Meow! Meow!

JUST a few days back, the morning downpour in the steamy summer of Agartala was disturbed by a “Meow! Meow!” sound on the other side of our main door. We listened from the bed. It was feeble and overwhelmed by desperation. The sound was familiar as any childhood memories, meow! meow!.... but I heard again after a gap of many years. We were woken much earlier than the usual set-out time of our mobile alarm.

When my wife opened the door, we saw the cat “caught” on the cemented stairway literally. It was such a tender cat that It was incapable of climbing the next stairway and afraid to climb down the below one due to fear of height. From first sight, the case of the cat could be drawn easily enough: It had lost its mother and was desperately crying for her “warmth” and in its utter dismay started to scale the open roads and ridges and eventually landed up on the shade of human homes.

My wife asked me, “Shall I take it in?”

I had been quite acquainted with the breeds of “Meow! Meow!”. I recounted my childhood days closely affianced to our pet dogs and cats. We kept dogs to guard the house and cats to chase away rats. Though both canines, there is one great difference between cats and dogs. Dogs instinctively become attached and faithfully submissive to their owners, while cats are maniac of a place—warmth, houses or blankets, and craze after their own comforts. Dogs follow their masters but cats are devoted to cupboards and houses and their shits are awfully smelly. I had known it all…..

But the sight of desperation often evokes the kindness quality in human. Encompassing in my mind all those pathetic experience about cats and knowing fully what will befall, I told my wife, “Okay…No probs. Let’s keep it as a pet”

By sheer coincidence or by fate, I now see myself adopting a stray cat. And in this case, it is a “SHE”, and my friend over her named her PAWNG-SI, a friend from Mumbai named her GOLIATHA. I named her MENGKENG.

During her first day, she cried all day and all night thinking of her mother’s breast. The milk and the playing items that lay strewed on the floor of the house were meaningless to her. The only thing which could quench her hunger was her mother’s breast. On the second day I forced her and dipped her lips on the can of pure milk. She liked it. Now she starts eating chicken, biscuits and maggi. And she is growing real fast. Much faster than the rate at which she grows, she is exponentially playful.

I sit here, courting with a very hard life. However, my MENGKENG is in content—the warm house, me, my wife and the foods. Her mind is not deceived by any thought of the future. She jumps around on my laps and floor and on the warmth of my laptop disturbing more of my disturbing present. She doesn’t learn how to catch mice, for she was deprived of the luxury of being trained by her mother. How long can I provide milk and warmth? How long will the house in which she comes as a refugee stands? I am really worried. I asked my mother if an untrained cat could learn the art of catching mice when they reach adulthood. She told me that the sole purpose of a cat is to catch mice and she will eventually master the art, trained or untrained. Then, if that is the case I am saved. The cat at least will not die of starvation even if the feeble leave under which she comforts herself falls anytime, anywhere.

MEMOIRS OF KALINA

The unlucky thief

1

Of length, I used to muse about that thief who was caught on the night of July 2006. Was that thief destined to be caught? Was the catcher, above all things, an ordained thief-catcher, a specially designed "Knight" of God to lead His campaign on the world of thieves?

This writing has cropped up from the thought on the catching of that low criminal—a burglar and so altogether I don’t find quite worthy or rather an appetizing subject to write on it. But years hence, the humors and specialties associated with the incident has its repercussions: It has nostalgic effects and gets resurrected time and again to make me fill with laughter and bygone adventures. The thought would turn the subject to an appealing one.

That fateful incident happened in KALINA Village, in Mumbai around 10:30 in the night.

The topography of KALINA was a saturation of “some kind of design” that had evolved out of “no design”. Big and small apartments, shops, “unsuspecting tiny houses” filled with wines were strewn rumbled much like an assortment of pebbles dumped on the sidewalk. On the odd entrance of the main village was the statue of Veilakani (Virgin Mary) clad in glistening sarees, who silently blessed all the bows and devotions she received. Countless alleys dived-in from everywhere into the village much like the puzzling tracks and holes of rodents under jungle trees and shrubs. At night, these small passageways were marked by pitch dark corners and holes to which billowing dim lights could barely reached and making them a first class habitat for burglars.  If one is not well verse with the twist and turn of the alleys, the colour/orientation of a particular house, etc., the consequence is to get lost and loiter around whole day and night on those never-ending curves. I have had my share of experiences on that.

Let me get back to the story. KALINA, 10:30 at night was the time when the day’s shift workers returned home, had dinner and settled to rest in front of their TV set or dozed off on the bed. Reciprocally, it was also the time when night’s shift workers left their homes and were on trains or buses to attend to their duty. The time was, in fact, one short time for relaxation and calmness, much like a short serenity after a cyclone.

Having nothing to do much with the serenity of the time, we became restless inside that low-roofed house. So, Abraham L. Pangamte and I started to pour out that so called KAILASH and sipped down the throat feeling the dabbing of our intestines by KAILASH. The effect was quick and sweaty: it was like throwing oneself into a bond fire.

2

Mumbai is a place which does not have a proper winter. The weather all year round is sweaty, dry and inconveniently humid. And due to its unforgiving design, Kalina is all the hotter.  KAILASH can have its absolute impact. Yes! Let me stretched more on this. The hotness of Kalina showcased many more things; the most obvious being on the dress of womenfolk.  For those young, fair skins females with novice minds, the main battle was how to fight the hotness with dresses. Accordingly, when they went to Bandra market, they would purchase itsy-bitsy garments. They would buy clothes not for wearing but for hanging on their body. Also, they would pick jeans, so abnormally small that the wearer would squeeze inside the jeans with extra-hardships to wear them. If one exaggerates, it can be said that the wearer stays outside of the jeans. In the midst of these young girls under-dressed or over-dressed (I don’t know), there were another group of womenfolk who frowned at them, who disregarded them like whores or human baits. These groups were the member of the congregation of Veilakani who stuck strictly to knee-length skirts, full sleeves shirts and veils on the head to preserve dignity. Other group was those Muslim womenfolk who wore BURKHA, always on the guard least their skin would be shown. Except these two groups of womenfolk, the others were confused “working class” who had a stead-fast belief that the beholder of their beauty should be bewitched by their revealed young skins. But they were all justified. When one confronted anyone, the usual answer was, “Kalina is Hot” and they should embraced those “sexy-tiny” dresses as their birthright if at all they should stay in Mumbai. More, if they should stay in Kalina.

Oh! I had drifted too far from the main story. Let me go back to my story.

Under the hot Kalina roof and sky, the effect of KAILASH was unpredictable. That night, it boosted us to quarreling, and being a married man, who is there to quarrel with except the better half, who is your own, slave, smiles or tears? I could not recollect how well or how gruesome the verbal brawls climaxed. The next episode leaded to a scene where my wife packed and threatened to leave me; and Abraham Pangamte with all his inherent talent of a “KAILASH Master”, persuading her not to take any foolish decision. But the problem with any persuasive act that resulted from KAILASH was that even the persuader didn’t know his exact mission. So, the noble act of a “KAILASH negotiator”, instead of bringing peace, often leads to a more eccentric situation for both the scuffling parties and more quarreling.

3

The next episode showed my wife leaving our rented room and headed towards Paukhomawi’s rented apartment, which was just a stone throw from my room. The residue left after the quarrel for the room was Abraham Pangamte and I. Abraham Pangamte was about five years younger to me, maybe more but that night he was holding the biggest spoon of wisdoms and advises. He could recollect all the famous quotes and was not making any grammatical mistakes in his advises. He was a non-stop bore for an elder like me; and that had made the humidity higher. “Young and still unmarried and dictating the life of someone who was his elder and married” was how the KAILASH talked to me and instigated me further to quarrel. The next minute, Abraham left the room, drenched, unsuccessful and all the more angry.

In the meantime, Joseph Lalpiengrem Joutepa, staying on a small room on top of Paukhomawi’s apartment, was not feeling much of the heat of KALINA. He was in the mood and put on the song “Bed of Roses” by Bon Jovi through his tiny DVD player. With his big fingers (who were proud enough to be his) he applied face-pack to his face and admired himself, forward and sideways, through his tiny mirror. Estimating from the cachet emitted by his hulky size, well-trimmed hairs and deep classy voices, the face-pack product he applied to his face seemed to be of Avon’s. But the actual fact was proven when you walked near him----you would smell a pack of TANAKHA, MADE IN MOREH. He was unmarried and had tough battles ahead. In his world of KALINA, he was the senior most and the biggest, no doubt. But more young “fair angles” from home town had moved into KALINA for wants of “easy works” thanks to economic liberalization. And he needed to keep up with their fairness; he needed to look more handsome for the key to romancing with them depended chiefly on looks. Young girls like handsome guys. Joutepa was quite sure about that. And TANAKHA face-pack was the least of what he applied to his face lately.

My wife, with air bag full of clothing treaded the stairway of Paukhomawi’s apartment. But unfortunately the house was locked. Paukhomawi had left for his “call-center” duty and his wife and two children were out visiting friends in the vicinity. The KAILASH negotiator Abraham followed her minutely behind. Suddenly without any expectation my wife saw one local guy, with a long iron rod, trying to hook valuables from outside the open window of Paukhomawi’s house. After verifying he was indeed a thief trying to steal from the window, my wife shouted, “CHOR! CHOR!” The ever self proclaimed agile, vigilant and self-ordained peace-maker Abraham was not aware of it: he was somewhere in between heaven and hell. Within fraction of a second, the unsuccessful thief dashed away.

After all, a high-pitched voice was not made just for quarreling with a husband. It can be quite handy when spotting a thief. The “CHOR! CHOR!” high decibel sound of my wife gathered many people in the vicinity.

Some ran about looking for the thief. Among the volunteers, the one who turned up unprepared and unaware at the later time was Joutepa with his white TANAKHA face-pack, tight fitting half pants and shirtless. When he enquired about it and had learnt that a burglar was trying to rob his first-floor neighbour Paukhomawi, his biceps started to grow beefy and his senses more sensitive and his appearance changed like in that movie “HULK”. In a zillionth fraction of a second, he just vanished, no where to be seen. The next second when people saw him again he was in those dark alleys with “stood-up” ears and black shiny eyes, tracing the thief, in an exact manner of a cat chasing a mice in the dark. From the time of the first spotting of the thief in that house to the time when Joutepa was seen lurking in the dark, more than 45 minutes had passed, sufficient enough even for the slowest thief to escape.

4

Tick! Tick! The time had lapsed 1 hour. Joutepa was still sniffing, vibrating his cat ears. At last, he smelt the burglar out of his hiding- hole. Being spotted, the thief took to his heels and ran towards the closest alley with the swiftness of a mouse. And with the swiftness of a jungle cat, Joutepa pounced at him with his 85 Kg frame. The thief took the blow and laid flat on the middle of the alley; but the “jungle cat” Joutepa was still on top of him with all his weight. Tremendous weight on top is treacherously abysmal: the thief shitted and murmured a sound of surrender under the unshakable weight of the jungle cat.    

The next episode was Joutepa dragging the thief, scolding and chiding at the same time. It was to everybody’s amazements how he could capture him. When the thief was seated on the foundation of that St. Rogue statue and surrounded by people, the platform was for Abraham Pangamte. If I am not mistaken, he is the only person alive, of all the Hmars who can speak Marathi. Fortunately for Abraham but mercifully for the thief, the thief happened to be a Marathi.

Abraham at once took the matter into his hand, after the capture, and scolded the thief in Marathi language. He pointed the face of the burglar, then the whole of Kalina, and then the whole sky above with his fore finger. His voice was hoarse, intimidating, and sounded to us like any flawless Marathi. After the incident, Abraham asserted that the burglar would not steal again due to his scolding and advice. He said, “My rebuke may be the most painful one he ever comes across in his life”. But the actual underlying truth of the scolding could not be fully proven as none, other than Abraham, could speak nor understand Marathi. No one really knew what that scolding was all about.   

However, any way I feel the thief was one unlucky son: one who land up to get scold by a quarrelsome Hmar, Mr. Abraham pangamte and that too, in Marathi. Of all the rowdy scolding he came across and will come across in future, I believe the thief will always remember that scolding by Abraham as I reckon it to be the most painful of any scolding, for the past, present or for the future. Did the thief understand what he said? Or did Abraham fully understand what he spoke out in Marathi? The fact will not be proven. But I believe he would still felt them so painful.

Till today, after that incident I asked myself “Is there a destiny?” “Can we change destiny?” “Is it destiny that we make or is it destiny that makes us?”

THE UNFORGETTABLE TARZAN

Dogs are men best friends.

Most “house-dwelling” living things— say of cats, rats, caterpillars, ants, mosquitoes, bedbugs or other micro-organism like bacteria or fungi cannot be best of friends. They are quite a maniac of something or the other. Some are madly super-playful (say Cats), some indulge in excessive likeness for food and blood (like Rats, Caterpillars, Ants, mosquitoes etc.) and some spread diseases.

Dogs are, however agile. They are intelligent, faithful, and cannily ferocious and have conscience that can “own” its owners.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

When I had my first introduction into the intelligent world of the dogs, I must have been 8 or 9 years old.  I cannot forget our dog named TARZAN.

Whenever I retrace the memories of TARZAN, I use to be filled with the affection and the association I had with that dog in that point of my lifetime. Equally, I also get worried over things that are always changing. I feel unhappy and I often find myself being puzzling more by life itself.

One fine morning, in those many years ago, my father (being an early-riser and habitual visitor to any probable kin in the locality) came home with a puppy. He kept it on the floor of the kitchen and it was screeching and rubbing its feeble limbs forward and backward on the floor. Its furs were silky white, and had big ears that flap by the sides of its head. The eyelashes were red with tenderness and eyelids watery-black.  My elder brother said, “The limbs and ears are big for its size. It may be of Labrador breed. Let us tame it nicely”. My younger brother was the most excited. With all longing eagerness he ran about the dog to grab it (He could be 2 or 3 years then). All of us were massively happy.

My father said that he forcefully paid the kin 20 rupees in spite of his roaring hesitation to take the money. In my misconceived childish opinion, I wandered why he paid 20 rupees for the damn dog, when he usually pays one or two rupees for our pocket money.  Dogs are everywhere, barking and chasing around. They are as available and as free as air.

It was way later, when TARZAN grew into manhood that I realized the 20 rupees was the “life insurance money” for the dog. There is a lingering belief that all living things taken for taming has to be insured by exchanging our most prized possession (in this case money) on their behalf. If not, they die a quick premature death.   

My first scrutiny on the dog was whether it was a “HE” or a “SHE”. After proper investigation with my brothers, the fact was proven. It was a proper “HE”.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

And why the name TARZAN? In that year, the Bollywood song “Tarzan” was swirling at its peak in the locality. Every household played the music, danced and marveled at its tunes. It was so simple and captivating! And so, we agreeably named the puppy TARZAN. And the fact of being the TARZAN for the house was uncontested and came to each notice in no time.

When my father snatched TARZAN from her mother, he was yelling not willing to part with the warmth and milk of his mother. On the first week of his stay in our house, he was insecure and found us all alien and learned each “one step” with a faint light that penetrated his young pupil and limbs as fragile as reeds. Who could be in more misery than a child snatched from the breast of its mother?

But, TARZAN he was!  He had a strong emotion and stubbornly inclined himself to survive, no matter what. He tried to survive and grew to keep up to his name. Now, his mother’s milk was replaced by cow’s milk, biscuits and sometimes rice.

When he was a month old and as big as medium-size horlick can, his inclination to learn new things— the human way—started to evolve. He did not cry for food until we dine. And when we ate, he approached his food-bowl and looked about at us, asking food.  On school going time, he would rumble around, pulling our trousers as we wore it and roamed around searching for our shoes. He had just mastered the art of delivering shoes for his masters. On departure for school, it was his utmost priority to see us off up to the front door. And then went back to his bed under the chair.

In less than a year he grew into a macho dog, with silky furs that sparkled on the face of the sun. Till now, I do not find a dog of such beauty. He dashed with energy and prowled about with that colors of a white angel. And when he moved, his ears were flapping like the wings of a swift bird. I had always heard people saying, “Your dog is very beautiful and clever”. We were a very proud owner.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

As much as to his beauty, his mind was conscious. One night, I must have been class 4 or 5 then, he kept on barking. We didn’t pay much attention—he always barked at strangers. That night, he didn’t stop barking, and then he ran to the door and pushed it, with the intent of telling us what he saw. My father and I ran out with torch in his hand, and on the glare we saw TARZAN leading our way towards the bamboo grooves in the dark. He started to stop barking, instead he squealed on us and bit my father’s trouser and pulled towards the grooves. What we saw was horrifying—a young girl, must had been 7 or 8 years old, holding an infant, wrapped in loose sheets, covered with blood and stains. She was sobbing intensely, covering her mouth with her hand so that she would not be heard. Mosquitoes had bitten her red and swelling; leeches sucked the blood from her legs and were almost bursting with blood like balloons. We took the girl in the refuge of our house. They stayed with us for few days and the infant child was crying most times due to cold and fever. Whenever she cried, TARZAN was the first to show care; he would jump to where the infant sleep and looked at her, wagging as if telling her not to worry about a thing.  It was later learnt that the girl ran away from home when she overheard her parent’s decision of selling her infant sister for needs of money. Had it not been for TARZAN, the girl and the infant would not have been saved.  

When TARZAN was around 10 to 12 months old, he was filled with stamina. He was ferocious too’’. He could sense his family members even in the darkest night, and could bark at any unrecognized “face and smell” even in the middle of his sleep. And when he was 13 months old, he was fully grown with husky voice and libido started to show up in his blood. 

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

When TARZAN was about a year’s old he started to admire female and longed for sex. More in mating season, his libido would grow untamable,  like fanning a coal furnace, and he would forget that he is a tame animal and ran out of the house and went stray, looking for a mate.

The blood of a living is a fluid of battles. It is the fight between cares, love, tenderness and the atrocity of hatred, urge, desires and barbarism. Life of a living is just an act between these two extremes. And when the “need” part of the blood calls, without having any thought, the living often submits to insanity, brutality and irrationality. So was TARZAN.

He would undergo barbarism, straying, not returning until a week or two. During all those insanity (mostly due to sexual urge) he mostly came back wounded and tired. There use to be gang-fight in even in the world of dog. And the fight use to be more aggressive when the goal is fleshy—female. And when tired and wounded, his nature was calmer—timid but bolder. He craved for more cares from us. He hated strangers more, and jumped at them in disarrayed mood, gnawing his teeth and tongue. He could be calmed only by hearing our voice.

One night I was alone at home studying. TARZAN walked up to me, lie on the chair and put his head on my lap. He looked at me profoundly. I said, “How are you, Tarzan?” He seemed to grumble in complain in his reply. He looked as if he had so many things to tell me—could be a sad doggie story, or about life or about the sorrow of death. Then, all of a sudden we heard sounds from our kitchen. TARZAN and I ran out of the room to check the sound. It was a burglar on the verge of sneaking into the kitchen from the window. TARZAN did not miss a second. He pouched on the thief and bit him on the leg, but he somehow managed to overpower TARZAN and jumped out the same way he came in. It was quite a scene, and that was the first time in all his life that TARZAN bit a human, hurt a human.

Still unsatisfied, TARZAN jumped out of the window, without barking, without sound, he traced the thief. The aftermath sound was deadly. He bit, scratched and jumped on the thief till he immobilized him. The thief was caught and before taking to police custody, he was taken to hospital. He was a deprived handsome young man. Consequently while dressing his wounds the pretty nurses asked him “how he got injured?” The thief answered, “I was attack by a mad dog on my way to Church!” None want to spoil our chances.

That day and the week that followed, TARZAN was the talked of the town—a hero. I was so proud when people talked about his achievement. In fact I was flying. Even local newsmen came to us to take picture of him. In the picture I was holding TARZAN like any proud owner had done before.

But my father was not happy at all on that attack. He found it very inevitable that he would attack and bite again, not only thief but innocent stranger. And then my father, in all his seer conscience came up with a plan—to cut his canine teeth so that it would not hurt others. No member in the family, at that time, knew that cutting canines would make the dog incapacitated. It was thought to be good for the family and more for the dog.

And so it was. During September while I was in class 6, I guess, the canines teeth were trimmed with the instruction of my father. With pliers and many men at armed, forcing TARZAN like a big uncontrollable baby, they blunted his canines.

The aftermath days that followed were different for TARZAN. He opened his mouth in pain, watery saliva flowing out the sides. He could not eat because of irritation and pain. Every day he grew thinner. Sometimes, he tried eating biscuits or soft rice. But he could not take much. He was always hungry and weak and sad at how things could just changed into, like that, in a flip of a second. And those were the time when he needed us the most. He would lay by our sides, and looked at us through his weak eyes, asking what we have done to him. Father took him to veterinary doctor regularly. With medication, his condition had improved. But there is some originality given by life, if broken, could not be substituted by any medicines. TARZAN lost his strength.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

During one breeding month, Tarzan strays again as usual. He did not return after a week or two. All the three of us brothers went out looking for him. Every day for one whole week, search in the morning before school, and after school in the afternoon, were unproductive. My father even published about the missing TARZAN in the local newspaper with a promise of reward for any spotter. My younger brother and I were like crying and sobbing, literally. We did cry though in secret. I didn’t know how often my brother cry, how much he miss TARZAN, as he did not reveal it and did everything in secret. For me, I cried a lot. I really miss TARZAN. I wanted to touch his furs, I wanted to call him and I wanted to see him running towards me. I felt the house emptier. TARZAN was the most regular living being in the house that would wel-come us back after school, which would wait by our sides with faithful gestures. The woolen pillow I had placed for him during his canine injuries was still there left untouched.

One morning we were waken by a weak squealing sound of TARZAN. All of us, rushed towards the sound cheerfully. But our joy was knocked down by the sight. We found TARZAN lying beneath the bush covered in blood and injuries. The tooth marks of dogs could be seen all over his body and deep blood were oozing from them. Both his eyes were bitten blind and the right side of his skull was punctured badly. He wagged his tail once or twice when he heard our voice. I could not hide any longer. I cried holding the waist of my father and cry, “Tarzan….don’t die, don’t die!” But death came swiftly for him once he heard his family’s voice again. He took one last deep breath and released his soul.

After almost 30 years hence when I look now, our house is emptier. Except that day when TARZAN died, I never have another chance to hold my father and cry soberly. Instead, one by one they leave us.  Tarzan left us first. Then my father. And then my younger brother. And then my grand mother. TARZAN was the only living being in the family who heard my voice before taking the final journey.

That is the story of TARZAN. Everyday I become firmer and firmer to the conclusion that it’s a story of my life too.

DEATH

Stephan C. Hmar

Many times the thought about “death” would cross my mind.

What will death be like? Which of the two—life or death—could be superior? What is really worth living for? What is really worth dying for? Of course, all these type of unexplainable thought makes me a boring chap and tend to make me the odd one even in my own world.

It is a true cliché, there is only one way to born but many ways to die. And as such, as sure as we know how, where and when we born, we are hell sure we are going to die, sooner or later. But none can tell with certain exactness the “How” “Where” or the “When” part. Death stalks us, and will break us when least expected and this is the only certainity of the future.

Every human getting born in this planet called “The Earth” is bound to die. And in between these two extremities—birth and death— we live in many ways. Some are fortunate enough to enjoy it while some are deprived like broken wings of a bird. But all born out of no choice and this is why this untamable life has its own fair share. The complexities and the explainable, the bliss and sorrow, the likes or the hatred that besieged life is beyond life’s own approval or disapproval.  Without the power of approval or disapproval, try however you may, you are still a slave. Oh! I may be wrong in mentioning the word “Slave”, on second thought. Even manmade slaves could attain freedom. But when are we, the “slaves” of life itself, going to get our freedom?   This might be the reason why a philosopher wrote, “All Men are born equal, but everywhere he is in chains”. Men makes slaves out of its fellow-beings, but slaves could get their independence, but the type of slavery life endowed on mankind has no freedom, knows know freedom. The grip is here to stay.  And this might be the reason when every thinking man, in his most debatable murmur often says, “Life is Unfair”. But no humans, in all its power and “total-sum” can really change that.

 Almost everyday, I annoyingly heard news of death. Some are the dear ones, and some are young ones and others old ones. Some people who died are those who use to know me very well, who cuddled me when I was young. Some were my class-mates, some even my childhood crush. Also, while passing by along the roads, I often come across funeral truck carrying some dead body, with smelly agarbatis and lots of drum sounds. Death has its immense tolls on the living; laughter could not be its friend. A roaring cry, painful calmness, grief, incomprehensibilities loots the near and dear.

All the death of my acquaintances inconveniences me quite alarmingly. The memories of them lingers in my brain, and I all finds them victim of “unfair death” when they have so many things to do in life. “Why does death knock them down so early? Or at odd times?” I would say to myself, in my own judgments. On the face of death, that is the only helpless judgment one can make. It is a thorny problem—you need to indulge in it, crying but you can’t change a thing.

I have had my fair share of death in my family. My father, brother and my grandma they all died during my absence. I could not be there to hold them, at least, during their last breath. But I don’t blame myself. Everyone has but only one destiny, and being unable to be there in their last moment could be my destiny. And their destiny too. As much as I could not be there, I could not set my tears much. Some sorts of mystic comforts overtook me in those times and I was rather consoled. The firm reality that death strikes when it feels it is the time, without human’s approval or disapproval, was so much acceptable to me and that soothe me quite all right.

Death is something intensely strange— a change of state from mobility to immobility. In one time, when they are human, you talked with them through phone, in other time they bless you, they pray for you, they wished you all the good things of life. When you meet them, you don’t need an introduction to get love or scold; you are the pupil of their eyes. But the next thing, death crept in and they are just there, not talking, nor moving, nor feeling and the only thing left of them is your living memories of their care, their smiles and tears when they were alive. You started to recollects all of them, but I doubt if they really miss those?

Time heals the wounds. They used to say. But the secret is time cannot not heal all wounds, especially wounds inflicts by death.  Time goes by and the thought about them multiplied. But, strangely for me, I don’t miss those times when they cooked the food I like, or when they see me grow with anticipation, with all encouragements. I miss of the transition they experienced, the realm where one is free from the slavery inflicted by mortal life itself. I know they never desire to return to this planet Earth, for they rested in some abode, something life itself is yet to experience. This is one reason why of all poem, I like the below poem the dearest.

When I am dead, my dearest,

         Sing no sad songs for me;

Plant thou no roses at my head,

         Nor shady cypress tree:

Be the green grass above me

         With showers and dewdrops wet;

And if thou wilt, remember,

         And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,

         I shall not feel the rain;

I shall not hear the nightingale

         Sing on, as if in pain:

And dreaming through the twilight

         That doth not rise nor set,

Haply I may remember,

         And haply may forget.

                                 (Christina Rossetti)

This is what our life is all about. In Death.

THE REAL GHOSTS

CHAPTER 1

I don’t believe in the existence of ghost. However, I am pretty worried of coming across one… maybe somewhere in lonely streets, kitchen, or deep in the night when I am alone in my room.

Does ghost exists? Is it due to our pre-assumed belief that we create one, as usual? It is, indeed, an evident nature of humans to be always in fear of things we don’t touch or see. We are hell scare that there is something bad about everything—the unknown, darkness, jungles, people, locality, life, etcetera. We are really strange creatures. Out of pure madness that results mostly from the vast unknown, we force ourselves to believe in things, while the real facts turns out to be something else.

Whether true or not, it is interpreted that ghosts are irritating spirits of dead people or whosoever, that haunts people or places. Whatever they are, they are not welcomed for the living.

I don’t like ghost but l like their stories. Accordingly, I came across many people who claimed to have seen one. Some claimed they heard shrieking laughter deep in the jungles at night. Others said that they saw human-like form, hairy and smelly, stalking in the dark, and when approached, mysteriously disappeared in thin air. Many people also talked of their experienced with apparition of the dead, of haunted houses, cemeteries or jungle roads.

CHAPTER 2

Like these people who claimed to have actually seen or feel ghosts, I had one encounter once. It was a wet, moonless mid-night and I was walking towards home. The whole skies above were covered with black clouds like thick blankets and the roads beneath were deserted with pitch-dark shadows. No human beings were in sight. And for my pace, I was relying entirely on the flickering light of street bulbs and some faint lights of nearby houses that penetrate through the rattling leaves.

While I was about mid-way, the electric power of the whole town was suddenly cut-off. And with it quickly came an unimaginable darkness. I completely lost my sense of sight. I opened my eyes as wide as possible but could not see anything but darkness. I had to tread my way like a blind person, holding out my arms forwards, picking steps as my brain instructed me from the knowledge I had of the road. Then, suddenly by instinct, I was expecting something frightful. I was expecting a horrifying ghost appearing out of nowhere. 

I said in my mind, “Tonight is the night I will end up seeing ghost”

I walked very slowly, gathering all the sense that was left in me, and after about walking for almost eternity, I touched something. And that something produced sounds that were the loudest in all my lifetime. I was almost scared to death, my already frightful thought was seized by numbness and shocks on my nervous system, and I fell to the ground. Lying on the ground, I opened my eyes wide to see anything appearing. It was useless, all darkness. At last I got up, reached my hand towards that something, only to found out that it was that bamboo fencing laid by my neighbor. After touching my neighbor’s fencing, I returned back to senses and could locate directions. I turned towards my home, and opened my eyes strongly and could see a very faint light of the lantern from our house. With it, fears faded away, and changed the pounding ghastly darkness to be less serious—I ended up almost seeing or touching a ghost.

CHAPTER 3

Two or three years ago, during 2010, I needed to move to another city to stay there for many years. This time, I was but excited to get a house of my choice. I have been in cities for many years, rather long enough to realize the madness within. One is enslaved by one’s own wills and unlimited desires, and submerged all simple freedoms and divinities, unrealized. Nothing could be sadder than that.

This time round, I wanted to stay somewhere in the outskirt of the new city.  I believed, from the experience I have had in cities, there had to be something magical staying in isolation.

When I approached Mr. Kalmi, a housing agent in that city with my descriptions of my preferences, he was quick to tell me one particular house. Soon I was spell-bounded with his descriptions. The house was isolated, the nearest neighbor was at least half a mile away, and was connected to the nearest train station, 15 miles away, by a good road-ways that passed through jungles full of tall trees and undergrowths. It lacked city life as much as city life lacked these isolations.

I moved to the city, and after three days, as the time set by me, we went to see the isolated house. It had a big lawn with only woods in the neighbourhood. When Mr. Kalmi opened the main door-way, I could see a big living room, but all covered by dirt and dry leaves. 

I asked, “The house has been empty for so long?”

Mr. Kalmi said, with a tone that seemed repetitive but with grinned face, “Civilized world! Civilized people! Sir... That is why…. When people see the isolation, they think of the likeliness of murders or ghosts, and turns down the offer. But, Sir, you don’t believe in them, don’t you?” And hold his hands together.

I said to Mr. Kalmi, with a smile, “That’s nonsense. But, I like it. I wanted to inspect on the general belief of isolation as being dangerous and risky”.

If you happen to think in terms of murder, death or ghosts, this place seemed a perfect place, than those of cities. Beyond the windows, you could see only trees and shrubs of various sizes and the sky that was solitarily bluish. The slightest imagination on what sorts of creatures lived there seemed panicky and chilling to the bones. 

I moved into this isolated house, after having done the necessary paper works, in October, 2010. Alone, I started staying in isolation in that isolated, mystic house. Sometimes, during daytime, vehicles would run along the road but scarcely. I would hear their approaching and receding sounds like the Doppler effects in physics. The morning sun used to be intense and its path along the azure skies reflected something deeper.  Nothing is ever interesting than staying closer to something hidden with meanings. Night would come fast and heavy, stars were brighter. And the moon seemed to know me better. This place seemed one of a kind. I would ask myself, “Such as friendly as this. Where are the ghosts?” I would look towards the woods, rather with deep thought from the verandah, holding a glass of whisky. I would see lights penetrating here and there and then disappeared till the next lights come. I also heard, perhaps jackals, or dogs, fighting over something.

I would sing, “Too much in the woods, unknown. But, I felt closer, closer, to something which I don’t know. But I felt closer to where I belong”

CHAPTER 4

It was after two weeks of staying that I started hearing noises in my house. I was already in my bed and was trembling in fear. Estimating from the sound, I believed the ghost to be very big in size, with a long knife, hitting at my vessels and drawers in my kitchen. I was so scared that I did not lift the blanket off my face until the next morning. Early morning, when I went down to the kitchen I saw the thrash-can was upside down. My left-over curries were scattered all over the place. One of my windows was wide opened. I said, “Whoever he is, he is one hell of a hungry ghost”. And as I turned towards the window of my living room, I saw my curtains swaying vigorously and beneath them, but faintly enough I could see two hairy eyes staring at me from outside the window and vanished.  I was panic-stricken and terrified. I ran towards my bed room, and kicked the door ajar. My heart-beat increased vigorously and was startled to the bones by any noises I could hear. I closed my eyes and listened to my congested mind on what to do next.

I picked up my phone, and called Mr. Kalmi. I shouted, “Mr. Kalmi, tell me where to get a rifle”

From the other side of the phone, Kalmi replied, “Oh! What a strange request? Trying to enjoy murder in isolation?” and he chuckled.  

“There are creatures here, strange enough. Beyond that I don’t know. I know they are here. This house is haunted. And I need something….a rifle” I answered with a frisking, shivering voices. The next moment, I found myself in the city with Mr. Kalmi, purchasing a rifle with ammunitions, plenty enough to wage wars. As I drove back towards my house, it was mildly dark already, and I could see a black car, more like abandoned, on the road side. I pulled over near the car, and called out, “Anybody there?” Not from far, I heard laughter, and two young lovers came out from the woods. I asked them if they know anything about strange creatures and warned them to leave the place as it was not safe. The young man yelled, “Ghosts are everywhere” and they both smiled at me, which I felt were wrongly cast for what was there beneath the woods behind them. I left them in the shadows.

That night, I was staying awake in my room, with a ready-rifle. I gazed at my watch and it was half past mid-night. One thing I discovered was that when you are scared and occupied with ghost-things, or any of that type, your senses are over sensitive. The sound of a speeding vehicle talked to me like a roaring sound of blood-thirsty demon. The rattling on the roofs sounded like strange creature crawling on them. I peeped from my window towards the woods, I could see dark trees. The more I stared at them; they looked like they were walking up to me, with their long tooth and pointed hands.

I sat still, wide awake, waiting for my predicament with the ghost of my house.

It was exactly 2 in the morning when I heard a scratching, tearing sound from my main door.  I summed up my courage, with my loaded rifle in hands, I slowly moved out of the room. First, I looked around my dark living room. In one corner, I saw a deadly monster in black robes with red eyes, sitting on my chair. I didn’t have any second thought with fear; I shot straight at the monster. The whole room was filled with smokes from my rifle, and when the smokes partially subsided I could see the monster no more. It vanished. I rubbed my eyes but it was no more. I re-loaded my gun, and approached the main door. Everything was in total silence, now. I slowly opened the door and when I looked out I could see a hairy creature running across the lawn towards the woods. It was a big black ghost. I aimed my rifle and shot straight at it, twice.

With my rifle ready, I went and checked the kitchen, the thrash in thrash-can were all scattered like before, and the window was opened, but nothing in sight. I rushed back to my bed room and waited for any other sound. All was quite then. A pin drop silence, except the sound of humming leaves blown by the mild winds.

CHAPTER 5

When I woke up, my rifle was still on my hand and I found myself sitting in the corner. I could not know how long I slept there. The sun was high up and I could hear the whining sound of animals outside. I ran out of the door and when I looked across the lawn, dogs were barking at a big black dead cow.

 “What the hell is that?” I uttered to myself in disbelief.

I ran across my lawn and checked on the dead cow only to be more worn out in disbelief. It was not that big black ghost that I saw last night, but a lovely looking black cow. My first bulled pierced through from the right lower rib right straight through its heart, and the second one hit its lower jaw, shattering it completely. My face turned red and in shame.

I ran back to my house and checked at that demon I shot. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I shot at my dark woolen coat that I carefully hanged on my sitting chair the other day.

I sat down, with half a sense, thinking back the clarity of my sighting of ghosts last night, and how untrue they turned out. Outside, the dogs are barking and licked on the oozing bloods of the cow. Inside my room, I hanged my head in shame and disbeliefs while the whole room was still filled with the smell of gun powers that were fired on ghosts.

The vast unknown produced madness and insanity in humans and we see or feel things one-sided— in the way of how much we knew, in the line of what we had believed. And what we have discovered out of this madness is causing death, curses and hatred for the beautiful things that surrounded us. We just turned beautiful things to ghosts, in our own limited brains and sights.

I called up Mr. Kalmi and said, “Hey! There ain’t any ghosts, but beautiful creatures of the woods. The real ghost in this house is me”. And I hanged up. 

LUCILLE LALZARZO

Writing is one way of liberation.

When you write you literally go beyond your four walls and roof. For sad, depressed or deprived people, it can occur easily as a handy tool to forget realities.  Realities are too hard to bear and sometimes, the only solution is to tame them, and charge at them where they don’t expect.

I found writing to be one of those many solutions, to defy realities.

Today, I want to write about a story told to me by my best friend. My friend narrated this particular story long ago. I could remember the story, the cozy room where he narrated, but not the date. Sometimes brain can be deceiving and let one recollects only incidences, but not dates.

I could recall that it was a rainy summer. My friend and I were in a cozy, partially dark room. We could see through the windows the leaves slapped by rain-drops and the sound of gutters burdened up by rain waters. The summer rains in that area were often accompanied by slow whirl-winds that the rain drops have erratic patterns--- they were as unpredictable as rotten mangoes. We sat there, side by side, listening to the drumming of tin sheets and the droplets hitting the grounds.

One strange thing of meeting with a friend who was sealed by fate and life itself was that you didn't have much to say. Why? We have so much to say, but dulled by the realities, and so surprised by how things could turned to, that you just sat there, not saying anything about it. There was just nothing to speak about with so many things to speak about. We were like an obedient child, being advised to zip his lips, because the child has so much to say about realities. That was how my friend and I were, beneath that tin-roofs and the summer rains.

My friend said to me, “Steve! I name a girl child years ago”

I was surprised by the sentence he spoke out. It was so out-of-place, so irrelevant to my pitiful thoughts about him and the roaring summer rains. Any way, I looked at him and said, “Oh! That’s good news. What’s her name?”

He said, as fluent as his mother-tongue, “Lucille Lalzarzo” And he continued, “I think that’s a name that is the purest”

I don’t understand any bit of what the name Lucille Lalzarzo means.

He said, “You want to know how it all begins?”

I said quickly, “Yes”.

I know from reading that true stories are stranger than fictions. Lately, I like stories, films, histories, success and failure about realities. Perhaps, I have discovered something of the mystery of fates.

I smile and said, “Go on, with your story”

He narrated thus…

One hot day, I was hanging around a market which was crowded and noisy.  All people I could see were filled with stamina. Shopkeepers were yelling at the top of their voices and commuters were all walking at fast pace. The whole scene was, kind of intimidating and scary to me. You know Steve! To be in the midst of people was one thing but to share their enjoyments was rather a different thing. And they didn’t often come together. One can be disappointingly lonely everywhere.

I walked out of the market and walked towards the main road, planning to catch a vehicle for going towards home. As I looked around, I could see, in one particular junction of the road, people clustering something. They were all quite and serious and looked intensely at something which I could not see due to my distance. The sun was still high up, and I didn't have much good things awaiting me at home either. So, I decided to join the cluster.

I walked up to them and peeped through people. I saw a man was telling a story. The story was so interesting and so true that I was instantly soaked by it. I was trapped by his story and I kept listening.

“What was his story?” I asked my friend.

“Steve! It was a story of a sick man who tried to survive”, my friend answered me, with a quivering voice. And my friend started to narrate the story he heard from a man in that market.

It was during October, a long time ago. Mr. Luke was in training in one city. The training was scheduled to last for 4 months. He rented a small room on the outskirt of the city, somewhere on the boundary between civil and military area. His room overlooked the training lawn of the military.

 In the morning, he used to be awakened by the sound of the training and parades of the armies. First thing he would do when he wake up was to peep through the windows, to watch the training armies. He would see them firing across the range, puzzling up themselves to form a queues for their breakfasts.

His house owner, Mr. William Sanders, was a retired army. He spends 40 years of his life in the army and retired. Mr. Luke used to think that he is a successful retired army as he could end up having a house there.

William Sanders was a happy and sad man. When he counted his fortunes, the blessings, and his healthy body, he would think himself the most fortunate man. However, when he considers the future of his son and daughter, he used to be pessimistic and worried. Many times he used to confide his worries and sweats he shed for his children to his tenant, Mr. Luke. 

He would say, “If I die, what will happen to them?”

Happiness and worries are an embodiment of a human life. They are here to stay. But one usually considers happiness something of a commonplace and let go-by, unrecognized. It is sorrows and worries that made us to contemplate and drain us down. No one could really understand when it happened to them. For Mr. Sanders, too, happiness and sorrow go hand in hand. But his sorrow would out-weight all the others.

Mr. Sander has a girl grand child, who was a tender 8 months old. She was so cute and sweet, every member wanted to hold and cuddle her. Every morning, she used to be the heroine of the occasion. Same goes in the evening, when Mr. Luke reached home from his training.  

 Mr. Luke has been staying there for 4 months now. Although he didn’t enjoy his training, he enjoyed his stay, mostly because of the little grand child.  When he have the time, he would take her to see places, and would come back home when she cried.

On that day when Mr. Luke was to leave the city after his training, he dearly holds the child and placed her heart beat close to his. Without talking, without looking away, he looked at the military lawn. The most bitter tear drops rolled down his cheeks.

Mr. Luke talked to the soul of the child in his thought. In his thought, he said, “My dear child, today I cuddle you with my strong arms, on my strong breast. And you are sleeping peacefully. You will grow up, and you will change. You will be all the more beautiful than now. Your memories will also change. And changes will make you forget. I will be forgotten, for you may not see me any more. Even if you see me again, you will not believe that I used to hold you, and I used to have strong arms and chest. Today, I hold you, but tomorrow and beyond, my body will forget you. But, you will always be in my mind.

Mr. Luke cried the soberest cry of a lifetime.

Five years passed, and Mr. Luke was struggling with life in another city. He continued to lead his life, with no much success and satisfactions. Everyday, he would measure the meaninglessness of life. When he reached home in the evening, he would measure changes he has been through. And there would be no happiness for him with the changes. The memories of that grand child would appear. She must be   in school now. Will she still have her innocent face? Will she remember Mr. Luke, who holds her close to his?

One morning, Mr. Luke received a phone. It was from Mr. William Sanders. It was after many years that Luke hears his voice again. Mr. Sanders said that he was blessed with another grand daughter,, and that he would like him to name her. Luke was surprised and happy, he felt more submerged in the memories of long lost moments.

He said, “That’s very kind of you, to let me name your dear grand child. I will think about names and I contact you when I come up with something my heart and mind is satisfied to”

And so, Mr. Luke named the grand child of Mr. William Sanders, “Lucille Lalzarzo”

My friend looked at me and said, “Steve! I was enjoying and surprised all through that story told by that man in the market”

I asked him, “Why so? It is just another story”

He said, “Steve! But that happen to be my story. That story is real”

I straitened up my back and looked at my friend in bewilderment. I stood up, saying, “How the hell could the story of a strange man in a crowded market could be your story? Anyway, tell me what you do next”

My friend said that he stood up among the people who has listened the story and he pointed his fore finger, firm and shivering at the story teller. He shouted with a voice of certainties and disbelief, all in the same moment, “That is my story. That is not a story. That is real”. And than, to his further astonishment, the story teller, instead of being embarrassed, took a sight of relief, closed his eyes for a while and intensely looked at him. And then, with calm, deep voice, asked him, “So you are the one who named Lucille Lalzarzo?”

My friend said, “Yes, as sure as heaven and hell”

Then the story teller stood up from his seat, and pulled out a realm of wrinkled papers from his bag and showed the scrolls on the papers to the crowd. It was written in pencil, with clear and neat handwriting. He looked at the crowd and said, “That’s the end of the story” and gave those wrinkled papers to him. And then the story teller said something strange to my friend.

“I have seen your Lucille. She is a good girl. And I am also happy to see you. And you seem to be a good man”

The crowd dispersed heavily and slowly. Some still stared at my friend, wanting to know what the story was all about. The story teller, on the other hand, look at him, with deep connections and understandings.

After telling me the strangest of stories, my friend turned to me and said, “Steve! Sometimes, sufferings and pains are stronger bonds and the understandings they yields can be amazingly impressive. They are just beautiful. I kind of, saw the story-teller, leaving the scene alarmingly satisfied”

My friend had concluded his story and the rains have stopped. We sat there, not saying anything, not wanting to say anything more.

At last, he said, “Steve! Its time I should go home. Please pass me the walking stick and show me the door way. I will try to manage the rest”

I passed my friend his walking stick, and helped him get up from his seat. He then slowly walked with his three legs as I showed him the door way.

Beyond my door way, I could see the muddy long lane. The skies are still unsatisfied and are still covered with thick roaring clouds.

And that was what I saw. And all in realities.

 Now, I think back about my friend's story. I wander what the hell was written on that realm of wrinkled papers. I find it as something of a miracle, worthy as well as unworthy to think about it. But, at last, after long murmuring thoughts, I settle on one….

"True stories are really stranger than fictions"