Death and Debris - the voice of the weak

And the weak one snapped as a bow held taut
The stinging insults he had borne, he ill-forgot
and he wondered, looking at the ground

Was it power? 
that fought and raised its voice
at those it knew to be weaker
That grabbed salaciously
and sought to contain
outpourings of grief
with force and raised hand 

yet, crumbled to nothing when all was lost
and wept helplessly as it searched for relief

was that power or was that the absence of it?

Death and Debris - 1

http://www.lifetime.org/2013/10/falling-leaves/

When duty dies does it go with the satisfaction of tasks well done?

Of praise for adherence and the chance of pleasing someone?

Does it go with the assurance of a life well-lived?

Or does it wish to have been freed of the shackles it had worn?

I died grieving at all my life had been

I had no wish for kindness or understanding

I had no place for them, they were not mine to have

I saw oncoming death in the eyes of those around me

Exaggerated kindnesses and the names of gods repeated

Shimmer of tears quickly wiped away, shoulders slumped

I had no place for hope, it was not mine to have

I did not wish for more life

Unlike those who grip tight unto last breath

I slipped away peacefully

Into the certainty of death

Did my life live up to its promise?

I yearned for love, I feared rejection and loss

What I feared most, I received

What I wanted most, I neither received nor gave

And the dead boy's stepmother was dead

THE VOICE OF POWER

His child, his boy, his only son was gone. Gone, dead, body, he could not bear the ghastly finality of the words. He looked carefully through hazy eyes. This is not death, just innocent sleep. See that, his stomach heaved... Any moment now he will come awake and call his mother. He never called to me, always his mother, for everything, mother. And she would shield him.

If he had lived to a better age, he would have seen another aspect of me. I would have treated him as a grown man, a man of responsibility and position. He would have got everything of worth from me, his father. He would have scorned his fawning mother or at the very least, hidden his open preference for her.

But all that was over, he would never grow, he was gone, never to return oh no, it was too much… he caught his head in his hands as though to wring out his own thoughts. ‘No! No! I cannot bear it,’ the words flooded over unbidden. ‘I cannot bear it, I cannot bear this loss. My son, give me back my son.’

He looked around in search for an answer. People, so many people, so many, couldn’t any one of them be of help? Get my son back, nobody, no one, no no, ‘uhhh,…’ he groaned.

Nobody spoke and nobody should speak, they knew this man, powerful and violent. Who knew when he would turn on them like a mad animal? They feared him, his rages and ill-will, even those who benefited from him, hated him.

His uncle, a kind man of great understanding stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him down. The gesture meant, Yes, you grieve but do it quietly, not like a weak woman. Women wail, they are weak, that is their wont. Men cannot weep like that. There, now stop the tears and get about the business of arranging. There, there, and he began to say ‘We have to take the bo…’

‘NO!!' the father reacted sharply, 'No! Not body, he is not a body, he is a boy, he is my son, my son, he is my son…,’ the uncle looked nonplussed. Someone would have to take charge of the situation. Who could do this? Where was that brother, weakling fellow always hiding when it is time to come to the front? ‘Call him! Call him here, now!’ he shouted suddenly.

And he appeared, he had been right beside all along. Ashen-faced, he spoke, ‘Please let him be, leave him alone, why do you always interfere?’ the uncle stepped back. Do I interfere? We have to be back before sundown, doesn’t the fool know that? 'Take charge then, leave me out of it!'

His silent wrath seemed to awaken everyone, specially those who were in tears at the mere sight of grief, ‘Come on, it isn’t good to keep things like this. We have to go a long way away and come back.’ No explicit references, the father seemed to relax and the rituals began.

Later, he lay on his bed, tears streaming out of his eyes. His wife had turned on him after he returned from the cremation ground, 'You killed the one thing that mattered. The only thing…’ and she had stormed away. He was tired, he could not retort.

There would be others to take care of his needs if she chose to while away her life and die. He could throw her out, after all, what was she? She had not borne him a boy, of what use she? What did she think, that he had no feelings for his son? Should I fawn and kiss the boy like her? I cared for him more than life itself but until a child turns old enough to tell right from wrong, one must wield a firm hand. She would just weep uselessly as though her tears were capable of correcting all wrong.

What did she know of him? His troubles, the pang he felt when her obvious inability to bear a child was spoken of. What of the silent smirks? He wielded power, he was an important man and she, she had failed him. What of him, his expectations? She had failed to meet his requirements. What of that? Why had he married her? To look at her face?

And she had blamed him! How could she? Had he wrought the illness? Was it in his hands? Was anything in his hands? Did she not understood that he stood powerless when the God of Death appeared?

Oh, but he was a man all right! And she, she needed to know her place. A woman’s place is under the man, beneath! And there you see the evil that is the woman, weak at all times, incapable in body, unwilling in spirit but when the man is weak she will show her wrath, her strength. As though, ghoul-like, her power comes only when the man is weakened. Ghouls give power to the woman... Should she not lift him out of this welter? Is it not her place to give strength to fight? To continue with life? Oddly, the energizing effect of anger failed him now.

At other times, when rage caught up with him, he would hunt for her and ferret her out from one of the many rooms to teach her. But what was she, a useless impotent, ‘Can she bring the boy back? Back from the dead?’ there he had said it, dead. Dead. His son was dead, gone forever, never to return. His brain stopped racing. He sighed heavily. No tears flowed now.

He felt no feeling, only stark emptiness.

Voice of the Gentle

Beauty and misfortune in one package, they said.

She had been abandoned by her husband who preferred to live with another woman. He was a sinner, she was assured of that. But why would a man leave a beauty like her for another? Obviously, it meant her stars were not good. Something was wrong with her.

Visitors asked her in-laws, 'Will you keep her here to serve you?' and stretched to catch a glimpse of her. Yes, she would serve them, they said, as she hid behind the door. But can beauty be locked away? They sent her to her parents. Who could bear this burden?

Her parents worried about their lot. She asked them in a fit of rage, ‘If he can leave me and stay with another woman, why can’t I find another man?’ Her audacity was shocking, her attitude worrisome. Who would have her?

When someone asked if she would work in a bungalow where she would be fed and sheltered, her parents were relieved. This had to be a blessing.

There were so many people in the house. The daughter-in-law ran the house with a flourish. Ordering the women about food, organizing prayers and food for the poor, gardening, cleaning, she was a busy woman. But she had no child. She was ably aided by a battery of five widowed aunts and feebly by the young mother. The young mother seemed kind and welcoming but was usually distracted by her 'little pearl'.

The others were not so kind, one of them looked at her pointedly, 'What work will you do?' in full gaze of the group.

And she replied in all innocence, 'Whatever you tell me to.'

'M-hm,' a sarcastic murmur. Unclean, unchaste they called her and wished her away. They spat in disgust at her sight. They saddled her with the most strenuous work, she obeyed quietly. They fed her as little as they could. Taunts about her status, the ill-omen she was were hers to bear. She bore the brunt, crying silently.

When he called her to an isolated quarter she had not known this was her duty too. At first, she railed. How could he touch her as she stood like stone? She wanted to scream and bare his shame to the whole family. But it dawned on her, this was what the taunts were for. She recalled her mother's hesitation before reconciling the situation mentally. Everybody had known. The shame was hers.

Had her father accepted her fate? She would never know. Nobody asked after her welfare. Abandoned, one more time.

When the young mother's heart was being rent to pieces, hers had been the voice that pleaded for understanding. She had smuggled food and water to her, cajoled her to eat as she lay weak and febrile.  Hers had been the voice that called to the gods as that shriveled body lay dying.

She understood abandonment. She understood isolation.

But what of the other women in this household, hadn't fate abandoned them as well? Each one had little to fall back on, yet they tried to appease the one man who would never do a thing in their favour.

And she saw – abandonment can represent two faces, one that understands and one that furthers it. But none to alleviate it. That when the abandoned fell back on each other to leave you alone, they do so on the assumption of being better. That somehow, they do not share your fate. That somehow, they are not like you.

If you scream you deserve your lot, we who stand by are purified by our very separateness from you, We will show sorrow at your state, that is our goodness. We will taunt you at will, that is your fate.

She became devout, placing faith in the idols on her wall. At least these idols could faithfully recount her days.

When she became sick, they cursed her. The least she could do was to die quietly. But no, she kept muttering, recalling, cursing all those who had hurt her and let her down when she knew nothing. Family secrets came tumbling out and it became difficult to face each other.

Peace, well-earned peace. The golden glow was a familiar state. One that seemed to stay away from life.

Shared guilt is a good thing.When the one who carries your tales moves on, you become free. The family found relief in her passing. 

Dreams or reality

It felt an awakening as though from a long deep slumber. What of the children, what of those people, it asked.

The thought arose and it was back at the same place, it was the same, it felt the same though everything was different. The dry barren rock was gone and in its place stood a road buzzing with activity. Vehicles trundled past at varying speeds, people hurried by, cloth ends flapping in the breeze. The loose rough cloth of that time was nowhere to be seen. Had an era passed in a blink?

A question unanswered.

The golden hue surrounding it changed. Life was pulling it back and at an invisible border stood the outlines of two doors. One door was marked 'stay', the other, 'return'. Before it could make a conscious choice, the door marked ‘return’ swung open and drew it in and it had life again.

Do children remember us from lives past? He could not tell, but on busy streets in the midst of unknown faces, sometimes small children took an instant liking to him. Sometimes they stopped in their tracks and smiled as though they sensed a long lost affinity and he felt the same. At first, when a child came to him, he was willing to play.

But one must be careful lest one is misunderstood. Affectionate touch may be misconstrued.

As he grew older he realized that his actions created suspicion and held back at the quiet fury in the parent's eyes when he so much as patted a young head. Why once he had held a young child by hand and guided it away from sure danger. When he looked up the parents were smiling and thankful but he sensed wariness in them.

It hurt. Wasn’t it obvious that he would not harm their children? Why this distrust? Old people spoke and they spoke of evil designs of men and women who quietly whisk away the very young to their cruelties. They feared people who attracted their children.

In the face of these reactions, he learned to smile indulgently for the moment and look away, cutting the connection. The children were alright now, they were cared for. They did not need him as they had in a time long past.

One should not mix memories of past roles with the present, a gentle voice spoke in his mind.

Love is far too precious for random expressions.

He understood and hurt settled.

How did he live and die, that lies unknown. The next time he entered life, he learned something new. A life may seem to have been lived with little achievement, little to remember it by. But there are those who know, at times, a soul visits for a little rest, some understanding. Learning deepens in quietude, away from the hurry of life.

The Prologue: A Life Cut Short

He walked along the rocky undulating path, stopping every once in a while to peer carefully into the distance. Surely, they would take the same route and not the roundabout one. He watched for signs of movement but apart from rolling dust, there was nothing. The sun had burnt the rocks white, thorny scrub straggled in the dry heat. 

He stopped for a swig of drink and waited. His nostrils burnt as heat cascaded inside with his very breath, he coughed involuntarily. Heat does things to us, plays with our vision. Was that a carriage in the distance? It had been there one moment, now nothing. There was no sound of approaching hooves or ambient disturbance. He wiped his brow and shut his eyes for a moment.

His mouth was parched, he took another swig. Though he wore only a rough cloth, he had fashioned a sturdy belt and a pouch out of skin, it kept the drink well. His priorities were clear.

Why had he come this far, taking all this trouble, oh yes, he wanted to tell his friend the plight of the people. He wanted to ask for money, some help if possible. He must not stutter when speaking, he must explain clearly. It was imperative that he do this before they reached the village and its people.
Too many wagging tongues tipped with poison waited back there.

But as he stood on this barren rocky path a wave of doubt overcame him. Would his friend listen or even agree? Will he doubt my words?

He saw movement, yes, it was a carriage, the slopes were higher than he had realized. Was somebody else inside, an unknown stranger or some trader? What if the information had been wrong, he panicked. Should he turn and walk back?

The carriage showed up again, taking a turn around a ridge. ‘Ah, is that a sign? That must be him.’ He made to go forward so he could stop the carriage but decided against it. He would wait right here until the carriage reached him. He would wave beforehand so that the driver would stop. He turned his attention idly to the horizon as he thought about the coming conversation. There was a shaded outcrop in the middle of the flatland. He sat there and waited.

He thought about the situation. Would they all have to move away from that place? It seemed cursed. What of the children? He had seen them, all burning with fever, a fever that would not subside. Frightened parents came to him. They believed he had magic in his hands. Why, one cool touch of his hand and the sickest of patients felt better immediately. They missed that the dying died anyway. The crying child continued to cry. He explained, there was no magic in his palms merely temporary relief. They were frantic, too frantic to care. Besides, who else would help them?

Yes, his hands had always been cool. Even when the weather was hot and dry, his hands were cool. When eyes were weary with the day’s labour, they came by asking that he cup their eyes with his hands. And he willingly did it. When someone was grieving or distressed, they would sit with him. He would wash his hands and pray silently as he covered their eyes. His hands were blessed they said. It made their pains melt away, gave temporary reprieve. His hands had the touch of goodness. They swore by it.

But there were those who spoke ill of him. They did not like his ways, why do you go to him for help, they asked. He gives no food, no hope, does little work but partakes of our meagre quantities. They forbade his entry to their homes even if the dying called for his presence. He would wait outside, who knew someone may let him hold the dying hand and sometimes they did. But those who believed came to him anyway.

He was no saint, no healer. He had no promise to make and that was what they did not like. If someone received strength from his presence, he was happy to let them.

His friend had asked him to take care of his trade when he was away. He was glad for it and did his job willingly. But all that had been before...

A message had reached him, his friend was cutting short his travels and returning now.

The carriage was closer and he got up waving at the driver to stop once they were closer. The driver turned to speak with someone within and after some conversation, waved back to indicate that he would. 

He stood up and noticed a group of people were standing at the far end, why, he had been looking in that direction all this time. The horizon had been devoid of movement. Had they appeared out of nowhere?

The carriage was close by, the driver was slowing down with much clatter. He looked within; it was his friend all right. He thanked his stars.

‘Come in,’ his friend beckoned, beaming in delight. He’d had a successful visit to the nearby towns. He had left with some trepidation and felt happy about the ready acceptance he had received. There had been some murmurs no doubt, secret groups that did not like his presence but they wielded no power.

‘Tell me, friend, why have you come all this way to meet me? Surely, we could have met at my home,’ the friend spoke. He was a rich and successful tradesman. The soft cloth that he wore belied a tough heart and a keen mind. His eyes narrowed as he continued, ‘I had left you in charge of my warehouse, is all well?’ The beaming mask was gone. Hard suspicion took its place.

‘That’s part of the reason I needed to speak with you before you arrived at your home,’ the words came tumbling out. ‘I had to use some of the money to care for the children.’

‘Some or all? I have heard that you barely stopped short of opening up the place to marauders. I would have stayed for longer but returned as soon as I heard about…’ there seemed to be a disturbance outside. The friend’s voice was low, he could barely be heard.

‘I-I’m sorry, I had to give away some of the money it was an emergency,’ he tried to explain and raised his voice as the disturbance grew louder. ‘There is a sickness, a terrible sickness, children, they are dying. They cry for days burning with fever, then their crying stops and they are lifeless. I am tending to seven children in my home, I do not know what to do, we needed milk, some bread, but...’

The tone was cold, ‘One month, you were in charge for one month and in that time you have wiped me out, is that what you are trying to tell me?’

‘No, you are not wiped out,’ he would understand when he reached the village. Maybe their meeting had been premature. He wanted to explain the horror back home but…

The rattling of the coach had stopped. ‘Hey!’ his friend exclaimed as he looked out of the window.

‘Get down now! You get out now!’ the sound came from a distance. Some people were hurrying towards them. They held long sticks of the type one would use to walk afar.

His friend fell back in his seat and looked around wide-eyed. An angry crowd!

‘You have killed our children,’ someone screamed.

‘But, I am returning only now,’ the friend replied. 'How could I do anything to your...'

‘Not YOU! HE, he came here to escape from us, we saw him leave and knew something was amiss. We went to his house. All our children have died. All! He promised to cure them, he promised, we trusted him with our children’s lives!’

‘NO! Please I understand your distress, let me explain...'

But they would not listen, ‘We came to you for help and you stood by. You did not help, just waited for our children to die, come out!’ they screamed.

He turned to his cowering friend, ‘I will get down and explain it to them. I am sure they will understand. You go ahead.’

The friend shook his head, as though to dissuade him but no words came out. He opened the carriage door and stood at the top stair above the crowd, how many were they, almost 30 or 60. He looked closely at them. None of the fathers of the dead children was here, they would have vouched for him. He had never promised a cure. All along, he had wanted them to find medicine.

‘I am sorry about the death of the children.’

‘No, come down, you cannot get away.’

‘Wait!' he commanded, ' I am not trying to get away, I am returning to our village,’ and the crowd stopped speaking. ‘It is a sickness, a sickness like we have never seen before. We must leave this place for some darkness is upon it, a darkness we do not comprehend. If we are to save our children, our very selves, we must leave. But before we do that, some of us must travel ahead and get help. There are doctors who may be able to save us, save our children.’

A lull descended on the crowd, the horse shifted slightly, the carriage shook and he descended the stairs.

The sun was in his eyes as he looked into the surrounding sea of faces. He saw fear, grief, anger, ‘I have not caused the sickness or death, my abilities are inadequate. Just a soft touch that is all I have.'

The crowd was undecided, it stepped back in understanding that their heartbreak was greater than this man could help them with.

He relaxed now, ‘I take your leave my friends,’ a flash of steel or was it silver that lit the air. He bowed in respect, as though to say, goodbye for now, we shall meet again. 

When it hit his neck, he felt a shock but knew no pain. Maybe he felt the scurry and cries that ensued, the shouting and chaos, the quiet trundle of the carriage. Maybe he was dead when it happened. What did it matter?

It was brilliant gold. No discomfort, no heat. Pure peace, only peace.

It waited now as it had many times before.