Story Sample: The Bull’s Eye

The Bull’s Eye Drunken Boat (2007-8 Issue) Finalist for Pan Literary Award.

Also, one of Story South’s Million Writers Award Notable
Stories of 2007

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Extreme Sports

First published in Word Riot

In the beginning came the tub. It came with two taps, and the one marked “hot” gleamed slightly. She climbed into the tub, and the water came on. A miracle. What was she doing? She was washing her feet. If she stayed long enough they’d be washing their feet every day.

“The water’s lovely,” she said. “Why don’t you join in? Don’t be such a grouch.”

She jerked at the bathrobe. The strap came off and fell on the tiles. The water splashed on her legs, and she cupped her hands and threw it over chest and face. She started to sing. It looked like she’d worn very tight shoes. High heels? He couldn’t remember. She was smiling as she sang. The water was filling up fast, and she reached for the green bath salts.

“Come on, Rudi, it’s wonderful,” she said, making a face.

It was short for Rudolph, the Red-nosed Reindeer. His real name was something else. He began to shave. Menthol foam, then the new razor. She liked his antlers. He finished shaving and jumped into the tub.

“You’re so smooth now,” she whispered.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, marveling.

Her hair was soft with spurts of water, and she couldn’t see because of the bubbles. He would take her to the Bergman film that evening. She would like Bergman. And then through the snow to Lindy’s for cheesecake. The special for him, maybe the strawberry topping for her. The sign there said Lindy and Clara were Mr. and Mrs. Broadway. The room was filling up with steam. She pulled him under, and he forgot to close his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

She rinsed them with water from the tap. Her fingers were smooth and very strong, a little knobbly at the knuckles.

“Knobbles,” he said into her ear. “Mind if I call you that?”

She didn’t mind. After all, he was only a grouch.

“Rudi,” she said, stroking his chin. “My Rudolph.”

“Knobbles.”

Her body was pink and peachy and inviting, droplets clinging to her skin like rose petals.

“Tell me about yourself,” he asked afterwards, lying beside her in the tub, as the water began to cool on their skin.

“First you.”

“There’s nothing to me.”

“Oh yeah? How d’you spend your time, anyway, all by yourself in this lousy apartment?”

“I collect things, stamps and stuff. And write. And drink a bit. That’s it. Now it’s your turn.”

“What d’you wanna know?”

“When did you decide — I mean — what made you become –?”

“A hooker? Is that what you think of me? Just because I allowed you to buy me drinks in a bar?”

“Come on — it was pretty obvious. Anyway, it’s your own business.”

“Right. I’ve been doing this, let’s see — about five years. It was after I had the abortion, when I got depressed and started doing heroin.”

“Still using it?”

“Now and then.”

“An expensive habit, so you need the extra income?”

“Yes. I mean, I have a regular job and all that, but it doesn’t pay squat. It’s not just the drugs. I like to eat out, travel, enjoy life. I have friends who like to live it up. We went to Macchu Pichu last summer.”

“Must have been fun.”

“It was wild, really wild. The mountains get to you after a while. You don’t feel like coming back. Then we saw where they sacrificed virgins, up there on the slopes.” She grinned at him.

“Human sacrifice is always interesting. In some cultures — I think it was the Incas — they yanked out the victim’s heart while it was still alive.”

“Yuck!”

“My feelings exactly.”

She was now an underwater diver and she didn’t answer. The bathroom was filling with steam.

“Hey, Knobbles!”

There was no answer. He wondered if she’d had a drug-induced seizure. Maybe he had used too much force while touching her face. Her face was so inviting, he hadn’t been able to resist.

The water was spilling over, and he turned off the tap.

Then she came up, spitting and spewing. She coughed, spat water, and dragged herself up onto her haunches.

“Why did you do that! Were you trying to kill me?”

“All I did was touch your face!”

“Who are you, anyway? You some kind of weirdo?”

“I’ll put on some breakfast.”

He went into the kitchen and began to crack eggs.

She screamed. “What’s this in your cupboard! A skull?”

“I told you I was a collector.”

“I’d better go. You’re so weird!”

“Wait till you’ve had breakfast.”

“I’m off!” she shouted, hopping into her shoes. “I’m calling the cops!”

“Be my guest. Anyway, I’ve locked the door, and the phone doesn’t work. You may as well enjoy the eggs. Over easy?”

“I’ll scream.”

And she did, loud and clear.

A jackhammer began operating just then, across the street near a pile of snow.

“OK, game over!” he shouted above the din.

She came up to him, nuzzling his ear. “You were very good.”

The jackhammer paused.

“You too.” He rubbed his little finger behind her ear. “Tickle?”

She dipped her finger into the pan, then stuck it, oozing and yellow, into her mouth. “Mmm.”

He kissed her, tasting the yolk.

“You need to be more careful next time,” she told him, between kisses. “You nearly drowned me.”

“I’m sorry. I got a bit carried away. Still, it’s not like we’re playing Russian roulette or anything.”

“Yeah, that roulette party was really wild. Remember Cassie?”

He smiled. “Lucky she came to. I got pretty worried when she passed out after the gun went off.”

“You were smart to put in blanks last time. But I wouldn’t trust you next time, my clever dear.”

“Oh no? Who’s the one who played Salome? Running the axe blade up and down my neck. I got nicked, remember?”

She laughed, slinging her arms around his neck, her fingers rubbing the scar. “Just a prank, my dear. As I recall, you thoroughly enjoyed the dirty dancing.”

“It was a whole lot of fun. Now, how about some more action after breakfast?”

“Nope. I’ve got stuff to do. Got to call Rodney.” Her voice had taken on a more resigned, business-day tone.

“Who’s Rodney?”

“The new guy at work. I told you about him. A marketing whiz — I’m going over the November sales figures with him.”

He shrugged and looked out of the window. Two workers in padded orange jackets were standing near the jackhammer, arguing.

She left the kitchen and settled on a sofa in the living room, starting work on her laptop, her strong pink fingers clicking away methodically. As he watched her work, he found himself growing very bored. He could easily have spent the whole day in amusements, sex play, maybe even a trip to Lindy’s. But she had to go and spoil it with work! He wondered about Rodney — was it just marketing? He watched her as she sat there absorbed in her interactions with the laptop screen, absent-mindedly squeezing her lips together Donald-Duck fashion.

Then she got on the phone to talk about sales figures. It sounded like gibberish to him.

“Mugglemish — thirty seven point two. Breezalporkitty!”

“Slammadon. Fourth quarter.”

“Wow! Geezandgrit by volume, New York region.”

It went on like that. He couldn’t make any sense of it. What had become of her? Why was she talking nonsense like that, with her duck lips and her creased brows?

He stayed in the kitchen for a while, stabbing half-heartedly at the leftover eggs and looking out at the construction site. Eventually he attended to the dishes, plunging his fingers into greasy water, scraping off hardened cereal from a bowl, just as the jackhammer started to rev up again.

He had noticed this before, that when they were playing it was all a lot of fun, but the rest of the time it was pretty dreary going: they really had nothing to talk about. The world was like that; it brought people together, allowed their paths to crisscross, creating warm and happy feelings, but leaving them saddened afterwards back alone with their boring old selves, forced to listen to jackhammers thundering in the background.

The window vibrated slightly, and his hands began to shake, and a half-soaped china cup fell to the floor. Their times together had been great, he told himself, as he bent down to pick up the pieces. They had played some great games, on drugs and off drugs, in company and in private, indoors and underwater and al fresco, even on the heights of Macchu Pichu, testing their limits, their abilities to withstand pain and dangle near death. He had gotten hurt several times: those two trips to the emergency room when he couldn’t swallow, the sixteen stitches he’d needed after the game of Salome, the time she’d gotten that ugly contusion when they’d bungeed in the Poconos on coke.

He came up behind her, squinting at the spreadsheet on the laptop screen, where a row of red numerals stretched like a ribbon. The room’s black sofas and moth-eaten rugs suddenly seemed to swirl around him.

“Don’t stand behind me like that,” she said. “You’re making me nervous.” She tossed her hair, her eyes on the spreadsheet.

He leaned closer, tickling her neck.

“Really, darling? Did you really get nervous? Where exactly?”

“Rudi, stop it! I’ve got work to do.” She turned and bared her teeth slightly. “I can’t be like you, just hanging around waiting for my inheritance.”

He cleared his throat. “I don’t hang around. I hang out in your company.” He cupped her chin in his palm.

She pulled her head away, but he caught her hair.

“Let go, Rudi!”

But he wouldn’t, so she grabbed his hand and bit it — hard.

“Ouch! Shit! Why did you do that?”

“You bastard, Rudi! I told you I had work to do.”

“You wanna fight? Play roughhouse?”

He reached out to her neck, but by then, she had caught his hands, her wrists were so strong, as if she were super-human. Her fingers hurt him; he could see red marks forming on his wrist, just like they had on his neck in their many games. He stuck out his elbows, catching her on the jaw. She stood up, very annoyed, and he thought of tripping her, but before he could do that, she had turned and jumped on him and pinned him down.

Suddenly, she was heavy. As she sat on him, he could feel his ribs getting squeezed down, her long, lustrous hair falling onto his face, over his lips. He reached out and tugged at it, and patches of hair came off in his hand. The rest of the hair was still attached, her duck lips smeared across in an insolent leer.

Then her lips began to change shape, at first thin and tightly pursed, as they had been when she’d blabbered on the phone about targets, volumes, regions; then sweet and pouting; then mothery, pushing down on his nipples; then blubbery and curling with how-dare-you petulance at his stomping in and turning down the volume of a televised sitcom just because he was unable to bear any longer its raucous laughter; and, finally, calm and pensive, Buddha-like, an occasional thought flickering across her closed eyelids as she slept exhausted beside him, her mouth forming a perfect O.

What exhaustion, what divine tiredness! Their games had brought them relief, endless diversion. But on the mornings after, he would stumble into the bathroom, hungover, his face not smooth with brown antlers, but thick and heavy-set, with jowls and worry lines on the brow, and the long webbed scar running from the edge of the cheek down the neck. He hated his mirror image: it was not him, and certainly not as he imagined himself to be; and now her face, which had just appeared, sleepy, was also not hers, but something plastic, shaped by others, her stuffy stockbroker dad nagging him to get a job — he had tried but found no sustained pleasure in earning or spending — and also her ugly, garrulous friends — why couldn’t she get nice-looking ones? — being all lovey-dovey with her while making snide comments about him, the so-and-so, he was so full of shit, a total loser, unable to face the real world, while it was in fact they who escaped daily into manufactured fantasy, it was all around, no escaping it, her fashion magazines stacked deep above the toilet, the voices of stars roaring from the living-room. But there she would be, leaning on his shoulder after spitting out some toothpaste, her teeth shining as she examined her gums, and it seemed that it was just her, her living, bleating soul right there beside him, and he knew that she needed him, and he her, they were drawn to each other, seeking warmth, even love, and that the games were good and had to go on.

He was finding it hard to breathe. He needed to push her away, to get her off — now! He pushed and scratched at the face which was growing larger by the second — it was scary — what was wrong with her? Why was she growing like that? As he looked at the bloated face, he realized it was not her any more, not the woman who washed soap from his eyes, who stroked his chin and asked for bedroom tussles and hugs, not the laptop-adept companion, strong and adventurous and full of fun, clambering up in her sandals on the broken towers of Macchu Pichu, whom he had tried to love in his own way — but how hard he had found it to love the world, without the games! — not her but some other person who was much larger and heavier. How she had changed, her face bloated, her body naked and bulging with hundreds of fetuses, enormous egg-like eyes where her nipples should have been, blood seeping from her lips, and now she was pressing down on him, an ancient goddess crushing his soul with her weight.

He was getting aroused as her hot breath came down on him, and her leer, too, had turned to a laugh, she was enjoying it, the bitch, riding and squashing him like that! And he, too, would have liked to go on with the game, if only he could squirm out from under her and breathe, but that was impossible.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Game over!”

But there was no stopping this game, and now his lungs were exploding like popcorn. God, why was she so heavy? Then the air was gone, forced out from inside the pink balloon he had been living in, a balloon which had suddenly contracted and appeared right there beside him, pink and pulsating, as the sound of the jackhammer became quite deafening.

Beyond the Floating World

First published in Poetry and Story

The first time I came to the lake, it was summer. Azaleas bloomed by the roadside, bees crept drowsily from the chrysanthemums, and the air had a marshy smell. The road wound above brown gorges with muddy streams and waterfalls. The path climbed steeply, and then descended quickly towards the lake, ending at a ledge with wooden stairs. I could see the cottage down there, nestled between two peach trees, a rusty fridge lying on its side by the front door.

* * *

There are hills above the lake, a convenience store, small farms, a pasture. A horse trots up to the fence and leans his head on my shoulder. The breeze is wet, the sky darkening. Summer lightning, waves gathering on the lake, water filling a moored boat. I awaken hungry, strangely empty. Yesterday I cut my toe on a rock, and sucked it clean. The water was cold and clear, the bottom brown.

* * *

The lake has only a few speedboats this summer, coming and going like fast-moving clouds. Mallards bob on the water. Sometimes it’s very choppy. The blue heron fishes here, water lapping at his legs; on the porch a rabbit pauses, listening. The other day a young couple dropped by, from a cabin on Barton’s Point. Timid at first, they soon bustled about, helping with insulation. Recent graduates, looking for work. Doug Parr, a

retired insurance salesman, stops by now and then with his daschund, who clambers eagerly up my leg. He tells me this lake is America’s best-kept secret. At night I watch the spiders tidying up, adjusting their webs. A giant daddy-long-legs staggers up the window, his probosces sweeping. After several trips, he hides near the ceiling.

* * *

On the lake in moonlight, the air cold enough to hurt, the water still, a small boat glides silently by. I’m losing weight, a bag of bones, a man from the tropics freezing his butt off. How well I remember my tropics: night walks through towns smelling of incense and fish, temple halls lit up by fiery torches, priests intoning their mantras and offering me flames. Hands in prayer, tempted by fire, lusting after salvation.

* * *

Yesterday a woman came to call, a real-estate agent. Roberta wore jeans and a leather coat, brown eye-shadow, a Brooklyn twang. The cottage has a buyer. I talked Roberta out of it, but felt a twinge of regret as I watched her disappearing back. Alison was like that, her back disappearing on me, sucked back into the ether. When we were together, she was kind, though inattentive, perhaps because she knew we couldn’t take it anywhere. We went through the motions, tossing out diapers, taking in in-laws, dining out, wining in, throwing away money on bright Benzes and gleaming Buddhas. The girls watched on from the back seat. Alison came unglued and is now a memory, a red-haired girl playing the flute in the brightly lit room where we first met. Her lips blow gently, eyes closed in attentive repose.

* * *

The lake changes by the minute, weather fronts moving in and out. It’s still very cold. The blue heron didn’t come last spring. Roberta came by with ground coffee and a pie. People are wondering about the new millennium. There is a sense that the world is full of energy and rushing forward, a brightly painted orb wafting giddily through space. Meanwhile I remain tethered here, alpaca-wrapped, dreaming of tropical suns. Then I am back in a garden with jacaranda trees, chasing dragonflies, running after chameleons. Laughter and summer shouts, teeth sinking into chutney sandwiches, hands brushing away flies, women gossiping, in an afternoon which could last forever. Someone pours tea into pale blue cups.

* * *

The child is the mother of man. Hop over a stream, sandals in hand. A ball, glistening, soars through the air. She raises her arms and is gathered up. Sunlight, eyebeams, mascara: fingers, lips, dreams of sweat. Fortune favors the bold. Chasing after it, so many paths through the grass. A cobra slips away, zigzagging, an egg in its mouth. One day all will be revealed. Shed your skin and what’s left. Easier said than done. The jacaranda has flowered.

* * *

Back with Alison, having her baby, push hard, a little mouse, her mother’s hair and freckles. It will come to her easily, all instinct. Go on, spoil them, lift them up when they cry. When in doubt, consult Dr. Spock. Reach for the cake. Swallow the universe. The lake has been getting cleaner. The bottom is getting closer, flat green stones, forming a mosaic.

* * *

As I turn to sleep, the snow arrives quietly, snowflakes gently tapping on my window pane. Snow sails through the trees, a white dress falls on a black bedpost. My chest aches: what would it feel like to stop breathing? I hear the water lapping suddenly, as if the lake just switched itself on. I hold on to the sheets. I am at last in love, sitting under a willow, hearing the murmur of a faraway flute.

Khatoey

Khatoey, published in Asia Writes.

Khatoey

We were breakfasting at Ing’s Café, at the beach in Pattaya, when Mr. Gomez nearly choked on his espresso.

“Christine! It’s Pep!”

A gecko gazed at me from a bamboo pole, its fingers splayed and translucent.

“Our Pep?” I asked. “What happened, Mr. Gomez?”

Mr. Gomez had tattoos on his arms and neck. He was peering at the laptop screen while shaking his bald head. I walked over to take a look.

Sex-change khatoey slain in Chiang Mai, the web page said.

There were more details, as there always are, for the writer who sticks his fingers into a mess of dark matter will eventually wring out what many will consider a fine story.

Pep was shot at five in the evening as she was coming out of the massage shack. Nobody was willing to come forward as a witness, but there was talk of an assailant in a motorcycle helmet.

As I read on, I could hear Ing’s voice from the back of the shack, laughing and then talking on the phone.

Mr. Gomez, who was my benefactor, had explained to me about the world, how people will seek out the most fragile vase just to have the pleasure of smashing it to pieces.

I closed my eyes and said a prayer for Pep.

A few weeks earlier, in Chiang Mai, Pep’s eyes had that gentle look as she leaned down to wash my feet. Her posture was both modest and graceful. One would not have thought that she had been engaged in a long struggle with her body, trying for so many years to coax it to live up to her expectations.

When we first met, Pep was still a shy young man whose beauty seemed about to wilt away under a veil of sadness. Then, after years of hormone therapy and surgery, she had finally come into her own. Battle-scarred, she was still delicate, like a patchouli-scented leaf trembling in the tropical breeze.

Pep’s massages were worth every baht I had saved. Lying on my back, I would feel a pair of soft hands and sometimes a firm leg pressing on my hamstrings, and then my foot would be resting on her shoulder or lap. As I submitted to her will, my mind would descend into a well of swirling thoughts. I desired many things, above all to free myself of the shackles which made me feel alone and helpless. Meanwhile, Pep would work her miracles, kneading my limbs, absolving my body of all responsibilities.

Afterwards I would stagger out, my limbs limp, as if I had been battered. I would hear the chirping of crickets, the sounds of distant traffic, and the sunlight would bathe my skin in a radiant glow. The street dogs were unusually calm, and I felt momentarily blessed, as if the air itself was charmed.

The death of Pep cast a pall on the rest of our Pattaya vacation, which was not that much of a break anyway since it involved entertaining Mr. Gomez’s friends. But as soon as we got back, I visited Pep’s place.

When I had left Chiang Mai, the red flame trees were still in bloom. Now, in the dry season, the yellow flowers of the shower tree had formed a carpet on the street. The front door of the shack had a notice in Thai with the sword-and-shield crest of the Royal Thai Police. Fresh flowers had been placed at the foot of the spirit house near the entrance, along with the customary glass of whisky and a slice of chocolate cake, Pep’s favorite dessert. A black rhinoceros beetle, the kind children play with, was inspecting the cake, its horns lowered.

I felt uneasy standing there in front of that spirit house – it seemed more appropriate to lower myself on the pollen-strewn pavement beside the beetle.

Pep was not just my masseuse.

On the night of the lantern festival, the lights and fireworks were reflected in the river. Pep lit a candle and stuck it on our float, before gently sending it off on the water. Her face was aglow, the scarred skin carefully smoothed with powder, with a few beads of perspiration on her neck.

Did you make a wish? I whispered.

She touched my hand and then held it. We looked out over the water.

I’m tired of so much change, she said, her voice a little gravelly.

The float was bobbing against the bamboo bridge, and I leaned down to push it back into the current.

I made a wish, I said. For you to find peace. And all my other friends.

I made one for you, she said, with a sad smile. But I cannot say, for fear it may not come true.

I smiled back. Think of all the fish in the river, I said — how lucky they must feel, stuffing themselves with bread!

I am lucky too, Pep said. To have a friend like you, with a good heart. Her eyes were glistening as they followed the float which was now speeding away downstream.

They say the more you let go of the present, the more the future will bring better things.

We heard a bang, as a firecracker went off nearby. A Russian man came by and started talking to Mr. Gomez. The Russian stared at me, and then at Pep, who merely tossed her head. As he and Mr. Gomez continued their discussion, I remember noticing the Russian’s enormous pincer-like hands.

Mr. Gomez touched my shoulder. He pointed to his fat gold watch. Time to head home, he said. The Russian accompanied us back, his arms circling our waists. Pep walked stiffly at first, but soon her gait was more relaxed. I was nervous, as I still am despite all my training.

The beauty the Russian and his friends are after, Mr. Gomez said later, is only skin-deep. And it fades so quickly. His fingers brushed away a tear from my cheek. If there is a loveliness that lasts, my dear, it is beyond time.

I didn’t know what he meant then, but now, kneeling at the threshold of Pep’s place, I understood how loveliness can lurk like a jewel in the damp coils of memory — and how a green sliver of the self can glide away with our dreams.

A Flag for Gulnaz

A Flag for Gulnaz, published in Asia Writes.

A Flag for Gulnaz

By Inderjeet Mani

Station stop in an hour,” Munir said, lighting up their last beedi. “At least there’ll be tea.”

Hell of a night,” Shafi said. “First the Titans chanting, then the brat bawling the whole time.”

Munir inhaled the smoke through the curl of his enormous fingers, and then handed the beedi to Shafi.

Truly the City of Evil,” Shafi said, stroking his beard. “A whole month wasted, stewing on the docks.”

The city had been a disappointment. There were supposed to be consignments coming off the ships, packages that Customs knew about, which they had to offload and transport by truck to Karapore. It was good money, and Munir had paid an informant in advance for the right information. The two men hung around the docks, waiting for the contact to appear, but the work never materialized. Eventually, they gave up, caught a local from the city, and then, at the border, hopped on the train to Saridabad.

Now, under the blue night light, people were still asleep. The infant who had kept them up was slumbering on its mother’s belly, a black dot on its forehead. The woman slept sitting up, a clay pot nestled between her feet. She wore a silk salwar kamiz that rose and fell with her breathing, her sleepy half-smile reminding Shafi of Gulnaz, his wife. Gulnaz was now heavy with age and carried herself about wearily in their two-room home in Saridabad, but there were still times when she would forget her troubles and the lack of a child and would become her old self, gazing at him with the smile and freshness of the Kashmiri beauty she once was.

At six, the sun rose in a grey haze. Trees appeared one after the other in the window like sentries, followed by a steady procession of men crossing the fields on bicycles. On the yellow walls of the police barracks, political slogans emerged, scrawled in red. The train passed over a bridge, its underbelly scuttling against planks. Then it entered an area littered with rusting iron plates along with the usual signs of human waste, and arrived at the station.

The vendors and beggars were already running beside the train, offering their wares with birdlike cries. Meanwhile, a mass of people were trying to get off, pushing against the ones who were climbing on.

The men who had been chanting during the night began folding their bed-sheets with a calm, military precision. There must have been twenty of them, all in flowing saffron robes, with streaks of white ash on their foreheads. One of them, a Titan with a dazzling gold necklace, stared at Shafi through bluish glasses.

Shafi glared back. The fanatics all had the same eyes, shining with the light of dangerous certainties. Back home, they would try and talk Gulnaz into sending him to the masjid to hear the latest babblings, but he had resisted successfully, for the message was garbled enough without the aid of interpreters.

The tea arrived. It was thick and sweet, with a hint of cloves, just like Gulnaz made it. As he drank, Shafi felt his energy coming back; he wanted to stand up to his full height, to stretch his arms out and feel his muscles straining, as he used to years ago when he worked as a dock hand, lifting sacks of rice and coal on his sweaty back.

It was on the dockside, by the hulk of a giant cargo vessel, that he had first met Munir. Munir had been a seaman, and would tell Shafi about the harbors he had seen, the river ports where Turkish merchants leaned down with their carpets from the doorways of vast warehouses. He spoke of the smell of fresh coffee in the streets where he drank and brawled with other sailors, and where women could be purchased from store windows.

Shafi and he had worked together for years, until the time came when the heavy lifting was taken over by cranes. Then Shafi had been without a job for a long time. He had still managed to get married, at the age of thirty-five; and with the little money that Gulnaz had brought, they had made their home in Saridabad.

The Titans began their prayers, ringing small bells as they recited ancient spells. They called out invocations to Ramos, blessing the dawn and the world. One started purifying his hands, pouring water from a brass pot. A few drops landed on Munir’s feet. Munir said nothing and went on reading his newspaper.

The whistle blew. One of the vendors, a boy no older than ten, came on board to collect tea glasses and money. He had close-cropped hair, and dark eyes with pale cheeks. Everyone ordered him about, but he seemed unperturbed, briskly digging into his pockets for the correct change. As he handed the coins to the Titan with thick glasses, their hands touched.

Hands off, pig meat!” the Titan said, raising his arm.

Fuck off, gandu!” the boy called back, dodging the blow.

The Titan turned to the compartment. His eyes flickered towards Munir and Shafi.

Observe how these cow slaughterers speak to us! Today just a boy, but tomorrow, who knows, a fucking terrorist.”

He leaned close, and then quickly kicked the boy in the crotch.

The boy rolled on the floor, clutching himself and howling. The Titan followed it up with a kick to the mouth.

Leave him alone!” Shafi said, shoving the men roughly aside. The other Titans gathered around.

Munir approached them.

What’s the trouble?” he asked. He scratched himself lazily.

The men backed away, muttering to themselves, and Shafi brought the boy over to sit with him and Munir. He took out a soiled handkerchief and wiped the boy’s mouth.

The baby with the black dot woke up. It looked up at the boy and burped.

Just then, the train lurched to a stop.

Where the hell are we?” Munir asked.

Shafi looked out, and saw that they were at a small way station with an equipment shed. A narrow dirt road ran behind the station, stretching away towards a dusty hill.

Two conductors in faded blue uniforms climbed down slowly and walked along the train, smoking. Shafi called out to them, but they ignored him.

After half an hour’s wait, a cloud of dust appeared on the hill. It grew bigger, and as it came down the dirt road, it changed into a convoy of motorcycles. There were a dozen in all, coming down the road like wound-up toys, their engines spluttering. They drew to a stop at the station, where people climbed down from their vehicles, and then there was shouting and a fellow with an extravagant hairdo climbed into the compartment. He was thin and scrawny, wore shiny black shoes without laces or socks, and his face was clean-shaven, his hair glistening with pomade. He eyed the Titans, and then spotted the tea boy, whose cheek had an ugly blue welt, and shook his head.

You kafirs must be pleased,” he said. “First you destroy our masjid, and now you thrash our children!”

It is you,” the Titan with glasses said, “who kidnap and rape our women.”

State your business,” Munir said, “and then fuck off.”

The fellow with the hairdo cupped a hand to his ear, as if he was having trouble hearing. Then he shook his head again, as if talking to himself. “When will it all end? It makes me sad. Very sad indeed.”

He gave a half-smile, and then quickly emptied the contents of a green plastic can on the floor. Two more young men with cans got on, but they were intercepted by Munir, who caught them by their jaws and flung them out, as Shafi launched himself at the fellow with the hairdo. He grabbed hold of his neck, which felt thin like a chicken’s. But there were more of them clambering on, and one of them struck Shafi in the temple with a metal pipe, and Shafi fell. The fellow with the hairdo sprang free and lit a match before hopping out, dragging the tea boy after him. There was a whooshing sound as the petrol caught fire. The flames rose up, the mother screaming as her child began to burn.

Munir!” Shafi shouted, but a wall of fire held him at bay. He jumped out just in time to see a mass of black and orange seething in the fire. Then the entire coach exploded. A cheer went up from the platform.

A crowd of young men with petrol cans approached Shafi.

Let him live,” someone said quietly. “You’d be slaughtering a fellow believer.”

* * *

The crowd was bounding along in the bright sunlight, ripping down the alleys with their shuttered shops. A thousand legs were collectively tearing down the street, a flurry of men waving flags and moving as one, their exuberance making them break into song, a chorus from an old anthem from the fight for freedom. They sang of how ordinary people had come together and flung off the imperial yoke, and of a glorious day when no man or woman would live in dishonor. They swung their arms as they sang, their bodies pressing against each other, skin to sweaty skin.

Shafi could hear them chanting from his bed. He had arrived home after midnight and then stayed up, his forehead throbbing and his teeth chattering. Now he wanted to scream out to Munir, but his tongue was silent.

His tongue was also silent when he tried to whisper the most high and holy name.

It was silent and had shriveled into an inert lump when he thought of the men in saffron.

Gulnaz came in, formidable in flowing silk.

Eat,” Gulnaz said. She wiped his face with her handkerchief, then helped him sit up.

He stared at the lumpy dhal and the single withered chapatti. The sight of it disgusted him.

What day is it?” His throat felt raw as he heard himself speak.

Thursday. Have you lost track of time?” Gulnaz’s voice was dull, even sullen, as if she had been beaten.

Shafi pushed away the food, and lay back on his pillow.

Gulnaz dabbed the lump on his forehead with her handkerchief. As she tucked it back into her waist, she shook her head. “You leave me for a month, and then come back like a beaten dog? How could this happen?”

He closed his eyes, and felt as if he was slipping into a daydream, his fingers brushing through water. Then he heard the swelling chant of the crowd; it reminded him of the creaking and groaning of a branch in the wind. Splotches of light appeared on the inside of his eyelids, and for a drowsy moment he thought that sleep had come to relieve his sadness; instead, the light grew brighter, and he felt as if a shaft was being driven through him. The pain mounted, and then he wanted to be lifted up and flung into a crackling fire, for fire was what he deserved, he needed to burn like Munir, whose face now appeared above the flames, his eyes severe with warning; and then other faces came crowding, the mother and her wailing baby, their heads suspended upside-down, and behind them a swarm of ashen-faced followers of Ramos, silently mouthing their incantations in the smoke, and piled above them, hordes of other souls.

Then the faces faded away, and as the pain subsided, his mind started to wander. He thought bitterly of Gulnaz’s constant haranguing about finding a job. He had lost his temper with her so many times in their quarter-century of married life, especially when she grew sullen after losing the child in her seventh month; and yet there she was now moving towards the window, her soul light and free under her worn garments. He watched her draw the blue curtain, her head shaking slowly, and remembered how inseparable they had been at first, and how he would smother himself in her rose-petal fragrance. Things of beauty passed so swiftly, and joy, it seemed, always came twinned with sorrow.

The procession was approaching, full of fanfare. There were shouts and hoots, and then someone banged on the door. He felt a pang of terror, but quelled it swiftly.

Gulnaz’s eyes grew wide, as the banging became louder.

Shame on you — how can you just lie there!”

She tried to prop their rickety dining table up against the door. Shafi watched her struggling, but found himself riveted to the bed.

She called him a coward, and other names. Then she started to pray.

Cease your praying, Gulnaz! Prayers bring nothing but trouble.”

It was only when the door was bashed in that he managed to free himself. He stepped to the entrance just in time to stop a group of men from barging in. Among them were ragged strangers, people from bus-stops and street corners, as well as the clerk from the municipality, with a red streak down his forehead.

“That’s him all right,” the Clerk said. “The katwa swine who was at the station with the other extremists.”

“Bugger off,” Shafi told him. He muscled towards him, hoping to knock out his yellow teeth, which were sharp and matched the color of his bush-shirt. But two others barred the way.

Shafi noticed, with some surprise, the storekeeper Hiren, who seemed embarrassed.

Hiren,” Shafi said, sizing him up. “What are you up to now? Tired of putting stones in the rice?”

Leave them be,” Hiren said, turning to the others. “They’re harmless. The bitch is a regular at my shop.”

The Clerk stared at Gulnaz, who was already weeping. “Bitch or not, it is important for her people to learn, so they will never forget.”

Shafi heard an animal cry, and he flew towards the man grabbing hold of Gulnaz. A blade flashed near his face. His heart was pounding too hard for his own good.

Here, let me take care of that.”

Shafi saw the man cradling Gulnaz’s head for an instant, his coarse palms against her ears and neck. He tried to scream, but all that issued was a groan, for they had sliced off his tongue. Gulnaz thrashed her arms and legs, but Shafi could no longer hear anything, and his sight became blurry. Then the Clerk took a knife from his belt and slit Gulnaz’s throat. She twitched some more, after which she was stabbed again, and became still.

As Hiren would recall in his statement years later, the men then left the house and rejoined the crowd as it flowed on towards other targets, leaving the couple stranded on the floor. Hiren said that the woman had been a long-time customer at his shop, and that he had tried to save her. He said that while he could no longer reliably identify some of the perpetrators from photographs, he often had nightmares of the old man lying next to the bloodied body of his wife, a handkerchief, still white, tucked into her waist.

Journal of the Rossignol Expedition to Yunnan

Journal of the Rossignol Expedition to Yunnan, published in BLIP Magazine.

Beyond The Floating World

BEYOND THE FLOATING WORLD, published in PoetryandStory, 2002

The first time I came to the lake, it was summer. Azaleas bloomed by the roadside, bees crept drowsily from the chrysanthemums, and the air had a marshy smell. The road wound above brown gorges with muddy streams and waterfalls. The path climbed steeply, and then descended quickly towards the lake, ending at a ledge with wooden stairs. I could see the cottage down there, nestled between two peach trees, a rusty fridge lying on its side by the front door.

* * *

There are hills above the lake, a convenience store, small farms, a pasture. A horse trots up to the fence and leans his head on my shoulder. The breeze is wet, the sky darkening. Summer lightning, waves gathering on the lake, water filling a moored boat. I awaken hungry, strangely empty. Yesterday I cut my toe on a rock, and sucked it clean. The water was cold and clear, the bottom brown.

* * *

The lake has only a few speedboats this summer, coming and going like fast-moving clouds. Mallards bob on the water. Sometimes it’s very choppy. The blue heron fishes here, water lapping at his legs; on the porch a rabbit pauses, listening. The other day a young couple dropped by, from a cabin on Barton’s Point. Timid at first, they soon bustled about, helping with insulation. Recent graduates, looking for work. Doug Parr, a
retired insurance salesman, stops by now and then with his daschund, who clambers eagerly up my leg. He tells me this lake is America’s best-kept secret. At night I watch the spiders tidying up, adjusting their webs. A giant daddy-long-legs staggers up the window, his probosces sweeping. After several trips, he hides near the ceiling.

* * *

On the lake in moonlight, the air cold enough to hurt, the water still, a small boat glides silently by. I’m losing weight, a bag of bones, a man from the tropics freezing his butt off. How well I remember my tropics: night walks through towns smelling of incense and fish, temple halls lit up by fiery torches, priests intoning their mantras and offering me flames. Hands in prayer, tempted by fire, lusting after salvation.

* * *

Yesterday a woman came to call, a real-estate agent. Roberta wore jeans and a leather coat, brown eye-shadow, a Brooklyn twang. The cottage has a buyer. I talked Roberta out of it, but felt a twinge of regret as I watched her disappearing back. Alison was like that, her back disappearing on me, sucked back into the ether. When we were together, she was kind, though inattentive, perhaps because she knew we couldn’t take it anywhere. We went through the motions, tossing out diapers, taking in in-laws, dining out, wining in, throwing away money on bright Benzes and gleaming Buddhas. The girls watched on from the back seat. Alison came unglued and is now a memory, a red-haired girl playing the flute in the brightly lit room where we first met. Her lips blow gently, eyes closed in attentive repose.

* * *

The lake changes by the minute, weather fronts moving in and out. It’s still very cold. The blue heron didn’t come last spring. Roberta came by with ground coffee and a pie. People are wondering about the new millennium. There is a sense that the world is full of energy and rushing forward, a brightly painted orb wafting giddily through space. Meanwhile I remain tethered here, alpaca-wrapped, dreaming of tropical suns. Then I am back in a garden with jacaranda trees, chasing dragonflies, running after chameleons. Laughter and summer shouts, teeth sinking into chutney sandwiches, hands brushing away flies, women gossiping, in an afternoon which could last forever. Someone pours tea into pale blue cups.

* * *

The child is the mother of man. Hop over a stream, sandals in hand. A ball, glistening, soars through the air. She raises her arms and is gathered up. Sunlight, eyebeams, mascara: fingers, lips, dreams of sweat. Fortune favors the bold. Chasing after it, so many paths through the grass. A cobra slips away, zigzagging, an egg in its mouth. One day all will be revealed. Shed your skin and what’s left. Easier said than done. The jacaranda has flowered.

* * *

Back with Alison, having her baby, push hard, a little mouse, her mother’s hair and freckles. It will come to her easily, all instinct. Go on, spoil them, lift them up when they cry. When in doubt, consult Dr. Spock. Reach for the cake. Swallow the universe. The lake has been getting cleaner. The bottom is getting closer, flat green stones, forming a mosaic.

* * *

As I turn to sleep, the snow arrives quietly, snowflakes gently tapping on my window pane. Snow sails through the trees, a white dress falls on a black bedpost. My chest aches: what would it feel like to stop breathing? I hear the water lapping suddenly, as if the lake just switched itself on. I hold on to the sheets. I am at last in love, sitting under a willow, hearing the murmur of a faraway flute.

Literary Bio