Stories

Once upon a time there was a boy. He was a good boy. He had those eyes that rivalled suns. He had a forehead with little space for anything but overgrown locks of hair and transient evidences of frowns. It was a good forehead.

He was an extraordinary boy. He was bound for greatness. He would come to do great things as a man, perhaps command an army that would win him many wars, but not the usual kind of army or the usual kind of wars. He would come to be a good brother, a good son. He would grow up to be a good man, a good husband, a good father. Yes, he was bound for greatness, if the Lord from Whose Hand such things flow, willed it.

But for now, there he was.

Beside him, there was a table. It was filling up with desserts quickly. They were of different kinds. The boy was watching people bring more and more desserts to the table. He stopped watching the people after a while. He could not take his eyes off the sweets. There were chocolate chip cookies – the crunchy and mushy kinds – and coffee cake, and pound cake and walnut bars and kheer and sheer khurma and gulab jamun. The gulab jamun filled his eyes – like planets revolving around his solar pupil, drawn to it by gravity, destined to circumambulate and succumb to the heat of its gaze.

The boy waited till everyone went away from the table. When they had gone, he walked up to the table, removed the lid from the corning ware that held the gulab jamun and set it aside. He then picked up one sphere with his right hand and put it in his mouth. He pushed it in until the syrup-laden ball pressed into the back of his mouth and shrunk as the syrup drenched his tongued and flowed down his gullet. With his left hand, he picked up a second sphere and stuffed it into the right cheek, pushing it in firmly so that it sat lodged behind the rows of shiny teeth. Then with both hands he picked up a third sphere and placed it in this mouth allowing it to find whatever space it could to coexist with the others. Then he wiped his hands on his shirt and turned around.

There she was. A woman. She was the hostess.

She looked at the boy. Her mouth fell open. The boy looked at her. His cheeks bulged dangerously.

There was no room to move his jaws, but he chewed anyway. A little syrup escaped from a corner of his mouth. The woman stared. The boy tired of looking at the lady and ran away. She stood there a moment. Then she laughed. Something clanged somewhere and someone shrieked in laughter and the atmosphere of the party made them both forget everything.

But I wrote it all down for you.

---

Taken from my growing collection of short stories with a working title of Hawker’s Point and Other Boyhood Tales.

It was a massive golden beast, as awesome in its beauty as its quiet ferocity.

“But how did it get there,” you ask.

It happened one cold morning last winter. I had just gotten ready for work and was stepping out of my room on the second floor when I spied my six-year-old son by the stairs. He was looking down at nothing in particular. He didn’t look too happy.

“What’s the matter, man?”

The question elicited no change in expression, just a dull “Nothing.”

Well, I knew that was untrue. You see, like any father worth his uniodized sodium chloride, I know my son.

I suspected it had something to do with him realizing he had fallen asleep the night before wearing his Thomas the Train pajama pants without matching Thomas the Train pajama shirt, rather a plain old “soft” shirt – his preferred term for a white tee.

Maybe it was something else. But I was faced with two options  – to either engage him and let him talk his problem out, or to supplant his current preoccupation with another. I chose the latter without hesitation.

I ran my hand over his head and invited him to hold it as we made our way down the stairs. He let his left hand slide on the bannister as I let my right shoulder graze the wall, each of us contributing our shuffle to the silent melodies of morning time.

Our stairs bifurcate at a mid-level landing, one flight goes to the right and ends in the foyer, the other goes left and back to the family room.

As soon as we approached the corner and stepped onto the landing, I jumped back two steps. He instinctively bounded back with me. I pressed my back to the wall and pulled him close.

“Wha..” he began, but I cut him off with a frantic finger to my lips.

We stood there silently for a couple seconds. Then I leaned down and whispered very softly into his ears.

“There’s a lion on the foyer rug.”

He looked back confused, then the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile.

“Abba!” he protested sweetly.

My face went hard. I continued in a loud whisper.

“Listen, if you want to play the pretend game, it’s all or nothing. That means we go all the way or we just forget it. Now, are you with me or not?”

“Okay,” he said after a moment of thought.

I held his face in my hands and looked into his eyes, still whispering loudly. “Are you with me ALL THE WAY?”

That was me summoming the method actor in my six-year-old. The response came as the smile left his face.

“Yes,” he said with a poker face.

I took a deep breath and pressed my back to the wall again and motioned to him with my free right hand to follow suit. He complied. We then crab-walked down a step. I turned my head to peek around the corner.

After about ten seconds of what was meant to be intense observation, I withdrew and leaned down to whisper into his ear. My breathing had become labored and there was a quiver in my voice.

“It’s massive. Must be at least 400 pounds of muscle, bone, teeth and claw.”

“It has claws?” he asked aloud with wide eyes.

My face showed sudden panic as a finger flew up to my face to shush him, my expression contorting into the unspoken plea of Could you please stop acting like you’re six years old and be an adult for once? I continued in a whisper.

“Of course it’s got claws. It’s a LION.”

I gulped and shook my head, breathing out slowly the way they teach at Lamaze classes. Fond memories. I renewed my grip on his hand, then stole another peek before returning to his earside with an update.

“That animal is sitting on it’s haunches. It’s ready to pounce. We will have to move imperceptibly.”

He whispered back this time. “What is imperpes-, what is that?”

“IM-PER-CEP-TIB-LY,” I replied visibly annoyed at having to deal out a vocabulary lesson in the middle of this crisis.

“I read about it in a Jim Corbett account when he found himself face to face with a man-eater in the jungles of Kumaon. It means very, very slowly. We have to step on that landing very, very slowly. We have to move very, very slowly as we circle around and take the other flight of stairs to the safety of the family room. Can you do that?”

He nodded, “Yeah.”

“Okay. There is one very important thing you must remember,” I added stealing one more glance at leo.

“What,” he asked.

I snapped back and looked him in they eye.

“Do not… I repeat… DO NOT look at that lion,” I said.

“So, don’t look at the lion?” he repeated back almost inaudibly.

I shook my head emphatically. “If you look at him, he may take that as a challenge to fight you. So whatever you do, don’t look at him. You got that?”

He nodded, “Yeah.”

I held his face in my hands again and kissed him on one cheek, and then the other. My voice softened.

“I love you man.”

We straightened up again, our backs pressed against the wall. More labored breathing. Then I looked down at him and nodded a “You ready to do this?” He nodded back.

We assumed a normal stance on the stairway and ever so gradually stepped down onto the landing. I was gulping audibly and my breath came in gasps now. I tightened my grip on my son’s hand. He reciprocated. I looked down at him and his eyes were wide open staring straight ahead at the dining room chandelier.

Slowly and not so imperceptibly we turned around and began to step off the landing.  I was now looking down directly at my son.

He brought his right hand up to join his other hand so that they were clasped around mine. I watched for the trigger and it came as he turned his head to the left to sneak a peek at the beast.

That was my cue. Now I may have spent a second thinking about the consequences of rushing down the seven steps before us. After all, I am his father and couldn’t help wondering if this bit of mindless haste might cause my boy injury.

(Excuse me, something is pressed against the inside of my cheek. There. Now, where were we?)

I dismissed the thought as I decided we were in survival mode. There was no room for injury. There was only room for respite from being mauled by a lion.

With all the suddenness I could muster, I screamed:

“EEYAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!”

He screamed:

“EEYAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!”

We rushed down the stairs and collapsed on the floor in the family room in a heap of laughter.

That was a year ago.

That was fun.

New short story, The Sound of Bangles, is up on Channillo.

Matthew Lambton of the East India Company matches wits with an elderly lady in a hamlet on the banks of the Yamuna.

— — —

1763

Somewhere Between Agra And Azizpur

The cool water revived Matthew Lambton. He blinked to adjust to the afternoon sun stinging his eyes. He wiped the water from his face, and almost immediately winced as the pain at the base of his neck returned. The memory of what he endured resurfaced. He sprang up on one leg and peered around him with the exaggerated wariness of a hunted animal.

The trees swayed silently in a soft breeze. Sun beams pierced the thick green ceiling of the forest and found their soft destination in the dust.

They were gone. He had counted six brigands, armed with knives and sticks. His mount was gone as well, with all the West-African trinkets he had hoped to take as gifts to Azizpur. Also gone was the youth he had employed as his guide. He cursed himself at his imprudence in breaking protocol and ignoring the oft-repeated advice he had heard over the years to be wary of strangers.

“Paani peeyoge?”

Read more.

This was it.

Samuel Elijah Perschbacher kept his eyes fixed on the gaggle of tots playing in the dirt.

But that wasn’t where his head was. He had picked her out when she got off the bus on the other side of the park. He followed her every move – looking about innocently, stranger in town, casual conversation with a passer-by, asking for instructions, brush sleeve here, cough there, looking in purse.

Oh she was good. He watched the lady in blue circle around till she was at his Two o’clock, then she made a beeline for him seated on the parkbench. A brown bag sat next to him. He watched without looking how she floated toward him like an angel. Slow but sure steps clicked on the pavement. They echoed inside his head. It helped him focus.

“Excuse me. Is anyone sitting here?”

*  *  *

Read the rest of it on Channillo.

A long time ago

Walad rubbed his eyes to mark the end of another long day of toil. He slipped under his blanket and felt the first wave of fatigue break over him when he heard a knock at the door. It took some effort to break out of sleep’s sweet embrace, but Walad managed it somehow. He threw a shawl over his shoulders as he ambled over to the door of his little cottage and opened it cautiously.

An old man stood on his doorstep. He was dressed in robes of white and gray. His long flowing beard spoke to many years of wisdom and wise company. His eyes sparkled with a curious intelligence and a thick hood covered his head but for a lock of gray that floated down a high cheekbone and curled up into his beard.

“I… am Sanad. I have journeyed four days from Alqaryah,” he said.

Walad’s eyes went wide with excitement and he ushered the old man into his cottage and onto the only chair that occupied his living room. He then rushed into the kitchen and brewed a pot of tea for his guest. Walad poured out a cup for the old timer and enquired after his journey, for that was from the etiquette of receiving a weary traveler. He knew the old man must have news for him, but decided to wait until the news was dispensed at his guest’s own moment of choosing.

The gray-haired Sanad took long sips of the calming beverage, exhaling sighs of pleasure. A slow smile spread upon his face as he gazed into Walad’s expectant eyes.

“Your hospitality speaks to your lineage. I thank you.

Walad nodded, and ran a hand over a knuckle, quite unable to hide his anxiety.

The old man’s face then hardened and showed lines of gravity, betraying a sense of mission and purpose. He took another sip and set the cup upon the table before him.

“My dear Walad. Your father,” he paused and his face softened again. “He was a dear friend to me. I loved him dearly. God have mercy on his soul.”

Walad stared back at the old man, paralyzed momentarily by the tense and phraseology announcing his father’s demise. When it sunk in, his eyes moistened and tears fell. He wept as any loving son weeps to hear of the death of his father. This continued for some time. And when the weeping abated, the old man continued with that same tone of purpose.

“You father was old and wise, much loved and respected. He owned no land, no wealth but for the wisdoms he accumulated.” Sanad extracted a scroll from the inner folds of his robes before he continued.

“These are some of his words. I collected them for you that you may know him better. Some of them I heard from his mouth, others I obtained from his family. I shall read them to you now.”

Walad dried his tears and listened attentively.  He emptied his mind of everything as he received every word the sage uttered.

Sanad began.

“Enjoin what is good as well as you can

As well as you can forbid what is bad

Leave what is in doubt but know that a man

Is by his intentions and in that be glad”

Walad nodded slowly at the profound prelude. Sanad proceeded to read slowly and deliberately from the scroll, pausing after each aphorism.

And so, the visitor read untiringly. The young host listened attentively. The words between them contrived images of a man beloved to both. And thus the night grew old.

“Ah! We are down to the last three,” Sanad smiled. “But before I read them, might I bother you for another cup of your delicious brew?”

Walad bounded off his cushion and disappeared into the kitchen. He set another pot to boil. His heart, though swollen with grief at the sad news of his father’s death, felt revived and infused with hope in the company of the kindly Sanad.

When he returned, he found Sanad had removed some of his outer robes and laid them on the floor beside him. The old man smiled graciously as aromas of the steaming brew filled his nostrils.

He took one sip and turned his attention back to the scroll.

“The first of the three that remain. This one is also from your oldest Uncle, Sahh, like many of the others you have just heard. Sahh was a man of great integrity and character. You know this.

Walad nodded. “I do.”

Sanad sighed and continued, “Sahh says that your father said:

“Forgive all your foes if come you to sight

The whitest of moons on the longest of nights.”

Walad repeated the words to himself. He resolved in his heart to act upon these words transmitted by Sanad, going back to Sahh and his own father. He nodded for Sanad to proceed.

“These last two. They came to me from Daeef.” Sanad looked up at Walad from under bushy white eyebrows. “You remember him?”

Walad’s eyes narrowed in thought as he searched for a scrap of memory, anything from his boyhood days. Nothing floated up from the recesses of his conscious, so he shook his head.

Sanad took a deep breath. “Daeef is your father’s youngest cousin on his mother’s side. He is known to be, how shall I say it… a bit of a prankster.” Sanad’s mouth widened in a grin.

“Yes, Daeef is the funny one. As much as your father was known to reprimand him for his silly acts of humor, he loved his little cousin very much. And Daeef loved your father dearly as well. And that I can vouch for. But that is all I can vouch for. I tell you all this because you must know that I have no way of knowing if his words are true. But I have them here for you.”

“Was he known to lie habitually?” Walad asked cautiously.

Sanad exploded into laughter at that. “Yes, yes. He was. And he is known to possess the sickly habit to this day.”

Sanad composed himself before he continued. “Daeef says that your father said:

“When you find a lone branch fallen from a tree

Cut down another to give the fallen his brother.”

Walad nodded slowly, repeating the words to himself as had come to be his wont.

Sanad continued. “And the last of them that I bothered to write is this. Daeef says that your father said:

“Plant a tree, and do so before

The winds of autumn knock on your door.”

Walad smiled, and felt his eyes moisten. “That sounds like father.”

Sanad nodded and cleared his throat. “Yes, but you need no reminding that I only have it on the word of Daeef.”

Walad nodded, “I understand.”

Sanad looked out of the high window and his eye sensed the first light of dawn. He rolled up the scroll and left it on the little table before him, then shot an arresting glance at Walad.

“I have done what I set out to do. And now, I take your leave.”

“But, Uncle, you must be tired. Rest a while,” Walad implored.

Sanad stood up and donned his robes. He turned towards Walad and smiled.

“I do not grow weary, my son. Age only makes me stronger.”

And with those words, he kissed his young host upon the forehead and strode out of the cottage. Walad stood in the doorway and watched as the old man made his way to the dusty road, his slightly bent figure gradually fading into the misty dawn.

* * *

Fifteen Years On

“More water, Father?”

Walad looked askance at his lively six-year-old son and nodded. He couldn’t help smiling as the little boy scampered off with his pail to the nearby pond, sending a duck flying out of the reeds.

Walad pressed down upon the soil around the sapling. He ran his finger through the dirt in a circle around it. He then motioned to his son to empty the pail inside the circle while he himself washed his hands in the cool water.

“Will we do this next autumn too?” the little boy asked.

Walad pursed his lips. Ever since that visit from Sanad years before, he had lived every day of his life guided by the words of his father. And every autumn, he remembered the words of Daeef, words that his father may never have spoken. He would never know. He recalled the opening words on the scroll.

Enjoin what is good as well as you can

As well as you can forbid what is bad

Leave what is in doubt but know that a man

Is by his intentions and in that be glad

He could ignore the words of Daeef altogether, but they had not been discarded by Sanad.

Leave what is in doubt…

Walad loved his father. He believed Daeef loved his father. He believed his father had loved Daeef.

… but know that a man

Is by his intentions, and in that be glad

The little boy persisted, “Father, will we do this next autumn again?”

Walad took a deep breath.

“I don’t know. Maybe we should skip a year.”

“Why?”

“Well, just to be a bit like… like Uncle Daeef. You know how Grandpa loved Uncle Daeef.”

The child continued to rain questions upon Walad, who enjoyed the diversion as fathers do. They walked hand in hand, exiting the orchard and entering their cozy cottage, leaving behind the sun to quietly set upon their little farm.