The Warning (Ghost Story)

I can't believe it! Just learned I took the number one spot in my group in round 1 of the 2017 NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. There were just over 3,000 people competing...only five in each group (there were about 100 groups) move on to round two.

We were assigned genres/subjects/characters...mine were Ghost Story, self-indulgence/an heir. As soon as we learned our prompts, we had just 8 days to write our short stories. I had a super busy week at work so I just did what I could in one day. Here's my original submission, warts and all (parents: I'd say this story is PG13).

The Warning

Synopsis: Young, powerful Junn receives a warning from the spirit of his greatest ancestor. But will he use the words of wisdom to change the ancient ways of the tribe?

The Warning

By Jessica Ramesch

The aag aankhen were getting closer. The deep snow muffled sound, but Junn could hear the occasional howl—warnings meant to strike fear into the hearts of the weak. The oldest stories of the Inukal told of the aag, the “fire eyes,” and their contempt for soft-foots. Soft-foots like Junn, and his mate Swati. Tender morsels like their babe, Maasoom.

Junn felt fear, but did not give in to it. He would reach the village before the aag closed in. As a boy going through the Proving, he had learned to push his fear down…to make his face a hard mask. His dark eyes told nothing.

The sun had sunk to just above the tree line, so Junn sank down and offered a prayer to his ancestors. The cold bit at his knees and threatened his fingertips, but it was a small sacrifice. Much larger would be demanded of him before the day was out. 

Today above all days, the ancestors would be honored. Perhaps one day, their spirits would return, and live amongst the Inukal as in the Age of Wisdom.

Rising, Junn adjusted the game bag slung across his shoulder, and set out again. Within minutes he could see the flames of the massive bonfire. He did not notice the golden shadow that trailed just behind him.

When Junn had set out that morning, the village women had been hard at work gathering branches and other kindling. Tradition demanded that the fire be set outside the hut of the shahsak—the Inukal leader and, as such, embodiment of the stars-and-moon spirit.

This night, Junn and the other Proven would present the shahsak with riches collected over three months of hunting. Fine skins, furs, beads, dried meats, salted fish, and bitter greens would be offered. If the leader chose to honor Junn as his heir, he would keep Junn’s gifts. If not, the offerings would be distributed amongst the village elders.

“Junn, son of T’mash!” The Watchers cried out. Legends told of days before the Watchers, when friend was often mistaken for foe. The aag were not the only enemy. But arrows and spears loosed in the dusk could not be called back.

Junn was worthy of no honorific, but there was a time when his lineage was known as “most worthy.” A time when the descendants of T’mash were thought to have tamed the fire in the earth’s belly, the aag on the land, and the stars and moon in the sky. Those days of magic and dark lore were long gone, if not completely forgotten.    

As Junn stepped into the village circle, he felt a rush of warm air…and something else. It was like the static that sometimes filled the air during the cold, dry summer nights. The hair on his long arms seemed to raise from his skin. It made him want to frown, but this was not the moment to think on such things. His gait did not falter, and his face was as one frozen.

“Light of my eyes.” Swati had heard the Watchers, and as tradition demanded, she greeted him at the door to their stone cottage. She stretched out her arms, as if beseeching him. “Will you eat? Hot k’hav, boiled lamb, and lentils await.”

The smell of the hot k’hav, made of fermented mountain seeds, was welcome. Junn entered and sat so his mate could remove his skin-and-bone boots. Sipping his k’hav, he watched Swati bend and swoop around the hearth. He could feel seed of the stars-and-moon quickening inside him. Something an Inukal-rak, a Proven male, must not ignore.

Without warning he launched himself at her back, slamming Swati against the cold, rough stone table. He pushed her head down, and held it there with one hand. Moving her skirts out of the way, he plunged into her, and heard her cry out in pain. It was barely a cry, bitten off before it began. She had learned not to struggle. If she fought, the Proven would have her in the village circle. Then the elders would spit on her and call her Dishonored. And then the real suffering would begin.

This was the Way. Inukal-rak were required to dominate from an early age. “Feel no pity, spare none.” So it had always been said. Those with sorrow in soft hearts were weeded out during the Proving. The Forest of Black Waters was filled with their bones.

Junn had learned well, and followed the Way closely. One day, perhaps soon, a son of T’mash would lead again, and bring the Inukal back to days of magic and power.

When he was finished with his mate, he hunched down on the warm floor by the hearth to eat. He did not see the golden shadow begin to blacken. Begin to blacken, and take on a face and limbs. Fingers and toes. Features not seen since the Age of Wisdom. The specter imitated the Inukal-rak. Hunched down, it waited.

****

The stars and moon were shining bright in the night sky. It was a good omen for the festival of the dark season. Swati had joined the other mated females to make the fish-and-ember cakes. Junn prepared his game bag, donned his grandfather’s aag fur cape, and walked to the bonfire. His black specter followed, but eyes seemed to slide past it.

As he walked, Junn could see flames above stone and thatch cottages like his own. The cottages ringed the vast village circle and the leader’s home—the only one with a cool, clay roof that would never burn. The snow came to Junn’s knees and glistened in the flame-light. As the bonfire burned, the wet branch platform beneath it would begin to smoke and dry out. Eventually fire and snow would meet, and snow would win.

Samajhadaar, the shahsak, was standing close enough to put a hand in the flames. During the giving, he would stay close, enduring intense heat. A red and brown rash would form on his skin, making him look like he wore a fishing net across his back. Never was the shahsak more respected than when marked this way. His words would carry great weight until the marks faded.

“Junn, I will speak with you,” Samajhadaar intoned.

The specter smiled, and Junn felt that static frisson once more. The leader honored Junn by calling him up before the entire village.

Junn made his way past a new Proven and the females assigned for the young Inukal-rak’s consideration. They were a few years younger than Swati, but old enough to be wearing roughcloth wrapped skirts and long garlands. Females too young to mate did not show such modesty.

Junn ignored them, bumping into one who did not move aside quickly enough. Another day he might bargain with the male for one of these young prizes. New Proven were not good bargainers, and an untasted female could be had for as little as a good skin or string of beads. But this was not the moment.

“Inukal shahsak, stars-and-moon spirit made flesh, I see only you,” Junn shouted as he approached. A few paces away he put his knees into the snow and proffered his game bag, bowing his head for the leader’s blessing. “I am not worthy, but I am yours.”

“So. A fine skin,” said the leader, taking the bag worked with scented oil and thread of dyed fibers. It seemed to Junn the leader was quiet a long time. Was he examining the gifts?

“You say you are mine, Junn of the T’mash?”

Junn almost stopped breathing. Could it be? He didn’t dare speak or move. He wanted to be heir, and he would perform the day’s duties without error.

The leader put his hand on Junn’s head. “These gifts, I will keep. It is an auspicious day, and many seasons I have considered my heir. One strong enough to lead, and strong enough to listen.” Pulling Junn up by his thick black hair, the leader looked him in the eye. “You are mine, now. Your body—blood and bones—is mine.”

The announcement made, two females ran to fetch the cooks, who would bring the fish-and-ember cakes. There would also be a piece of the leader’s own cake, saved in a small earthen pot since the leader’s ascension.

Junn looked around and spotted the leader’s mate, telltale pot in hand. The leader had taken many a female...some without the proper bargaining and payment, and some before the proper age…but he kept only one in his home. A tiny woman, she constantly chewed her lips and rubbed her bony fingers. She seldom spoke in front of others.

Looking to the shahsak and waiting for his nod, the female placed the pot in Junn’s waiting hands. Holding it reverently, Junn stood and followed the leader into the big clay-roofed home. Had anyone had a Seeing Eye, they would have noted how the specter put a possessive hand on Junn’s shoulder. But the art of seeing beyond the earthly plane was lost.

Just inside the door, the shahsak motioned for Junn to sit. “The visions can be powerful, My Junn. You have heard the legends, and by the stars and moon, you think yourself somewhat prepared. You are not.” Pointing to the earthen pot, he said: “Eat.”

Junn touched the tiny pot to his forehead, then pulled at the lid, breaking the wax-of-bees seal. The smell was of over-boiled eggs and something sour, like k’hav but also not like. Putting the pot to his mouth, Junn tapped the bottom until the contents fell out. Not wanting to gag, he suppressed his breath and swallowed the morsel whole.

Now he would have to wait. Wait, and keep his composure. Sitting cross-legged, he let the palms of his hands rest on his knees. Gazing at the shahsak, he tried not to blink too much, or too little. Whether hours passed, or minutes, Junn did not know. But after a time, the room seemed to sparkle and sway. The hair on his arms raised from the skin, and his mouth dried as if he had eaten ten salted prunes.

Before Junn sat a figure. Not the leader.

It was a familiar figure. But strangely dark, with smiling mouth and angry eyes. “So. Now you see me.” it said. It placed a dark hand on Junn’s shoulder. “And do you know me, T’mash-son?”

Junn had been expecting visions, and did not wish to speak. He would not appear as a madman in the shahsak’s great home.

“Will you hold to silence when you have but one night to see and speak?” The dark one spoke softly, but it watched Junn like a hawk ready to take a rabbit. “I will tell you one thing, and if you choose silence again, I will go,” the specter said.

“I am your ancestor. Today, a hundred paces from the outer village you sank to your knees and offered a prayer. You prayed to become the heir. You prayed for your ancestor, the Aag-Ruler, to appear to you. You prayed for knowledge from the Age of Wisdom. Will you have what knowledge I come to impart? This will be your only chance.”

Real or not real? Perhaps it was madness, but if true wisdom was to be had, Junn could not refuse. He parted his dry lips and croaked: “Yes. Yes, forgive me Wise One. I see and know you. I listen.”

“Then know this, Junn. Your other ancestors—my children, and their children, and so on for years too numerous to count—are half-beings. Their spirits are too damaged to travel to the stars and moon. Too damaged to appear to you. They suffer. Do you know suffering?”

Junn nodded, licking his lips though there was no spittle to wet them. “I do, Great One.”

The specter howled and grew in size. It grew fangs and claws, and struck fear into Junn’s heart. “You do not! The worst suffering in this earthly realm cannot compare. You feel fear Junn, I see your heart. But the fear and suffering of which I speak are a thousand times greater than what you imagine. You Inukal-rak take from your mates without giving. The imbalance is growing, and the debt cannot be repaid!”

The spirit quieted, and bent its massive, clawed body closer. “You take their food, their bodies, and their babes. You take pleasure in these things, and you want more. And more is never enough. In this age you have begun taking not only from your mates, but also from untasted females, some not of the proper age. You do this without their blessing or even permission.”

Junn shrank back, truly afraid. His heart pounding even as he tried to tell himself this must be a mad vision, nothing more. The Way was sacred and ancient. Who would believe it to be wrong? “Great ancestor, you know this is the Way,” Junn began.

Baring its long fangs, the dark, shadowy being began to fade, even as it spoke. “You are the strongest heir. You can heal the spirits of your ancestors. You can create a different fate for yourself in death. I have spoken, and now my time is gone. The dark season is begun.”

 ****

Junn awoke in his cottage, Swati keeping the flies off his face as he slept. He felt tired, but the seed quickened in him, and he reached for her. Putting his hand behind her neck, he pulled her down and bit her ear. He was the heir, and this was the Way. He did not notice the black shadow that entered Swati’s body. But Swati began to feel a growing power inside her. Ignoring Junn’s other hand forcing apart her legs, she tasted the power, and felt herself draw it in.

Escape to San Sebastian (Mystery)

I was so thrilled to reach the semi-final stage in the NYC Midnight 2016 Short Story Challenge with this story, written over the course of three days. NYC Midnight assigned me the following parameters:

Genre: Mystery
Subject: A horoscope
Character: A birdwatcher

Escape to San Sebastian

By Jessica Ramesch 

The megaliner had been in port for 45 minutes already. It had to clear customs, then passengers would be allowed to disembark. Ben stood patiently with the other guides, holding his big sign like a staff.  

Debarkation began soon enough, but only five people zeroed in on Ben. Guides with signs like “Discover Scuba” and “Snorkel with the Stingrays” led away groups of 20 or more. They’d rake in the money and tips.

“Birds of the Rainforest” just didn’t have the same wow factor. But being semi-retired, Ben was happy to have gainful work. He never could stand sitting at home, alone with his thoughts.

“Ok folks, if you’ll follow me, we have a bus waiting. It’s a 20-minute ride to San Sebastian Rainforest Preserve.” Words Ben had said a million times.

Unremarkable faces stared back at him. Some smiled. Some eyed the 200-yard stretch between the gangway and the tour buses apprehensively. What was it with tourists these days? No one wanted to walk anymore.

A young woman with shocking red hair stepped out from behind a rather large, red-faced man. The man didn’t look too happy—he was already panting in the heat—but the the woman wore a look of excitement.

“Um, will there be anywhere to buy souvenirs?” she asked.

Ben smiled. Tourists. They came all the way to paradise, and all they wanted was to buy plastic magnets and and painted feathers. A photo with a native in traditional costume, and the trip was considered a success. “Yep, have to walk through the gift shop to get to the canopy tower,” he replied.

The young lady turned out to be okay, despite her interest in souvenirs. She sat up front on the bus and asked Ben questions about the town and his life in San Sebastian. She struck Ben as one of those new age-y, obsessed with yoga types. Too many necklaces.

At the end of the tour, however, she was one of the few passengers that approached him to tip. She dropped a battered looking journal as she rummaged for ones. Ben reached for it, but she snatched it up.

There was something cagey about the way she shoved the book into her bag. Like it was top secret stuff. Ben caught a glimpse of what looked like an astrological chart on the cover. It was a large circle, and he thought he’d seen the word Taurus and a crude drawing of a bull. Next to it was Aries, the ram. For some strange reason, he wished for a better look.

The ship’s horn began to sound, and the last of the passengers rushed to the gangway to re-embark. He saw a shock of red hair bounce in, then out of view.

Ben watched the vessel until it pulled away from the shore. He had never set foot on a big ship like that. Not since he sailed from Europe at the age of 24.

***

“Ben, where you been all day?” Rock coughed his hacking, phlegmy cough. Rattled the dominoes in the middle of the table. Ready to play.

“Big ship in port today, Rocket Man. The Fiesta Mythos,” Ben said, taking his usual seat at the picnic table. “Pompous ass name if you ask me.” Ben didn’t want to get grilled about his day.

Something had felt off about that woman. Strange that she’d never mentioned her name or volunteered any information about herself. Most tourists did. And come to think of it, she never stopped in the gift shop. She had pretty much stayed beside Ben, drinking in everything he had to say about tanagers and toucans.

“What did you do all day, you lazy ass?” Ben asked.

Rock was busy peeking at his dominoes. “Hmm? Oh, get this. My stupid son-in-law ordered ten of them fancy new weed-whackers to try and sell at my store. Matter of fact, I was yelling at him when some feller came in and asked about you. Been wondering whether he found you.”

“Why would anyone ask about me?”

“Said he had a package for you. From someone in the old country,” Rock wheezed.

When Ben had first stepped off the boat in San Sebastian, he had nothing but a tattered pea-green suitcase to his name. There was no one left that he cared about in the old country. Nothing to look back on with nostalgia. No reason to go back and visit, ever.

Regular Joes like Rock, they’d gone back plenty times. To find wives, and later to introduce their spoiled kids to true adversity. A delivery from back home wouldn’t seem strange to Rock. But Ben’s heart began to pound in his chest. What could it be, after all this time?

San Sebastian was small, so whoever was looking for Ben wouldn’t have to look long. Someone would point the stranger in the direction of the park, where all the geezers played chess and dominoes. Or perhaps even Ben’s small A-frame.

Stay at the park or go home, it would make no difference. “One more game, Rock. Then I gotta go feed the cat,” said Ben.

As he walked home, Ben couldn’t help but think about his past life. His parents had died when he was very young, and he couldn’t really remember them. His brother had died young as well. Ben had learned to fend for himself from the age of 13.

He had slept everywhere from street corners to makeshift shelters along the Sava River. There were introductions to beer, and women, and eventually the stability of a factory job. No more looting to fill his belly. No more war.

***

The knock came after breakfast. Ben had made his usual Sunday fare—pancakes for one. He was sponging sticky maple syrup off the yellow linoleum when he heard it. A polite tap-tap-tap. The man at the door was young, mid-forties at most.

“Mister Tesich? My name is Martin Soloy, from the ICC, may I come in?”

“Might as well,” Ben murmured, stepping back so the man could push his way into the small sitting room. 

“I think, sir, you know why I’m here?” Soloy phrased it as a question, raising his brow as he looked Ben full in the face.

“Sit, let’s sit,” said Ben. “Can’t say that I do. You were the one asking about me?”

Soloy perched himself on the edge of the old beige sofa and nodded once.

“I haven’t had a single visitor from the old country since I left it. And I have no family to send me packages or name me in their wills. So I am very curious,” Ben said.

Soloy took a manila envelope out of his briefcase and handed it to Ben. Inside were two photographs of a smiling woman. Young, attractive…shocking red hair.

“I- I met this woman yesterday,” said Ben. “She’s a New Yorker. She was here on a cruise. I took a group to the canopy tower for a birding tour. Why on earth do you got pictures of her?” When Ben got nervous, his accent sounded thicker.

“That woman,” Soloy breathed, “is Sandy Alexander. She has been missing for two weeks.”

“How can she be missing when she’s a registered passenger on a cruise ship? Those things are impossible to stow away on or disappear from,” Ben almost shouted. “Call the ship’s agent here in town, he can find out I’m sure!”

Ben insisted Soloy use his phone to call immediately. Soloy made it clear he did not believe Ben, but he played along. As Ben sat waiting for the call to end, he noticed a file titled “Nick Tesich” peeking out of Soloy’s briefcase.

He stared at the file. He heard the beep that meant Soloy was off the phone, but didn’t turn to look at the man. Nick Tesich. That was a name Ben hadn’t heard—or uttered—in almost fifty years.

Soloy spoke first. “There is no record, Mister Tesich, of a Sandy Alexander on any Fiesta ship.”

“Why you got a file on my dead brother, Soloy?” Ben responded. He turned to look at the man standing in his kitchen. The man that had the nerve to be young and wearing a splendid suit…and to come into Ben’s home with a file…a file on…

Ben had half stood, but he sat again. “I think now is time you explain to me—fully—what the hell is going on here.”

“You know what the ICC is? The International Criminal Court. Sandy worked for me as a researcher. She was tracking you, Mister Tesich, as you’ve been wanted for a very long time for crimes committed following the Belgrade Offensive.”

“I was twelve years old during the Belgrade Offensive, you idiot. I never held a gun! And what does this have to do with my brother?”

“Oh I heard, you go by the name of Ben here in the tropics, where you surely thought no one would find you,” said Soloy. “None of us ever thought we’d find you. But Sandy did. The game’s up. We know you are Nick Tesich. And you will face the crimes you are accused of.”

“Nick died.” Ben’s hand trembled. He took out his hanky and wiped his lips. “No one ever saw him again. Ever.”

 Soloy just plowed on, talking over Ben. “The red purges were a horrible time in Serbia. Much is still unaccounted for. We have multiple interviews on file indicating that you knew the locations of the secret burial grounds. The descendants of the victims deserve to know, Mister Tesich.”

“If Nick were alive, he would be 85. I’m ten years younger. Look at me! And why would you think I am Nick? What kind of proof you have? Plus, this woman, I saw her get back on that ship. No wonder she was so interested in me.” Ben stood up, anger flushing his cheeks. “She thought I was a war criminal? And she’s making nice talk about tropical birds and plastic magnets? This is cuckoo-ness! What you gonna do, fly me back to Serbia? Put me in jail? At this age?”

“Look,” said Ben, “my life is an open book. I lost my parents and my brother. I left Europe and sailed to New York, and then I tried Chicago. Too cold and competitive. When I heard there was a community of former Yugoslavs here, I left the States. I’ve been here twenty years. Living a peaceful life, I might add.”

“I don’t have the authority to extradite you from San Sebastian,” said Soloy. “I will make appeals through diplomatic channels, but there’s no treaty.” He got up and crossed to the door, then turned back. “But sir, I entreat you. You’ve lived a good life. Spend your last years making it right for the victims and their families.” And with that, he was gone.

Ben thought he was having a heart attack. He took an aspirin, not because he thought it would help, but because that was what he took for everything. Then he didn’t know what to do, so he laid down for a nap. But that was no good. The older he got, the less he was able to sleep.

“If only I could find that woman,” he said to himself. “No…not if only. I’ve got to find her.”

He got out of bed and headed to the ship agent’s office.

***

Amateur sleuthing was hard work, but thankfully Ben had been in the cruise and tourism industry for a great many years. With help from the ship agent and a friendly Chief Purser, he was able to get the list of the five people that went on the birding tour. No Sandy Alexander, but there were only two women. One was named Mildred Hay, and the other Lindy Anderson.

Ben dialed the ship’s satellite number. It took a few attempts, but he finally got through to the purser’s office and then connected to Lindy’s room. No answer. Frustrated and tired beyond belief, he left a message.

At 2 a.m., his phone began to ring. He had taken it to bed with him, so he answered immediately.

“Oh I am so glad I caught you,” crackled the voice at the other end of the line.

“Of course you caught me, it’s two in the morning,” he mumbled. “But thank you for calling me. I’m being questioned about all kinds of crazy things and on top of it all, they seem to think I’m responsible for your disappearance. You are Sandy Alexander, are you not?”

“Yes,” she squealed. “Oh…shit, these calls are like $4 a minute. How do I explain quickly? Look, my boss was convinced that you were actually your brother, but he’s a hothead. And I just knew—I knew—that you hadn’t done all those terrible things. I had to get away. I took some vacation time and on a whim I hopped that cruise. I mean, it seemed like the perfect way to meet you. I could just take one of your tours.”

“But Miss Alexander—”

“Call me Sandy!”

“Okay, okay. Sandy. I’m in a lotta trouble here. You gotta talk some sense into Soloy!”

“I’ll call him so he knows I’m alive and well. I’ll do it right now, in fact. He deserves to be woken up! And I talked to an advisor at the ICC. They can’t extradite you from San Sebastian, Ben. You’re going to be okay.”

“But— So you believe that I am Ben, yes? You must have some evidence, some proof you can use to convince Soloy as well.”

“No, Ben, I don’t. When I was working your case, I just had a feeling that you were innocent. I went to my guru and he helped me do your chart. You know, an Indian horoscope.”

Even in his panic, Ben had to suppress a groan. New age-y types. “And that’s what convinced you?”

“It was so clear. You’re a decent person. That was all I needed to know,” Sandy said. There was a click, and she was gone.

Ben sank back into his pillow, and allowed himself a glimmer of hope. ‘I am a decent person,’ he thought.

He had never truly believed that, though. He didn’t think he deserved love. Never married or had kids. But hadn’t he lived a model life these past fifty years? He hadn’t wanted to take part in the purge. He was just doing what his commanding officer told him to do. Just following orders.

He rolled over and tried to sleep. But it wouldn’t come.

Where I Was When (Historical Fiction)

Where I Was When

“Karma! Arey Karma, are you listening?” Mataji came rushing around the corner, the front of her apron filled with small potatoes. “I’ll give you a good thrashing, you son of a donkey!” she yelled, spotting him in the field.

Karma kicked at the scratchy buckwheat stalks. When he had come to work at the camp—along with 34 other Tibetans—he had been an obedient boy of five. Three years later, he chafed at the work and Mataji’s beatings. A member of the local Gond tribe, she was dark as night and wore a massive gold stud in her left nostril. She never tired of telling Karma that she was descended from Durgawati, the warrior queen.

Mataji yelled again. “Go inside, Lata has some dipped rice for you.” That got his attention. He ran to Mataji’s hut, his worn sandals smacking the rust-red ground as he went.

Inside, Karma took the bowl and bent metal spoon from Lata and sank to the floor. He sat cross-legged in the corner, watching the hem of her sari sway this way and that as she made rotis. The food was good…yesterday’s rice, doused in buttermilk, with fiery mango pickle and raw onion on top.

Mataji soon joined him. “My mother wasn’t a donkey,” he said after a while. Mataji grunted, unconcernedly sucking on a piece of pickle.

“Lata, give him one of those rotis with some eggplant,” was all she said.

Karma’s mother had died a year ago, in childbirth. The scrawny babe—another boy—had died the next morning. “Your brother’s in heaven now,” Doctor Treadway had said. Then his face had turned red. Karma had wondered why. The American doctor was an enigma. But then, all adults were.

Mataji alternated between slapping Karma and force-feeding him. Karma thought she loved and hated him at the same time. “Does that make any sense?” he asked his mirror twin. But the apparition had no answers.

The doctor, on the other hand, was gentle and kind. He had come to the camps at Mainpat as a volunteer medic in May of 1963. It was supposed to be a weeklong trip, but a year later, the doctor was still there.

Tibetan refugees were still arriving by the hundreds, many after walking for two or three months. They were skeletal beings, their hands and feet wrapped in white bandages.

“It’s frostbite,” the doctor had explained to Karma. “Extreme cold has damaged their fingers and toes.”

The doctor tended to the refugees as best he could without modern equipment or even antibiotics. When he was off duty, he drank. He could down a bottle of whisky in a single evening. In the mornings, there was a sour stench about him. But Karma didn’t mind. When the doctor was drunk, he played guitar and sang songs in English.

***

It was nearly nightfall when Karma left Mataji’s hut for the community center. She had given him a rupee to buy a sack of rice from the vendors that had stalls outside. The road that wound up the hill used to overlook the steppes and deep green jungle growth. In the past two years, ugly concrete houses had been erected for the refugees and aid workers that came and went. Now there was always a faint smell of latrines mixed in with strong cooking spices like cumin, coriander, and mustard seeds.

As he neared the doctor’s house, Karma heard the familiar twang of the guitar. He neared and heard the doctor sing, “I fell into a burning ring of fire, I went down, down, down as the flames went...”

But Karma never got to hear where the flames went. The doctor spotted Karma and interrupted his singing to say: “Hey kid,” though he continued to strum the guitar.

“Namaste Doctor-sir,” said Karma. “Nice song. Very nice,” he added, rolling his head from side to side to show his pleasure.

“I can’t seem to remember the words all that well,” said the doctor. He set down the guitar, pulled out a ten rupee note, and waved it at Karma. “Hey, want to buy me some cigarettes?”

“One packet, Doctor-sir?” Karma asked, taking the bill.

“Yeah…and buy yourself a sweet paan.”

Karma ran off, yelling his thank-you-sirs as he went. He bought the rice and cigarettes first. Then he went to the paanwalla’s stall.

A couple of men stood chewing their paan and spitting reddish juice at the grimy community center wall. Behind the paanwalla, an oscillating fan stopped whirring. There was only electricity during the day. 

The paanwalla’s voice pierced the sudden silence. “They’re saying the pundit is dead.”

“Good!” spat a man in a dhoti. “About time.”

“You! You’re a horse’s ass!” the paanwalla shot back. “Nehru was the architect of modern India! Now who will take over?”

The dhoti-man pointed a finger at the paanwalla. “If he hadn’t bungled the Chinese invasion maybe we wouldn’t be overrun by these Tibetans, eh? They get all the best land, and for the rest of us…what?”

The paanwalla raised his voice. “Gondi idiot! What did we have before the refugees started arriving? Thanks to them the government is building a school and a monastery here.”

“Shouldn’t the government build those things for us Chhattisgarhis?”

***

Karma handed a pack of Wills Filter cigarettes to the doctor. “Doctor-sir, people are saying Chacha Nehru has died,” Karma said. “Did he went to heaven?”

Doctor Treadway took a breath and looked down. Finally he looked back up. “Did you know, Karma, that I’m half-Tibetan?”

Karma didn’t answer. Who ever heard of a half-Tibetan?

“Jawaharlal Nehru has done more for our people than perhaps any man on earth.” The doctor smiled. “I know you don’t get it…the loss of a great man is…” He sighed and shook his head. “You will get it, some day. You’ll remember, when you’re older, what you were doing the day they told you Nehru died.”

He picked up his guitar and sang:

“I'm out here a thousand miles from my home,
walkin' a road other men have gone down.
I'm seein' a world of people and things…
hear paupers and peasants and princes and kings.”

Then he got up and went inside.

Karma walked back by the light of the moon, thinking that grown-ups were, indeed, very strange.