the boat [short story]

1

He paused for the waves to settle for a while, not heeding the draft that has been blowing since he began this journey. Never in any wildest of ignis fatuus could he fathom that this could be the reason for his getting back to this once hallowed destination. Friend, I am here, he muttered to the wind and presently shifting focus and

peering into the uncanny ocean at the other orbit, was in dismay to manumit its stumper. The kids of the fisherfolk hardly noticed him as they were gathering the trinkets and beginning afresh a recreation that they might have abruptly abandoned in the middle, last evening. Possibly the tornado that swept yesterday

suspended their sport. But not in any mode affecting the zest. Several crows emerged headlong as if burgeoned from a Heraclitan dream and peeked at him, swinging their heads sidelong but later liked to camp at a distance to scout for food crumbs.

This is the Podunk, he thought, that proffered him solace and rest many years ago when he arrived here for the first time. Now, a few rescue operation teams apart and those subdued figures speculative about what is going on, assorted here and beyond, there appeared little that is specially consoling. In the past few weeks, the storms had disturbed its healthy frame and the fishing yachts that had carried many men were turned down and a few are missing. Cloudbursts occurred yesterday too. While walking on the beach, the soggy sand escaped the slender cover of his footwear and stroked the feet offering a brotherly feel. He stared down at the dale and to the large expanse into which it slumped. Mesmerizing as it was, it expanded far away into a hedgerow of coconut groves and further into a billabong of settled water.

Twenty years have whisked by, he thought. He was in his second year at Sorbonne, and then a thorax ailment matured, causing him unfit for the classes. His physician attributed this to an uncommon kind of lung disorder spawned by rodents, though he could not brush up any event that could have egged it on. Of course, he had a fugitive pop in with his father at the country home in the closeness of a sheep run. They advised him complete rest. And he left the studies in the middle and retrieved homewards. His flatmate proposed, he better go to this renowned hamlet by the Bay of Bengal. Once it hosted emperors and their consorts. Now, a sick student. And he came and was young and had less baggage.

2

They gave him a room in the only decent rest house that was available then, the others being in half

dilapidated shape. As his father was known to the village elder, he was given good treatment, an

aide and a room with a view. His chamber was towards the eastern side and the portholes gave an

adorable glimpse into the sea and it was his custom to spend long wakeful nights watching the waves and

the ships that are far, from the dim glimmer of a lighthouse that was chiefly intended for a famous harbor attached to

this port.

Here he met his friend. He then was anticipating the final year graduation results. In his spare time, the young man

worked as the deputy of the Caretaker of the inn. Soon, they formed a thick alliance, the type of which that had

never occurred later in his life. While he was recovering, his friend read the only two volumes he

brought with him. A collection of Oscar Wilde and a biography of saints. All these ruminations made him fling an exhalation and later, he discerned that it was pretty odd for him- these rooted casts of gloom. In this affair, he emulated his father who showed sufficient internal fervor in crucial states. In the household talks, this was a subject that piqued his mother who believed that a man without fear is an impossible entity. All people, she argued, have fears and vexations amounting to different degrees. Only that, some live with them and others act sagaciously at crucial times in spite of them. In brief, bravery according to her is not a virtue from skies but a matter of urgent choice and an ability that increases after repeated practice. Complete strength is a façade, his mother told, and he heard her laughter from a far beyond place.

Now, he will not choose to brood over it for long, as he is more concerned about the missing boat that went for fishing three days ago which carried his friend and is still not traceable. And a great sadness overwhelmed him. He shifted his mind to his own version of happiness which was an intent to be in the ever-present in spite of all odds. He thought for a moment about his friend’s family and tossed with the idea and while doing so, his feet gathered a momentum unknown to him. Yes, he is sure about the house. He had been there many times. There were many men assembled in the garden that enclosed the house. The whole place was bordered by a metallic fence on three sides and in the front by a brick wall. The gate opened with a whining sound and the men assembled in the front portion and elsewhere under the trees, looked up. They were probably searching in their memories for the identity of the guest in such a calamitous situation. The dog barked. But after one yelp, stopped as if it had seen a hidden direction in the space. As he approached, two elderly men rose up from the gathering, one man hinting to his fat middle-aged companion something and the other nodded in complying. The middle-aged fellow lifted his hand and he was to a big degree disconcerted by a heavy gold-colored watch that refused to rest on his right wrist. He realized the old man as his friend’s uncle who knew him well and with whom he had numerous evenings and dinners. His uncle, whose beard was turning full gray, wore khaki pants and check shirts that hung lower than the usual fitting levels. He smiled warmly in friendly greeting but the sad outfit of being escaped the thin frame.

“Is the boat sighted?’, he asked and waited solemnly for his reply.

‘No.’ he said. There were no more parleys.

He went inside the house and along with the few visitors, occupied a chair in the corner place. He discerned that the place had evolved much. The furniture is more luxurious and the walls are full of the photos of a military officer in uniform. That was his friend who got short service commission in the army and later resumed the family fishing industry following the death of his father.

A few minutes elapsed and a lady in a white attire appeared. He recognized his friend’s wife whom he had

met in the Carnival of Peacocks along with his friend. Her face had a pathetic pallor, an equivalent of which he saw only on some faces at his mother’s funeral. A man begins hugely and finds himself solving many outstanding tasks and a few interims later, discovers himself swallowed by his own shadow and powerless to continue the natural walk. In such a condition, even rest is ghastly, haunted by faces of clowns that enter into areas where they have no right to do so. He aspired to share some of the family vexations with this lady and plead her that she is not alone in her grief, but everything seemed redundant.All he could do was look at the photograph of the officer in uniform that adorned the wall.

3

The storm had ceased. It has been a week since he came to this hamlet. They have not yet traced the bodies in the disappeared boat. Yesterday, he sent a note to his friend's family informing of his departure. He was rather afraid to meet the lady in person. He possibly had not so many excellent words at his disposal that would ease a collapsing mind. Now, he himself is not that vibrant youth who could see all life draping in future. He also had his party of sorrows. Though these did not make him very blessed, they surely made him pretty plain and urged him to chop a few expressions of free parlance in all situations. More words in more solemn ones. From here, he must go, not barehanded but with a fascination to look into a new chapter of a book he had bought casually once, and has never read. Perhaps, when he goes away from this place, he will forget some faces. But it will not weigh much. After all, we all have such experiences. Feeling that something is inevitable and later learn with a sigh that it is not so. The things we goofed up were not that real stuff but things only close to that. Lastly, this is a simple and fabulous relief. He will surely relive those kids by the beach who were reconstructing the fun items in the morning after last days' storm. Or he would one day travel back to his old borough and attend the Cart Festival with the hope that some face in the crowd will call him by his first name. Or look at some of those sights in the streets he had dodged. Or he would partake in those zingers of his old companions that he once classed ribald. Or just stay near the bangle sellers and listen to their animated chats without comment. In fact, he did not know. One thing that was very sure was, he is alive and his friend is missing. Is it encouraging? Maybe. And all of a sudden a very simple form of gratitude enveloped him and wobbled him….

Now he was moving. He was strolling aimlessly on the shore, and towards those tiny markets that sold fried fish, fishes fresh from the sea. He entered one temporary shed and an old lady with thick bangles and a smile greeted him. He noticed that one of the front teeth was missing, but it was very appropriate. They only added to the humble, deep notes of the sea. He chose not to order fish, but go for hot spicy tea that was on the menu. Then he walked again and tried to view the shore from an elevated sod that was not far. He saw at a close distance, the broken glass windows of an old building that was actually hard to crack because of its strong dexterity of make. The children who were near them amused themselves with constant throws that became harder by each hit and he saw them taking pride in the force of their hit and in the enjoyment of the sound of broken glasses. They have made it another game. He watched them with a new, acquired smile that he got only that afternoon. Suddenly at far, he saw a very bright sun, perhaps the brightest his eyes had ever spotted on.

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