A Meander Through Memory After Death

A Meander Through Memory After Death

     

-        Saptarshi Basu

                               ( A piece of fiction )

       ‘Sahib, do we have such bombs in India’ Shantaram enquired with his funny idiotic look. I was getting highly annoyed as he was frequently stopping me with his bullshit questions. I looked around and the owl was still there, still trying to look through us for the humans. The abandoned machineries still kept their silence. Naren, you don’t have much choice after death, calm down, I said to myself. If this old piece of shit has the guts to ask me the same question while I walked alive, I would have surely taught him a good lesson. Asking about nuclear bomb to Naren Shekhawat, bloody slum dweller, doesn’t he know who I am? 

‘Didn’t you read newspapers, Shantaram’ my irritation was now reaching a peak. ‘Yes Sahib, we use to read the Lokjanbharti which was pasted on the walls of the nearby railway station. But it was mostly political news about what the local government did for us…new health plans, roads, drinking water, compensation to the poor…things which never got to us and things which they said was successfully completed. Years before the factory killed us, it was making us ill day after day. The factory sludge mixed with the drinking water made it undrinkable. But the paper said on our behalf that we were extremely happy and doing really well. Mostly it was full with all such stuffs’. ‘To answer you’ I cleared my throat and raised my voice a bit ‘yes India is highly capable of such things. And I was the pioneer of such nuclear experiments…be patient and we will come to it eventually’. I shortened my speech, flushing out the residual anger and went ahead with my tale.

                                                                       I took admission in Physics in Broadway University. My personal inclination, if you ask was same as of Seigo- Literature. But then Mamaji emphasized that to have a flourishing career you need to study science .By flourishing he meant money. Since Mamaji was a faculty of physics, my parents went ahead with his decision thinking it would be easier for me to get an admission. The same old Indian mentality! Anyways, leave it and so my fate was sealed- Physics. The initial days at the college happened to be a strenuous struggle for me .From my very childhood, I always dwelled within myself listening to the noises inside my head. Apart from Seigo, I didn’t have much of a friend in Shikohima. The sombre thoughts of my family also troubled me. In the lecturer classes where the professors taught different subjects ranging from magnetism to theory of relativity, I used to sit beside Li Mei exchanging smiling glances occasionally. Both being from the other side of the world, somewhere we connected.

                                                                                 

                                                                       Rodney marsh was my first American friend in college. We use to call him Rod. Texas born, Rod completed his high school from Godchurch Institute in Arlington and then took up physics at Broadway. A tall lanky guy with auburn hair, he had the air of a Hollywood star. It was only from Rod that I came to know that most of his friends treated ‘Japs’ as virtually subhuman beasts. The hatred had grown more taking shape of inferno in American’s heart after the Pedlar Harbour incident. I explained to Rod that basically I was an Indian and that my family had migrated to Japan very recently. I had to alter my ancestral history a bit to avoid being bullied and harassed by other students. Li Mei always kept quite but attentively listened to all our conversations. I once asked her what her opinion was about war and she shrugged at the very mentioning of it. I was surprised that such a soft girl like her had a horrible past. Li Mei’s grandfather died fighting in Manchuria. We were sitting on the college lawn where white butterflies sat on the grass flowers. I quietly listened as she described how the Kwantung army bombarded a railway station near Huanggutun, a plot to kill the Manchurian warlord Zhang Zuolin. Tan Chungui, Li Mei’s grandfather was his general and personal bodyguard. I was shaken with fear as Li Mei described how he lost his two hands in the explosion and how the enemy soldiers dragged his still alive body, pissed on it and beheaded him. His head was then posted atop a bamboo pole as a sign of victory. I still remember the day when she told the story. She cried continuously for half an hour on my lap. I felt it was somewhere deep within, piercing her each moment blooding her soul. I didn’t had much to console her .I remained silent slowly caressing her light black hair.

             Shantaram looked eager and I felt he wanted to share his thoughts. Although I was least bothered about his opinion, I allowed him to vomit up his rural illiterate feelings. ‘Sahib, I have heard of Chinese chicken manchurian….Salim Mia used to prepare the best in whole of Mauthganj. During diwali, we all gathered near his Firdous Dhaba gobbling up chowmein with chicken manchurian. Are you speaking of that Manchurian, Sahib. But never thought there was a nation called Manchuria’. I could clearly see him drooling at the very thought of food. Now, that is the basic problem of these almost naked, half-fed, skinny, lice infested clan. They will just hear a word from god knows where and think they know everything. ‘Shantaram’ I tried to be as polite as possible ‘Manchuria is not chicken manchurian for heaven’s sake, it’s a place near China's eastern seaboard almost barren’. Shantaram had now got more confused, I could see. ‘Then why so much fight, Sahib over a barren piece of land’. ‘Because of natural resources. Manchuria had enormous reserve of iron, coking coal, soybeans, salt and above all the land in itself was one of the major attractions’. I rebuked myself for the futile attempt of explaining world politics to the rustic shanty dweller and returned to my story.

                                       Mamaji disliked Li Mei from the very first day she came to our house in south west Jordon. We were having a quite stroll down the swirling road dwindling down towards the Greencity Park. It was a beautiful evening with an orange sky. Li Mei was feeling cold so I offered my Carhartt winter coat to her. It was a gift from Mamaji after few days of my arrival in Utah. A black furred one, long down to the knees and a hood on top. I invited Li Mei for a cup of coffee. As we entered,I was surprised to see Mamaji at home at 6 pm in the evening. Generally his official hours spread quite late .At times, I used to dine alone and go to sleep. Later Mamaji asked me if something was going between us and I fearfully said no. ‘Naren, I hope you concentrate more on your studies. Off late I am getting disturbing feedback about you. And stop hanging out with that noodle chic’ he kept it short.  I could clearly gaze the anger in his eyes through the Scotch glass in his hand.

       Indeed, my performance was ailing mostly due to my lack of interest in physics rather than mixing with Li Mei. The images of beautiful times I spend in shikohima also pained me at times hindering my concentration. But I couldn’t tell that to Mamaji as already he had done a lot for me. I held him in high regard at the depths of my heart and always acknowledged his help. Mamaji was a widower having lost his wife in an accident. It happened almost five years back before I came to live with him. He never re-married till his death. I had heard from my mother that Mamaji was married to the only daughter of Jon Sorenson, a stinking rich American owning a real estate conglomerate. It was Sorenson who gave a new turn to Mamaji’s fortune wheel. After his death, the whole wealth was passed on to her daughter and eventually to Mamaji when Mrs. Jacqueline Chouhan died pathetically on the Timpanogos highway near the Utah-Arizona border. Mamaji continued his job as a lecturer in Broadway University rather than joining Jon Corporation which he now owned. Mathew uncle took care of all the day to day operations. It was only from him that I came to know it was not an accident. At a celebration night held by Mamaji for having got a promotion, a drunken Mr. Wilson reeking with alcohol had sipped the crucial information to me before rushing to toilet with severe bouts of vomiting.

                             My father use to write once a month reminding me of my responsibilities .Being a strict authoritarian, his letter started with the family doing quite well and contained a elongated list of  preaching and advices for me. My mother seldom wrote and somewhere I terribly missed her love in my father’s letters.  Seigo kept his promise of writing two letters each week. From him I came to know that the Ebisukou festival where people bought good luck charms has passed away and the flower festival was approaching. ‘Naka’ he used to call me by that name.Shantaram who was unexpectedly quite for a long time, giggled. ‘Sahib, he called you Naka ….haaa…haaa’ he burst out laughing. Annoyed, I told him that Naka meant fire in Japanese. Seigo wrote ‘I really missed you on Yokaichi kite flying competition. Remember Naka, how we use to buy those enormous dragon kites from Mituashi’s shop. We use to run at the very site of a falling kite. I didn’t compete this time. Didn’t feel like. Without you those colourful kites with long tails has no meaning. I watched those boys from the nearby Shimusiko colony sprinting to grab the prized catch and it reminded me of you. How it is in America. You know, Last week I read 'The Adventures of Tom Sawyer' by Mark Twain. How are your studies going on? I heard things are worsening rapidly. We have got accustomed to the sight of the American aircrafts hovering above us all the time. The Japanese army have lost bitterly in the battle of Iwo Jima .I heard that our brothers fought valiantly. Even local civilians joined the war. The fight last around two months but then luck was not at our side. One thing is good though, the battle might now come to an end soon but the fate of the Emperor still hangs in loom’. I read the letter for the second time. A silent tear dropped on the bluish mail making a rounded patch. Folding it, I kept the letter preciously in the folder specially meant for Seigo. I looked out of the window .Sun soaked in the greenish trees with purple bloom. I checked the date and it said April, 1945. Somewhere, in the utmost hidden chambers of the nuclear lab, Little Lad was slowly gaining power. An enormous power to kill a million sinners as we have all sinned. 

My friend Rod who watched the event in television later said that the purple mushroom cloud which almost touched heaven after the bomb was dropped was quite an interesting sight.



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Saptarshi Basu, a Gold Medallist in Mechanical Engineering, has been in the IT industry for the last 8 years and he has worked for the top 3 IT companies of India (INFOSYS,TCS & WIPRO). However, writing has always been his first love and passion. His debut novel Love {Logic} and the God's Algorithm is now a national best-seller in Infibeam, a premier online store. His second novelAutumn in My Heart, published by Vitasta Publishing with Times group launched in november'11, has already created a lot of stir due to its theme on homosexuality. Visit his website for more information

THE FOREIGNER'S GIFT - EXCERPT FROM THE NOVEL

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The below mentioned chapter is an excerpt from my work- THE FOREIGNER'S GIFT  .All characters mentioned ,living or dead is fictional and any resemblance with anyone is purely coincidental

}


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ABOUT THE AUTHOR :

Saptarshi Basu is a gold medalist in mechanical engineering and has worked in the IT industry for the last eight years. However, writing has always been his first love, his passion.  His second novel, Autumn In My Heart was published by Vitasta Publishing with Times Group (TIMES OF INDIA) in November’11. He maintains a blog http://saptak-firsttry.blogspot.in/ and writes screenplays for movies and columns for some online magazines.

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                                           My ancestors shifted to Shikohima much before India got its independence. A small island town in Japan well connected on the sea route, it offered a perfect blissful land for trading spices. Gokuldas Shekhawat, my great grandfather had a small business of cardamoms in Kunnor which he later shifted to Shikohima- the land of two rivers. The Ota and Motitsu River crisscrossed each other in a serpentine fashion spreading fertility across its banks. Lush green it was, before little lad landed from the sky. 

                                                 The harbor used to be crowded with vessels and merchant ships whistling sharply sending vibrations in the air. I still remember my childhood spent on the banks of Motitsu playing frog jump on the serene waters with Seigo by my side. How delightedly we watched those fishermen dismantling their catches to be taken to the fish house. Seigo was my best friend. A creamy white boy with a flattened nose, he lived in the small house named ‘Heiwa’ two blocks away from our home. My mother told Heiwa meant peace .You know Shantaram, Seigo and I used to be in the same school. Early morning, when the dew drops still rested on the hibaku leaves, fishermen returning with their early catch and the nearby Shikohima plant yet to blow its morning siren, Seigo and I use to run to school. How much I miss those days, Shantaram .It was heaven .Till hell came down on earth.

                         My father, Nandalal Shekhawat worked as the chief engineer of the Shikohima automobile plant. After completing his engineering from Tokyo institute of Technology, he had joined the then newly setup plant and slowly moved up the ladder. My grandfather at times use to lament saying my father lacked both the zeal and the acumen to run our family business. A tall, well built man with a thin, finely kept moustache, he looked more of an army general than an engineer. I was quite in awe of him. My Daadi used to tell me how frantically they have searched for an Indian bride of the same caste for my father in Japan. It was tough to get one as very few Indian families lived there at that point of time. It was only through one of the close relatives in India that they came to know about my mother’s family in Kure, a nearby port city. The marriage was a lavish one as by that time my grandfather, Ramdas Shekhawat had already made a fortune. I was born after two years of their marriage .Being the only grandson of the family, I was highly adored and pampered by everyone expect my father who was of a quiet nature and a strict disciplinarian.

                                 Summer holidays were fun. I still remember those days crouching by Daadi’s side and listening to her world of stories. Full of kings, queens, giants and dwarfs. Tales of India, river Ganga and its million Gods and Goddesses. How the Rakshas king Ravana eloped Sita and how God Ram killed him. How good prevailed over evil in the end. Daadi use to fall asleep after a few hours, tired of telling stories .Then, I enchantingly watched shadow puppets all over my wall. Sometimes, it was of the ice-cream pedlar strolling with his cart .At times, it was of the lone man cycling all over my dark room on a lazy summer noon. 

                                                                The flower festival was a major attraction for people in Shikohima. The dragon kites encompassed the sky as people dressed in new clothes flocked around the harbours singing and dancing. You know Shantaram, there’s always something strangely beguiling about the sight of a kite ducking and diving with the will of the wind. It looked as if someone has painted the sky with butterflies, flapping their colourful wings all around. Each kite had a different story embedded on it. Some had beautiful Japanese women in kimono drawn on it, while some pictured dragons and even tidal floods .You know, there were about hundred different styles and types of kites, each region having its own unique shape. They were normally decorated with characters from Japanese folklore, mythology or had some religious or symbolic meaning. At times like a hawk spreading its wings .At other times, it took the shape of an angry dragon’s face throwing fire from its mouth. Painted with bright colours and Sumi which is the Japanese name for black ink, they are constructed with washi paper and bamboo. As evening slowly descended and the music catched its speed, Seigo and I use to sit for hours on the banks of Ota mesmerized by the colourful lights.

                                  Seigo’s father, Hiroshi Yamayito made a small boat for us. He was a gifted carpenter .Their house ‘Heiwa’ smelled of fresh wood carvings whenever I visited. We used to sit hours watching mesmerised how he listened to the sound of music of each wood. And then the hard pieces would slowly get soft and take beautiful shapes. He taught us how to fish, Hiroshi and made me the luckiest fishing rod. I still remember my mother keeping a keen watch on us as we rowed the small boat across the banks of Ota fishing salmons.

                                             Then the war started. Troops went passed our homes down the road and the dust they raised powdered the leaves of the trees. The violet roses of our garden turned grey and our school was closed for almost six months .The plain were rich with crops; there were many orchards of fruit trees and beyond the plain the mountains were brown and bare. There was fighting in the mountains and at night we could see the flashes from the artillery. We heard there were many victories. People worshipped the emperor as God and many civilians joined the war only for him. In the dark it was like summer lightning but never did we felt a storm was coming. Sometimes in the dark we heard the troops marching under the window and guns going past. Seigo and I use to keep a count of the aircrafts hovering in our vanilla sky. We also watched the flocking citizens crying ‘Banzai’ as the troops left the harbour. The air which once was loathed with flowery fragrance had now been replaced by strong stench of gunpowder.

                                                                       I was eighteen when dad decided to send me to America for study. My Mamaji, Amarnath Chauhan was then residing at Utah working as a physics lecturer at Broadview University. I wanted to stay back in Shikohima but the war conditions were worsening and my father didn’t want to take any risk. My mother opposed the idea of sending a teenage boy so far away from the family. My grandparents also joined. But dad was somewhat adamant, might be he gauzed something. The war was now taking a sudden turn and several residents feared its conclusion. Assured that I was going to stay with my Mamaji, my mother accepted. A week before leaving, my bags were packed with tearful eyes. Seigo came to bid me goodbye. He said that he had taken admission at the local university of Shikohima for a graduation in literature. I looked into his eyes and they were shining with tinge of tear at the corners. We promised each other to write two letters each week even if we were busy. Soon after three days, I left for Utah where I met Li Mei- my beautiful flower.

                                  

  -    By  SAPTARSHI BASU