AN ARABIAN TALE-CHAPTER-2

SHORT FICTION

Chapter-2

The limpid sapphire skies diffused outside as if from a slice of the thousand and one yarns he had left half read, more numinous than tangible and he could not assent that finally, he is there. But now he is a persona in his own saga and the writer of that story too, though the bibliophiles are far or near in an indefinite land of oblivion. The firmament was not like that -Clear, sizzling and chafing and stirring him from top to base. What tale has he to relate in this season? The fable of an improbable kinship, of course.

Behind the windscreen, he saw her half-closed volume, with its title on the cover- 'The Hungry Stones and Other Stories'. A chill passed through his spine. He was meeting the great laureate one more time, cerebrally. First from a book presented by his father when he got the supreme grades in the fourth standard in the quarterly examination. Then in the university archive when he read' Gora', and 'Stray Birds' as his friend perused Cheiro's books in the secluded chamber near the closed reference division, where publics hardly ever went.

'Do you believe in past lives?', he asked her.

'I am a Christian', she said as if it were a rejoinder to his rash probe.

‘What is your religion?’, she asked. Now they have reached an abode within a short spell, where intimate tête-à-têtes are not taboo.

'Are you a Christian?' she asked again, not waiting for his reply.

'My wife is a Christian,' he said.

‘Really?’, she asked as if that were a prodigious wonder.

'My mother too', he continued.

Now she virtually beheld him in a most quizzical fashion.

'Theirs is an interesting marriage', he said.

He never spoiled any chance to brag about his parents in any of his conversations. He thought that it was the tiniest deed of gratitude he could fix since both have departed.

'In that case, you may be knowing the whole lot of the Bible-', she said.

'Not much, 'he said. He was thinking about the revered verse that one who humbles himself will be exalted.

'What is your religion?', she asked with a new brashness in her voice, which he was struggling freshly to understand.

Who is she actually, his first aide in the embassy, an angel or even a missionary sent by Heavens in this forenoon, for his salvation? #

For a few seconds, he could see in his mental orb, his lengthy quests and practices, and his halt near the Alps under a teacher, his life in Kumamoto as a Soto monk, where everybody assumed he was a Roshi because of his shaven head.

Finally, he thought that the dialogue is going into zones where both speakers needed more tolerance.

‘My religion is love and everything linked to it’ he said.

He felt scared that he was sounding more mythical than real and took a stogie from the pack in the cross pocket of chinos and lighted.

The sun was pretty fierier and at a distance they saw the farmstead of date trees, and also a waterhole , very remindful of the movies he had seen in his adolescence in his hometown, those late-night shows, when he would return in a bicycle along a small trail between palm trees bordered by paddy fields and the left bank duct of an irrigation dam.

'I heard that yours is highest ever marks in the history of the university in the post-graduation', she said.

He was not astonished. A biodata of him, his past feats and drifts and palates have already reached from the headquarters to his private staff. He said, 'That is long fiction - I will try to express it short-

When I was in the college, our family was so poor, that we could not afford, books or even decent outfits as my father's trade was going from loss to further losses. I got a scholarship and left for another city for post-graduation, and the grant was just adequate for my stay and conveyance. The only textbook I bought was a second-hand copy of the ‘Complete Works of William Shakespeare’ [how I acquired it from the Moore Market, Chennai, is also another lengthy tale, that I will voice most likely on another occasion]. #

I might have read Bard’s full text ten or fifteen times, not certain of the numeral, but so many stints. And I quoted the gallant versifier profusely in my papers, and the great bard took care of my grades. But, afore, I had developed ample analytical talent by reading the works of a contemporary provincial critic and also I knew half the verses of a semi-classical text in my school eras. During summer vacation, when my father came on bicycle for lunch, I was asked to tell by heart, one full page from the particular text and after performance, I would take the rented bike of my father on the lanes of the quarters, riding the vehicle like a person in a Circus, pedaling without using legs or standing on the seat in a semi-erect position .[I hope that time to come back, not for cycling purpose, but to see my father another while].

'You are a prince?', she asked.

' I am one of the 213 princes of a royal line, that has only name, but no power', He replied, 'The last vestiges of the noble household, that Warren Hastings tried to subjugate, which later created many headaches for him in the British Parliament.'

He was slightly exhausted by his narrative and searched for the water decanter from his satchel.

In half an hour, he wondered how he could be so intimate to somebody whom he had never bumped into before.

In the car, he saw her eyes, which he had not perceived clearly since he had chanced her at the airport lounge. It was slightly bluish and unlike in his remembrance of eyes in the faces he met. They were abstruse and sometimes, sensitive in an uncommon way. He tried further, but could not remember any as such.

She looked like a being with many layers, perhaps like earth, with a plethora of mantles, and tectonic plates. She was in her long baggy apparel and he knew that she will be his chief aide in future in this far country for another long period unless a disaster interferes and forbade such a happening. She was giggling every now and then and seemed lively into the core and with her was the driver, cum aide, Usman chettan[ elder brother ] his own countryman from South India,

The vehicle was big and could accommodate many more, so the spaces left seemed more than the spaces occupied. He was for some time in the backseat which gave him almost a bird's eye view of the scene while she was quite content to occupy the front seat with the driver.

She wore a single metallic bracelet on the left hand while a stylish wristwatch fell loosely on the other-- a slender ticker made definitely not for her, but for another fat kin of her family. This was the minute she mentioned that she had an elder sibling, but the discussion did not persist.

The gown she donned was well enough to be called an abaya, but it was more trendy, full of art prints and also the upper buttons were loosened to exhibit her black pullover. She wore no studs but the chain was quite lengthy to accommodate a few more necks into it and was blue in colour and the end part was out of sight.

In the lobby, he had marked her Jimmy Choos footwear, which now lurked in some locality in the anterior part of the automobile.

Usman Chetan[elder brother], as he called the other man since he hailed from his place and had an association with his customs and probably knew his background well. He said that he has been here for the past decade and that he knew, Arabic well, to speak, read and also write, and sometimes worked as a translator in diplomatic missions.

He suddenly thought about his own football coach in schooldays-- Another Usman Chetan[elder brother] in the twenties, evermore beaming and cracking jokes. He was then studying in his eighth grade. And one day, everybody in his team announced that coach Usman Chetan committed suicide, in the last evening. He could not digest that news even after numerous years. From that day, he thought about how a very merry gentleman could take away his life so swiftly, in spite of his altered doppelgänger, which all his associates prized. He was quite close to him and sometimes he assumed that Usman Chetan loved him more than any of his friends.

Now the new Usman brother from his native domicile. The world is smaller than he imagined. He said that there is a South Indian cafeteria nigh and there you get a 'special masala idli'. Though he is fond of idly because of its good protein content and no oil, he stated he fancied to try Arab gastronomy because it will be a novel experience. Moreover, one of the motives for his coming to this realm was to fathom the customs, and the of territory of food and culinary could divulge bulks about the credo of the people in a mild Jungian way.