When i wrote this short story, i did not know whether to publish it or not. I was not very sure about it as i felt that this particular story was effusively sentimental. I sent it to a few friends who bear with my short stories and encourage me with their comments. And only since they felt that the story was good and should be published, i am publishing it. Thanks sangee,avi,pram,zillia & nanu.
I walked down the rocky path. The sun was going down behind a haze of orange-pink puff of clouds. The sodium-vapor lamps were already lit, though it still was not all that dark. It was as if we in America lived in a time of peace and prosperity when every other country on earth was having a shortage for anything and everything. Europe was mired in a war that had transformed the picturesque Paris and a dozen other great cities into piles of concrete trailer-park trash. Russia, which looms large over the European Continent appears to be nothing more than a starved scare-crow, one which is likely to be torched by Mr.Hitler and his minions. Asian countries are nothing but a reflection of their European owners. Africa, at the moment, seems to have been blackened off the map of the world by Rommel and his troops. We in America were sitting safe and sound and concentrating on our own industrialization drive that has spurted since the Great Depression.
I reached my favorite wooden bench, which I identified by the tall coconut tree which stood behind it. It was a tough spot to get to, especially if you are forty plus and have not exercised any other muscle in your body except those in your fingers (for typewriting) in the last fifteen years. I came here not because i was fond of climbing rocks, but because it gave me a breath-taking view of the bluish-green sea that lay stretched-out in front of me and the nice breeze that blew and made the tender coconut trees sway slightly.
I stretched out and set down the books on one side and unpacked the ration of bread that i had obtained from the military canteen. It had been a long day. I work as an accountant with the American army. And the evenings, i spent on this wooden bench, reading my favorite authors – Milton and Homer. I was looking forward to another evening with two of literature’s greatest doyens. I was half way through the third volume of Paradise Regained. Somehow i could enjoy this particular epic better in this location because the calm seas and the swaying coconuts made me think i was in paradise.
At first, i did not notice the small boy in gray formless overalls come and sit next to me. When he jumped on to the wooden bench, i gave him a sideways look and a quick smile and returned back to my tome. I did not know the racial classifications in this part of the world. So going by his appearance, i thought he must be a red-indian. And these were poor people, people who had not had the strength to defend their lands when the Americans decided to use the strategic advantage of these small islands. Japan, i was told, is pretty close to these islands. So perhaps these people were descendents of the Japanese. I opened Milton and read on.
The boy looked sheepish and started staring at the bread packet that was lying open on my side. After a few minutes i saw the boy staring at it and motioned him to help himself. He stuck out a tiny hand and grabbed a large piece of bread. I returned back to my book. When i looked back at the boy after a couple of minutes, the large bread had disappeared and small pieces of bread were clinging to the boy’s chin. He continued to stare at the bread. I was amused at the look on the boy’s face and felt ashamed about his hunger. A hunger that had been brought upon by my ruthless countrymen on these unsuspecting fisher-folk. I signaled him to take the entire ration with him. The boy’s eyes did not leave my face as his eyes began bulging out and his thin straight lips stretched into a wide smile. He lifted the bread along with the wrapper and folded it carefully and lifted it as if it were the crown jewels. All this while, the boy’s eyes did not leave my face. His eyes were so expressive. By this time, i had laid Milton to rest and was admiring the young chap in front of me.
He walked a little down the path. I watched his tiny feet make dents in the sand. He stopped abruptly, turned his head backwards toward me and started smiling and shaking his head as if asking me to follow him. I stood up, collected my belongings, and followed him.The boy walked furiously for the next hour and a half. I did not know where i was going, nor did i know the way back. All i knew was that we were climbing upwards. This i knew because i started feeling cold and attributed it to the altitude. Nevertheless i decided to follow him for reasons that i have not fathomed till date.
The boy reached the entrance of a small cave and disappeared inside it. Unsure of whether to follow him or not, i entered the cave. I could hear some faint whimpering. I searched for the boy, my eyes now acquainted with the darkness that had loomed. I spotted the boy with the aid of the shiny silver foil in which his bread was wrapped. I put a hand on his small shoulder and he guided me somewhere into the cave.
My shoes touched something soft and i stepped back out of instinct. The whimpering was coming from right below me. I could not see anything and i was afraid to put my hand down and feel whatever it was. I searched inside my pocket and took out a matchbox. It took me sometime to light the match stick as my hands were trembling and my drenched fingers could not clasp the thin match stick. Finally, i lit one.
I was taken aback. The whimpering creature was an extraordinarily tired looking red-indian woman, and a pregnant one at that. I staggered back for a moment and the match went off from wind that was blowing out of some opening in the cave. When i lit the matchstick again, the woman’s eyes met mine. I could see the pain in her eyes. The small boy was trying to move a small rock underneath her head to use it as a pillow.
I searched my pocket again and found my lighter, which i must have found at the first instance. I quickly took off my coat and poured the little gasoline from the lighter on it. I then grabbed a stick that was lying nearby and tied my coat on it. Lighting it, i struck it in one of the cracks on the lime-stone wall. The pressure was showing in the woman’s eyes. Her eyes. It struck me that this small boy must be her first-born. The hazel colored expressive eyes were like finger-print. I knelt down and touched the woman’s forehead. It was burning. For a moment i wondered if i could lift her and take her to the army camp. But i dismissed the idea since i knew that the baby was almost on its way.
After an hour of intensive labor, the baby came. It was stark white. I was taken aback and quickly concluded that it must have been the expedition of one of those boys from the hill-camp regiment. I cleaned the baby with the little water from my leather bottle. The woman had passed out and her voice had died down. And so had my fire. But i was afraid. The baby had not cried once. I tried to breathe into its mouth, but i felt the coldness. I concluded that it must be dead. Even viewing a woman in labor is tiresome beyond words. I felt my body reaching for the ground in an awkward fall.
I did not know what exactly made me wake up. Was it the distant boom that shook the hill or was it the sound of some young voice crying? I shuffled and saw the baby lying before me, kicking with life and crying out loud. I was delighted and reached for the baby when the second explosion rattled the hill. Then a third came and then they came in such torrid succession that i lost the count. I rushed out of the cave with the baby in hand and reached a hole the size of a man. I was standing somewhere in an opening which oversaw the other side of the hill. Beyond these hills lay the vast American army, which for reasons i could hardly fathom was now in a state of utter chaos. A jet with a large red dot zipped down and released a torpedo which tore the hull of a navy ship. The very ship had been my home for quite sometime now. The baby started to cry again.
I clasped my chest and started praying. I prayed long and hard and i cried as i prayed. I knew not whether i prayed for the infinite mercy God had shown in bringing back the child to life, or for the souls of my comrades who had died by the thousands or for my own stunning survival,the chances for which would have been null had i been on that navy ship.
I christened her ‘Pearl’.
