From where to where -- a short story

Illusutration is for representational purposes only 

By Shevlin Sebastian

Shampa Banerjee wore a shimmering red chiffon saree. Her smooth, long black hair fell like a waterfall down her back. She had loaded up the jewellery: a gold nose ring, a gold necklace and gold earrings. She wanted her husband to be proud of her. They mingled with other guests in the hall of a five-star hotel in Bhubaneswar.

Shampa had married a top executive working at a mining company.

It was a love marriage. While she is a Bengali Brahmin, her husband is a Malayali Christian. They met at the company office, where she worked as a secretary. She knew it was an instant karmic connection. She was on the plump side, while he was slim and tall, with a goatee and a bald head. He was coming off a divorce from an Anglo-Indian woman, whom he had met in Kolkata. There were no children.

Shampa’s family opposed the alliance. For one, Francis Xavier was already in his forties. Second, they belonged to different religions. But she did not pay heed. Francis had an excellent education. He had a sterling reputation in the company and was moving upwards in his career.

They had a registered marriage. To avoid office gossip, Shampa quit her job and joined another company as a secretary. Both of them did not want children. They wanted to be with each other without distractions. Their sexual chemistry was intense and passionate.

They took time out for holidays whenever they had the chance. They saw movies and attended parties. It was a beautiful time. Shampa could not have been happier. In bed, his musky body odour intoxicated her. It seemed to activate her pheromones. She loved to wake up next to him in the morning, one leg placed across his body.

During the office party, Francis was mingling with the other guests. The company was celebrating superb annual profits. Shampa was conversing with the other wives. All of them wore expensive jewellery and sarees, she realised. That is one thing she liked about the company. Salaries were quite high. They also looked after the staff.

Francis sat on a sofa with his colleague, Anirban Datta. They talked about a recent film called ‘Silver Linings Playbook’. Francis had seen it on Netflix. “It’s a romantic comedy with superb acting by Jennifer Lawrence,” said Francis. “She won an Oscar for Best Actress for it.”

Shampa observed Francis from afar. She felt glad to see him happy.

A few moments later, Francis fell silent. Anirban saw his head lolling on his chest. He held Francis by his shoulders and lowered him to the sofa. When another colleague, who saw this, came up, Anirban said, “Call an ambulance.” The company had numbers for ambulances.

People crowded around the sofa. It seemed clear to Shampa that Francis had lost consciousness. ‘How could this happen?’ thought Shampa. ‘Francis was in good health. Low blood pressure must have contributed to the fainting.’

The attendants carried Francis into the back of the ambulance on a stretcher. The ambulance set out, its siren blaring, for Apollo Hospital on Sainik School Road.

Anirban and Shampa followed in his car.

Both of them saw nurses wheel Francis into the intensive care unit. They sat outside in plastic chairs placed against the wall.

“Must have fainted,” said Shampa.

Anirban nodded.

Unfortunately, that was not true. The doctor, in his white overcoat, came out quickly and shattered Shampa’s life.

Francis had a massive heart attack and died in the ambulance.

Shampa stared at the doctor with her mouth open. She could feel her vision becoming hazy. The blood seemed to race through her head like a tsunami. Shampa grabbed the top of the chair and steadied herself. Anirban immediately put a protective arm around her.

“Unbelievable,” he heard Anirban whisper under his breath.

The next few days slipped by in a blur for Shampa. She had to make funeral arrangements. Francis’s two brothers insisted on a church service and burial. There was no will. The brothers disputed who would be the heir. Shampa said as the wife she should get the provident fund and other arrears. It became a court case.

Shampa realised it would take a few years before the court settled the case. Her lawyer guaranteed her it would be in her favour. She could not blame Francis for not writing a will because he could not have imagined he would die so soon. Such a short but sweet life. How she loved the man. Nine years went past in such a beautiful way.

She had to leave the office bungalow and take lodgings in a cheaper part of town. Her friends in the company drifted away. Shampa could no longer afford the lifestyle they had. She had no option but to opt out. She knew living on her salary would be tough. Shampa had been so used to a high-flying life. She felt she had to move to a city where there were more opportunities. And also, to avoid social humiliation. If she met those wives again, at some mall or the other, they might ignore her. That would be a painful experience.

Shampa had a few college friends who had settled in Delhi. She called them up and asked whether there would be any job opportunities. One of them, Rathi Das, suggested public relations. Shampa felt that would work for her. With her gorgeous looks, she was confident she could charm any man.

Six months after Francis passed away, Shampa moved to Delhi. She took a flat on a terrace for rent in Mayur Vihar. In Delhi parlance, she came to know they call it a barsati. It did not matter, as she did not have to maintain appearances.

Rathi gave Shampa a PR contact. Shampa called him up. He was also a Banerjee like her, called Prasun. He agreed to meet her at a cafe in Connaught Place after work.

Shampa wore a white kurta, blue jeans and Kolhapuri slippers. She had removed all her gold jewellery. She had heard Delhi was unsafe for women. In her Bhubaneswar days, she travelled in an air-conditioned car. But now it was auto-rickshaws, buses and the metro. ‘That’s life,’ she thought. ‘Nobody can avoid hardships forever.’

At night, she missed Francis very much. Previously, she would sleep pressed against him. Now, she only had a pillow to hug. But she knew crying and moaning over a past that no longer existed was a waste of time. She had to survive, somehow. Since she had angered her family with her marriage, she did not want to turn to them for help. Shampa was sure they would have had an ‘I told you so’ look on their faces.

‘F..k them,’ she thought.

She tied her hair up in a topknot. Shampa had kept her hair long because Francis liked it so much. She briefly pondered cutting her hair to shoulder length. That would make it so easy to handle. But she remembered what Francis had told her once, “A woman looks so sensual with her long hair.” So, she kept it in memory of Francis.

Shampa took the Blue Line metro to Connaught Place.

Prasun greeted her with a smile. Shampa immediately liked him like a brother. He had a small goatee, a receding hairline, and kind eyes behind black spectacles.

They ordered a burger each. And a coffee.

When they began conversing, Shampa realised Prasun was a copywriter.

“Rathi heard it wrong,” said Prasun.

Shampa smiled as she bit into the burger. She wondered whether she was wasting her time. And she hoped she did not have to pay the bill.

Prasun was direct and honest. “I assume you are in your late-thirties,” he said. “At your age and with your lack of experience, it will be difficult to get an opening. Do you think you have a talent for copywriting?”

Shampa was silent. ‘Do I have a talent for copywriting?’ she thought. ‘I don’t know. Do I have a talent for anything?’

“Did you study English in college?” asked Prasun.

“Yes, from Lady Brabourne College in Kolkata,” said Shampa.

She could see a look of disappointment in Prasun’s eyes, who had also grown up in Kolkata. Shampa knew her college was not in the Top Three.

“Listen Shampa, I will be honest with you,” he said, leaning forward. “I can only offer you freelance opportunities. If you do good work, only then can I try to convince my boss to take you on.”

‘Freelance,’ she thought. ‘This means very little money. How will I survive? And even if I am capable, how long would I have to wait till I impress Prasun?’

She said, “Prasun, I can do it on the side, but I need a regular job.”

He said, “I understand.”

“Can you suggest anything?” she asked.

Prasun looked into the distance.

“PR could be ideal for you,” he said. “I’ll check with some of my friends. In the meantime, I will send you some work on WhatsApp.”

“Okay,” she said.

Graciously, he paid the bill.

They got up and shook hands. Shampa realised Prasun had soft hands, unlike many men who grip your hand as if they want to crush it.

When she reached her flat, she undressed and slipped into a cotton nightgown. She remembered the see-through thigh-high black nighties and lacy lingerie that she wore. The aim was to get Francis excited. Now she wore cotton nighties with the hem a few centimetres above her ankles.

Shampa lay down on the mattress placed on the floor, the back of her head resting on her palms, and stared at the ceiling. It was an unsightly sight. She could see brown patches on the white surface. ‘What were they?’ she wondered. ‘Nobody has painted this place for a long time. Landlords don’t want to spend money on upkeep at all. Greedy guys.’

The noise of the road below seeped in. She could hear horns blowing and people shouting. ‘Everybody is busy except me,’ she thought. Much later, she would realise it was not busyness, but a harsh, exhausting struggle to make ends meet. And to keep their families afloat.

Shampa had been a feminist. Which is why she resisted marriage. But she wasn’t very career-minded either. So, she was in a nowhere situation now. Shampa had married Francis because she had fallen in love. All her feminism flew out of the window at that point. ‘It had been the right decision,’ she thought. ‘Now God had taken Francis away. What can I do?’

She remembered the famous quote by American film director Woody Allen, ‘If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.’

‘How true,’ she thought.

The days slipped past. Prasun gave her some contact numbers. She met a few people. They asked for resumes. Shampa sent them through Gmail. But the resume was too thin. Nobody called her back. They did not want to take a risk with an unknown person.

Prasun sent her an image and asked her to write some copy. She did so. He did not respond immediately. When she prodded him on WhatsApp, he said it was okay. Prasun went out of touch. If you have no talent, she realised, they were not interested. She wondered whether she should sleep with somebody to get a job. But Shampa dismissed the idea immediately. It was unethical and it would damage her morally.

All her friends were busy with their children, husbands and careers and trying to balance it all. They had no time for her.

Shampa spent many evenings staring at the ceiling. This was to give a rest to her eyes after she had stared at the mobile screen for a long while. She ordered food from Swiggy and ate absentmindedly.

She was feeling the first signs of desperation. There was not much money left. After that, what? Shampa might have to swallow her ego and make peace with her family. Her parents lived in a two-storey house in New Town in Kolkata. They would reconcile because Francis was dead. So, it would be fine.

Shampa was sure they would make another attempt to get her into an arranged marriage, despite her age. There were so many widowers around. For the first time, Shampa did not reject the idea. She felt it would be better to get into a relationship rather than remain in the solitary existence she was living now.

But, for immediate cash, Shampa would have to ask her elder brother Dipankar for help. He was the CEO of a top-notch tech company in Hyderabad. He could send Rs 50,000 a month for a while. But it could not be forever. Dipankar had a wife and two children. It would be unfair to him.

One Sunday evening, to get out of the claustrophobia of staying cooped up in her flat, Shampa stepped out for a walk. Since it was a holiday, there were not too many pedestrians around. She looked up at the sky. It was a clear blue even though it was the winter month of December. A chilly breeze blew. Shampa had covered herself with a shawl.

From the opposite direction, she saw a tall foreigner. He had a shining bald head and sparkling saffron robes. It struck Shampa how calm he looked. She realised he offered the sense of security that every woman craved.

When he came abreast, Shampa said, “Excuse me, you belong to which order?”

The Swami paused and smiled. Nice, even white teeth. Shampa immediately noticed how blue his eyes were. Right in the middle, there was a black iris. It seemed as if it was a whirlpool and Shampa was drowning in it.

The monk said, “I belong to the Shanti Ashram. Have you read the book, ‘My Spiritual Journey?’”

Shampa shook her head and pressed her lips together.

“Our founder, Bhola Nath, wrote it,” he said.

“Where are you from?” asked Shampa, craning her neck to look at his face.

“Oh, I am from Texas,” he said. “Why don’t you come to the ashram to get a better idea?”

“Where is it?” said Shampa.

“In Noida,” said Swami. “We have satsangs, kirtans, spiritual counselling, and meditation retreats.”

Shampa nodded and said, “Can I have your mobile number?”

“Sure,” he said and rattled off his number. Shampa saved it on her mobile phone with the name Swami Dayananda.

“Hope to meet you,” said Swami Dayananda, and smiled at her.

Shampa smiled back.

She felt elated as she carried on walking. ‘Maybe, God had set up this accidental meeting,’ she thought. ‘Who knows?’

Back in her room, she googled and got an idea about the activities of the ashram. She read the Wikipedia entry on Bhola Nath. She realised the monk had settled in Pittsburgh, USA, in 1940 and spent three decades of his life in America. This explained to Shampa the presence of foreigners in their ashram.

As a child growing up in Kolkata, she had missed hearing about Bhola Nath, even though he was a Bengali and had grown up in Howrah. She had been aware of Ramakrishna Paramahansa and his disciple, Swami Vivekananda. Her parents were not overtly religious.

Shampa stared at Bhola Nath’s photo. The late spiritual leader had piercing eyes. She also watched a few YouTube videos.

One week later, she went for a visit.

One of the first things Shampa noted was the silence and the sense of peace that pervaded the place. Everything was so clean. The garden had mowed lawns and trimmed leaves. She called Swami Dayananda on his mobile phone. He came out and took her around. Walking next to him, with his 6’ 2” height, she felt like a pygmy.

He took her to a temple inside the premises, the library, counselling rooms, the kitchen, and the dining area. Swami also led her to the female retreat block and showed her the single rooms. He showed her a block where nuns or sanyasinis lived.

“You should take part in a retreat,” Swami Dayananda said, in his gravelly voice. “There are three-to-five-day courses.”

Shampa nodded and said, “I will.”

Shampa felt herself calming down. After seeing the filth and garbage in the city, she appreciated the cleanliness of the ashram.

Within a fortnight, Shampa attended her first retreat. And she enjoyed it to the fullest. She felt a sense of completeness that she had not encountered with Francis, despite all the bliss she experienced from their relentless love-making. She wondered if the ashram was her destiny. A path to spirituality and bliss.

One day, Shampa spoke to Swami Dayananda about being a nun. He listened quietly and said succinctly, “Being a nun is very challenging. A lot of sacrifice is necessary. So, think hard about it.”

Sometimes, when she lay on the mattress at her home, she imagined kissing Swami Dayananda. To see those blue eyes, just centimetres away. Wow, that would be a great experience. She also imagined the Swami kissing her throat and nibbling her ears. It sent her heart racing.

But soon, she blinked her eyes rapidly, shook her head from side and side, and shut out the images. She knew it was not right to think that way. Shampa was sure that the Swami had no such thoughts. But she had to admit to herself that the monk attracted her.

Six months elapsed. Shampa was a regular attendee. Soon, she volunteered to work as a nun.

There was an interview process. Six monks grilled her. Asked her several questions about her life. She told them about her lack of encumbrances.

In the end, the ashram accepted Shampa. A week after she joined, she woke up one morning with a phrase resounding in her head, ‘From where to where’.

Indeed, she could never have imagined her life would take such an almighty turn. And this happened based on an accidental meeting of a monk on a Delhi street. But as she knew, many great spiritual leaders had asserted there were no coincidences. Everything happened for a reason. But Shampa was honest enough to admit to herself it was her physical attraction to Swami Dayananda that compelled her to go down this road.

She and Swami Dayananda spoke often, but he always kept the conversation at a formal level. Shampa knew the monk was aware of her attraction to him and he wanted to keep her at bay.

Shampa continued to work hard. She felt that, with time and patience, she could lodge herself in the heart of Swami Dayananda.

It was going to be a stern test for the monk.

Few men can withstand the fearsome determination of a woman.

PJ Sebastian: commemorating a life and career

Photos: Article in Malayalam newspaper, Deepika; PJ Sebastian in his mid-thirties; the book cover; relatives and well-wishes pay respects at the grave; my great-grandfather

Today, November 25, is my grandfather PJ Sebastian’s 50th death anniversary.

Articles commemorating his life and achievements have appeared in a few Malayalam newspapers.

In the following article, published on March 13, 2007, in The Hindu there is a look at his life.

Democratic struggles

By R Madhavan Nair

An English translation of the memoirs of P.J. Sebastian, who was a frontline activist in social and political struggles in 1930s, has been brought out by C.T. Mathew, the former Director of Government Dental College in Kozhikode.

Sebastian shot into the political limelight as the chairman of Changanasserry municipal council when he was only 29. He was also a leader of the Catholic community and widely appreciated for his skills as an orator. His memoirs published posthumously under the title, `My Life,' would be of interest to all those interested in politics and the growth of the Catholic community.

The memoirs published under the title `My Life,' documents an eventful period in history when democratic struggles were staged to demand a more representational character for legislature and a more equitable share for various communities in Government jobs, which were at that time dominated by Nairs, Brahmins and other "forward communities."

"It is a sad fact that the new generation of Keralites who are now settled in foreign countries are unable to understand books in Malayalam, which contain interesting details about their past. That is why I decided to translate it into English," explains Dr. Mathew, on why he chose to translate into English Sebastian's memoirs.

Sebastian's memoirs were printed and published only after his demise in 1972. The income from the sale of the book was to be donated to the Society of St. Vincent de Paul Central Council, Changanasserry. He had travelled across the State to promote the Society of Vincent de Paul.

Sebastian was born at Changanasserry in 1898. He established a reputation as a powerful speaker and a leader of the Catholic community. Sebastian emerged as a prominent figure in what has come to be known as the "abstention movement" for more representation for various communities in the legislature.

`My Life' also throws light on the last phase of the rule of Diwan Sir C.P. Ramaswamy Iyer and the rule of the first Communist Ministry. Sebastian was in jail when the Diwan left after an assault on his life. Subsequently after self-rule was declared by the Maharaja of Travancore, he continued to remain in jail where he struck a friendship with Mannath Padmanabhan, even though the two had conflicts during the abstention movement. After getting self-rule, he took up prestigious jobs of Public Service Commissioner and later became the Panchayat director. After retirement, Sebastian served as the president of Primary School Teachers Association.

In 1954, he was elected to State Assembly from Kurichi constituency. He led the `vimochana samaram' (liberation struggle) that culminated in the dismissal of the E.M.S. Ministry by the Congress-led government at the Centre.

Dr. Mathew has added a short general history of the period when Sebastian was active in politics and public life. "This would lead to better understanding, especially for those who are not well-acquainted with Kerala history.

(Courtesy: The Hindu)

http://hindu.com/2007/03/13/stories/2007031301910200.htm

Buzz off!

 

(A story about bees)

By Shevlin Sebastian 

One day, my Kochi-based friend and former colleague, Anna Mathews, called me up. She said that the tenants’ association in her building had broken up a hive and there was plenty of honey to be had. She asked whether I was interested. 

To entice me, she said, “It’s superb. I have tasted it.” 

Since I have the habit of having one teaspoon of honey every day, I did not need too much persuasion.  

When I got to her home, Anna poured a bit of honey into a saucer, which had a bit of water. Then she stirred the saucer in a clockwise manner. The honey formed a hexagonal pattern.  

“See,” she said, looking up with her expressive eyes. “Genuine stuff.” 

Later, at home when I tasted it, the honey was thicker and had a different sweetness, as compared to processed sugar. I was glad I took the bottle. 

One month later, I took the last spoon. 

And this is the message I sent Anna on WhatsApp: 

“Dear Respected Madam, this is to inform you that the last teaspoon of honey is now coursing through my small and large intestines. Please give my congratulations to the lovely bees at JM Manor. 

“Sorry to hear they have migrated to Canada under the ‘Essential Workers Category’ to better their economic prospects. The brain drain, I mean, the bee drain of the country, is alarming.” 

Anna sent a smiling emoji and said, “So cute.” 

The matter would have ended there… but it didn’t.

Anna forwarded it to her cousin Divya who then accidentally forwarded it to the WhatsApp number of the Queen Bee, the leader of the bees. Her antennae quivered, and she flapped her wings ferociously. 

The Queen Bee had been angry for some time. She knew many bees were migrating to Canada. Many left without asking her permission. They all said they could not handle the heat, dust and pollution of Kochi. They wanted to settle in a cool climate where the air was pure and the people were pleasant. 

So, she called an emergency meeting of all the bee colonies in Kochi. 

They all gathered together at the top of a tree at the Mangalavanam Bird Sanctuary near the High Court.   

The Queen Bee stared silently at the mass of bees in front of her. Then she leaned into the microphone on the lectern and said, “For some time I have been worried about the bees’ migration to Canada. Indian bees are what we are. We should be proud of our country. We should contribute our honey to the national effort.” 

“Madam,” male bee Konda Ranu, a migrant bee from Jharkhand, said, “The way migration is taking place, Canada will become an Indian country. So, we will continue to give honey to our fellow Indians.” 

“Hear, hear!” some bees shouted. 

The Queen Bee realised there was a lot of support for migration. Like humans, bees were worried about global warming. It was already announced in the ‘Bee Times’ Kochi would go under water including the trees. The general feeling was, ‘Without trees, where would we hang our hives? Buildings are too unsafe.’  

Konda continued, “I am told London is run over by Indian bees. Soon, our bees will be all over the world.” 

He paused and said, “Madam, don’t get uptight. You should float like a butterfly and not sting like a bee.”  

All the bees laughed. 

The Queen Bee waited for the laughter to die down and said, “How will our countrymen get honey if we flee? You know my slogan: ‘A self-reliant country is a powerful country.’ You know our tourist tagline: ‘Make a beeline… to God’s own country’. Then how can we flee?” 

Konda said, “People should be free to make their decisions.” 

Again, several bees flapped their wings in agreement. 

The Queen Bee was getting irritated by these constant interruptions by Konda. She knew she would have to get rid of him. Like all leaders, she did not like criticism of any sort. And although, in her bee head, she felt migrants smelt, and kept their hives dirty, and threw garbage all over the place, she would seduce Konda and sleep with him. Of course, if she did that, Konda would drop dead. That’s what happens to all male bees who copulate with the Queen Bee. 

To ensure she could entice Konda, the Queen Bee decided that after the meeting, she would go to the Ullu Mall and buy a black bra, thongs, and stiletto heels. ‘That should nail the idiot,’ she thought. ‘Goddamn migrants.’ 

The Queen Bee knew she did not have the guts and crass outspokenness of American Queen Bee Donna Drump, who openly called for all migrant bees to return to the ‘shithole’ countries they came from. “America is not for black, blue, green, yellow and brown bees,” she said. “We don’t need rainbows here. We only like the colour white.” 

Many white bees clapped when she said that. The Queen Bee realised that, deep down, most bees were racist. Even in Kochi, she knew they hated the migrants from the other states. But the Queen Bee did not want to go the Drump way and polarise the bees. 

Meanwhile, up in the tree, there was no solution to the migrant question. Should she ban it or not? Maybe, declare an emergency, like she did in 1975, and tell the Bee Police to keep a strict vigil on those trying to escape the country. But again, she was no longer not that type of Queen Bee. She liked her bees to feel free and move around and speak their minds. But not in the insolent way Konda did. 

Anyway, the Queen Bee ended the meeting and flew off to the mall. 

That night, she invited Konda for dinner. 

Konda accepted.

When he saw the Queen Bee in her stockings and thongs and high heels, he could not help but exclaim, “So cute.” 

Those were the last words he spoke as he copulated with the Queen Bee. 

As she saw the dead bee lying on the ground, the Queen Bee could not help but exclaim, “That’s one bee out of my bonnet.” 

Getting a gift of an article 30 years later

By Shevlin Sebastian

Long-time freelance journalist and my friend, Rudolph Vance, stepped into a musty book shop on College Street, in Kolkata a few days ago. He came across an old issue of Sportsworld. He had been a contributor to the magazine, too.

As he flipped through the pages of the July 1, 1992 edition, he came across an article by me. He sent it to me via speed post.

I worked at Sportsworld for nine years. Those were fun-filled years. We played cricket inside the office after the deadline was over. We put up posters of beautiful sportswomen on the walls. In prime position was a poster of former tennis star Steffi Graf under a poolside shower.

What a body!

Unfortunately, I may be the only former Sportsworld staffer to keep this habit. I always had a poster of a beautiful woman on the wall, and increasingly, as my default desktop image.

Some people don’t grow up.

When I looked at the pages of the magazine that Rudolph had sent, I marvelled that even after 30 years the pages had not completely deteriorated. There were some brown patches on the edges here and there.

When I read the article, it reminded me of a method I used during my time in Sportsworld. The essence would be a question-and-answer format. Interspersed in between, I would put in some mood, and bits of conversation with the subject, so that readers could get a feel for the person I was interviewing.

The Pesi article begins with my arrival in Bombay and my call to the Shroff household to learn that he had gone to the airport to fly to Bangalore. But fate was in my favour. I gave the answer later.

In Sportsworld, if I remember right, since we had so many pages to fill, we would write anywhere between 1500 and 2000 words for a story. A typical feature story would run from four to eight pages. Today, journalists would consider 400 words a lengthy story. Of course, for a single newspaper page, 1200 would be fine.

I also read up on Pesi.

In his career, he had ridden 5614 races. He won 1,751 of them, including 106 classic races and 29 Derbys (source: Wikipedia).

His career as a jockey ended in 2004 because of injuries. Thereafter, to my shock and delight, he had embarked on an equally stellar career as a horse trainer and won many races.

It’s uplifting to know that the 57-year-old is still going strong.

And Then There Were None -- a short story

By Shevlin Sebastian

Ahiga, the Red Indian of the Cherokee tribe, with a shaved head, stood on a flat outcrop of rock. He was a lean man with bulging biceps. He wore a beaded necklace with the claw of a bison at one end. Ahiga picked up a small piece of rock and threw it in a long arc. He watched it fall to the ground far below and roll for a while, like a squirrel doing a series of somersaults.

When the 25-year-old looked to the left, he could see a range of hills made of rocks and boulders. Between Ahiga and the hills, there was an enormous expanse of red mud. In some places, the land was flat and in other areas, the terrain was undulating. If Ahiga squinted his eyes, he could see the ruts made by the wheels of wagons belonging to the cowboys. On Ahiga’s right, there was another outcropping rising a few thousand feet high.

Behind Ahiga, a fire raged. Six red Indians sat on their haunches and stared at the fire. Above it, a skinned pig was being cooked. On the right, there were many conical-shaped tepees. One Indian, the middle-aged Inola, poked the fire with a long stick. Strips of fire flared up.

The flap of the large tepee opened.

Wohali, the chief, in his feathered headgear, came out and strolled towards the group. He sat on his haunches and rubbed his palms together near the fire. It was getting cold as darkness settled on the horizon in this section of Texas. The year is 1790.

Ahiga also strode up and joined the group. They sat in silence as they experienced the stillness all around. Small, glittering stars appeared in the sky.

Onacona, a tribal elder, said, “The cowboys have set up their homes several kilometres from here. They have guns and revolvers. We only have bows and arrows and are vulnerable on this flat surface, Chief. We need to move.”

Wohali nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “We will move up to the mountains on the other side, but we will need to find a place where there is water. This was an ideal place.”

Indeed, right behind them was a clear stream, which had many pebbles and small rocks. You could see fish swimming at the bottom. There were large trees on the other side. The Indians got their fruits, honey, and figs from there. They lived on the edge of a vast expanse of mud and hills.

But the group had moved to this location only a few days ago. They had to do this, as the cowboys and their families seemed to move all over the place. It seemed to the Indians that the whites wanted to exterminate them. Instead of a peace dialogue, the cowboys let their bullets do the talking. The schism between the two communities was as wide as the Red Sea. 

“I understand,” Onacona said in a respectful voice. “But if we stay here, we will all die.”

It was a stark warning. Wohali understood it. He knew Onacona would not say this unless the situation was dangerous. Onacona was an experienced warrior. He had seen many moons. He also had high intuition. The others remained silent and stared at the fire. The pig turned a deep brown. An aroma like roasted beef arose in the air. Ahiga’s nose twitched in anticipation of the meal. They were now sitting in darkness.

Wohali had always relied on Onacona’s experience.

He could feel the blood pounding in his ears. It seemed as if his body was telling him to move fast.

Wohali looked at the group, one by one.

They stared back. Everybody felt pressure within themselves. It had become a matter of life and death. 

“Okay,” said Wohali. “We will move tomorrow, come what may.”

The others smiled and nodded. This meant they had all agreed with Onacona about the urgent need to move.

Inola took the pig down. Using a knife, he cut up the animal into small pieces. He placed them inside the leaves. The Indians took them back to their tepees to eat with boiled beans and corn. They told their family members about their impending dislocation.

Onacona’s wife Behita said, “We just arrived here. How many times will we have to move? This is a pleasant place, with plenty of water.”

“I know, but the white people are all over the place,” said Onacona in a patient tone. “Ahiga spotted a group some distance away. They might come this way.”

Behita pressed her lips together.

“How long can we run?” she asked.

It was a question that hung in the air inside their tepee and also in the other tepees. Indeed, how long could they run before the cowboys killed them?

Behita gazed at the animal rugs on the floor, the clothes hanging on a nail, and the hides nailed to the wall. ‘All will have to be loaded again,’ she thought. She blew out the small fire in the middle with a blast of air from her mouth. She lay down beside her husband on a mat on the ground opposite the entrance.

Outside, Ahiga kept guard with another young Red Indian, Dakota.

It was 1 a.m. They kept the fire burning by throwing in twigs and leaves. Dakota’s head nodded as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. But Ahiga stood on one side, staring at the starry sky, as the cries of the cicadas interrupted the silence.

Two cowboys, Austin Smith and Brock Mathews, crept up behind Ahiga. The blue-eyed Austin stood up, placing his palm around Ahiga’s mouth, to prevent him from shouting. As Ahiga tried to turn, Austin slit his neck cleanly from the back, as the blood gurgled out in soft squirts, and laid him down.

Austin wiped the blood off his knife on Ahiga’s leather tunic. Dakota was now fast asleep. Brock pressed his palm against Dakota’s mouth while slicing his throat. Austin and Brock gestured with their hands.

Thirty other cowboys came up. They had tied their horses some distance away around a few tree trunks. The men walked the rest of the distance, coming in from the other side of the stream. They had known about this Red Indian camp. Brock had spotted the group from a distance when he went for a reconnaissance ride. He found the access to water most convenient. For their community, they needed this location.

A few of the cowboys lit sticks of tinder, using the fire that Ahiga had kept burning. They walked on tiptoes and stuck them to the tepees.

The tepees caught fire.

As the flames grew in intensity, the shouts of the Indian inmates rose in a crescendo, like a church choir practising the high notes.

Thick plumes of black smoke rose into the sky. There was an acrid smell.

As the Red Indians and their families came rushing out, the cowboys aimed their revolvers at them. There were yells and groans of agony as the bullets hit the defenceless targets. Blood spurted out. A woman was sobbing while holding a dead child in her arms. A Red Indian placed an arrow on his bow. But before he could draw the string, a bullet pierced his forehead with a cracking sound. None of them had expected this attack, including Onacona, who had a gift for predicting the future. But this time he failed.

People fell and landed spread-eagled on the ground. Some lay face down in the mud, arms extended. Others lay on their sides. Blood flowed from wounds on the head, face, chest, stomach, and legs. Some had open mouths, while others looked to be in deep slumber. There was the odour of blood, like that of iron. Out of sheer fear, a few men had soiled their pants.

As the tepees burned, it resembled an arc of fire framed against a dark horizon.

Soon, the cowboys had determined that all forty of them were dead. Thereafter, a group brought back the shovels they had kept in bags slung around their horses’ necks.

They moved a few feet away and dug into the ground. The men let out grunts and exhaled.

The minutes passed. A small mound of mud formed at the edges. Everybody inhaled the wet smell of the mud.

Once the pit was ready, one man held the hands and another the feet and they threw the bodies into the pit. For the children, one man could do the job, holding their legs with one hand. They flung them like dolls. The bodies lay piled up, one on top of the other. Finally, they threw in Ahiga and Dakota, both young men, in their prime.

The men stared at the pit. A few men wiped their faces with a kerchief. They knew it was a necessary deed. It was a matter of survival — kill or be killed. A few of them sat on their haunches, trying to get their breath back.

In the eerie silence, a coyote let out a bark followed by a howl. A couple of men noticed the hairs on their arms stood up.

The men began shovelling the mud back into the pit. Soon, they had covered the pit. The cowboys used the back of the shovels to tap down the mud and make it a smooth surface. 

Meanwhile, the fire was dying out among the tepees.

It was an exhausted group that trudged towards the horses. They returned home and washed their faces, legs, and hands. But when they closed their eyes, they saw images of the destruction they had wrought.

The next day, they came again. The cowboys bent and poked the ashes with wooden sticks to look for valuables. Some found gold rings and necklaces.

Within a few days, the white settlers took over the land. They formed a circle with their wagons to ward off attacks in the future. In the daytime, the boys ran to the bank of the stream. They took off their shirts and jumped into the water, letting out squeals of delight. They were not aware that other children of their age were rotting in a nearby pit, killed by their fathers. Sometimes, the women took the clothes and scrubbed them by the side of the stream. They felt calm and peaceful beside the serene stream.

There was no sign anymore that there had indeed been a Red Indian camp anywhere.

The white conquest was complete.

Many Indian tribes suffered the same fate

Later, some historians described it as a genocide.