– Kate Sarah
The fog was thick in the late afternoon. Rain had laid bare much of the rocky hills and patches of algae sprung to life on its balding slopes.
The narrow single lane road that at parts barely managed to let a bus squeeze through didn’t have room to spare for supervision. So, the police hung about at certain spots with a bit more room to monitor and control the traffic passing through. The little town of Kurseong, barely a kilometer or two in width, came into full view from one such spot. The road split into two here. One continued in the direction of the original route that remained the official national highway while the other took a steep descent onto an adjacent road that was about fifteen minutes shorter than the main national highway to the town of Siliguri in the plains below. From this spot, Kurseong sprang into view at one end and the plains of Siliguri in the distance sprawled as far as the eyes could see. For reasons unknown, this was known to all as Zero point. And here, the traffic police enjoyed the sun when possible, while supervising oncoming traffic from either direction; from Siliguri and heading towards Kurseong or the traffic coming from Kurseong heading down towards the plains of Siliguri.
The rain lashed about through the fog and the dutiful cops had abandoned post as usual. The rain compounded the issue of the lack of infrastructure. There was no place for shelter. That coupled with being in a place that severely lacked adequate healthcare facilities gave them every reason to abandon post and cozy up in the warmth of their homes. The traffic would manage itself, as it always had done before they were made to supervise. Traffic was appalling but that was because the government was somehow unable to do anything about the road. The same road that had carried a load of a couple of buses a day between Kurseong and Siliguri a few decades ago, now managed to carry hundreds of vehicles of all shapes and sizes every day. The road had remained the same width for the entirety of the lives of the police now supervising it. Unsurprisingly, it remained the same since well before the days of their grandfather’s.
These roads were no strangers to accidents and Zero point, which was a new addition and just a couple of decades old was very well acquainted. It was hard to fault the drivers, but it was equally difficult to fault the road. Supervision had been kind to the police officers and their coffers grew as hefty fines were levied in a place where the pen was never mightier than the sword. And while the government coffers grew alongside their personal coffers, old habits didn’t even feel the nudge. The discomfort was akin to the discomfort felt by men who carry stuffed wallets in their back-pockets; it is uncomfortable to sit with, but they don’t seem to feel it and they appear to sit perfectly comfortable.
Once the turn at Zero point was successfully navigated without any incident, an unspoken race commenced.
It was late evening; the retreating sun was hidden behind the dark clouds that covered the busy streets of main town. The August rain poured mercilessly from these clouds that covered the mighty mountains of Kurseong, a passenger Car was speeding towards Siliguri on the Tin Dharia turning amidst the torrential outburst, unknown to this the truck driver was twisting at the curve.
A young man in his KTM bike was speeding up the hill with a twelve year old boy in a crimson cardigan towards Kurseong. He was a lean man in his early twenties with a dark hair. His brother buried his bare head on his back. The rain started pouring mercilessly; the biker and his pillion were helmetless, a punishable offence, worthy of three thousand rupees fine that was off the book.
He calculated the time and speed, hastily. He would make it, he thought, the speed of the rain hitting his bare head was an exhilarating experience. He rode passing through the small opening between the aluminum railing and the truck, thinking about all the practice stunts he had done with his friends. The rear end of the truck jerked, a collision was inevitable, its body slipping away from the railing, unbeknown to the speeding bike. The rain had him soaked. He wanted to reach home as soon as possible; his brother had his arm around his waist tight.
The calculation wouldn’t go wrong but unfortunately it did. The three vehicles at once moved towards the thin aluminum railing. The orange bike bolted out in a flash, creating a breach that opened the frail railing, the truck driver tried his best to keep the wheel under control. The wheel had mind of its own. The passenger car had no intension to move forward but the heavy rear end of the truck slipped and glided the car containing ten passengers into the deep gorge of dense tea shrubs.
The deep valley ate up the cries and screams of humans who had set their destinations that very morning. The sky was in between the night and diminishing daylight. The dusk here looked frozen.
Sheetal, a young girl in her late teen, woke up to the fine drizzle touching her eyes. She couldn’t remember how she was out of the car. She lay by the crushed car, her left leg caught by the door of the car; there was no sign of life within the vehicle, headlights blinked red in the black night. The rain in the valley where she lay was a fresh arrival after the three vehicles.
She recollected the whole incident and remembered the fall. She wanted to cry but the only sound that escaped through her tight lips were making her body ache trillions of muscles that had suffered a trauma incomprehensible.
She tried to sit up but realised that her left foot which was still trapped inside the silver Sumo, had the power to feel pain, the car had lost its luster in the dark. Her moan filled the silence; she could taste saltiness in her mouth. The smell of iron in it made her aware that she was bleeding. Her gums ached.
“Help”
Her voice wheezed through her chest.
She cried and screamed for help, but found that her voice was trapped within her, that her screams were inaudible whisper to the world safe in their square rooms; exhausted she looked up at the navy sky to pray to the God she had denied all her life.
When the rain reduced and the dense fog danced up the gorge, she managed to sit herself up with great difficulty. Her back rested at the wet wall, her foot still stuck inside the car.
When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see the black mass in front of her, she squinted her eyes to guess the object from its shape, preparing herself from all the possible danger her mind could imagine and when she was on a verge of giving up to fear, she realised it was a truck’s organs.
The wheels had the red mud unwashed by the drizzling rain. The pipes and tubes that stretched to define the mechanical parts now looked like the vein of a truck, as if it were living.
But it was dead unlike her. She kept on staring at the vehicle. It was a huge one indeed. She could be crushed if it decided to fall on her. She was also aware that the truck had no intention to fall on her side as it favoured the other end.
The truck stood like a wall between her and the world across. It hid the luminous hills from her she could only get a glimpse of its outline. Her hair was wet with sweat, blood and rain. She could feel her lips. It was swollen, her face too felt numb. She could feel the bones on her hips an inch longer, it hurt to even look at it. Her jeans jacket was cold on her shoulder. Her clothes were damp but not completely wet to her surprise.
The sky was gloomy and had its occasional rain. She began shivering; her teeth clatter as she inhaled deep breath. The excruciating pain rose from her numb foot towards the limb. At the moment even breathing air into her lungs pained her. Tears run down without sound. There was strange sensation of electrical current on her fingers, pins and needles jabbing her flesh making every cell in her body numb.
“Aya” she cried, she heard its echo.
Her eyes wandered in search for a sign of life beside her and inside the car. The car was disfigured as such that it was impossible for anyone to survive. The silver passenger car was crushed into a shape that any life that was within it could only escape through reincarnation.
Sheetal slowly looked at the stars. The rain had reduced its drizzle to vapor; the cold night was still cruel to her. Her teeth clattered continuously in the dark night. The shivering ached her bones, “Aya” she cried again, because she couldn’t cry for help, the pain exploded within her that she couldn’t silence herself, she voiced it somehow.
She knew she had broken a rib somewhere. She looked up at the sky with eyes full of pain and tears and prayed to the God, to the universe, to any super power to save her.
It was after half an hour she heard a groan at the other side of the truck.
She was startled but she was relieved.
“Who is it?” She wanted to know. She vainly stretched her neck, as if to see beyond the high truck.
The voice belonged to a man it echoed her groan, “Aya” it said.
“My foot is stuck in here, can you help me?” she said in half whisper and in wheezing breath, her hopelessness was greater than her happiness. The tears oozed in fat amount, her swollen eyes still knew how to weep.
She wept for another two minutes and the voice cried along with her, their scream for help muffled in the valley became a symphony of pain, a music that those hills had never heard before but felt deep inside its womb.
“Are you hurt?” She asked, it was a stupid question and corrected immediately, “Don’t worry, I am here.” She searched the man in the darkness. The mass in the front blocked the view of the hills and also the man who was now alive. The company boosted her morale.
Sheetal was nineteen years old and was always accused for being too mature for her age. Her wide eyes had nothing to create an illusion of beauty but her face was just an ordinary canvas to look at. She lacked nothing and possess nothing to make it extraordinary, her youth looked aged with pain on her face, yet it was this maturity and the act of selfless kindness, which attracted people towards her. There are many definitions of a pretty face; her youth and sobriety qualified herself in the books of young gentlemen.
“I can’t feel anything” the man cried, her voice had pain just life hers. She could imagine his face in lines of distress with soreness.
“Don’t worry, it will pass after sometime. It happened to me too. Can you lift your head? I can move mine, but do it slowly. The good news is you are alive. Are you hurt somewhere?” She asked again. She was a house captain in school, her voice reminded her how she carried the school with herself.
“I can’t feel anything” he cried. She felt pity for the man.
“Everything will be okay.” She broke down too in tears, wiped them off her face with her purple hand which was swelling fast. It was 8 pm when the silence occupied the space between them. They both were tired of crying.
“Are you there?” She asked.
“Yes” the young man replied. She was relieved that he wasn’t crying anymore.
“Are you okay?” She asked.
“I have headache. I can’t move. Are you okay?” He asked.
“Even I can’t move. I have my left foot inside the car.”
“Where… where is my brother?” Is anyone other than you alive?” The young man panicked.
“I can’t see anyone. I can’t check as I am stuck here” her sarcasm was bitter.
“My brother had a red cardigan. Turn your head if you an see… “
She studied the mass of mess that was in front of her, towards the farthest right she could see the orange bike and beside it was a young boy with a twisted body.
Her lungs felt a thrust, she felt breathless to see the corpse, her head started spinning. She couldn’t lie. Her panting gave away and the man inquired. “Did you see him?”
She stopped herself from making a sound; she shut her eyes tight; her heart ached as eyes were dry.
“Turn towards the bike. He is there” her voice had no sympathy left to offer.
“No. No. No. No” the man kept wailing in denial.
His gruff voice began to scream, her head started spinning. His sadness was contagious. Grief made the air dense, the man poured his anguish out. His voice was still shaking when he asked her name,
“My name is Sheetal, and yours?” she looked at the direction of the voice, his body still hidden behind the truck, he answered.
“Gyalzen” said he, “where are you from?” An odd air of camaraderie was formed with exchange of names.
“Rimbik. And you?”
“Sonada” Gyalzen replied.
For a fraction of second, it was a warm feeling to have the company. Sheetal became optimistic. “They will find us”
“We will die” Gyalzen replied. She pictured him as a fair lad. Are fair skin men always pessimistic about situations? She didn’t have the audacity to ask him whether he was a Bhutia, Tamang or a Sherpa. She felt sad for his brother.
“We will live” she said grimly to shake away the doubt that was building within herself. There was no sign of life apart from them. He too, seemed a lucid dream separated from her by the magnificent mechanical parts that was covered with mud. The tyre terrified her. She had stopped visiting them through her eyes. Her sight was reserved to the sliding slippery slope of algae prone hill that was visible to her.
“They’ll come for us” she said to herself.
She missed her mother; a few hours ago she had seen her with a dejected face. Her mother harnessed sadness like a cloak. Her mother had generously given her a dirty twenty rupees note for the journey. It was embarrassing for her to accept the sweat prone orange twenty in a car filled with passengers. She denied severely, letting her mother know how she embarrassed her in public.
Thinking about her mother made Sheetal optimistic about life, how it could change if she lived. Her mother had indeed sacrificed many things for her. She had been kind to everyone except her mother. Now as she lay on the wet floor, she remembered her maker. She wished she could rewind the time and accept that crushed twenty rupees and tell her mother that she loved her.
Her dry eyes became warm.
“I will live” she told herself. She wanted to, for mother.
“They won’t come. We will die” Gyalzen wasn’t an optimist sort.
“They’ll. There is always hope”
“What is there in living? This life is miserable?” He said raptly.
“What’s there in death? Death is more miserable, hopeless isn’t it?” she counted the blinking squares on the hills.
“You are a peculiar kind, I think you’ll live”
“We both will. Have hope”
“Ha!”
Silence.
“Are you there?” Sheetal asked.
Silence.
The rain was pouring heavily a few miles away from them; one could feel its lingering presence on the tea bushes. Frogs started croaking, a sound that intensified the silence.
Ker chog. Ker chog.
“Are you there?” Her voice started shaking. To find oneself in an abysmal night was an engulfing melancholy, she wasn’t ready to be alone.
“Please…” Her tears was on a brink of her lashes when he replied
“I was tired. You woke me. I was sleeping. I was dying” he laughed a short laugh that turned into a cough.
“Don’t sleep. Don’t die” she pleaded almost between her tears whispering to herself.
“You can’t decide that. I might not see tomorrow. Whatever your spirit is made of, is different than mine. I have different origin.”
Silence.
“Are you there?” She asked.
“Yes” came a reply. His voice had a hint of irritation.
He started singing a famous Nepali song.
“Chari mareo Sisaiko goli le,
Maya baseo tyo mitho bolile,
Maya satewna urayo rehlai le“
He hummed the song. He had a beautiful husky voice. It reminded her of her grandmother’s lullaby. She used to sing to her about the bird that was killed by a glass bullet and the melancholic music sapped her hope.
“Stop singing about death” she scolded him.
Her head fell back on the ground exhausted, she watched the stars above, the sky had cleared into a gigantic stretch.
“Tell me about yourself?” She asked.
“Why?”
“I just want to know”
“I am an extremely handsome man”
She snorted at this. “I bet you’ll be the handsomest corpse in here”
He laughed at this
“Yes. I might be”
“Well if you can’t tell me about you let me tell you about myself. I have red hair and blue eyes. I also have yellow jacket and big hands.” she told him playfully. She looked at her hands they were pretty big now, because of the swollen veins.
“I might believe you” He replied.
She chuckled. The pain seemed alien. “I have a big blue tattoo on my back” She continued.
“Now I want to see” he yawned loudly.
“Won’t you ask what it is?”
“What is it?”
“A big Stingray”
“What’s a Stingray”
“A big flat fish”
“Is it tasty?”
“I don’t know, haven’t tasted it. Haven’t seen a beach in this life. That’s the first thing I’ll do, I’ll go to a beach.”
“Strange. My knowledge is limited”
“Knowledge is always limited”
“Aren’t you a peculiar girl, now? How old are you?”
“I will be twenty this winter.”
“hmm, you are younger than me but you speak like you know the secret of the universe” he chuckled.
“I think that’s what girls are. They mature before their age. We are ahead …”
“True” he affirmed. “Always ahead at everything. Lying. Cheating. Debating. Always right and never wrong. Mind you! Always a victim. Men are swines but aren’t we tasty? Ahhaha … Yes. Men are dogs but aren’t we faithful? Well some are but women they are divine…”
“Well someone’s bitter here”
Silence.
The cascading silence felt magnified by the sound of cricket and Ker chog sounds.
Silence engulfing the living, the night was illuminated with the absence of words.
He started humming a different tune to drive out the silence. Rain continued to drizzle in fine drops. The silence was covered by the patter of the rain against the earth.
On a distance, light flickered. Hustling sound was heard, murmur of men and their boots on the slippery slope, slipping and sliding through the valley came to their rescue
“Hey, you were right” he cried almost with joy. The voice dissolved as the party of two men came closer.
Silence.
Three Men perched above the gorge and watched at the stillness. The vehicles were at the deep end of the valley. They put the torch around to see the sign of life.
“I doubt if anyone is alive” said one of the men.
“Hey! Are you there? Speak” Gyalzen’s voice was barely a whisper.
Sheetal felt a pull that made her lashes drowsy and her tongue heavy. She wanted to speak but she couldn’t move, she was drowning into an abyss. The skin around her hand was numb and swollen. Her face was pale as sheet, her lips were all drained out of colour. She had been bleeding for hours.
“Shout” his voice almost echoed inside her ears like as if his lips were near her earlobes.
Silence.
“Ayech, let’s come tomorrow. There is nothing here?”
These men moved around the torch quickly from left to right. The truck stood sideways. The Silver sumo and the bike looked disfigured and the stillness of bodies gave no sign.
“Hyat! let’s go down” said second man.
“There is nothing there” said another “Look at them. All of them are dead and the rain is going to be worse. Once you step there, you will waste your time. I don’t want to see a dead body tonight. Let us come tomorrow morning with more men and let’s bury them”
The third man agreed and they turned to walked away
“Are you there?” whispered Gaylzen.
“Yes” she wanted to say but there was no strength and hope left. “I want to see my mother, I want to tell her I am sorry” she wanted to say and her heart cried but her body denied the emotion. She was drowning deep into chasm towards death when she heard something it was a car horn.
When these men rushed towards the source of the sound, they found a sulphur bottle stuck at the steering wheel of the truck. No one knew how it dropped. One of them saw Sheetal, who was pale as a corpse with her hair soaked in red mud was faintly breathing.
She felt warm hands pulling and lifting her up.
“Slowly” the man said “she is breathing, Maney. Look we were about to abandon her.”
She wanted to tell them to look for Gyalzen but she was too drowsy that her tongue couldn’t articulate his name. “Gyalzen is also here. Take him.” She kept saying inside her head. “He’ll die if you don’t.” Silence filled her head and there was only darkness.
The front page of Morning gazette had her face on it. A black and white picture of the disfigured Sumo and the muddy truck occupied a small corner at the right of the news daily. The reporter called it a miracle of the century.
Dr. Pradhan found her sobbing few days later. Luckily her foot was saved.
“You are a miracle, young lady” he said to her. Her face was no more blue and swollen.
“But there was another one alive. He was there with me. You could have saved him too” she couldn’t forgive herself that she was the only one alive. The joy of being alive was useless the moment she received the news of the casualty.
Dr Pradhan informed this to Dr Sen at the mortuary who claimed the news to be an absolutly false, a case of sheer delusion.
“But How can it be possible, Pradhan?” Dr Sen scratched his bald head.
“The girl was rescued at 9 pm and the man whom she is claiming to be alive died at 6:45 -7 pm, the moment he fell down the hill. He had no helmet on… he suffered a hemorrhage so did the child who was with him. He died instantly after the fall”.
I believe I have a job; breathing and living can be considered a job. My sister says I’m beautiful. I am sure my husband thinks the same because every time I cover my eyes with thick black antimony, he looks at me and says that I look different. I have been married for five years and I still do not know his favourite colour or his favourite fruit or anything that he likes.However, I know his dislikes. He doesn’t like loud women; women who wear red lipsticks, tight jeans, and women with short hair. He is a vegetarian as he is a devotee of our good God’s. He prays two times a day. He doesn’t let me enter the worship room, and we now have an unspoken understanding. We play our part’s well. He doesn’t enter the kitchen and in return, I give consent to his relationship with the ideal God’s. He calls “kitchen” my kingdom and two tigers cannot rule the same jungle.He has made it clear in no uncertain terms that he doesn’t like my cousin sister. “She is not a vegetarian,” he says. Her sins are many, but her crime is this, she likes her food as she likes her men, well prepared flesh. I enjoy her company more than anything because beggars cannot be choosers. She usually comes during weekdays. Her work gives her good opportunities to travel and meet new people. And despite her busy schedule, she likes bringing gifts for me from her numerous travels. I can see it clearly how she pities and envies me at the same time. She has always been a feisty woman and gets bored easily. They said it was because she was born in the Year of the Tiger, whereas I was born in the Year of the Rat. We grew up together, and yet how different we were even as children. She was called a devil and I, an angel. My cousin got the most lashes from our folks. She’d cry the night out but she’d tell me she’d do it again just to punish the punisher. I was always scared for her as well as in awe. How audacious can a woman be in front of men who held the whip? She sailed over a different sea, and our folks understood this quite late; then they gave up on her. That meant I became the scapegoat and was married off to a complete stranger.My sister calls me pretty and I can never understand this concept of beauty. She says it’s because of my skin, but I seldom go out. I rarely speak to my neighbours. My hair was always thick and long, and since my husband disapproves of cutting the length, I feel my head is getting bald because of the weight of my hair that I keep tied up tightly in a bun.Lately though, I have this strange craving for meat thanks to my new neighbour. His kitchen is right adjacent to my balcony. Uncle Rustom, an old retired musician lived there before he passed away last winter. Of what I heard, he was a divorcee and had a son from his second marriage which was also a failure. He never tried again but I came to know he had quite a colourful life. I haven’t seen his son, but I can smell the delicious food out of his kitchen. The spices that he uses are not for vegetables. The smell of roasted flesh lingers in the air. I burn incense sticks to clear the smell before my husband accuses me of consuming meat. At first, I held my breath. For even breathing the smell was like blasphemy but as the days proceeded, I could feel myself become engulfed with this craving for the forbidden. Thank God, he cooks only in the afternoon. At night, I presume he drinks.
Kate Sarah
Sanskari 