He kept his word. When he arrived it was sharp six, the place hadn’t entirely been released to dawn, but the temperature was already rising and had become unbearable. I could feel the coarseness of the bag against my drenched back, but I hadn’t bothered to loosen the necktie or to unbutton the shirt that I had ironed impeccably. Barry Brown appeared wearing a light brown shirt which had turned almost dark because of the sweat, he held a folded necktie in one hand, and between the fingers of another a cigarette.
In this dusty part of the outskirt of the city, his Clarks shoes still shone. He walked up and greeted me, and without a smile asked if I would ‘fancy a fag’. With smoke trailing behind, I led him to the bus terminal, and there we stood leaning against the iron railing, waiting for one of the modified pick-up passenger trucks.
Before the cigarette was over, he felt his shirt pocket and took another out. With the butt of the new cigarette between his parched lips, the smouldering butt was precariously pressed against its tip; his cheeks vibrated in the effort of burning the new cigarette. Soon the cheeks and the parched lips were obscured by the thick smoke. Through that smoke, he asked, “You got a family here, mate?” I lifted my head and was about to reply, but his eyes were looking at something distant, as if he already knew the answer.
I asked, “How long have you been stranded here?” His spontaneous laughter sent the smoke into a long trail, he sucked on his teeth and pressed his lips tight as though the words were already there and he was feeling them with his tongue. They slipped out in an undertone, “mine began before that, and has gone far beyond.”
At the school the headmaster presented himself in a pink Hawaiian shirt. His smile never ceased but said very little and left us wondering why he had to smile for no reason. In his first class, I heard Barry explain and rephrase in his high-pitched voice, then it was followed by loud bangs against the whiteboard with a cane.
Few hours later, face overwhelmed with fatigue, he announced he was desperately craving for a smoke. We went out and stood underneath an immense mango tree by a lagoon partly claimed by swaying reeds, and unleashed his story. It was one of the typical expatriate tales that I had heard before; the kind that I could only sympathise with but had never aroused any strong interest.
The story about a third person came out like wine from a narrow- mouthed bottle, but only to fill a glass at a time. Each time a bit of the story was told I detected a trace of relief in his pale face, indicating it had long been bottled up.
Soon I got used to this new habit of waiting for Barry every morning and leaving the workplace together, and, once a week, stopping by a ‘dungeon bar’ after work to ‘grab a pint’.
He said his fortune was tied to the man’s luck, and he would find out only when the long-awaited crucial legal verdict came. He said, out of tomfoolery his mate had bought everything in his former native wife’s name. Like him, I had been waiting for something, perhaps my way out of the place. But deep down, which I didn’t want to touch, I knew I was looking for more bizarre to dilute my problems. The irony was that we never openly discussed personal matters or problems, instead we told each other stories. There was an urge to maintain some distance between our lives and the recent past that still had us in its grip, and we were uneasy, yet we wanted those anecdotes to be heard. I allowed my imagination to cultivate the impression that I was in the company of a confidant, and I felt that he felt the same, although we never mentioned it to each other openly.
One Sunday morning I saw several missed calls from his number. Surprised, I called back, but the voice was that of a woman’s saying, “Barry did, Barry did”.
I asked her to give the phone to someone with better command of the language. A man in his flat accent explained, Barry was gone. Just like that, without even the slightest warning.
I stayed put and locked myself up for two days, as though I wasn’t interested in something that had already taken up its place in my mind and was spreading fast. I was being selfish, or being a coward who had no courage to bid a proper farewell to a man who had already become an important friend.
Finally, I ventured out, but by the time I was there they were talking about the corpse, no more about Barry. The sister in Melbourne said she wanted the body to be repatriated but uttered no word about the expenses; I was in no position to extend any help; and the embassy had assured that after the autopsy they would ‘arrive at a conclusion’ and do the ‘needful’ in their diplomatic language. It never arrived. Finally, a temple agreed to cremate the body for a few thousands.
At the temple a small group of mourners gathered. Surprising us, more people in black, with their faces inflamed by cheap lager, showed up. They continued sipping discreetly from the bottles wrapped in plastic bags. The gloom in them was apparently subdued, and in their intoxicated state their grief turned noisy. Noticing this state, their tiny tattooed bar- girlfriends clung onto them like some pet apes would and ruffled their hair.
Three monks emerged holding hand-held fans and took their seats beside the white coffin. A white yarn was uncoiled and the thread was passed on till it had reached those at the back. After the chanting, the oldest monk beckoned a shirtless man whose bare chest was virtually covered in amulets. From a thread around his waist four wooden lingams dangled, and they clanked when he walked up to the head monk carrying a brass tray bearing paper flowers banded with small yellow candles. He stood facing us and his back to the crematorium chamber and signalled that we should line up to see Barry’s face for the last time. How relieved he looked; he must have reconciled with everything, or did he have time for that? How strange human mind could be; at that very instant I envied the tranquility that looked so far-fetched for me.
I didn’t know what to say to this man who was once full of life, drinking and telling me stories only a few days back. But I knew that what was confronting my eyes and my senses was the man, the dead body of Barry Brown. That was the reality.
Finally, the lid was put on and the bare-chested man alone pushed it in. The paper flowers and the candles were thrown in and the chamber door was shut. Black smoke soon rose, declaring that he was already consumed by the flames and he would never be seen. Never again.
*From Tales of Human Mischief
In this dusty part of the outskirt of the city, his Clarks shoes still shone. He walked up and greeted me, and without a smile asked if I would ‘fancy a fag’. With smoke trailing behind, I led him to the bus terminal, and there we stood leaning against the iron railing, waiting for one of the modified pick-up passenger trucks.
Before the cigarette was over, he felt his shirt pocket and took another out. With the butt of the new cigarette between his parched lips, the smouldering butt was precariously pressed against its tip; his cheeks vibrated in the effort of burning the new cigarette. Soon the cheeks and the parched lips were obscured by the thick smoke. Through that smoke, he asked, “You got a family here, mate?” I lifted my head and was about to reply, but his eyes were looking at something distant, as if he already knew the answer.
I asked, “How long have you been stranded here?” His spontaneous laughter sent the smoke into a long trail, he sucked on his teeth and pressed his lips tight as though the words were already there and he was feeling them with his tongue. They slipped out in an undertone, “mine began before that, and has gone far beyond.”
At the school the headmaster presented himself in a pink Hawaiian shirt. His smile never ceased but said very little and left us wondering why he had to smile for no reason. In his first class, I heard Barry explain and rephrase in his high-pitched voice, then it was followed by loud bangs against the whiteboard with a cane.
Few hours later, face overwhelmed with fatigue, he announced he was desperately craving for a smoke. We went out and stood underneath an immense mango tree by a lagoon partly claimed by swaying reeds, and unleashed his story. It was one of the typical expatriate tales that I had heard before; the kind that I could only sympathise with but had never aroused any strong interest.
The story about a third person came out like wine from a narrow- mouthed bottle, but only to fill a glass at a time. Each time a bit of the story was told I detected a trace of relief in his pale face, indicating it had long been bottled up.
Soon I got used to this new habit of waiting for Barry every morning and leaving the workplace together, and, once a week, stopping by a ‘dungeon bar’ after work to ‘grab a pint’.
He said his fortune was tied to the man’s luck, and he would find out only when the long-awaited crucial legal verdict came. He said, out of tomfoolery his mate had bought everything in his former native wife’s name. Like him, I had been waiting for something, perhaps my way out of the place. But deep down, which I didn’t want to touch, I knew I was looking for more bizarre to dilute my problems. The irony was that we never openly discussed personal matters or problems, instead we told each other stories. There was an urge to maintain some distance between our lives and the recent past that still had us in its grip, and we were uneasy, yet we wanted those anecdotes to be heard. I allowed my imagination to cultivate the impression that I was in the company of a confidant, and I felt that he felt the same, although we never mentioned it to each other openly.
One Sunday morning I saw several missed calls from his number. Surprised, I called back, but the voice was that of a woman’s saying, “Barry did, Barry did”.
I asked her to give the phone to someone with better command of the language. A man in his flat accent explained, Barry was gone. Just like that, without even the slightest warning.
I stayed put and locked myself up for two days, as though I wasn’t interested in something that had already taken up its place in my mind and was spreading fast. I was being selfish, or being a coward who had no courage to bid a proper farewell to a man who had already become an important friend.
Finally, I ventured out, but by the time I was there they were talking about the corpse, no more about Barry. The sister in Melbourne said she wanted the body to be repatriated but uttered no word about the expenses; I was in no position to extend any help; and the embassy had assured that after the autopsy they would ‘arrive at a conclusion’ and do the ‘needful’ in their diplomatic language. It never arrived. Finally, a temple agreed to cremate the body for a few thousands.
At the temple a small group of mourners gathered. Surprising us, more people in black, with their faces inflamed by cheap lager, showed up. They continued sipping discreetly from the bottles wrapped in plastic bags. The gloom in them was apparently subdued, and in their intoxicated state their grief turned noisy. Noticing this state, their tiny tattooed bar- girlfriends clung onto them like some pet apes would and ruffled their hair.
Three monks emerged holding hand-held fans and took their seats beside the white coffin. A white yarn was uncoiled and the thread was passed on till it had reached those at the back. After the chanting, the oldest monk beckoned a shirtless man whose bare chest was virtually covered in amulets. From a thread around his waist four wooden lingams dangled, and they clanked when he walked up to the head monk carrying a brass tray bearing paper flowers banded with small yellow candles. He stood facing us and his back to the crematorium chamber and signalled that we should line up to see Barry’s face for the last time. How relieved he looked; he must have reconciled with everything, or did he have time for that? How strange human mind could be; at that very instant I envied the tranquility that looked so far-fetched for me.
I didn’t know what to say to this man who was once full of life, drinking and telling me stories only a few days back. But I knew that what was confronting my eyes and my senses was the man, the dead body of Barry Brown. That was the reality.
Finally, the lid was put on and the bare-chested man alone pushed it in. The paper flowers and the candles were thrown in and the chamber door was shut. Black smoke soon rose, declaring that he was already consumed by the flames and he would never be seen. Never again.
*From Tales of Human Mischief
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