  And so will you.
            The rabbit scampered away so I moved on too.

III.       Westmoreland Street
            When I came to Westmoreland Street, I pressed the button to cross the road and proceeded to cross the road in the crosswalk.  The street is usually very busy at this time of the morning because it is the entrance of McLean High School.  But today is June 21, the longest day of the year and school is out.
            Willie graduated from McLean High School just a few years ago.  He thinks he may have had the highest grade point average of his graduating class. But his school does not keep track of these things anymore and certainly if they do it is not made public.  Of all the things I have done in my life raising my two sons was the most important and rewarding. My best days were when when Nathan and Willie were young.  As much as I enjoy being with them now, it still can’t beat when the two of them would come with me to the “hoffice!”
            I’m losing my eye sight so I am very careful when crossing the street.  I am also a personal injury lawyer so I am extra sensitive about the dangers of incautious drivers.  It was big news about ten years ago when pedestrian after pedestrian was killed by speeding drivers.  I represented two pedestrians seriously injured by speeding drivers.  The indifference of a driver can forever leave another in pain.  The person who does these things sometimes are remorseful and sometimes blame the very person they harm.  But whether they take responsibility or not for something very bad they have done, they can never undo what they have done.
            As I crossed the street, I saw a dark black brand new BMV bearing down upon me so I stopped and held out my hand.  Instead of stopping, the driver sped up.  So, course, I had to stop to let the driver pass.
            Time is so temporary and we are here for such a short time any ways.  It seems ridiculous to me that that there could be something so important that the driver thought it necessary to ignore the traffic laws and endanger the life of a fellow human being and neighbor so they could arrive 20 seconds earlier than if had they obeyed the law.

IV.       The Coffee Shop
            I walked to the corner of Westmoreland and Chain Bridge Road.  I had never seen traffic so light on a weekday at this time of morning. Things are usually so fast paced.
            I walked to the parking lot of the local supermarket and then across.  The weather was nice and I even was sweating a little bit.
            The neighborhood coffee shop is part of that shopping center complex.  I like this coffee shop because it is locally owned and not part of a chain.  The people are generally friendly there and I am a regular.
            When I got there, I was surprised that there were no customers.  I knew all the four young ladies behind the counter so it was fun.
            There is a young Asian girl about my son’s age that I particularly like.
            “Where is your son?” she said, with a great smile.  “I thought you were going to bring your son.”
            “The other day I did suggest we come,” I said.  “I knocked on his door.  And I said: “’let’s go to that coffee shop that I had talked about.  The people are great there!’
            “So I heard his voice through the door. He said ‘Not now Dad.  I’m thinking important thoughts.  So will you please go away!”
            The young women laughed.
            There has been such a loss of community in our cities today.  In the days growing up, our neighbors would always come over to our house and we to theirs.
            We have these Chinese neighbors that we have lived next to for five years.  Sometimes I see him busily working on his front yard on the weekends. One day I received a piece of mis-delivered mail so I brought it to Mr. Chen. After he thanked me I suggested that we and our wives have dinner some day.
            He simply said “We don’t have time for those sort of things.”            

IV.       The Flower Garden
            On the way home, there was the most amazing flower garden – full of the most beautiful orange flowers sprouting from a plant with long slender green leaves.  There were many and well ordered.  You often hear that you cannot beat the beauty of mother nature. But there also something to be said about the art of a well ordered garden.
            I had never really ever taken the time to look at a flower garden like that before.  I am not a gardener and I enjoy sports and intellectual pursuits like reading.
            But the beauty of that flower garden was overwhelming.  I enjoyed how everything appeared out of focus like a impressionist painting and then when you looked at it closer you could see the details of the flower – the delicate petals with their darker shade of orange toward the center of the petals and then the even darker shade of the stamen that emanated like antennae from the center of the flower.
            The six petals were soft to the touch and seemed perfect in their symmetry.  The flowers had these tiny dark black orange dots.  Tears rolled down my cheeks – a most surprising and wonderful feeling.

V.        Church
            I saw the church across the street.  We have lived in that neighborhood for 20 years.  In all the years we lived there and thousands of times I drove past the church I have never actually stopped to look at it.
            So I crossed the street and walked the grounds.  It was a very large and modern church complex made of light brown brick and dark red brick. Up close I had to marvel at the beauty and intricacy of the architecture.  White stone pillars without capitols supported the front portico.  There were intricate cross patterns in the brick.  The windows were large and framed by arches and cream colored stone. 
            Three perfectly spaced giant oak trees dominated the front of the yard in front of the church.
            A large memorial garden grewq behind the oak trees with many different kinds of plants and flowers of subtle colors – dark green, drab green and purple. One cluster of spiky drab green plants that looked like some sort of sea creature were actually quite ugly in my opinion except when combined and arranged with the other plants and interspersed with mulch, creating a kind of ordered three dimensional assault on our sense of beauty. The white barked olive trees were something out of the Bible. It was dream like in appearance – an ordered Garden of Eden.
            It is interesting how you can combine something of ugliness with something of beauty to enhance their mutual beauty and power. It is like that with food, music and yes gardens.  Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” comes to mind.  The whining lead guitar of Jimmy Page and the screaming voice of Robert Plant combined with the melancholy words and beautiful melodies never gets old,
            The Playground was full of red, blue and green plastic and wood swing complexes and dinosaurs.  The ground had wood chips. The play area was encircled by a waist-high black chain link fence.  It was much more sophisticated and safer than the metal monkey bars and rubber mats of my day.
            There were metal signs posted on the fence: “THIS AREA IS UNDER CAMERA SURVEILLANCE,” “ONLY CHILDREN OF THE CHURCH PRESCHOOL ARE ALLOWED,” NO CHILDREN ARE ALLOWED TO PLAY WITHOUT AN ADULT PRESENT” and “NO PETS INSIDE THE ENCLOSURE.”  I know why these signs are there. I am a personal injury lawyer.  They are a necessary signs of the time.  That we have become more isolated and less of a community.
            Is it really necessary to tell people these days not to let their dogs crap where young children play?  Unfortunately the answer is yes.
            Some people insist that God exists and without God society would fall into a kind of anarchy.  Others insist that the idea is nothing but fearful superstition and is the cause of much suffering and injustice in this world.
            My opinion is that I don’t know.  The philosopher Bertrand Russell once said the problem with this world is that the stupid are so cocksure and the intelligent are so full of doubt.
            For me the answer seems simple.  If God exist He wants us to do right things because they are the right things to do, not because we fear Hi.  If God does not exist, we should do right things because they are the right things to do.  Why do we need God to try to do good in this world, to love our neighbors and to be kind?  

VI.       Home
            A cheerful old jogger ran past me.  He smiled and waved.  “Good morning!” he shouted.
            This time when I crossed Westmoreland, all the cars politely stopped.  Traffic had picked up considerably.
            A middle-aged Caucasian woman and her teen-aged daughter walking their dog crossed the street.  I said good morning.  In response, the older woman turned her head in smug annoyance.  Her daughter laughed in contempt.  Plato believed we behave badly though ignorance.
            Obviously I am a neighbor.  I am an attorney.  Not only was I born in this country but my parents were born here too.  Regardless, science has shown that all human beings are closely related.  As a species we nearly died out 80,000 years ago when the Toba Eruption caused a volcanic winter that caused a mass die off.
            The human population fell to just a very few and human beings nearly ceased to exist.  From these few survivors emerged our common ancestors.  The notion that we are inherently better that anyone is simply laughable.
            I stopped in from of my neighbor’s house again.  Their garage door was now open.  I could now hear the children playing.
            Do you love Robert Frost?  I don’t know anyone who has not read a Robert Frost poem and not be profoundly moved by it.
            I thought about “Road Not Taken” and like many people I am told I misunderstood the real meaning of the poem.
            Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
            And sorry I could not travel both
            And be one traveler, long I stood
            And look down one as far as I could
            To where it bent in the undergrowth;

            Then took the other just as fair,
            And having perhaps the better claim,
            Because it was grassy and wanted wear
            Though as for that the passing there
            Has really worn them about the same.

            And both that morning equally lay,
            In leaves no step had trodden black,
            Oh, I kept the first for another day!
            Yet knowing how way leads to way
            I doubted I should ever come back.

            I shall be telling this with a sigh
            Somewhere ages and ages hence;
            Two roads diverged in the wood, and I
            I took the one less traveled by,
            And that has made all the difference.

            Like many, I took this poem to mean be yourself – reject conformity.  So now I’ve learned from those more “learned” than me that taking the road less traveled on was really only an illusion and a rationalization.
            But if so, is that really a bad thing?  If I had just been more of a conformist, could my life had in some way better?  Of course, possibly.  But I am glad I have always tried to be myself.  And if that was a mistake, then at least it was my mistake.
            I think sometimes conventional wisdom is wise; but other times conventional wisdom does not apply to particular circumstances.  It is up to the truly wise to know the difference.
            I feel the joy of being alive.  I am happy.