BLOOD LINES

 

I am not a doctor, I am not a nurse, and I don’t care what happens to them, old age, infirm, immobile, who cares, and although it’s been long, I haven’t forgotten or even forgiven, and I don’t want to go back there, and memories of my rehab days are fresh and haunting, and I hate it and I hate them, I pause the rant and look at Aaron and I say all that all over again to Aaron who may not even be listening, the way he is munching on burgers. This crunch crunch is obnoxious, as though the patty is an ice cube. I know there’s no point in telling him this. There’s no point in telling him this again. He thinks it’s an old story, like, a really old one, some hundreds of years ago thing, why do you even think about it, he asks, shrugging. You should come out of the past, he advises. I scrunch my nose and look the other way, I file my nails, I touch my lips to see if the skin is dry. And outside the window, out there on the street, there’s a carnival. There are people, there are jokers, there is music, but what strikes me is that there’s blood, a lot of blood. Dark, dried, dirty blood. And I look away. The music is still there. The jokers are dancing in vulgar gestures, their colourful attires snazzy. The people are there too, their teeth showing like cheap, fake pearls at roadside jewellery stalls. The view from the window is the same on all days of the carnival. I am not a spectator, I am not a reporter, and I don’t care what all is being paraded and celebrated and I hate everything.

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The view from the window remains the same even after years. There’s clearly no rehab here, of memories, of sights, of screams which enter my ears, my head every day. I am not a pharmacist in a foreign city, I am not a reputed university graduate, or so I think, every time I think I’ve gone back and I know the window still opens up to the sparse garden in front and I don’t want to go back and stand at the window back at home. No way that I’m going back, I tell Aaron, and he swings his arms and says, it’s okay, baby, it’s been long, long long time, why bother?

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The view from the window remains the same and I can’t sleep, I can’t rest and on several nights in the last one month, I have sat up but slept and nearly fallen over off the bed, and Aaron has been asleep, whistling through his nose, a fine, low whistle, and suddenly with a jolt, I have straightened my back, still asleep, and thought of blood, that night’s blood, a lot of blood. Not to speak of the screams which died down before the blood could be absorbed in the ground. I remember telling the people at the rehab that the soil in front of our house is blackish red.

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Blood. That’s the colour of blood. I said.

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Red trees, red leaves. I said. 

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The view from the window is still the same. If I look out, I’ll see the blackish red ground and red leaves, red tree. 

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I wish they would stop this carnival. 

 

I can still see myself as a slim and shy teenager, looking out for my lover boy neighbour, both of us coy, both of us restrained, our budding romance trapped by our ancestors choosing two gods at two different places of worship. 

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The house is like an old age home now and there are half a dozen super senior citizens housed here, mostly immobile, some of them senile, hard of hearing, short on eyesight, confused, blabbering, old age crybabies, and I hate being here. At the airport, I told Aaron, I’ll simply pick up my remaining stuff and leave in a day. I added under my breath, they have blood on their hands and I haven’t forgiven them. I am sure if I look out of the window, I’ll still see his broken body and hear his helpless howls.

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Check if the leaves are still red, Aaron reminded me, his straight face not telling me if he was making fun of my lifelong trauma.

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The view from the window still shows me what it showed me that full moon night.

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He is scurrying towards our house, to catch a glimpse of me, and my uncles and cousins and grandfathers, prodded by the women of the family, are crouching behind bushes and under trees, thick sticks and axes in hand, clubs and stones, belts and ropes, all armoured for my unarmed secret lover.

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Days later, while in delirium, I would still think that was a hide and seek game and dream of his lips touching me, like we saw on the silver screen, and these people, my own flesh and blood, clapping and cheering and blessing us with those clubs and sticks.

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Aaron calls. 

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I tell him I am staying back.

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He gives out a low whistle, this time through his mouth. Being dutiful?

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Whatever.

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And then I pull up a chair next to one of their beds, wipe his wrinkled, grimy face and hands as though there is freshly ejected blood on it, scrutinise the blood pressure chart and order a fresh round of SOS injections. 

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——

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There’s a carnival out here.

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They are playing the murder song. Complete with honour killing melody.

 

And I am not a doctor, I am not a nurse, but only that joker, and instead of vulgar jokes, I am moving around an old, cold house, ranting and scowling while I attend to my folks, of my own flesh and blood.