B- Part 1 - Story

Introduction

This is a story set in the mythical village of B-, set in an unknown country. This story is not intended to be a conventional dramatic story; the reader should not expect to turn the page with anticipation of a narrative pull. Rather, I would like the reader to focus on each moment. The use of formal prose and the present tense represents Tanga’s consciousness and reflects her Buddhist-like philosophy of mindfulness and loving-kindness. I hope you enjoy this!

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I see the children around him laugh, his face gets redder by the minute but time just keeps passing. I see him try to stop it; he jumps up and down, waves his arms about and clicks his fingers. “Magic,” he says. He looks at his watch after each performance but the hand still moves. After a while he throws the watch on the dusty floor, stands on it and walks off.

The children scrabble in pursuit of the damaged watch. I observe them play with the hands, a few pick up fragments of plastic – hoping to catch some of the magic that the man couldn’t stop. Soon they disperse, bored with the watch that broke, half conscious that it was only a mechanism and a servant to the eternal mysteries of this world.

I sit under the Banyan tree, the sun sinks slowly behind me, the heat finally becoming bearable. My tanned arms and legs betray my foreign status thought I have lived in B- longer than anywhere else I would call home. My skin is not dark brown, thought its native paleness has turned golden. In this town, being old is considered an honour, a respected position within the community. As a foreigner, I am considered unusual, alluring yet unknown. My mental and physical faculties have not failed and my love for this place is unwavering as it brought up my husband whom I adore. No ancestors were here before me and none shall make their home here for I have borne no children. The wrinkles on my face show the signs of the unbeatable magic. My white hair glows, even in the fading light. I am called Tanga, it means ‘blue eyes’ for they also betray my status, so different from the chocolate brown that flows from the blood of B-. Foreigners who enter this village are informed of me; the people here understand my love for this place and know I will share it with others.

I take time to appreciate my surroundings and feel peace within. My companion walks out of the building opposite me, he sees me sitting and smiles. I reach for my stick, pull myself up and walk towards him. His back is slightly rounded, his grey hair contrasts against his dark brown skin. We meet each other, take each other’s hand and smile lovingly. The peace from within travels from my heart, through my hands and into my husband’s body. We begin to walk deliberately through the maze of the village, down its dusty roads and setting sun.

The donkeys and cows move slowly whilst the street bustles around them. The rickshaws buzz dangerously close but the animals do not notice. The children chatter with delight and play, the older ones ride about on battered bikes weaving in and out of the rubbish and animals that get in the way. People of all ages take advantage of the dull heat, sit in the open air, keep an eye on the children and enjoy the beauty of the setting sun. The buildings around them reflect the traditions of the Old Raj, the while of their walls increasingly covered by red soil, their grandeur incongruous against the simple town.

Some of the folk call out greetings to us while we walk past, they press their hands together and bow, a sign of respect for us, the old couple that walk slowly down the street. Some young girls with wet hair sit out on the pavement together, letting the sun dry it naturally as it falls down onto their backs. One girl catches my eye, her long dark hair set in waves, cascading below her breasts, almost reaching her waist. Her eyes are so dark the pupils are hard to find. She glances up from her book, her gaze uncertain. Her skirt has ridden up her legs, revealing a little birthmark above her knee. She nods in our direction and we carry on.

We pass a few stalls that have opened after the siesta. I touch the mangoes and judge their ripeness. The owner, Peto, invites us in for a cup of tea. We decline his offer but buy three mangoes for our supper.

As we reach our home we see a girl with three other children sitting around her knees; she is bent over and crying. The children look lost and confused. I walk up to them and hold out my hand, the girl takes this hand and stands up.

  “I am Tanga,” I say.

 “I know, I have been looking for you,” she replies, the tears staining her cheek, reflecting the red of the sunset. We all enter the house together.

Kairo and I, not averse to the company of strangers, take pleasure in making our guests comfortable. We prepare the beds, fill the bath and together put the food on the table and eat. Our guests look tired, especially the younger children, so we ask no questions.

The girl introduces herself and her brothers, “My name is Sadie and these are my brothers.” She points to them in turn: “Heal, Buiy and Fah.” In response to this Kairo says, “You are welcome to stay here, we will not turn you away.” Sadie nods, her eyes fill with tears and I take her hand. She smiles a little in return and pulls her hand away.

I start to study Sadie and her brothers. I wonder about them and try to gather any clues as to their origin. All of them are thin and they wear foreign clothes. Baggy trousers and loose fitting shirts, nothing like our local clothing. They must have travelled far, why would such a young girl travel alone with her brothers? We glance at each other from time to time over the table and smile, in an attempt to spread a warm feeling to our guests. We encourage them to feel at ease and pretend we are not seriously worried for the future of these children who have found us.

The boys eat the rice, fish and devour the mangoes. Sadie eats very little, her dark skin, pale. The boys finish their food and I take them to their room. The boys, delighted by such comfort, immediately take off their shirt and prepare for the wonderful joy that is sleep. Five minutes pass and all is still. I leave them and walk back to the kitchen.

I find Kairo clearing the table, at which Sadie still sits, suddenly her posture slackens, her eyes close and her chin lands softly on her chest. Tiredness wins its struggle and pushes her swiftly towards slumber. Kairo looks at me, then at the girl. He walks towards her and gently ushers her on to a bed.

I remember a very good friend of mine who used to stress the importance of family. She would always say, ‘To know thy family is to know thyself’ and I would agree. When Kairo and I married, everybody would ask about our plans to have children. In B-, nobody is allowed to marry before they are thirty, so the business of reproducing is high on the agenda for most newlywed couples. After many years, we realised we were not meant to have a family and the village stopped asking so many questions. The lack of a child did not bother us and we did not feel incomplete, in fact our respect and love for each other deepened as the years brought us closer together as a couple.

The family - various different personalities flung together, bound by blood. Automatic access into lives of people one might never have met in daily life otherwise. Momentous occasions shared, arguments that reach violent proportions can strike. I remember what it was like to see my brother as a baby or when my sister and I would fight over matters that seemed important at the time. Within the family a bond deeper than friendship can form.

I lie in bed and think about Sadie, Heal, Buiy and Fah and wonder what it would be like if they became a part of my family. Kairo and I talk long into the night, discuss plans and ideas in case these children have no place to return and no one else to love them.

Night falls, the stars shine and the full moon protects the little village of B-.


Read Part 2 here: B- Part 2 - Story


Other long stories can be found here: Gracie's long stories



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