Keshav Raj Gnawali
Two months have passed since I landed in America. I haven’t got a job yet. I got a social security card just four days ago.
Nothing can be done here without this card. The money I brought with me has almost finished. I and Ramesh live in a one-bedroom apartment. It was arranged by Deviji. “Don’t worry, you will also get a job in one to two weeks; it seems there will be a vacancy in my place,” he had said while we were about to move into this apartment. I have some trust in Deviji. I was introduced to him on Facebook through a friend as soon as I won the DV. He was the one to receive me at the airport. He also took me around the social security office. Deviji and Ramesh work in the same gas station.
I look outside the window. Children are playing around the ‘swimming pool’. A boy is blowing bubbles like the foam of a soap. He is blowing his breath in to a small object. The bubbles fly in the air. He runs after those bubbles. This sequence is repeated continuously. I run my eyes after those bubbles. Bubbles of memories swell throughout my heart. Without any context, I run after my memories.
- I remember crowds of mules walking with their bells jingling. We would pass through the crowds and reach the top of the bazaar. I was small when I had left Martadi, Bajura.
- Before sleeping, I used to snuggle in my father’s lap and ask him a heart-full of questions. For me, there was nothing my father did not know. I used to think I will be like my father. My father Chandrabir Tiruwa, was a peon at the District Post Office.
- Father used to say, “I managed to learn the alphabets with much difficulty. You should study hard. You will be respected if you study.” He used to bring old newspapers and urge me to read.
- One day, I told my father, “Father, Ram daily calls me dum.” Father immediately went to school the next day. He met the principal. I told Ram, “My father is the king’s officer. If you call me anything bad again, I will report it to my father and throw you in prison.”
- Everyone in my street used to listen to my father. If they had any trouble, they would come to him. Father used to say, “It is nice to help others as much as we can.”
I clearly remember that day. When I returned from school, there were people all over the yard of my house. Mahendra from the upper street and others had surrounded my father. Their shouting was loud enough to be heard from a long distance. Onlookers and children had come following that voice.
Raising his fingers, Mahendra roared, “You dum, don’t speak.”
My father yelled “What should I do? Talk to your son. Did my daughter run away alone?”
Father was already being beaten.
Father ran uphill. “You will all be thrown in to prison; you mistreated me,” he said.
“You do what you can. Just see if I can’t bury you all…” Something similar came from the other side.
Father ran toward the police station. I followed him.
We met the station chief there.
Father told him in one breath, “They hit me. They tried to kill me. I need security. I need to file a complaint, Sir.”
“What happened?”
“Mahendra’s son and my daughter study in the same class. They ran way together bunking the school. The boy’s father found them.”
“Why did he quarrel with you?” the chief questioned further.
“They mistreated me calling me from a low caste. I need to file a complaint.”
“Where are the children now?”
“My daughter is at home. I don’t know about his son.”
“OK; I will look into the matter. Then I shall do what needs to be done.”
“It is injustice to my caste, Sir. You should punish them. Is anyone allowed to beat someone coming to their house just because of his caste?”
“I can understand. I shall call both the parties tomorrow.”
The police were in no hurry. My parents scolded my sister that whole night. Jaisara did not speak; she kept on sobbing.
A policeman came to our house early in the morning the next day. “Who is Chandrabir? You have been summoned to the police station.”
I followed my father. When we reached the police station, Mahendra and the chief were basking in the sun outside the office. The chief stood up and went inside when we arrived. Mahendra and my father followed him. Inside the office, Mahendra and the chief sat on the chair. My father sat on the floor. I stood near the door.
“Chandrabir, there is a complaint against you. It says that you have kidnapped his son. He says that his son has not come home since yesterday. You have been blamed in the complaint. What do you have to say?” My father promptly stood up and yelled, “This is absurd. He came to my house and beat me, and now you are blaming me? The police are on their side. How much did he pay you, policeman?”
The chief stood up from his chair and yelled, “How dare you say that?”
My father was trembling with anger. I started to cry.
“Wait, I will tell everybody about your action. Isn’t there any law in this place? I have also studied to some extent. Don’t you have an authority above you?”
The chief caught my father’s collar and dragged him outside. “Hurl him into the jail,” he said.
My heart was about to burst in fear. I ran toward the
house. On my way, I heard someone should: “Damn, dum.”
I reached home and told everything to my mother. She told me to look after my brother and ran toward the police station. My brother started crying.
In the evening, my father came accompanied by mother. Father’s nose was bleeding and his lips were cut. At that moment, he did not seem like my father.
My sister was watching everything; she did not speak. My mother came after her, and said, “It is all because of you. We would have gotten some peace if you had died soon after your birth.”
Father spoke slowly, “Shut up!”
I went off to sleep by the fire.
I woke up to my mother’s scream.
“Hey, Jaisara’s father, please come outside.”
We all ran outside the house. My sister had hung herself from the walnut tree near the courtyard. People started gathering.
Returning from the river in the evening, my father said, “I will not stay in this place now; we shall go to some other places.”
“Our people are here, where will we go leaving this place? People are the same wherever we may go. Where shall we stay and eat? We may change the place; we cannot change the country, we cannot change people’s hearts.” My mother protested.
“We shall go to any place. But we will not live in this place which killed my daughter.”
We immediately left the next day.
My father started going to the office in Nepalgunj. Our house was narrowed down to one room. I was slowly habituated to this. I also came across small horses like mules. They did not carry salt but went to Rupaidiya pulling horse-carts. I met Saleem instead of Chaite, my friend for visiting the market. We used to run drenched in sweat, and drink cold water from the hand-pump. Drinking that water, I slowly forgot the water from Martadi. My brother was much younger; he considered Nepalgunj his home. My mother babbled, “This sun will burn us alive, or you will listen to me.” We were burnt enough. But the sun was not the only one. Afterward, my father was not like a father anymore.
One day when father had gone to work, my mother said, it was one year since Jaisara’s death. That night, I woke up to a loud scream. My father was spitting on his face in the mirror and yelling, “Dumb Dum.” The landlord called an ambulance.
My father’s suffering became more severe every year. Afterward, my father became incapable of doing anything. My father stopped speaking. When asked about anything, he replied with great difficulty. He just sat staring.
The noose around Jaisara’s neck made my strong father pathetic and sick. We slowly learned to survive in that environment.
Even when I was about to leave for America after winning the DV, my father did not say anything. “Father, I shall earn money in America and then we’ll have our own house.”
I saw his lips trembling, tears flowing from his eyes,
but, he did not speak a word.
***
“Khadkaji, can you leave a jacket here?” Deviji pointed at the place with beer and coke, and added, “It is very cold inside the store-room.”
“OK.”
“Yeah, now we shall work nicely from tomorrow.
Don’t forget to bring your social security card.” “OK.”
“Shouldn’t we look at the price of goods for sticking the price tags before we open the counter?”
“No, I will go now. Ramesh is waiting outside. He says he has to go somewhere.”
“OK, we shall come and go together from tomorrow.
We also got our jobs together.”
Taking leave of Deviji, I and Ramesh went out. Before getting into the car, I turned and looked at the place where I was going to work from another day. Gas station ‘Seven Eleven’! My first workplace in America. Outside the gas station, two men were smoking.
On the way Ramesh said, “Devi Dai is a very helpful person. It is very comfortable to work with him.”
I did not say anything. I just smiled. I reached my room and lay down on my bed. It was a new experience; I was going to work in a completely new place from another day. Like a newborn baby, I had to learn: to speak, to walk, to eat, and every other thing as fast as possible.
***
Deviji and I had night duties. We used to go together at six in the evening. Slowly, I felt I was beginning to get their dialect. Many Blacks used to come to the store. Customers coming at night used to come repeatedly. I was getting comfortable at work.
One morning, I saw ‘3/5’ written on the store pavement. Deviji was with me. I asked him, “Who wrote this?”
“There is a Black old man; he seems to have lost his mind a little. He walks around this place. He eats when he is given any food; otherwise does nothing. He walks around writing these two words.”
Next day, I saw a tall man walking on the road on the western side. He was slowly coming toward the store. He then came and stood on the pavement. His beards had turned grey. He was wearing an old and dirty overcoat. He was carrying a plastic bag on one hand. Every now and then, he brought his other hand to his mouth as if asking for food.
I went outside with a donut. His eyes sparkled. He was probably more than six feet tall. He was stinking badly. He had probably not taken a bath for many days. He was very filthy. Giving him the donut, I came inside immediately. He ate sitting there. Next morning, there was ‘3/5’ written at that place.
“Deviji, why does this man always write the same thing?”
“I’ve no idea. If he speaks one day, we shall ask.”
***
Five months had passed since I started working. I was sleeping after returning from work in the morning. Suddenly, the phone rang. It was my brother on the other side.
“Father passed away,” he said immediately after saying hello. He said this directly without indulging in any pleasantries.
“Huh?” came out of my mouth; I was unable to say anything besides this. It was like not experiencing the pain for sometimes when something very painful happens. My heart was stunned. After some time I asked, “How?”
“Mother and I went to work yesterday like every other day. Father was alone in the room. The door was open when we returned from work. Father was lying on the floor. We rushed him to the hospital. The doctor examined him for some time and said, “He probably had a heart attack. You brought him too late.”
“I will leave tomorrow.”
“Whatever happened has already passed. You stay there. You have just arrived.”
“How is mother?”
‘She has become like a dumb. After the funeral, she said without tears, ‘Pain has passed.’ Since then she has not spoken anything.”
“I want to speak to her.” I was worried about my mother.
“Wait for a few days. I shall speak to her about our conversation. I will hang up now.”
I did not say anything. The call was disconnected after some time.
Deviji came around five o’ clock. Probably there was something on my face. He asked worriedly, “What happened?”
“Father passed away.”
He asked after some silence, “Will you go to Nepal?”
“I’ll not go now. If it’s possible I will not come to work for some days.”
Deviji asked, “Was there any disease?”
How shall I say there was any disease? He was in severe agony.
“He used to have severe chest pain and headache.
The exact disease could never be identified.”
Deviji said while standing up, “I will inform the
Office that you will not come for one to two days.”
I try to forget everything and live. I remember home. For me home means my mother and brother. I want to leave everything and run there to embrace my family. But I cannot do that; I have confined my life inside the walls of practicality. I shall earn money if I stay here for some time. That money will hopefully ease the suffering of my mother and brother. In this hope, my valuable time is dripping like water drops from a leaking vessel. I feel as if I am hollowing out daily.
I returned to my work after three days. The sky was overcast. It was neither going to rain nor the sky was going to be clear. My heart too was overcast. Around ten o’ clock in the night, I was looking outside now and again in the hope that I would see him. It is strange that we get habituated to small regularities.
It is about eleven or twelve o’clock. He did not appear. At around twelve o’ clock, I heard someone knocking on my door; he was standing there with a puzzled gaze.
I went with a donut. He slowly said, “You look sad!”
Not sure whether I should say, “I lost my dad” I informed him. He started to cry as soon as he heard this. I simply stood there for some time. One part of me wanted to cry with him. Such a reaction from this strange man in an alien land! Both fear and suspicion were rising inside me. I could not think again; I lit a cigarette. Slowly he said, “Marcos is also very sad. Like you.”
I did not say anything. I wanted to run away from there.
“Will you meet my son?” “OK,” I suddenly uttered. “Let’s go.”
“Oho, I’m busy in my work. You can call him here.”
“Immanuel cannot come; he is asleep.” He seemed weepy.
“Will you come tomorrow? I will come in the morning.”
Picking up his plastic bag, he left. I heard his voice while leaving: “I am very sad.”
When I entered the store, Deviji asked, “What were you talking with that crazy man? If he gives any trouble, you should dial 911 and call the police.”
“It’s unnecessary. He was asking about my absence for so many days.”
“Eh, it is because you always give him food.”
The fact that Marcos was coming in the morning was constantly running in my mind. After one hour, I told Deviji, “I am feeling extremely unwell; I will go home a little early.”
Deviji said “OK” and called for a taxi.
I had some peace of mind after sitting in the taxi. I also felt some regret about lying to Deviji. When Deviji returned to the room, he said, “Something strange happened today.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“That 3/5 came to the store at five in the morning. I was waiting for Ramesh. He came inside straight and asked for you.”
I was numb with fear. I should not have spoken with that guy. What may his son look like when he himself looked like that? What I have gotten myself into? I thought about telling this to Deviji.
“Then, I told him that you were unwell and went home.”
“Eh.”
“OK, I will sleep now.” Deviji lay down in the next bed.
I could not sleep. He might come again. But what would go wrong even if I met his son? I tried to reassure myself. This was an alien place for me, and in addition to this, that man was like crazy. I could not stop going to work.
It was noon while I was thinking about this. Deviji woke up. I was still sitting in my bed. He said looking at me, “How red your eyes have become! Let’s do this. Do not go to work tonight. Instead, come in the morning shift tomorrow. I can manage for one day.”
“OK!” I took a long breath and lay down.
Next day, I went to work early in the morning. I was busy for the whole day like every other day. He had never seen me during the day, so I was certain that he would not come. But I would look outside from time to time, and also look at the clock on the wall. There were fifteen minutes left for my shift to end. Deviji had already arrived. Ramesh and I were in the mood to return to our rooms. What could he do? I told Ramesh, “You go; I will come afterward.”
I went outside. For the first time today, I saw him during daylight. He was tall; his hair and beards had become grey. Every clothe he had worn was black. He came to me.
“Come on, let’s go. I have told Immanuel that you will come.”
It was six in the evening. It would still be daylight for one or one and a half hour. This matter had to end that day. “Let’s go,” I said. He walked ahead blabbering something and I followed him.
Coming out from the store, we walked along the quiet road at the western side for nearly fifteen minutes. There was a gate at the place where we had stood. I turned my head to look. There was a carving that read ‘Ridgewood Cemetery’ in English. Marcos looked toward me. Tears were flowing from his eyes. Pushing the gate, he said, “Come.” There were arrays of stones of different shapes erected in order. My heart began to race very fast. I was taking long breaths to remain calm.
We went inside. Those erected stones were in different shapes and sizes. They all had something written on them. The doob grass had been nicely trimmed. There were large trees in the middle. There were flowers on some stone. After walking straight in the middle for some time, Marcos turned right. He arrived near a large tree. Showing a stone near the tree, he said, “My son.” That was a rectangular vertical stone black in color. I bowed down to look.
Immanuel Smith Loving Son 1998-2015
Your absence, a smear in the face of justice. Your life is a sweet memory.
These words were written there. Marcos sat beside me. I also sat down.
“This is my son’s tomb.” His lips trembled; wiping the sneeze with his slips, he said, “He was seventeen years old, just seventeen years. He was about to go to college. The police killed him in our own community. There were seventeen bullets in his body; one bullet for every year of his life.”
There was more curiosity than fear in my mind.
Slowly I said, “How did this happen?”
“We had just moved into our new home. He had gone outside in the cold evening of December. Somebody had called the police. There is a suspicious black man roaming around. Suddenly a police vehicle stopped behind Immanuel.”
I heard Marcos’ breathe racing.
“Hearing the sound of the vehicle, the dog ran in the dark and my son ran after the dog. But the bullets from the police following him found him seventeen times.”
I was numb. What should I say? My words were stuck in the throat.
Marcos was still speaking: “I went to the court. I bought a case. The decision arrived: The police was found guilty of nothing!”
Marcos was enraged.
“Somebody found him suspicious because of the color of his skin. The police did not arrest him or interrogate him. They found it easier to fire bullets.”
With tears in his eyes, he said, “Immanuel was black.
That was his crime.”
He was crying. In the hope of changing the subject, I asked him, “Why do you write 3/5?”
“I am a teacher of history. America’s history,” He stopped for some time and wiped his tears. There was a large dispute in the census of 1787 whether they should count the Blacks or not. The politicians gathered and reached an agreement. The Blacks could not be considered complete humans. Five Blacks could be counted as three humans. So, through the law itself, the Blacks were not refused to be regarded as humans.”
He looked toward me and said, “I had considered this to be a matter of history. Slavery was abolished long ago. Time has moved much ahead from 1787. There were movements; laws were written. The discrimination was erased on paper, but the filth inside a man’s heart was not wiped out. Even today the prisons are full of Blacks. They are punished differently in a similar situation. I always hear of unarmed and innocent Blacks getting killed. I am restless with the agony of not being a complete human.”
He took out a diary from the pocket of his coat. He turned the pages and showed me. There were several names, and 3/5 was written in front of everyone. These people were killed because they were Blacks. Tears falling from his eyes dropped on the diary. I looked at Marcos. Those eyes wet with tears sometimes looked like my sister and my father.
The language did not allow me to express everything. I also cried with him. The speech of our words is different. But the speech of pain is universal. I wanted to hug him and say, “Uncle, like you I am also someone who was wronged for a similar reason. When we were born, we did not choose our place of birth. We were born like insects. We were born like plants. We were born like every other human being. But society always hesitated to accept us as complete human beings.”
Marcos looked like a sky after a storm. The cemetery was lighted. The light which was yellow like jaundice spread around. I wanted to say, “You and I are different in many aspects, but our suffering and pain is the same. You want to look several centuries back to find the source of the bullets stuck in your son’s body. I also experience the history in my Jaisara’s and father’s death.”
I wanted to write in his diary my name, Jaisara’s name, my father’s name, names of several other people, and to write 3/5 against every name. My English was not good enough to express these many words and I apparently said to him, “If you ever feel hungry, please come to my workplace.”
I stood up and walked toward the east; the sky was still overcast. I didn’t know whether I would see the sun again another day.
***
dum: A derogatory word used to disparage lower caste people in western Nepal
[Translated from Nepali by Anup Joshi andPawan
Pokhrel]
[Keshav Raj Gnawali is a professional engineer and Nepali writer. His poems and short stories are published in various literary magazines. He currently lives and works in Texas, USA.]