Boats on Land: A Collection of Short Stories (23 page)

All this while Ailad, Ezra’s friend at the car workshop, had been away in Jowai on work, and he returned to say he’d last seen Ezra over the weekend, two days before he walked out and never returned.

‘We got a bottle of Old Monk…what else to do in this place in the evening…and drank in the workshop. We were pretty drunk by the end of it, or at least I was. From what I remember Ez was quite chatty that night.’ He laughed. ‘Usually I’m the one doing all the talking. He was telling me about his trip to Bombay recently, where he met up with an old friend…who does theatre or something there. I think he said his friend wasn’t well, and he had to go see him… Later,’ and here he looked troubled, ‘I remember him saying something…maybe I shouldn’t tell this to his family…he said that when he died, he wished for it to be in Sohra, and that even though he was Christian, he wanted to be cremated just like the Khasis.’

After this, the ones murmuring words like ‘suicide’ began to speak louder. And people thought it might have concerned a girl, a tragic affair that came to an end, or unrequited love.

‘No!’ said Chris. ‘Can’t imagine Ezra with a girlfriend.’ He laughed. ‘Of course, I’m sure he had many. After school. It’s just difficult to imagine, I guess. He was such a
good
boy, you know? Or wait,’ he jabbed a finger in the air, ‘I think he used to like this girl, when we were in class ten… Sara, that’s it, that was her name. But she drowned at Dwar Ksuid…on a picnic…it was very sad.’

There were people who suggested that Ezra preferred men—‘Perhaps,’ they muttered, ‘he didn’t like girls at all.’

Chris’s wife, Amy, a pretty, popular girl in school in her time, said she wouldn’t be surprised. ‘He didn’t come after any of us. Or try anything, you know, at parties…’ She frowned. ‘Although I don’t think he ever came to any of our parties. Or maybe he wasn’t invited. He hung out with Vincent; very sarong, too proud to have fun with us.’

By now, many people were talking about closure, and how it would be beneficial to the family if they only knew what had happened to him. Even if he was dead. It was important to know, because hope, when it lingers, could be a cruel, dangerous thing.

In the end, one of the search parties found him in a place they were certain they’d checked before. At the bottom of the cliff close to the three precariously balanced rocks. Someone cried out saying they’d seen a white cloth fluttering in the undergrowth. Perhaps, some people conjecture, the wind pushed him over, or maybe, he didn’t heed Mr Dutta’s warning and had slipped in the rain. ‘But why was he off the road and standing so close to the cliff’s edge?’ asked a few resilient sceptics.

The questions stormed on, and the landscape fell silent under their persistence. On the day of Ezra’s funeral, the weather cleared and a mild yet steady sun poured over the gathering at the Khasi cremation ground. As the flames crackled, the heat from the pyre blurred the hilltops and patches of sky; the world was magically hazy, and soon enveloped by heavy, pluming smoke. Later, at the prayer service, the priest’s voice echoed through the house—‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…’—and gentle hymns filled the rooms. Outside, it started to rain. Over cups of sweet tea and slices of yellow cake, people talked of how the past week had unfolded, and recalled all the other stories they knew of other people who may have also taken their own lives. They huddled together around small coal fires, trying to fathom why. When they returned home, no one fell asleep straight away. They looked at their wife or husband, at their slumbering children, at the patterns on the ceiling, and listened to rain pummel the roof. Finally, they’d doze off and some would dream of birds and other things that could fly.

Hong Kong

J
oshua and I are caught in an early summer storm. Forewarned last night by great slashes of lightning that sliced through a dark, thunderous sky. The kind that, a long time ago, would keep me awake until my grandfather told me stories of a giant named Ramhah who lived on Lum Sohpetbneng, and occasionally liked to rearrange his furniture. I peer up hopefully; as far as I can see there’s a dense quilt of grey.

‘I told you it would rain,’ says Joshua.

I maintain a defeated silence.

No matter the stories about Shillong’s prettiness during the monsoon—clusters of dripping pine trees, roadside waterfalls, bright blossoming umbrellas—there is nothing as unappealing as a wet afternoon in Police Bazaar. Endlessly stamping feet turn its roads into a black, squelching mess; there’s always the danger of being soaked by rushing taxis and a queer smell hangs in the air, a blend of exhaust fumes and mushroom dampness. This afternoon, out of nowhere, a faint memory stirs of the scent of pine on long walks home from school.

We take shelter under the awnings of Choudhury Pharmacy, which is doing roaring business as usual.

‘We should open a medicine shop,’ I jest, but Joshua is distracted.

‘What?’

I gesture to the pharmacy. ‘We’d never be broke.’

It’s an old shop, evident from the high ceiling and spacious wooden cupboards that the dkhar attendants stand on stools to reach. Shillong has changed a great deal since I left, now plagued by a host of modern urban atrocities—giant concrete buildings, multi-storeyed shopping malls, rampant traffic—but Choudhury Pharmacy has remained the same, cheerfully doling out medicine and pidgin Khasi to its customers day after day.

‘A booze shop,’ adds Joshua. ‘We’d be millionaires.’

He’s right. Even busier, a few stores down, is Economic Wine Shop. Across its grilled counter, a congregation of men, young and old, stand in odd yet amiable silence, as though they’re in church and reverently awaiting Holy Communion. They seem unperturbed by the downpour, and I presume they’re kept warm by alcohol as much as the anticipation of an impending drink. Joshua offers me a cigarette—he keeps forgetting I quit during the years we weren’t together—and I refuse. He drags on it and I watch the smoke curl slowly into the air.

An eclectic group, all sans umbrellas, stands huddled around us. Two young Naga girls in skinny jeans and pointed patent leather shoes text busily on their mobile phones. ‘Senti, look what he sent,’ says the one wearing a manga T-shirt in heavily accented English, and she holds out her phone to her friend. I strain my neck as much as I casually can, but fail to spy the message. They snicker and continue the conversation in a dialect I cannot understand. I imagine some slick, spiky-haired guy has asked her out for coffee or sent her a declaration of love—‘I Luv U 4Eva’ or something equally poignant and abbreviated. ‘Aru ki koribo pare?’ says Senti. I think she’s asking ‘what will you do now?’ They chatter on in their own dialect. I suppose I’ll never know.

At the edge of the party stands a tall man in a bowler hat, with a violin slung over his shoulder. I wonder what kind of music he plays—maybe Indian classical at Aurobindo Hall, down Bivar Road, opposite the stretch of old pine forest—and debate whether he’s Assamese or Bengali. He stares out, oblivious, seemingly mesmerized by the rain. He has a peppery stubble and a slim face dominated by a long, hooked nose. He’s Bengali, I think, because something about him reminds me of Mr Duttaroy, my history teacher in school. ‘History,’ he was fond of saying, ‘is who we are and…’ here he would pause dramatically, ‘why we are the way we are.’ This to a gaggle of disinterested teenage girls whose minds were mostly occupied by the frustrations of studying in a convent school.

‘How’s that possible?’ my benchmate Damaphi would hiss into my ear. ‘I don’t see anything similar between Mumtaz Mahal and me.’

‘What do you mean?’ I’d whisper back.

‘She had fourteen kids and I’ve never even held hands with a boy.’

The musician shifts the weight of the instrument on his back. I notice that Joshua too is looking at him. ‘How’s the band going?’ I ask. ‘The usual.’

I can’t decipher if that’s a good thing or not. I know that he’d had trouble finding a dedicated drummer. ‘What do you mean?’

He shrugs. ‘That people here have small ambitions.’

I mutter something about starting small, and aiming high. I’m aware that I sound like I’m quoting a self-help book, but sometimes, Joshua makes me nervous. I’m not as comfortable with him as I used to be. It was guilt, perhaps.

‘It’s not that,’ says Joshua. ‘I’ve played with lots of people here. They’re not looking to make something of their music… it’s a hobby, a fad…a way to make some cash at a wedding reception, playing covers of Michael Learns to Rock.’

‘That’s a terrible band.’

He concurs.

Next to Joshua is a short-haired, middle-aged lady wearing a rose printed jaiñsem. Its red flowers are impossibly large and elaborate, and stand out against the greyness of the day. She wears her jaiñsem the old-fashioned way—down to her ankles—and is carrying a beige leather bag. A similarly coloured sweater lies draped neatly over her shoulders. For a moment I imagine her life: her name is Mabel, and she’s a government employee in faithful service for about twenty-five years, in an innocuous department, like agriculture. She has two children who are now in college at St Anthony’s or St Edmund’s, studying sturdy subjects like commerce and science. Her doctor husband works in a government hospital and also has his own clinic somewhere in town. Like so many others, he too is judiciously reliant on antibiotics. They live in Malki, in one of those new concrete houses with a cement patch for a lawn, and go for family holidays to Puri and Manali. Their photographs are enlarged and framed at Highland Photo Studio, the largest, most popular one in town, and hang on their living room walls as important testaments to the goodness of God and existence. Suddenly, she looks at me. Perhaps she felt my inspection; I hurriedly look down, feeling guilty for having reduced a life to a string of clichés.

My eyes fall on the mud-splattered boots of the boy next to me. I can tell they’d been carefully polished and have now fallen prey to mud and wet weather. Somehow, that makes me sad. He’s in his late teens or early twenties. It’s hard to tell. His face is mostly smooth but marked by patches of old pimple scars. Under his fusty black leather jacket, he’s wearing an Iron Maiden T-shirt, one of the many sold at the crowded Tibetan Market down the road.

‘I’m sure he plays the guitar,’ I say nudging Joshua.

‘Don’t we all.’

I ignore his sarcasm. Perhaps the boy didn’t play very well, I thought, but, like so many others, was good enough to keep alive a small, musical dream. He’s brushing back his greasy hair and stealing glances at the Naga girls, who pay him no attention. Soon, he gives up, and stares at his boots instead. The usually bustling street in front of us is nearly empty except for a few resilient pedestrians, and an elderly man wrapped in a tapmohkhlieh, holding a black umbrella. I glance at Joshua; he’s looking out into the distance; I like the slope of his jawline, the three-day stubble, his tousled hair that curls at the edges. His skin is darker than mine, and he’s at least a head taller. I try and imagine how we appear—to someone passing by. Him in his faded jeans and blue sweater, me in my loose cotton trousers and sleeveless pink top. In a moment of affection, I slip my arm through his.

‘Do you remember on our way back from Sohra, when we got caught in the rain?’ I ask. Three years ago, a dull Sunday afternoon, Joshua’s old motorbike, an impulsive plan. We’d made it safely to the Mawkdok bridge, but decided to go no further. Even though I’d visited Sohra many times before, I’d never seen it like this—enveloped in clouds that seemed to begin and end nowhere. We stood at the viewpoint, the only ones there on that mid-monsoon afternoon, and watched the fog glide through the treetops. The world had ceased to exist. Driving back, we were caught in a thunderstorm near Mylliem. I remember the small jadoh stall we stopped at, the coal fire we huddled around. It rained like it would never stop, and we spent the evening dipping butter biscuits into our cups of plain red tea and talking. We did that a lot, those days. Our conversations bound us close because we thought we couldn’t speak that way with anyone else. They were, like us, unique. Somehow, it was important to have an opinion on the right books and movies—Camus’ devotion to the freedom of the individual and Salinger’s pristine, impeccable craft, Truffaut’s wonderful, minuscule focus on the everyday and Tarkovsky’s sublime, spiritual cinematography.

‘I think we finished all the biscuits,’ says Joshua.

I agree. I think about how we don’t talk like we used to.

We recount all the details of that afternoon, except one—that it was the day he told me he loved me.

I say, ‘It was fun.’

‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘And then you decided to leave.’ Raindrops hammer the awning like tiny ammunition. To study further, to work, I want to say. Things you couldn’t easily do in Shillong at the time. Perhaps even now.

‘Well… I’m back.’

The rain continues relentlessly, lulling us all into self-absorbed silence. I remember how we’d sat and searched for scholarships. We had a plan, that, given the certainty of youth, couldn’t possibly go wrong. We were to study in London, he’d do film and I’d attend classes that would teach me to craft my words. Shillong, even Delhi wasn’t good enough for us. It had to be elsewhere, swifter, more exuberant and exciting, one of the great centres of the world, the city around which every other merely circled like satellites. We applied for everything we could find—the Chevening and Charles Wallace, the Jawaharlal Nehru scholarship, Inlaks, and (even though we debated the colonial implications of the title) the Commonwealth.