Walking Through and Other Stories

by Francine Fleming

  Walking Through

  and

  Other Stories

  Contributors:

  Francine Fleming

  Maria Jemmott

  Shirley Merith

  Manjit Singh

  Paula Smellie

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the expressed written consent of the contributing authors, is an infringement of the copyright laws, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any requests should be directed in writing to the individual authors.

  “Walking Through and Other Stories” copyright © 2017

  “Buckets of Wonderment” copyright © 2017 Manjit Singh

  “High Trade” copyright © 2017 Shirley Merith

  “Walking Through” copyright © 2017 Francine Fleming

  “A December to Remember” copyright © 2017 Maria Jemmott

  “Bone Keeper” copyright © 2017 Paula Smellie

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1542643726 (CreateSpace-Assigned)

  ISBN-10: 1542643724

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017901382

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  To our families and dear friends for walking through with us.

  In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.

  -Albert Schweitzer

  CONTENTS

  Buckets of Wonderment, Manjit Singh

  High Trade, Shirley Merith

  Walking Through,Francine Fleming

  A December to Remember, Maria Jemmott

  Bone Keeper, Paula Smellie

  Notes on Contributors

  Buckets of Wonderment

  By Manjit Singh

  Lumps of coal that continued to burn within the tandoor oven cast a soft orange glow across the rooftop veranda, beneath an endless pitch-black sky. Every now and then, bursts of light would flicker and crackle from within the clay vessel like tiny shooting stars, dazzling with their sight and sound, providing an inexplicable comfort, despite a lack of knowledge of what the future would bring.

  - Manjit Singh

  Buckets of Wonderment

  Dear Diary:

  When Papa went to live his next life, Mummy was reborn as a tough bull, hard as nails and never the same again. That’s what Asha told me a long time ago. Mummy says that I am too much like Papa, and she doesn’t want me to be. That’s why she’s so tough on me, more than with Asha. Mummy says that Papa was too much of a dreamer, believing that we lived under a security blanket of stars. But in the end, not even the biggest of those darned stars, the almighty sun, could keep him safe, but rather, betrayed him. Mummy doesn’t want me to chase after silly dreams, or to gaze too high towards the sun, the moon or the stars. She warns me to keep my gaze lowered, so that I too, will not be burned as Papa was. People who knew Papa say that he saw the beauty in life, even where others could see none. Even at the end of a hard day, he would point towards the blackened night sky and tell us how blessed we were to be graced by the light of a million stars. I suppose that’s why the dark has never frightened me, not even back then when I was very young and we lived far from the city. When others who didn’t know my father ask me what he was like, I simply tell them that he was my Papa, and he gave me vision to see the light, even in the dark.

  Naina

  ***

  Even at nightfall, the city of Jalandhar is not at rest. Along the outskirts, far from its bustling urban interior, through dusty remote villages and lush green pastures, though the city may seem to be in a state of serenity, it is only the fortunate who truly revel in elusive tranquility – no matter the time of day. In its vastness, Jalandhar is a window to the world. Amidst an ever-growing population, the wealthy live vibrantly alongside the silenced poor. Expansive estates equipped with chauffeur driven foreign cars gleam behind gated communities, sprawling around constricted shantytowns that are dotted with mud and straw huts. Those bestowed with plenty, exist amongst those who live in a chronic state of want. The Grand Trunk Road, an artery running through the entire stretch of the city and beyond, supports the allotted trajectories of its entire people, both ‘haves’ and ‘have not’s’. It was on the outskirts of G.T. Road, in a modest village in India, on a restless night that Naina’s story began.

  Naina would probably be thirteen or fourteen this year. In her family, as in others like her own, it was common to not know the birthdate of a child. Upon arrival into her present life, the birth of a daughter had been a blessing already bestowed when the wails and cries of first her mother, and then her own, pierced through the rickety walls. The rumble of burden reverberated beyond the open courtyard in which a brown sludge of rainwater rippled and echoed the news into the ears of the working poor. Life here, as in other villages scattered throughout the state of Punjab, was inundated with as much explosive activity as it was with the everyday mundane happenings of slum life.

  ***

  “Nainaaa, oooh Nainay! Get out of your dream world child and go hang the laundry before those clouds shed their tears!” her mother hollered, indignant to the sacred calm that still hung at dawn.

  The blazing August sun had not yet elbowed its way past India’s smoggy horizon. Lying on an old woven jute cot draped with a tattered duri, Naina buried her head beneath her pale blue dupatta shawl upon hearing her mother approaching the room where she, along with her older sister Asha, and younger brother Shaan, still lay, partially asleep. While the monsoon climate certainly did not call for any sort of bed covering, the gauzy cotton veil served both as a shield of modesty as well as protection from the tyranny of barsati storm mosquitos.

  As routine would have it, her mother plunked the plastic bucket brimming with the heavy load of hand wrung garments at the foot of the concrete stairs that lead to the rooftop veranda. The dreaded morning chore, Naina thought with despair, still half asleep. Desperate to sustain the most blissful moments of dozing just before daybreak, she slunk deeper beneath the shawl.

  “Nuniehhh, are you listening?!” her mother persisted.

  With every change of name, Naina recognized the diminishing patience in her mother’s voice. Unlike her endearing reference of ‘Nunu’, it was only when her mother was most agitated with her youngest daughter that she referred to Naina as ‘Nainay’ or ‘Nunieh’. Dozing or not, this Naina recognized.

  The screech of metal being pushed over concrete, followed by the clangor of water hitting the dented tub, severed any remaining ties to sleep. Her mother’s usual barrage of curses spewed out from the bathroom as the water trickled intermittently from the tarnished brass tap. Not much remained unblemished or constant in their small world and time was always at a premium. The day yet barely begun, Naina sighed with her eyes still shut knowing that her mother would bathe hurriedly and that in a few moments, she would have to get up. As far as her mother was concerned, there were no moments to spare.

  ***

  “A widow with three children cannot luxuriate in the practice of taking her time. Time was for those who could afford it, not for those who were born in a constant struggle to sur
vive, despite it,” Naina’s mother would caution her children. It had been clear to Naina that her mother had worked tirelessly to provide for her children that which her own ancestors could never attain. Born into a low caste family and condemned to live on the margins of society, Naina’s mother had made it her mission since the death of her husband, to carve out something greater, something better for her children. Thus, Naina and her siblings attended the local government school whenever their mother could afford to do without their contribution to the familial purse. On occasion, Naina had watched her mother go without eating when food was scarce, claiming that she had already eaten. She had once seen her mother set aside an empty pot, watching her later wipe it clean of any scant remains with her fingers. Her mother had scolded Naina for such spying, just as she scolded her daughter each morning to wake up for school or work. Through it all, Naina and her siblings never doubted their mother’s love.

  ***

  “Aahhhhh!” Naina screeched as a hand from below reached up to tug at her braided hair.

  “Get up lazy witch! It’s your turn to hang the clothes!” Asha grumbled from the floor where she lay on her bedroll of two duris. The bedroll adjacent to Asha’s lay vacant. Although mice were not a novelty, the sensation of one scurrying across Naina’s head during the night was enough to make her abandon her ground level bedroll beside Asha for the security of the elevated jute cot on which Shaan slept. The old wooden frame creaked and wobbled throughout the night whenever Naina tossed or turned, yet both it and her seven-year-old brother seemed to tolerate her added weight.

  “Naina, I swear, if Mummy comes out from the bathroom before you’re up . . . !”

  “Okay, okay!” Naina conceded before Asha completed her ultimatum.

  While only a year and a half separated the girls in age, Naina still behaved in a reasonably respectful manner towards her older sister. Though they quarreled at times, Naina knew that she could always count on her sister. It was Asha, after all, who had snuck Naina into a theatre to see her first film. With the little money Asha earned at times, she would buy Naina and Shaan chocolates and spicy crisps from the market. It had also been Asha who sheltered Naina from the mean girls who preyed on the timid and unprotected during recess at the local government school. Primal, a burly 14-year-old in Naina’s class, was their bandit leader. By nature, Naina did her best to avoid Primal and any potential trouble. Yet when she learned last year that Primal had stolen a new pink hair clip from Asha’s school bag, Naina, who typically feared and avoided confrontation, accosted the girl with an unexpected rage. She retrieved the clip along with a fistful of hair from the girl’s head and then pushed Primal, hard, onto a pile of fresh dog poop. Her bottom smeared with the smelly brown paste, Primal was sent home from school, and from that day forward, some of the children had teasingly named her P.P., short for Potty Pants. Since the Potty Incident, those mean girls no longer dared to look in Naina’s or Asha’s direction.

  The water had just been turned off as Naina scurried towards the bathroom. As her mother vacated the tiny room, toweling her dripping hair, a muggy fog enveloped the girl, foretelling of the pending day, laden with uncertainty.

  “Naina, how many times do I have to remind you to get started on time? You’re not a child. I shouldn’t have to chase after you.”

  “But Mummy, it’s Sunday!” Naina proclaimed with her usual weekend defense, eyes not meeting her mother’s, knowing full well that the sanctity of Sunday was not a given in their world.

  Avoiding her mother’s scolding glare, Naina’s eyes became preoccupied by a faded sticker plastered on the corner of the small mirror that hung above the sink that stood outside the bathroom. It was not the first time that Naina had become transfixed by the image on the sticker of an hourglass figured woman with a bosom billowing from her tiny mirror-encrusted blouse. Both captivated and envious, she stared at the sultry statuesque beauty who seemed to smile from within a bottled sea of amber Royal Stag whiskey. What would it be like, Naina wondered, to look like that, to appear so stunning, and to be so happy-happy?

  “Maharani Ji . . . ,” her mother chastised, addressing her youngest daughter as ‘Your Royal Highness’, “this Sunday-Soonday business only applies to your fantasy world of castles in the sky. Not for our working people! Do you think Memsaab will have less work for you on the one day of the week when her entire household remains at home? You’ll be tending to the entire clan in addition to every drop-by Auntie-Shuntie. Even her daughters-in-law refuse to do much on Sunday apart from calling out orders. They’ll have you running around all day!” her mother snapped, forever attempting to keep her dreaming daughter grounded in reality to avoid later heartbreak.

  Unbroken by her mother’s words or by a reality of which she was fully aware, Naina lowered her gaze to avoid a further dose of wisdom. She snatched and heaved the bucket of laundry, retreating upwards towards the rooftop veranda to begin her day’s work. Shaking out each garment before hanging it over the rusty metal line, Naina breathed deeply, taking advantage of the early morning breeze, not yet tainted by a nation of over a billion. One by one, she staggered the articles of clothing, some over the line, and others over the rungs of a weather-beaten bamboo ladder. She reserved the cotton panties and brassieres to be hung over an old plastic chair beneath the veranda’s crumbling concrete wall, out of view from prying eyes. While she worked, she was comforted by the tranquility offered by the rooftop. It was a place of solace, a place to contemplate and dream. For the time being, for Naina, it was a place of refuge and escape.

  Tranquility would remain for a few hours yet before Memsaab’s eldest son, Vicky Gill, would arrive to unlock the doors to his stitching factory on the ground floor, below the third floor flat where Naina’s family lived. The quiet of the rooftop would soon be broken with the buzzing commotion from the factory. The hum of Singer sewing machines and the clanking of shears would endure until late evening while the small flock of labourers clipped and stitched patches of coloured leather into sports balls and equipment for foreign markets. It was Rakesh Uncle who, six years ago, had introduced Naina’s newly widowed mother to Vicky Gill. Rakesh, a solitary man who had never wed, was Naina’s mother’s eldest brother. He was initially employed by Vicky as a deliveryman, and had over the years become a permanent fixture in the factory as a trusted production manager and live-in watchman. Rakesh provided Vicky and his family a sense of security and peace of mind, and in exchange, Rakesh was both housed and fed. When Rakesh brought his widowed sister to the factory and told Vicky about the loss of her husband, Vicky hired Naina’s mother without hesitation and her family was invited to live alongside Rakesh on the third floor, atop the factory. At the time, demand was high for sports products and Vicky required earnest workers. Naina’s mother was a hard worker. Never did she complain about the heat when the fans were shut off to reserve power for the generator when the electricity went out daily during the summer months. Nor did she idle very long during tea breaks like some of the other workers who often lingered to gossip before being directed back to their sewing machines by Rakesh. Before long, Naina’s mother had earned Vicky’s respect and trust so much so that she was assigned the duty of serving Vicky’s growing family, particularly Vicky’s mother, Memsaab, in the Gill home. The factory, situated at the foot of a residential colony, was a short distance from the Gill residence to which Naina’s mother walked each early morning. After some time, she took Naina along with her, partly to lessen Asha’s burden of watching over two younger siblings, but also to ensure that her younger dreamy daughter remained grounded. Although the circumstances behind their move to live in the factory were tragic, the amenities and safety of the colony and Rakesh Uncle’s companionship were a timely blessing.

  While the factory remained closed, the rooftop was a retreat of sorts for those like Naina who typically knew not of such constructs. While she had the opportunity to dawdle, she glanced about from beneath the gauzy dupatta shawl that partially draped her brow line.
By habit, she shielded her face from the rising sun to prevent further darkening of her skin. Her eyes searched the rooftop beyond her own for a familiar gaze. Her hopes were deflated when no one could be seen. Having completed her chore, she lingered for a few minutes more, leaning over the veranda wall, twirling wispy strands of stray hair between her fingers, savouring these rare moments of solitude. Ensuring that there was no one about, Naina slipped her hand in an old rusty trunk which stood in a corner on the rooftop. The trunk was packed with remnants of cloth that were used as rags and worn or broken odds and ends that had not yet found their way into the rubbish. Poking through a familiar path, her fingers reached between the folds of a faded blue towel, frayed and torn throughout. Discreetly, she extracted a leather-bound book and pen from the trunk. Nestling herself atop a mound of discarded garments, Naina leaned back against the veranda’s wall and began to write in her secret diary.

  ***

  Dear Diary:

  I’m going to find my own life someday. That’s when I’ll choose for myself what to do and when to do it. It doesn’t bother me when Mummy yells. I know she means well, though she doesn’t smile much anymore. And she doesn’t like it when we look too happy either, especially in front of others, to avoid the evil eye. I don’t really believe in that stuff. It’s just easier to do what I’m told rather than upset her. But sometimes she can be confusing. She warns me to pay attention at school so that I can become bigger than she did, yet still scolds me for talking too smart-smart.