by Bipin Aurora
“One must tell him about the past. The old days. Tell him a joke. A riddle. Make him laugh. Tell him anything (anything, I say)—anything to take the sadness away.”
In this way the old man spoke.
We listened to the old man (how could we not?), we followed his advice. We brought food to my father, we brought him medicine. We sat by his side, we told him stories.
But the bad omen, the graha, did it really go away? We went to the temple, we gave money at the altar. We lit the incense—all night we lit it.
But the bad omen, the graha, did it really go away?
I came home from school, the reporters were there (still there).
“And how much money did they find?”
“Money?”
“How much money did they find under the bed?”
I came home from school, they were there—still there. Some of them were young, some of them were old. Some of them wore white shirts (and white pants), some of them even wore suits.
They tittered, they laughed. They wrote things in their diaries, they wrote things in their notebooks. One of them had a typewriter. He sat on a chair, he laid the machine on a stool in front of him. And he banged away at the keys—how proudly he banged away.
***
One day I went up to my father. He was in his chair, his face was to the wall.
“Papa,” I said.
He did not answer me.
“Papa,” I said.
He did not answer me.
He was in his world, you see, he was in his own world.
I asked him to tell me what had happened, what had really happened.
He looked away.
I was his son, his only son. And if he would not tell me, if he would not confide in me …
But he was in his world, you see, he was in his own world.
***
One day a man came to the house, he opened a tin box: there were a few coins. He opened a tin box: there were no coins. He opened a tin box: there were coins, all the coins in the world.
The coins, the coins: were they a symbol of some kind? Were they a good symbol, a bad? A symbol of what, of what?
***
There was a man (a distant uncle)—he lived at the edge of town. He was a smart man, he was well-renowned. There was an alley downstairs. He kept his horse carriage there, in a garage.
One day we changed our clothes, we packed our tiffin. And we went to see him—to see this man.
We went past the cemetery and we went past the bank. We went past the taxi stand and we went past the public latrines. There was a small stall there (a store of some kind). We turned—we made our way to the right.
He was a tall man, he was handsome. He wore a silk shirt, he wore a scarf around his neck.
We explained to him the case, the specifics of the case.
He looked at us.
Again we explained.
“And how much money does he make?” he said (he was referring to my father).
We told him.
“My bookkeeper makes more,” he said.
“And how much money does he make?”
We told him.
“I pay more than that in taxes,” he said.
They were strange words, what strange words they were. But in this way he spoke.
Perhaps he was trying to insult us; perhaps he was trying to insult my father. Perhaps he was trying to show that his fee was high, that we could not afford it.
We explained to him the case, again we explained.
He seemed indifferent, he seemed bored. Once or twice—or so I thought—he covered his mouth with the back of his hand. Once or twice—or so I thought—he tried to suppress a yawn.
It was a cold night, there were stars in the sky. “The world is a big place,” he said. “This is the way it is.”
It was a cold night, there was the moon there as well. “The world is a cold place,” he said. “This is the way it is. This is just the way it is.”
That night we came home, the people were there, still there. They had put out the string cots—they had put the bedding on top—the pillows, the blankets.
We sat inside (we sat on the floor), we pulled on our ears. We sat inside, we said our prayers.
But the people were there, still there. They would not leave.
I got up in the night (in the middle of the night I did it)—I got up and I looked through the curtains.
But the people were there, still there. They would not leave.
***
They say that the world is a good place—is it really? They say that the world is a bad place—is it really? They say that the world is what it is—it is just the way it is.
Some time passed. We learned that the case had been forwarded to Delhi now. It was under the jurisdiction of a new man—the Additional Commissioner of Police.
There was a police office in Saket—a nice (and even posh) area of Delhi. Sometimes he went there. There was an office in Paharganj—a simple (and much-maligned) place. Sometimes he went there as well.
I was the son in the house, the only son. And was it not my duty? I was the son, the only son. And was there any other way?
One day I rose, I brushed my teeth, and I made my way.
It was cold outside, it was dark. There were trees on the street, there were shadows. But I was who I was—I made my way.
“Who goes there?” they said.
“It is I.”
“Who goes there?”
“It is I.”
I walked, I walked—I walked for some time. At last I came to a building (it was a simple place, nondescript). There were some horse carriages outside, there was an open drain.
There was a courtyard outside. People walked in the courtyard. Some of them were well-dressed and young: they were no doubt the students, the future leaders of the world. Some of them were poor, the laborers. They carried baskets on their heads (with bricks); they squatted before some bushes or some grass, they watered the same.
I arrived at the door, there were two sentries outside. I went past them, a clerk was there. I was allowed at last—I was allowed to enter the demesne.
There was a low table, a fan on the table. There was a window behind the fan; the glass was broken—part of it was covered with some black tape.
There was a ceiling fan overhead. I took a peek at the fan: the fan was not running, a bird had come and made a nest in the fan.
The Commissioner greeted me, he asked me to sit on one of the chairs.
I sat down.
“The son has come,” he said.
I looked at him.
“The son of the corrupt.”
“The accused,” I said.
The Commissioner smiled (he allowed himself a smile). The window was open, and screenless—a bird came through the window, it sat on the ledge.
“The son loves his father. And he has come to plead—to plead on his behalf.”
“To speak,” I said.
“There will be an inquiry, there will be proceedings.”
“But what is the charge?”
“It will be made clear.”
“When?”
“It will be made clear.”
But the Commissioner (it seemed) had said enough. He would say no more.
He was a polite man, he was incapable of being otherwise. But he was also shrewd. He was an important man, he had not risen to his position by being otherwise.
I could stay there—stay as long as I wanted. I could speak—speak as long as I wished. But no more information—no more information would be forthcoming.
“Is the world a good place?”
“It is.”
“Is the world a bad place?”
“It is.”
“It is the way it is—it is just the way it is.”
***
At last it came—the day of the trial came. The courtroom was packed—there were men there, women, children. There was the Additional Commissioner (an important man). There were the repo
rters, the spectators: they were there as well.
My father sat in a corner (on a raised platform), his head was bowed and shaved. How timid he looked!
I wanted to go up to my father, to comfort him. I wanted to tell him that I loved him, that I would fight for him—fight until the end.
But was it so easy—as easy as that?
The man from the other side rose (he was dressed in black robes). He began to speak.
There was silence in the room.
Again he spoke.
There was silence in the room.
“The father is an evil man,” he said.
“An evil man?”
“He is a villain—he is a villain as well.”
There were gasps from the crowd. There were murmurs as well.
The man took a bed, he dragged it into the room. (It was a big bed, it took some time.) They looked under the bed: there was money underneath.
“The money is real, the money is imagined. The money is real, the money is a symbol. But it is there, it is there: it is just the way it is.”
There were gasps from the crowd. There were murmurs as well.
I looked at my father: how timid he looked. I looked at my father: his eyes were lowered. I looked at my father: he did not look at me, he looked away.
“The father took the money, he took it for his family. He took the money, he took it from his family. The money is a symbol: he took something else, something else as well.”
“This something, what is it?”
But the man would not say.
“This something, what is it?”
Silence.
The man, it seemed, had said enough. He smiled, he laughed. He told a joke (and then a second). He told a joke (and then a third).
And then he sat down.
They were strange words—what strange words they were. But in this way he spoke.
At last he rose—the lawyer for my father rose. He said that all men are not the same—this is just the way it is. He said that God made the world, not man—this is just the way it is. He said that the words by the other were rambling, were confused. One must stick to the facts, only to the facts.
But was anyone even listening to the man—listening to a word that he had said?
He said that the charges had to be made clear, made clear. He said that symbols are nice and good, but one must stick with the facts, only the facts. He said that a bed is a private matter. There is no need to look under it. He said that a bed is a private matter. There is no need to look under it: no need to look under the bed.
He spoke, he spoke—he spoke for a long time.
At last he finished, he sat down.
But was anyone even listening to him—listening to a word that he had said?
I looked at my father: how sad he looked. I looked at my father: how small he looked. I looked at my father: and I grieved for him (dear Father). How deeply I grieved!
***
The trial went on, it went on for days. They spoke about God, they spoke about man. They spoke about the symbols—the symbols all around.
There was money under the bed, there wasn’t. There were symbols under the bed, there weren’t. But did it even matter? Something was there, something. And was that not enough? Something was there, something. And was that not the important thing?
I came home that night, the reporters were there, still there.
“And how much money did they find?”
“Money?”
“How much money did they find under the bed?”
The people seemed gleeful that day, especially gleeful. But perhaps this is the way of the world. This is just the way it is.
There was money under the bed—there wasn’t. The money was a symbol—it wasn’t. But so gleeful they were, so gleeful. This is just the way it is.
***
The trial went on for days, it went on for weeks.
One day my father came to my room, he sat beside me. He spoke to me in whispers, he spoke in hushed tones.
“Son,” he said.
He rose, he left the room.
One day my father came, he went to my mother’s room. He sat by her side.
“Wife,” he said.
My mother was good, my mother was kind. She ran her fingers—she ran them through his hair.
And then she did it—she did it again.
The trial went on for weeks, it went on for months.
One day some men came, they put a rope around my father’s wrists. (They spoke in whispers, they spoke in hushed tones.) And then they took him—they took him away.
My mother was weeping; my sister clung to his legs. But do you think they cared? They just took my father (my sister still clinging to his legs)—they took him away.
We followed my father—we tried to follow him. But do you think it helped?
Again we followed him—do you think it helped? They just took my father (like that, like that)—they just took him away.
***
My father was kept in the prison (the building): he was kept there for three years.
One day we went to see him: we were not allowed. One day we went to see him: we were not allowed. A third day we went: we were taken to a room in the back. It was a small room—the windows were closed, the curtains drawn.
He sat in the corner—how quietly he sat.
“Papa,” I said.
He did not answer me.
“Papa,” I said.
He did not answer me.
He was in his world, you see. He was in his own world.
One day we went to see him: we were not allowed. One day we went to see him: we were not allowed. A third day we went: we were taken to a room in the back. It was a small room—the windows were closed, the curtains drawn. There was a ceiling fan there (I saw it). And there he was (my father): he was hanging from the blades of the fan!
His chest was bare, his genitals were exposed. And there he was (dear father): he was hanging from the blades of the fan.
My father had tired of life (or so they said). The fan was turned off. There was a bird there (it had come, it had made a nest). It was a pretty bird: it was small, it was light brown. And perhaps it had given my father company—given him company at the end.
We went to my father: we kissed his legs. We went to my father: we kissed his feet. We went to my father: we looked at him, we looked at him—and then we looked away.
That night we came home. And the reporters were there—they were still there.
“And how much money did they find?”
“Money?”
“How much money did they find under the bed?”
The people were gleeful (how gleeful they looked).
“And how much money did they find?”
“Money?”
“How much money did they find (how much, how much)—how much money did they find under the bed?”
A Small Market
The woman with the baby carriage came to the register. She used the carriage in different ways: to carry the baby, to carry the baby and the groceries, to carry only the groceries. Today, since the baby wasn’t there, it was used—probably—only for the last purpose.
“So what do you think?” said the woman. “Are you scared?”
“Of what?” said Kim.
“You know,” said the woman.
“No, I don’t,” said Kim.
“The other day. Wednesday night. You mean, you really don’t know?”
“No, I don’t,” said Kim. His heart sank.
“The holdup, the robbery. Everybody knows.”
“Oh,” said Kim. He was barely audible.
The woman paid for her goods. “I don’t know how you can put up with it,” she said. “You should go back to school, get another job.”
The man from the liquor store came. He was muttering. Kim rang up his Coke and cupcakes. “Thank you,” Kim said. The man said nothing and left.
It was always busy at this time: three-thirty in the afternoon
, four. The children were coming home from their schools. Also, it was the change of the shift.
Dale, the manager, was in the back room. He was making the deposit, filling out the vendor sheets. Kim wanted to talk to him, to ask him. He had said nothing when Kim had come in an hour earlier.
Mike, who also worked there, came in through the store doors. He winked at Kim; Kim smiled. The line was long and, instead of walking past the customers, Mike made an immediate left turn. He went past the sodas and past the ice cream, making a right and going along the detergents and the eggs and the cheeses. In this way he walked to the store room—and to the small office there—in the back.
***
Kim had begun at the store eighteen months before. He had learned a lot. But the customers? They were not nice.
“Are you married?” they said. “Do you work here?” they said. “I would never work here,” they said.
They were proud people. “Are you Chinese?” they said. “Are you Japanese?” they said. “You did not finish high school—why don’t you go back and finish high school?”
In fact, Kim was in college completing his second year. But they were busy and important people. What did they care?
But yes, Kim had learned a lot at the store. He ran the cash register and he stocked the shelves. He stamped the prices. He swept the floors and he mopped them. He checked the vendors when they came in with their deliveries and made sure that the store was not cheated. He reconciled the receipts at the end of the day.
He had learned a lot about food. He had learned about tuna fish and sardines and kidney beans. He ate kidney beans at home but, before, he could not tell the beans apart. Now he could even tell a kidney bean from a lima bean. He had learned to tell apart the vegetables as well. The fruits. The different sizes of milk.
So much.
But the customers—.
Mike came up to the cash register. He had put on his green smock, tied in the back with a string. “You want me to relieve you?” he said.
“Sure,” said Kim. “Only ten minutes.”
Kim slid up the narrow aisle between the two cash registers. He made a left, and walked towards the store room in the back. There was a lock there—newly installed about two weeks before. Kim used his key to get in.