- REVIEW: HASTINGS' "THE SECRET
LIVES OF SOMERSET MAUGHAM" - THE BEST FRIEND
- REVIEW: ADIGA'S "BETWEEN THE
ASSASSINATIONS" - TROUBLE AT SEA
- THE TRIP OF A LIFETIME
- TATTLE TEETH
- BEHIND THE TREE
- SEVEN JEWISH CHILDREN
- THE BUS RIDE
ofthisandthat Fiction |
Review of Selina Hastings' "The Secret Lives of Somerset Maugham" (Random House, 2010)
by Arshad M. Khan
Quite possibly the most famous writer in the world during his lifetime, Somerset Maugham was not
favored by critics who found him an aloof, objective observer. However, his books and plays were a
resounding commercial success, and he finally settled in comfort on the French Riviera -- defined in his
own inimitable style as "a sunny place for shady people".
His are the stories of little people ... leading little lives of quotidian boredom punctuated by little dramas
of desperation or escape. His are not the soaring heroes of literature -- just a little quirky, a little
different, a little like himself.
Occasional thematic repetition aside, the short stories, with their twist and turns of fate, retain the flavor
that marked his commercial success, and, for something meatier, "Of Human Bondage" and the "The
Razor's Edge", his last major work, continue to give pause for reflection. Hastings is a sympathetic
biographer -- something a man, not known for being well-liked, yet who brought pleasure, joy and
entertainment to millions, surely deserves.
Perhaps, no soaring talent then, but a gift for storytelling, an economy of words, a lucid style, a master
of aphorism, and the experience of armchair tourism exploring the bygone world of British planters,
sundowners and restrained, uncontrolled passions.
THE BEST FRIEND
Arshad M Khan
On the island of Hongshu lived a lonely old man and his daughter Pui Yang. The years had worn well
on Lee Kai Ming, and he always said life's blessings were bestowed on those smart enough to receive
them. He had been very lucky almost all his life in being happy until a few years ago when his wife,
Ting Ting, was taken away from him. Having always expected to die first, this had left him with a sense
of frustration and anger. No longer did he have the familiar contours next to him in bed, nor someone
– and this bothered him even more – to share with him his most intimate thoughts. Yes, he was not
alone, just lonely.
From the window where he liked to sit, he could see the mainland, and it would bring back many
memories, increasingly now of his childhood. He could see the mountain that dominated the sky line. It
had been a challenge to him as he was growing up but he had conquered it. That's what he believed;
he believed in removing obstacles from his path. He had a sudden twinge ... yes, that was one memory
best forgotten. But try as he might, and though he had been successful in blotting it out for many
years, it now seemed to haunt him more with each passing day.
'I wish I didn't have to do it,' he said to himself. 'But I just couldn't see any other way through. Yes, he
was my best friend. But what could I do. There was no other way.'
Oh, it was so long ago. But these days it seemed like yesterday. He would shake his head sometimes
like a dog shakes water off a wet back. But he couldn't throw off the memory. It was stuck like a leach
sucking blood; except it seemed to be sucking the spirit from his soul. 'Oh, Kwok Wah Sun, why did
you have to be so perfect?' he thought.
He had been his best friend ever since he could remember. They played baby games, childhood
games, and games that grew more serious as they grew older. Somehow Wah Sun was always better
at everything, even school work. He smiled ruefully.
'I didn't mind you being better at everything. I just enjoyed your company and enjoyed playing, and
thought I could learn from you. You were so clever. When we played hide and seek you would hide
and I could never find you, and then I would hide and you would find me in no time at all.' His daughter
came into the room, interrupting his thoughts.
“Why don't you take a little walk,” she said to him, “before I bring you your dinner?” He raised himself
off the chair using his elbows to lift himself up, and heard the creaking bones which always brought a
wry smile to his face. He thought to himself his ancestors should be proud of what he had
accomplished. His mind checked his thought – but for that one thing that had been necessary. His
daughter brought out an embroidered silk quilted jacket for him to wear.
“It's getting a little chilly in the evenings,” she said, and helped him on with it.
He liked to walk by the shoreline and watch the sun set below the mountain, across the water. The air
felt bracing and invigorating and soon he had forgotten his thoughts. He liked watching the children
play. There weren't too many on the island because young couples could not easily afford to live there.
'Life had been good,' he thought. 'If only Ting Ting had lived a little longer.' He sighed. 'Well, all in all,
I've had a happy life.'
Now all he had to do was to marry off Pui Yang. There were plenty of suitors, given her dowry, except
she always found something wrong with each one. 'Yes, I'm going to have to do something about her.'
His three sons he had given a good start. And they were each successful in their own way, he thought
with satisfaction. He just wished they didn't live so far away. How the world had changed in his
lifetime. Families scattered all over the country. Well, he'd see them at New Year's. It was nice of
them to come and visit him so often, he thought. He loved seeing his grandchildren, though now they
were older they weren't as charming as they used to be. Still, it felt good to see them – his own flesh
and blood. Yes, he smiled, it had been a good life.
And then, the sudden twinge again. 'Oh,' he cursed under his breath, 'why does this keep bothering
me so much? It hadn't been so most of my life. Hadn't even given it much thought. It was an accident,'
he said to himself again and again. Except ... in his heart of hearts, he knew better.
“Good evening, Mr. Lee.” A man passed by bowing respectfully, and he nodded his head in
acknowledgment. “It is a nice evening for a stroll, Sir.”
“Yes,” he replied, preoccupied with his thoughts. “Yes,” and continued to walk on.
He was much respected, given his wealth and status - deservedly, he believed. It was hard earned
respect for he had started in such humble circumstances.
Yes, his wife had been his secret. She had been the impetus for his drive and his wisest counsel. She
had often said that if she died before him, and if there was an afterlife, she would come visit and tell
him all about it, so he could be ready. And in the last year, he had wondered more than once if there
was such a thing because he hadn't heard from her.
Or, could it be she had met Wah Sun? No, it couldn't be. Yet, the new thought had begun to nag him.
She was, is, the most precious thing in his life. They were to be together for eternity. Could he lose all
of that? He had always assumed he would die first and be able to talk his way out of it with Wah Sun.
He could always talk people around to his point of view. But she had gone first. Yes, he was worried.
The sky had turned magenta. It will soon be dark, he thought to himself. He had better be getting
back. Pui Yang might be worried and dinner might be getting cold. He could have kept a cook but she
loved to cook for him. Yes, she had been a fine daughter to him. However, he did employ a
housekeeper to ease the burden, and also someone to clean and maintain the house. Yes, she had
been a fine daughter to him.
It must have been a few weeks later. Negotiations had been going well with a new suitor who Pui Yang
was not completely indifferent to, and he had high hopes this time. He was taking his usual stroll when
he heard a voice calling his name. It was very familiar but not quite the same. As he slowly realized
what was happening, he was dumbstruck. He steadied himself with his walking stick. 'Ting Ting. Could
it really be?' he thought to himself. 'Or, is my mind playing tricks?'
Then the voice called again, “Why did you do it? Why did you do it?” several times.
He reeled back. 'It's Ting Ting. She knows.' His mind went blank, then in his mind's eye, there he was
in his village again, and he was remembering vividly those fateful events of more than fifty years ago ...
It was a beautiful day, clear as only an early spring day can be. The air almost crackled with
crispness. They were going to climb the mountain that dominated the skyline. Climb? No, conquer it.
That's how they felt: the mountain today and the world tomorrow. Their mothers had packed lunches
and snacks, just some rice, vegetables and dried fish.
As they walked along the base, spring was everywhere. Little creatures scurried away as they
approached: squirrels, an occasional rabbit, and birds hopping, pecking, flying off, landing, and doing
the same again; male birds singing from trees, laying down property rights; watching females, carefully
appraising suitors.
Yes, it was spring and both young men were thinking of Chan Ting Ting. Wah Sun supremely
confident. He had, after all, been admitted to the most prestigious School of Engineering in the
province and was the academic star of the school.
Kai Ming was envious. Try as he might to dispel such feelings – for he wanted to be loyal to his friend
– jealousy and envy remained. He tried to compensate by being specially nice to him. It was he, after
all, who had helped him get through High School. Why was it he could never stay awake in class? He
was always dreaming. Yes, Wah Sun had tutored him all through school from the earliest years. Yes,
he had been a good friend.
Why couldn't he, Kai Ming, be good at anything? Even the games they played now ... Wah Sun beat
him regularly at table tennis. Oh, he might win an occasional game but that was rare.
He had to admit it, he smiled wryly to himself, Wah Sun was better at everything. What chance did he
have with Ting Ting, he, who was going to work in a shop now that schooling was over. He smiled
ruefully, looking at his friend's back. He was leading the way, as usual.
'I am stronger than he is,' he thought to himself. 'We are both the same height but I am heavier and
stockier. I could take him down if we wrestled, he thought. Still, he beats me at arm wrestling. How
does he do it? I get tired and ease up; he ... he is just so determined. You can see that gleam come
into his eye whenever he competes at anything.
'How come he knows everything? When we were wondering where babies came from, he bought an
old book with its pages coming apart, from somewhere, and was soon explaining the whole shebang to
anyone who would listen. I started to look at my mother and father and laugh. And then' – smiling
broadly – 'we had gotten curious and compared our things, you know. And guess what, I was the
biggest. So ha, ha!'
During this reverie, Wah Sun had kept up an incessant chatter on the botany of their surroundings: the
plants, the shrubs, the flowers and anything else that came to his mind. He was a well of information.
But one could tell, from the longer pauses, the climb was getting steeper. The green was less lush.
Soon it would turn to all rock with patches of ice clinging to the nooks and crannies. He began to part
whistle, part sing a popular song pausing intermittently to take a deep breath.
Kai Ming smiled to himself again for his friend could never carry a tune and never realized he was tone
deaf. He had tried to show him many times to no avail. He was always quite receptive. He'd say, “Hey,
thank you now I've got it,” and then repeat it out of tune again. Yup! music he understood better.
It had become steep and they had had to scramble up some rocks using their hands to steady
themselves. A few patches of ice made for some slick areas and Wah Sun kept telling his friend to be
careful. He was always looking out for others, insistently telling his friends what was good for them.
Why they should give up smoking, why they should exercise, why this, why that. He was convinced he
was helping them, and was loved by his friends. The truth was they were a little tired of him, and were
glad he would be out of their lives come the commencement of the college year in a few months. The
teachers loved him: he was their success, their hope for the future. He had scored the highest ever, by
far, of anyone in the village and near the top for the whole province. He was going to be a Civil
Engineer and build dams and bridges to help people. Yes, helping people was what he did never
realizing that most people just wanted to be left alone and resented what they considered criticism.
The smokers wanted to smoke because it cut a dash with the girls – more important than health
problems, may be thirty years from now. And who wants to exercise? Only the old doing their tai-chi.
Then who wants to be nagged about it? Anyway, why is it his business, they thought. But that was it,
he felt compelled to help people improve themselves.
The pictures in his mind grew sharper and he began to mutter to himself ....
Yes, that was another thing. I knew people; I just knew them for what they were. I knew Wah Sun was
harmless and meant well, and it was easy for me to put up with him. And it got me through high
school. Now, I was going to work in the best shop in the village with old man, Lao. But I had worked on
him for almost six years now. I fetched and carried without asking anything in return. Yes, he'd give
me a little something now and then. Everyone thought he was taking advantage of me, as did he. But
as I had known all along, he began to like me – and he had no children. I was going to work hard and
save every penny. I just knew I would own that shop one day.
“We are almost there,” Wah Sun shouted, exultant at the prospect of reaching the summit.
A few more minutes of climbing and there we were: it was a beautiful sight. Climbing, we had been able
to see a semicircle behind us, now we commanded a universal vista. We could see not only our own
village but all of them scattered in clumps around the mountain. The farmers in the fields carrying
baskets of vegetables on bamboo poles across their shoulders looked like muscular-jawed ants
heaving large leaves in their mandibles.
“Just look at the big beautiful blue sky here,” he said whirling around obviously pleased. “Do you know
why the sky is blue?”
“No, why?”
He launched into a long explanation of refraction and wavelengths, even taking a detour through
mirages. I just looked like I was listening. I was enjoying the scent of the fresh, cool air, purifying,
filtering through my lungs cleansing out the clotted smoke of two decades of wood fires down below in
the village.
“Don't you remember the Physics class?”
Well, I had spent most of my classes dreaming about different businesses I was going to set up, and
knowing why the sky was blue wouldn't have helped my future. I didn't answer.
“Come on, let's eat,” he concluded. He always led the agenda. “Then, let's carve our names on the
rock here, so we can come and see it twenty years from now, when I am a famous engineer. But I'll
never forget you Kai Ming ... and Ting Ting,” he added softly, musing after the last thought. I wondered
what he was thinking, probably that he wouldn't have to forget her if he married her. The color rose in
my face. I bent down so he couldn't see it and ferreted in my knapsack for the packed lunch.
Yes, Ting Ting saw beyond his irritating manner and said he had a good heart. She was always
looking after him, giving him little things. She gave me things too but I had the feeling that if ever he
asked her to marry him, she'd jump at the chance. Fairly or unfairly, considering all he had done for
me, he was my rival, and I hated both what had happened and my ambivalence towards him. But I
never showed it. I could not afford to lose him as a friend for he could very well be useful in the future.
What matters in this world is who you know, and I was careful to cultivate and maintain relations with
people who could be important, and I tried my best not to make enemies. I always cleared up
misunderstandings and talked people round. I never let conflicts fester. In fact, I would not be boasting
if I said I was the most well-liked person in our class. They always said he should go far, then looked
down and wondered how.
But Ting Ting's behavior was unsettling. I had always banked on her as a partner, and no longer did it
seem quite so certain. It was frustratingly difficult to read Chan Ting Ting. She was like the Egyptian
Sphinx we had come across in World History class. To me she appeared to be keeping an open mind,
if not favoring him and rending apart my dream.
“Yes, let's have lunch.” The top of the mountain was a wider area than I had imagined. We found a
good-sized rock as a back-rest and shelter from the wind, and settled down to eat. In brotherly fashion,
he began to give me advice on my shop job, expressing touching concern that Mr. Lao would take
advantage of me. I was touched and amused. He had a knack for always missing the key element in
any human interaction. I just kept eating and nodding and thanked him. My mind was on Ting Ting
and how a shop boy could win her heart.
“Time to go down,” he announced.
“What about our names?” I ventured.
“We spent too long eating. It's getting late. We'll just have to do that some other time. Perhaps in
summer.”
That's the way he was. No other opinion mattered. He was not being disrespectful. Other opinions
were very simply beyond his purview: his answers were always the correct ones in class; he was always
right on facts, issues, everything we discussed; so, he had just stopped considering anyone else's
point of view.
Down we went. He set quite a pace almost skipping along. I warned him to be careful. There were ice
patches still, and just below the shallow slope down from the ridge was an almost vertical drop. I really
was not paying attention. All I could see was Ting Ting's face in my mind's eye, and, to my way of
thinking, my severely diminished chances.
Then it happened ... my mind is a blur ... it all happened so fast. He slipped, went sliding down the
shallow slope in a semi-tumble and ended up hanging down from the edge which sloped inwards. He
was screaming for me to help. I slid down very carefully on all fours.
He was hanging on a precipice, unable to reach the cut away ridge face for a toe-hold. “Help me!” I
could see the fear in his eyes.
“I am not strong enough to lift you without sliding. We'll both be killed. Hang on Wah Sun, I'll tie our
rope to a solid rock and throw it down to you.” I climbed back up to the ridge, and sat down on the
other side, out of view. My memory is hazy ... all I remember are images of Ting Ting flashing before
my eyes: how she bent to pick up a pail of water, her skin, her beautiful calves, the way she would
smile, her warm, gentle, yet teasing eyes ...
I have always played percentages. That's how I became successful. What were the chances the old
man would sell me his shop at a favorable price as he had no one except his wife? What were the
chances he would actually leave it to me if his wife died before him and I behaved towards him like a
son? What were the chances ... yes, what were the chances ... I couldn't get the thought out of my
mind. What were the chances of Ting Ting marrying him?
Now this I can not understand. I reached down into the bottom of my knapsack and pulled out a packet
of cigarettes and a match box. This was a secret from Wah Sun. I would now and again smoke a
cigarette, not regularly, just now and again.
There I sat, and I lit a cigarette. My arms and legs wouldn't move to take the rope, secure it, and throw
the end down to my friend. I don't know why. They just did not move ... they were beyond my control. I
could hear him calling “Hurry Kai Ming! Hurry!” And then just a scream. I finished my cigarette and
went down the mountain, a brisker business-like pace. I felt a new man, as if a load had been lifted off
my shoulders.
Over the years Kai Ming had rationalized his action: the rope would not have held him; no boulders or
edges to secure the rope as far as he could remember; no place to brace his feet if he were to tie the
rope around himself, and so on. Then he had forgotten it. The memory had been buried deep until
his wife died and the thought of her encountering Wah Sun began to prey on his mind.
He heard his wife again.
“Why did you do it?”
He could now hear Ting Ting sob, “Why? Why, when I always liked you so much more? Wah Sun was
an unbearable know-it-all. No one can explain love, and I loved you, Kai Ming.”
He heard her sobs again. He was in a daze. All of a sudden, everything began to whirl in his head ...
thoughts, trees, the sobs, the shore line rising up and spinning around ... as he fell, dropping his
walking stick. A wave engulfed him, drawing him off the island to a distant shore.
They looked everywhere for him but all they found was his walking stick.
“No grave for me to honor,” cried Pui Yang again and again.
Adiga's "Between the Assassinations"
Business as Usual in India
By Charles R. Larson
Source: Counterpunch
Between the Assassinations refers to the time between Prime Minister Indira Gandhi’s death on the last
day of 1984, when she was killed by her own bodyguards, and her son Rajiv Gandhi’s similar death, by
assassination, in May of 1991—years that Aravinda Adiga shows as troubled ones for India’s quiescent
democracy. Not a novel in the conventional sense, Adiga’s skilled narrative is more loosely a collection
of overlapping short stories: same place, same time, some continuity of characters but, above all,
variations on a theme of extreme difficulty for many of his country’s millions.
There are poverty, corruption, race and class tensions—to mention only three in what for me is a much
more accomplished book than The White Tiger, for which Adiga was awarded the Man Booker Prize in
2008. The events depicted in the new work cover a period of only seven days and all take place in
Kittur, an imaginary city in southern India, somewhat akin to R. K. Narayan’s imaginary and always
inventive Malgudi. The same adjectives apply to Adiga’s work.
In the second of these stories—but still set on the first day—a businessman named Abbasi spreads
some of his own excrement into a glass of Johnnie Walker that a government official expects as part of
his pay-off for approving Abbasi’s newly opened shirt factory. Abbasi himself is an enlightened
employer, concerned that the detailed embroidery on the shirts his workers produce is slowly driving
them blind.
He’s done everything he can to improve their lot, but the system itself is so corrupt that it’s hard to
make a rupee. In the four months since he decided to re-open what was once his father’s shirt factory,
he’s had to pay off: “The electricity man; the Water Board man; half the Income Tax Department of
Kittur; half the Excise Department of Kittur; six different officials of the Telephone Board; a land tax
official of the Kittur City Corporation; a sanitary inspector from the Karnataka State Health Board; a
health inspector from the Karnataka State Sanitation Board; a delegation of the All India Small Factory
Workers’ Union; and delegations of the Kittur Congress Party, the Kittur BJP, the Kittur Communist
Party, and the Kittur Muslim League.”
It isn’t difficult to understand why the little instances of revenge—excrement, urine, and spit mixed in the
officials’ drinks—give Abbasi an occasional satisfying feeling of revenge. But the real problem is red
tape and the obvious implication that with everyone on the take capitalism cannot succeed. Finally, in
a more ambitious act of revenge, Abbasi directly confronts the latest government officials who visit his
factory for a bribe and experiences a genuine feeling of satisfaction. However, his story itself is
anything but hopeful about India—still trapped in the legacy of Indira Gandhi’s corrupt leadership and a
bureaucracy so extensive that little ever gets done.
In later stories, Adiga shows us the unrest of students at the university, of migrants from the country
who seek their fortunes in Kittur only to have those dreams crushed, of Muslim/Hindu tensions. In one
particularly revealing sequence, a journalist discovers that an article he had published weeks earlier
about a riot in Kittur was far from the truth of what had actually happened. Discovering doctored police
records, he learns that the violence was planned by government officials—for profit, of course. By the
end of the story, his idealism has vanished and, sadly, he’s begun to question his entire career as a
print journalist.
Though any number of the stories in the volume are worthy of note, I was particularly moved by the
quietness of one that concerns a woman who is forced by her family to cook in the households of
upper-class Indians. For forty years, she toils with no reward—giving up the possibility of marriage and
children—never even seeing her meager wages, which are always sent home to her family and her
more fortunate siblings. At the end of still another several-year position cooking for a rich family, she
covets a blue ball that one of the children in the household has abandoned. It’s even partially
damaged, but when she asks the boy if she can take the ball with her when she finally returns to her
family, he answers with an emphatic NO. What follows is, again--as in the story of the owner of the shirt
factory--a fleeting Chekhovian moment of happiness, virtually all she will ever get out of life.
The stories in Adiga’s Between the Assassinations are both beautiful and troubling: quiet moments of
despair and frustration, resignation and happiness. India’s stagnation under the Indira Gandhi
dynasty, he implies, bordered on the claustrophobic. Yet there is truth, and finally even hope, for
those who decide that enough is enough, that it’s time to take things into their own hands.
Between the Assassinations
By Aravinda Adiga
Free Press, 339 pp., $24
Charles R. Larson is Professor of Literature at American University, in Washington, D.
June 15, 2009
Trouble at Sea --- Obama, the Dreamboat and an Iceberg
Arshad M Khan
Your indulgence, Mr. President, but I had a very puzzling dream last night, and as you played a central
role, I feel obliged to write to you. We are on board the Titanic. The ship is on the high seas but a
small boat has come alongside and the Captain is leaving the ship. He turns back to wave and smiles
a characteristic smirk, shouting above the crashing waves, "Don't forget the 'nukaler' option." The
Captain has left his crew on board, and the ship continues to steam ahead into a mist beginning to
form.
Now here is the odd part: you, Sir, are not the Captain of the ship. No, you are the head steward in
First Class, bowing politely and solicitously attending to the needs of those privileged passengers.
Some want a trillion salmon croquettes, others a trillion beluga eggs --- though why by count and not
pounds of caviar, I do not know.
And then there is steerage where some passengers have not had a decent meal in several days. They
have gambled their money away and in steerage they have to pay for their food. How did that happen
you might ask? Well, there are several gambling casinos.
The casino for the steerage passengers is a plain gambling den, smoky, practical, business-like -- the
players look very serious as if the future course of their lives depended on the throw of a dice. It does.
Some are happy -- they have had favorable outcomes and expect a good start in the New World.
Others look glum and depressed for they have literally lost their shirts. You, Mr. President, continue to
smile benignly at the proceedings reminding people how important it is to take responsibility for their
own lives and mistakes, and how they must overcome adversity for that is the American spirit.
The casino for First Class passengers is a happy, festive place. There is cheery laughter to be heard,
drink is flowing freely and everyone is having fun. Plenty of people have won large amounts of money;
some have lost. Now here is the surprise: every time a passenger loses a very large amount of
money, the floor manager signals to the croupier, and he returns the losses. You are explaining it this
way: the shipping line relies on the custom of these passengers and cannot afford to have them lose
their money. It would starve the shipping line of their major source of revenue and capital for growth.
In one corner of the ship, a group of predominantly young males, dressed in some kind of uniforms are
firing guns at an unseen enemy. You are smiling benignly at everything --- a smiling presence in your
head steward's jacket, seemingly everywhere but flitting back constantly to attend to the needs of those
First Class passengers. The ship continues to steam ahead ... and I wake up.
Mr. President, I wish you well and continue to hope you will do the best you can for our country and the
majority of its people.
May 20, 2009
The Trip of a Lifetime
Arshad M. Khan
It was a long, long time ago ......
I woke up with a knot in my stomach. I cursed the calculus exam that was doing this to me; I cursed the
system that required me to take calculus when the chance of me ever using that skill was as remote as
encountering a space alien within the hour; I cursed the society that required me to spend the best and
most adventuresome years of my youth cooped up in a classroom, or a library, or a dorm room, instead
of outside, in the fresh air, seeing the world, preferably with varying female companionship.
It was a short walk from the dorm to the exam center – or, in my mind, the torture chamber – and I was
there just in time. The professor was distributing the papers. But, guess what, it was the nice lady who
taught the chemistry class. Now, chemistry I liked, especially organic chemistry, and it was important
for me as a pre-med student. I also liked the teacher; she always had time for you. It was never like
that with Shiva, the terror of the Indies, master of calculus, who traveled the world delivering papers on
obscure mathematical topics, yet managed to always be there for his classes. He didn't suffer fools
gladly, and if you asked him a question to which he felt you should already know the answer, he made
you look an idiot.
Ah, the thought, the wonderful, satisfying, luxuriating thought – he had been struck down by Delhi belly
or Motezuma's revenge, or whatever you like to call it, on his travels. I imagined him sitting down, doing
the obvious and I burst out laughing. People turned to stare at me, so I straightened up and put on a
straight face.
By this time the teacher was distributing the exam papers to my row, in the back, and I received mine.
My smile vanished, my jaw dropped and I was in shock – it was the organic chemistry exam. I was
certain this was scheduled for Monday and I had the weekend to study for it. I whispered to the guy
next to me, who was in my calculus class for sure, “Hey, what happened to calculus? I thought the
calculus final was today.”
“You are all screwed up, man; calculus is next Monday,” and he went back to concentrating on his test.
I broke into a cold sweat. I had mixed up the dates of the two finals. I could see my dreams of
becoming a medical doctor vanish as I bombed organic chemistry – something that was really important
for med-school admission. I raised my hand, and the professor beckoned me. I walked down to her
desk at the front of the class.
“What's the matter?” she asked. She must have noticed I looked like hell. “The exam not what you
expected?”
“Well, I ... I don't know how to put this but I thought the chemistry final was next week and today was
calculus.”
Those smiling blue-gray eyes hardened into steely-gray slits. “You know, I've heard electricity failures,
dead grandmother funerals – for some reason that's a popular one – stomach flu, other sicknesses
and injuries, but never, until today, a calculus exam. It's so outrageous it might even be true, but I can't
help you. Now that you are here, you must take the exam.”
I went back to my seat. The rest of the ninety minutes are a blurry haze. I did the best I could with the
test knowing full well that my 'A' was going to end up a 'C' in organic chemistry and my Med-school
admission chances had severely diminished.
I walked out into the open air feeling as if I had escaped a suffocating hold. I thought of the reasons for
my wanting to become a doctor. When it came right down to it, let's face it, I was in it for the money.
Oh yes, healing the sick and all that made a good front and made me feel heroic, but no, the truth was
quite venal if I was honest with myself. I really did not like the smell of hospitals, the sight of sick
people, or even very old people, but I felt I could overcome this distaste for the reward over the
rainbow. There was no essential goodness in me. Greed was the primary motive. I realized I was
really the kind of guy who'd marry a girl for her money when he really didn't love her. Poverty does
those things to you, not to everyone, but to some.
I had just crossed the street to the dorm when my musings were interrupted by a shabbily dressed guy
accosting me, “Can you help me, Sir? I really need your help.”
“Look, you are talking to the wrong guy, I don't have any change to spare. Sorry.” I started to walk
away.
“No! No! It's not your money; it's your tachyonic charge that I need.”
“My what!?” I stared at him, startled.
“Look, I have identified you as having a high tachyonic charge. It happens in your species under
emotional stress. Look, maybe if you come with me to my spaceship, I might be able to help you and
then drop you back.”
Everything that's happened today, I thought to myself. And now a loony who thinks he's from outer
space that I can't get rid of. “Excuse me, I've gotta go. I've my own problems.”
“Sir, please, I beg you. It's taken me a very long time to find someone with your tachyonic potential and
I've got to go home. Please, you have nothing to lose. Just hold my shoulders for thirty seconds while I
hold yours.”
I figured if this is the only way I can get rid of this crazy, I might as well do it. “Okay, but make sure your
hands stay on my shoulders,” I said, “I don't want to lose my wallet.” That would really cap this shit day,
I thought to myself.
Well, there we were in the middle of the sidewalk holding each other's shoulders, and then, WOW!! I
had the strangest sensation. I felt like all of me had started to melt from inside out. Then suddenly, I
was in a swirl and then there I was holding the shoulders of this odd looking thing, not too different from
the pictures alien abductees draw, in a gleaming shimmering room, no, more like space. Then other
similar looking things were moving towards us.
“Don't be frightened,” my companion said. “We are nonviolent ... manufacture our food artificially. You
have nothing to fear. They are just coming to disinfect us.”
His remarks were partly reassuring. After all, I wasn't going to leap from a bad chemistry test to a pan
for someone's lunch! “You know, this is hard to believe. I was convinced you were one of those early
lack-of-funding releases from a psychiatric hospital. Tell me what were you doing on Earth?”
“Well, the closest thing you have to what I was doing are 'adventure tours'. This has been my annual
three-week vacation, six months in Earth time, and I worked as a Chicago bus driver. And I tell you it's
been exciting. You are a violent race. One man robbed me. He couldn't budge the fare box so I had
to give him the money I had. Another was so belligerent I had to use my protective shield. He never
could figure out why he couldn't hit me when there was no physical barrier that he could see. He was
drunk and just went away muttering, shaking his hand. Of course, the element of danger makes the
vacation exciting. In our world, technological mastery has made life a little dull. You are an interesting
species in many ways and there is so much variety that I have had friends go to Earth time after time
for their vacations. Anyway, I am just rambling on. I promised to help. Now tell me, what was your
problem?”
I took a deep breath and explained all that had happened including the realization that I was going to
be a doctor for the wrong reasons – basically, for the money and what I could buy with it.
He explained that, in his society, since technology provided all needs, money and the status that came
with wealth was nonexistent. His society valued only one commodity – time – because it was finite,
limited by individual lifespan. “Life is to be lived and enjoyed, and you can only, really have a fulfilling
life if it provides a useful service to your society and that service is enjoyable for you to perform. We
figured this out millennia past and all tedious activity is robotized.” He continued, “Now you love
organic chemistry and I am going to send you back in time to that exam. Just ignore the other people,
who you might find acting strangely. But first, a crash course in organic chemistry through S.I.T. Yes,
that's self-induced teaching. We have an efficient way of transferring information directly to your
neurons without the intermediary of your senses.”
I was taken to a small chamber, where my new-found friend attached what looked like electrodes to my
temples. Then he selected the appropriate course materials, pressed some buttons, and suddenly my
brain seemed to fill up with shapes, sizes of molecules, compounds, theories, and more organic
chemistry than I could have imagined. I wanted to learn more, but he said he was already in trouble
with his superiors for bringing me on board, and he could not let me stay much longer.
We bade our goodbyes. He pointed out it was more likely a final farewell. He said he would try to look
me up on his next vacation, but because of the duration of Earth time in one of their years I was going
to be very old if not dead. He wished me a long and happy life.
I had formed a strange attachment to this odd being and I felt quite sad and sorry to say goodbye to
him. He clasped my arm firmly above the elbow in their version of a handshake, then moved back.
Again, I had the strange melting feeling, and then I was back in the exam room. Something was
different, however. I didn't grasp it, at first, but then it gradually dawned on me. Everyone else's
movements were in extreme slow motion, as if ... as if they were all waiting for me to catch up. I did.
I became a whiz at chemistry. I had ideas nobody had dreamed of. Dreamed, yes, that's it, I dreamed
them. But that dream was so real – it is real, it happened. I know it happened. And, I believe in extra-
terrestrials. I know you will think me a loony, but I am not. I am a respected Professor of Organic
Chemistry slated by many as a future Nobel Prize winner. And, I owe it all to my alien friend.
April 18, 2009
Remember, dear friend, when I took you "BEHIND THE TREE", I promised to tell you how I came to be
where I was. Well, as I have said before, I always keep my promises, so here is the story ... don't be
afraid ...
TATTLE TEETH --- Edgar Allan Poe Redux
Arshad M. Khan
Look around you. Everything that lives is going to die. I will go so far as to say that the essence of life
is mortality. And death is immortal -- the fossils live on forever. Ponder these premises as you read on
...
You see, I am not a bad man. I am a good man. I am a thoughtful man; I give serious thought to my
surroundings -- I pay attention. It was just such meticulous attention that directed me to the plight of my
old neighbor across the road. I noticed he limped badly as he tried to push his lawn mower. The
mower did not move in a straight line but in the direction of the limp. I noticed that it was a push
mower. It meant that he could not afford a power mower. I had noticed also that his house over the
past year or so, had begun to take on a run-down appearance.
No one ever came to visit the old man. He lived alone. As he limped along leaving whiskers of uncut
grass, I felt sorry for him, and I decided to help. I walked across the street to talk to him. Seeing me
coming towards him he stopped mowing and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He looked exhausted.
Close up he looked older.
"I am not doing anything," I said. "I thought I'd come and help."
"I don't have any money to pay you. My social security barely covers the necessities, you know, food,
medicines and such like. And I never have anything left over by the end of the month. If I'd known
what old age over here was going to be like, I wouldn't 've come here in the first place."
I hadn't noticed it before but I could now detect a faint central European accent of indeterminate origin.
"No, no, no!" I said. "I am just being neighborly. You don't have to pay anything. Anyway, the exercise
will probably do me good and I won't have to go to the gym as often. Even save on gym fees,
perhaps." The latter I said as a joke, of course, but he took it literally. His manner changed; he was
more comfortable now that the idea of a deal with mutual benefits had been introduced.
"Well," he said, "You better start this way ..." And he proceeded to give me detailed instructions on
how to mow his yard. Was he fussy? He didn't want the mower clipping any flower beds, or being
bumped against the fence, which he claimed had been freshly painted. The way it looked, it must have
been at least ten years. But then memories compress in old age, and, being a nice person, I was
willing to allow him every latitude. He wanted the edges trimmed and the walks brushed clean, etc.,
etc., etc. When he finished, he held out the handle of the lawn mower to me and SMILED.
All the time he had been talking to me I hadn't realized. He talked with his lips covering his teeth and
he smiled seldom - no, almost never. But now he had smiled, and he had bared his teeth. Those
teeth. They were the most ugly, fearsome and disgusting teeth one could imagine. They were long,
jagged, stained in shades varying from yellow at the tips to brown next to the gums. Where they
adjoined, they were black. And when he opened his mouth a breath emanated that could only be
likened to a dog with a bad case of gingivitis.
I finished the work and the old man who had retreated into the house came out and thanked me. But
then he also had some words of advice as he called it. He criticized the work in minute detail getting
agitated at certain points.
More or less the same pattern was repeated every week when I went to help him with his yard. I tried to
not let it upset me -- the criticism I mean. I just thought it odd, considering I was helping him out. I
made allowances for the old man's age. And I am a nice person. I like to help people and I liked the
old man.
It's just that his teeth, those horrible ugly teeth ... they would send a cold shiver of fear and loathing
whenever I recalled them. At night I would wake up from my sleep thinking of them. Disembodied they
would be talking, criticizing my yard work, making a peculiar clicking sound as they talked.
You see I had noticed something. I have told you before I am a careful observer and I am. I noticed
that when the old man made normal conversation his teeth remained hidden behind his lips. It was only
when he started to criticize and became agitated that the lips parted back, and the teeth -- oh! those
teeth -- were revealed ... almost as if the teeth were clicking and clacking out the nasty words
complaining of this, complaining of that without the old man's participation. Did I say, "almost?" No! not
almost. It WAS the teeth I am sure. I had nothing against the old man. It was those teeth, bared fangs
spitting out the poison.
I don't know exactly when it happened. I don't know when I reached the inescapable conclusion. But I
knew that for me to have a normal life again, those teeth, which were now with me, in my mind's eye,
night and day, would have to go.
It was as if I had passed a tipping point. I had gone over a precipice into a world out of my control, a
kingdom ruled by tyrant teeth that had to be destroyed to regain my freedom. I didn't know what I could
or would do, just that I would have to do something to preserve my sanity.
I felt like I was riding a wave to an inexorable destiny, yet I maintained careful control of my day-to-day
actions. I was like a surfer who goes where the wave takes him but he controls his balance on the
surfboard to stay afloat. I was the surfer and I practiced my game with just as much caution.
The leaves were beginning to turn color. It was Fall now and the days were shorter. Dusk arrived
earlier before the rush hour traffic of pedestrians and automobiles. In the dark with fewer people about
I would be less likely to be observed. You see how I thought of everything. But now that I was ready,
the teeth were never bared. I was no longer criticized. Perhaps, I had become better at the work;
perhaps the old man was tired. And I had no quarrel with the old man. I liked him. It was the teeth I
had to destroy.
It was a cloudy day, dark and miserable portending winter and more immediately the events that were
to transpire. The old man wanted me to plant some bulbs and I went over in the gathering dusk of late
afternoon. The bed was large and the earth caked. I wanted to do a good job so I thought I'd turn it
over a little bit to make it more hospitable for the bulbs. I went and fetched a spade.
What I hadn't realized was that he had other bulbs planted in the back and I was supposed to plant the
tulip bulbs in the front rows of the bed. As I dug, humming a tune, I noticed some small bulbs, scarred
and damaged by the spade, turning up with the earth. At the same time, the old man, curious as to
what I was doing with a spade, walked up. We both saw the damaged bulbs at the same time. There
was a moment of complete silence -- no traffic on the road, the neighbors all at work and the anonymity
of darkness as dusk waned. Then the old man turned to face me, his face livid, his teeth bared as they
began to spit out the words, "What the hell do you think you are ..."
The words died as I hit him; just one blow with the spade and the teeth stopped clicking and clacking. It
was suddenly quiet and peaceful. But I was not resting. I dug furiously in the hour before the
neighbors would start to return home. I placed the old man's body in the hole I had dug. But I was not
taking any chances with the teeth. I severed the head and put it in a garden sack. I covered the body
and finished planting the bulbs. I am not one for backing out of promises, and I had told the old man I
would plant the bulbs for him.
I had something else in mind for those teeth. I had purchased a small strong box with a stout lock. I
placed the head in the box and buried it right under the sun deck in my own back yard. Ha! Ha! Those
teeth weren't going anywhere and they certainly weren't going to bother me again.
It was about a week before the police came. But I was ready for them. It transpired that a raccoon
lured by the scent of flesh had dug up all my handiwork. I was truly concerned he had not let the old
man rest in peace under a perennial wreath as I had envisaged.
Having heard that I helped the old man with his yard, the police came to interview me in the course of
their inquiries. I was generous, even magnanimous. We sat on the deck right over the spot where I
had buried the teeth. I offered them sodas and they accepted. But after they had finished asking me
their questions, they still sat there chatting.
I was now becoming uneasy for I could hear a faint click and clack like the chatter of teeth. It was very
faint. You'd have to know what to listen for to hear it. Fortunately, the officers just kept talking quite
unmindful of it. But hark! the noise began to get louder and the officers just kept on talking. Why
don't they go away?
"Look, I've told you everything," I said to them. They stopped talking and looked at me in surprise.
The silence was shattering as they stared at me, and breaking the silence the loud click-clack of the
teeth shouting "What the hell do you think you are ..."
I put my fingers in my ears. Yet the click-clack still kept ringing. It was so loud now. I had to shout over
it. They must hear it. Yes, they can hear it. They are just mocking me. They know! They know.
They are making a jest of me. And I won't be their fool anymore.
"All right! All right!" I shouted, "I did it." The rest of him is buried right under you."
April 11, 2009
BEHIND THE TREE
Arshad M Khan
I do not dislike anything; it is just that I do not like anything. I wasn't always like this - I was full of
love but the passage of time and the heartache of loving changed me little by little, so
imperceptibly that, at first, I was not even aware of the change myself. Once upon a time I even
loved a tree. It was a big, no, huge, beautiful elm with a trunk the diameter of a man's extended
hands. The corner it occupied shielded the house and its neighbors from prying eyes across
the alley, and, more importantly, from my point of view, vice versa. It gave me the illusion of
having a little cottage in the country rather than a cheap little house in an ordinary suburb. A
beautiful tree -- but the electric company felt differently about it. First, they trimmed it, actually
they removed branches the size of trees -- made it look like a man whose hair has been cut by
the barber's apprentice on his first day. Even after the shearing, it still bothered them - too
close to the wires. Every now and again, their yellow truck would come around, and the man
would get in his box atop a ladder. The machinery would whiz and whirr, he'd be hoisted up,
and he'd hack away at the poor tree's attempts to grow. Eventually, the tree itself started to get
a little sick. I mean, who wouldn't after what had been done to it. Instead of trying to cure it, this
was all the excuse they needed and euthanasia it was -- they cut it down. But it was a majestic
tree. Most trees, they send a crew and it's all over in a morning. This one, the slaughter, went
on for two days. First, they'd send workmen up who'd prepare slings for thick trunk like
branches. Then the rope would be slung over even higher branches and the cut branch
lowered slowly down to the ground. This went on for two days, as I said, until just the bare trunk
remained, looking for all the world like it was giving the finger to the electric company. But it
was its last hurrah and soon it was all over. Sitting here in this little cell, I have endless time to
think, to reminisce to myself, to remember. My thoughts often go back to my childhood. Was I
sad? Well, as I said, it was a long time ago, it was when I could love, and so, yes, I was sad.
But as you might have realized, it was a selfish love -- the tree did all these things for me; I
didn't do anything for it -- the kind that doesn't last. And I soon got used to living without it. In
fact, life took on aspects of a soap opera, because I was now cognizant of the comings and
goings in the house behind the cut tree. For some time, I had been puzzled, and attributed a
particular odd fact to a freak of nature, of the DNA undergoing an extra twist, an unusual
unraveling and joining. Perhaps they had some blond genes somewhere. You see they were
sallow Latins with black hair both quite good-looking, especially the wife. She would take her
little preschoolers for a late-morning stroll after her husband had left for work. The first two of
the children were recognizably theirs; the third, much lighter colored with blue eyes, he was big,
heavy-set and already the size of his older sibling. I wondered if he was adopted; if not, what
did the husband think of the cuckoo egg in their midst. But then, humans have a tendency to
rationalize away unpleasant truths and the more bizarre an explanation the more believable.
You only have to look at religion around the world and the attempts to explain its truths in the
light of modern scientific knowledge. I am talking of religious detail, the paraphernalia of
religion, the stories and homilies, not the existence or, for that matter, absence of God.
Anyway, to get back to the story, I was sitting outside in my favorite spot behind light shrubbery
where I could see but not be seen, enjoy the sun and also be able to move into shade if it got
too hot. I was having a late lunch. It was late spring, the smell of lilacs was in the air. The
cardinal was doing his sounds proclaiming his territory in song. It was a beautiful day, the
temperature, seventy-four degrees Fahrenheit, the air, conditioned by nature, and as a a
bonus, perfumed; the sun's warmth just enough to balance the chill of the breeze. The sound of
a workman's truck pulling up broke the spell. A young man got out and walked to the front door
of the house behind the cut tree. What caught my attention was his quick, furtive glance back
and to the sides before he rang the doorbell. The door opened almost instantly and he
disappeared inside. About forty-five minutes to an hour later, he reappeared, the same wary
look left and right and he marched quickly to his truck and drove off. This time I watched him
more closely through a pair of binoculars that I always kept beside me for watching birds. He
was a handsome man, in his middle twenties, I would guess, small nose, sensuously curved
lips, a longish strong chin jutting out just slightly, suggesting a determination belied by the
gentlest of blue eyes, large and baby like; all crowned with a shock of unruly blond hair. He
was a big fellow, tall, at least six foot two, broad-shouldered and large boned. He was vaguely
familiar and I noticed he had not taken any tools with him into the house. He came again the
following Tuesday and the one after that. By this time I had lost interest for I had discovered
why he looked familiar. He was a dead ringer for the third son. In time, shrubbery surrounding
the old tree grew taller and we were walled off again. The family moved away and others came
in their place. All in all, not too different from the birds nesting in the forsythia - the female
seeking genetic variation to improve the survival prospects for her own genes. Life goes on.
And what about me, why am I in a cell all by myself. Let me whisper it in your ear ......sh.....very
quietly: they say I am dangerous. I think, only to those who are dangerous to me .... I'll tell you
all about it next week.
________________________________________________________________________
____
SEVEN
JEWISH
CHILDREN
a play for Gaza
Caryl Churchill
No children appear in the play. The speakers are adults, the parents and if you
like other relations of the children. The lines can be shared out in any way you
like among those characters. The characters are different in each small scene as
the time and child are different. They may be played by any number of actors.
Tell her it’s a game
Tell her it’s serious
But don’t frighten her
Don’t tell her they’ll kill her
Tell her it’s important to be quiet
Tell her she’ll have cake if she’s good
Tell her to curl up as if she’s in bed
But not to sing.
Tell her not to come out
Tell her not to come out even if she hears shouting
Don’t frighten her
Tell her not to come out even if she hears nothing for a long time
Tell her we’ll come and find her
Tell her we’ll be here all the time.
Tell her something about the men
Tell her they’re bad in the game
Tell her it’s a story
Tell her they’ll go away
Tell her she can make them go away if she keeps still
By magic
But not to sing.
Tell her this is a photograph of her grandmother, her uncles and
me
Tell her her uncles died
Don’t tell her they were killed
Tell her they were killed
Don’t frighten her.
Tell her her grandmother was clever
Don’t tell her what they did
Tell her she was brave
Tell her she taught me how to make cakes
Don’t tell her what they did
Tell her something
Tell her more when she’s older.
Tell her there were people who hated Jews
Don’t tell her
Tell her it’s over now
Tell her there are still people who hate Jews
Tell her there are people who love Jews
Don’t tell her to think Jews or not Jews
Tell her more when she’s older
Tell her how many when she’s older
Tell her it was before she was born and she’s not in danger
Don’t tell her there’s any question of danger.
Tell her we love her
Tell her dead or alive her family all love her
Tell her her grandmother would be proud of her.
Don’t tell her we’re going for ever
Tell her she can write to her friends, tell her her friends can maybe
come and visit
Tell her it’s sunny there
Tell her we’re going home
Tell her it’s the land God gave us
Don’t tell her religion
Tell her her great great great great lots of greats grandad lived
there
Don’t tell her he was driven out
Tell her, of course tell her, tell her everyone was driven out and
the country is waiting for us to come home
Don’t tell her she doesn’t belong here
Tell her of course she likes it here but she’ll like it there even
more.
Tell her it’s an adventure
Tell her no one will tease her
Tell her she’ll have new friends
Tell her she can take her toys
Don’t tell her she can take all her toys
Tell her she’s a special girl
Tell her about Jerusalem.
Don’t tell her who they are
Tell her something
Tell her they’re Bedouin, they travel about
Tell her about camels in the desert and dates
Tell her they live in tents
Tell her this wasn’t their home
Don’t tell her home, not home, tell her they’re going away
Don’t tell her they don’t like her
Tell her to be careful.
Don’t tell her who used to live in this house
No but don’t tell her her great great grandfather used to live in
this house
No but don’t tell her Arabs used to sleep in her bedroom.
Tell her not to be rude to them
Tell her not to be frightened
Don’t tell her she can’t play with the children
Don’t tell her she can have them in the house.
Tell her they have plenty of friends and family
Tell her for miles and miles all round they have lands of their own
Tell her again this is our promised land.
Don’t tell her they said it was a land without people
Don’t tell her I wouldn’t have come if I’d known.
Tell her maybe we can share.
Don’t tell her that.
Tell her we won
Tell her her brother’s a hero
Tell her how big their armies are
Tell her we turned them back
Tell her we’re fighters
Tell her we’ve got new land.
Don’t tell her
Don’t tell her the trouble about the swimming pool
Tell her it’s our water, we have the right
Tell her it’s not the water for their fields
Don’t tell her anything about water.
Don’t tell her about the bulldozer
Don’t tell her not to look at the bulldozer
Don’t tell her it was knocking the house down
Tell her it’s a building site
Don’t tell her anything about bulldozers.
Don’t tell her about the queues at the checkpoint
Tell her we’ll be there in no time
Don’t tell her anything she doesn’t ask
Don’t tell her the boy was shot
Don’t tell her anything.
Tell her we’re making new farms in the desert
Don’t tell her about the olive trees
Tell her we’re building new towns in the wilderness.
Don’t tell her they throw stones
Tell her they’re not much good against tanks
Don’t tell her that.
Don’t tell her they set off bombs in cafés
Tell her, tell her they set off bombs in cafés
Tell her to be careful
Don’t frighten her.
Tell her we need the wall to keep us safe
Tell her they want to drive us into the sea
Tell her they don’t
Tell her they want to drive us into the sea.
Tell her we kill far more of them
Don’t tell her that
Tell her that
Tell her we’re stronger
Tell her we’re entitled
Tell her they don’t understand anything except violence
Tell her we want peace
Tell her we’re going swimming.
Tell her she can’t watch the news
Tell her she can watch cartoons
Tell her she can stay up late and watch Friends.
Tell her they’re attacking with rockets
Don’t frighten her
Tell her only a few of us have been killed
Tell her the army has come to our defence
Don’t tell her her cousin refused to serve in the army.
Don’t tell her how many of them have been killed
Tell her the Hamas fighters have been killed
Tell her they’re terrorists
Tell her they’re filth
Don’t
Don’t tell her about the family of dead girls
Tell her you can’t believe what you see on television
Tell her we killed the babies by mistake
Don’t tell her anything about the army
Tell her, tell her about the army, tell her to be proud of the army.
Tell her about the family of dead girls, tell her their names why
not, tell her the whole world knows why shouldn’t she know? tell
her there’s dead babies, did she see babies? tell her she’s got
nothing to be ashamed of. Tell her they did it to themselves. Tell
her they want their children killed to make people sorry for them,
tell her I’m not sorry for them, tell her not to be sorry for them,
tell her we’re the ones to be sorry for, tell her they can’t talk
suffering to us. Tell her we’re the iron fist now, tell her it’s the fog
of war, tell her we won’t stop killing them till we’re safe, tell her I
laughed when I saw the dead policemen, tell her they’re animals
living in rubble now, tell her I wouldn’t care if we wiped them out,
the world would hate us is the only thing, tell her I don’t care if
the world hates us, tell her we’re better haters, tell her we’re
chosen people, tell her I look at one of their children covered in
blood and what do I feel? tell her all I feel is happy it’s not her.
Don’t tell her that.
Tell her we love her.
Don’t frighten her.
Seven Jewish Children is Caryl Churchill’s
response to the situation in Gaza in January
2009, when the play was written.
Seven Jewish Children first published in Great Britain in 2009 by
Nick Hern Books Limited, 14 Larden Road, London, W3 7ST,
in association with the Royal Court Theatre, London
Seven Jewish Children copyright © 2009 Caryl Churchill Limited
Caryl Churchill has asserted her moral right to be identified as
the author of this work
Typeset by Nick Hern Books, London
ISBN 978 1 84842 047 2
Performing Rights
Seven Jewish Children was first performed at the Royal Court
Theatre, London, on 6 February 2009.
The play can be read or performed anywhere, by any number
of people. Anyone who wishes to do it should contact the
author’s agent (details below), who will license performances
free of charge provided that no admission fee is charged and
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THE BUS RIDE
by Arshad M. Khan
It was a day like any other. Desmond Larson was waiting for the seven forty bus to take him to the
suburban train station. Then he'd take the train downtown and walk to his law office as he had done for
the last eleven years. He was a lawyer, a successful one and a partner in his firm. Not much went past
him where he could not assess a measure of self interest.
The bus was right on time. A new driver, he thought to himself. The new ones were meticulously
punctual, realizing only with experience that being a minute or so late gave rushing commuters a grace
period and fewer missed the bus. He got on, produced his season ticket to display to the driver, who
seemed to him a little too old to be driving a bus, only to be told:
“You won't be needing that, Desmond.”
He was startled. “How did you know my name?”
“Oh, I know the names of all my passengers. That's how I know where to take them,” the driver
responded.
Desmond looked around the bus. It certainly was not the usual crowd. But for a few exceptions like
himself, they seemed to be retirees. Then he noticed the bus itself was different. The windows were all
shaded so dark you could not look out. And the bus seemed to move without the usual bumps and
road noise; in fact, it was gliding along so smoothly, he could have sworn it was flying.
Not the kind of person to frightened easily, he had a feeling of unease mixed with curiosity as he
walked up to the driver and confronted him.
“Is this the bus to the train station, or not?” he asked in measured tones.
“I think you know the answer to that, Desmond,” the driver replied.
“I don't know who you are or what you are up to, but I think I want to get off,” Desmond sais.
“You can't. Nobody can.”
“Stop the bus and open the door,” Desmond shouted, now quite agitated.
“I can't.”
“Well, I am hopping out the next time you pick up a passenger.”
“As it happens, you were my last pick up on this round, but even if you weren't, you would not have
been able to get off. You would have found an invisible barrier stopping you, while the person on the
other side getting in would've come through easily.”
“What do you mean, 'the other side'?” asked Desmond visibly agitated.
“Well, let me put it this way. You did something quite uncharacteristic of you today. You remember the
little boy waiting for the school bus while you were also at the bus stop.”
“Yes!”
“You remember, how he, looking the wrong way, stepped off the curb just as the bus came and how
you jumped in front of him, scooped him in one arm, and threw him back on the sidewalk."
“Yes!”
“Well, you didn't get back on the sidewalk in time yourself, Desmond.”
“What! You mean... you mean...I... I am dead.”
“Yes, Desmond.”
“But how can you people do this to me. I did a good dead. And I am only thirty-eight years old. I have a
young wife and two young children.”
“You surprise me, Desmond. According to the records of you billing hours to clients, you are seventy-
six. Now be calm and I'll be dropping people off at heaven or hell, as I am directed. Be seated, please,
we never like to have to use restraints.”
Desmond's eyes rolled up; his mouth fell open, and he collapsed on an empty seat.
EPILOGUE
Desmond arrives at the gates. He expects to be going to hell because of the way he has led his life. But
he ends up in heaven because, when it really mattered, he chose to rescue the little boy even at the
expense of his own life.
Copyright 2009 by Arshad M. Khan
by Arshad M. Khan
Quite possibly the most famous writer in the world during his lifetime, Somerset Maugham was not
favored by critics who found him an aloof, objective observer. However, his books and plays were a
resounding commercial success, and he finally settled in comfort on the French Riviera -- defined in his
own inimitable style as "a sunny place for shady people".
His are the stories of little people ... leading little lives of quotidian boredom punctuated by little dramas
of desperation or escape. His are not the soaring heroes of literature -- just a little quirky, a little
different, a little like himself.
Occasional thematic repetition aside, the short stories, with their twist and turns of fate, retain the flavor
that marked his commercial success, and, for something meatier, "Of Human Bondage" and the "The
Razor's Edge", his last major work, continue to give pause for reflection. Hastings is a sympathetic
biographer -- something a man, not known for being well-liked, yet who brought pleasure, joy and
entertainment to millions, surely deserves.
Perhaps, no soaring talent then, but a gift for storytelling, an economy of words, a lucid style, a master
of aphorism, and the experience of armchair tourism exploring the bygone world of British planters,
sundowners and restrained, uncontrolled passions.
THE BEST FRIEND
Arshad M Khan
On the island of Hongshu lived a lonely old man and his daughter Pui Yang. The years had worn well
on Lee Kai Ming, and he always said life's blessings were bestowed on those smart enough to receive
them. He had been very lucky almost all his life in being happy until a few years ago when his wife,
Ting Ting, was taken away from him. Having always expected to die first, this had left him with a sense
of frustration and anger. No longer did he have the familiar contours next to him in bed, nor someone
– and this bothered him even more – to share with him his most intimate thoughts. Yes, he was not
alone, just lonely.
From the window where he liked to sit, he could see the mainland, and it would bring back many
memories, increasingly now of his childhood. He could see the mountain that dominated the sky line. It
had been a challenge to him as he was growing up but he had conquered it. That's what he believed;
he believed in removing obstacles from his path. He had a sudden twinge ... yes, that was one memory
best forgotten. But try as he might, and though he had been successful in blotting it out for many
years, it now seemed to haunt him more with each passing day.
'I wish I didn't have to do it,' he said to himself. 'But I just couldn't see any other way through. Yes, he
was my best friend. But what could I do. There was no other way.'
Oh, it was so long ago. But these days it seemed like yesterday. He would shake his head sometimes
like a dog shakes water off a wet back. But he couldn't throw off the memory. It was stuck like a leach
sucking blood; except it seemed to be sucking the spirit from his soul. 'Oh, Kwok Wah Sun, why did
you have to be so perfect?' he thought.
He had been his best friend ever since he could remember. They played baby games, childhood
games, and games that grew more serious as they grew older. Somehow Wah Sun was always better
at everything, even school work. He smiled ruefully.
'I didn't mind you being better at everything. I just enjoyed your company and enjoyed playing, and
thought I could learn from you. You were so clever. When we played hide and seek you would hide
and I could never find you, and then I would hide and you would find me in no time at all.' His daughter
came into the room, interrupting his thoughts.
“Why don't you take a little walk,” she said to him, “before I bring you your dinner?” He raised himself
off the chair using his elbows to lift himself up, and heard the creaking bones which always brought a
wry smile to his face. He thought to himself his ancestors should be proud of what he had
accomplished. His mind checked his thought – but for that one thing that had been necessary. His
daughter brought out an embroidered silk quilted jacket for him to wear.
“It's getting a little chilly in the evenings,” she said, and helped him on with it.
He liked to walk by the shoreline and watch the sun set below the mountain, across the water. The air
felt bracing and invigorating and soon he had forgotten his thoughts. He liked watching the children
play. There weren't too many on the island because young couples could not easily afford to live there.
'Life had been good,' he thought. 'If only Ting Ting had lived a little longer.' He sighed. 'Well, all in all,
I've had a happy life.'
Now all he had to do was to marry off Pui Yang. There were plenty of suitors, given her dowry, except
she always found something wrong with each one. 'Yes, I'm going to have to do something about her.'
His three sons he had given a good start. And they were each successful in their own way, he thought
with satisfaction. He just wished they didn't live so far away. How the world had changed in his
lifetime. Families scattered all over the country. Well, he'd see them at New Year's. It was nice of
them to come and visit him so often, he thought. He loved seeing his grandchildren, though now they
were older they weren't as charming as they used to be. Still, it felt good to see them – his own flesh
and blood. Yes, he smiled, it had been a good life.
And then, the sudden twinge again. 'Oh,' he cursed under his breath, 'why does this keep bothering
me so much? It hadn't been so most of my life. Hadn't even given it much thought. It was an accident,'
he said to himself again and again. Except ... in his heart of hearts, he knew better.
“Good evening, Mr. Lee.” A man passed by bowing respectfully, and he nodded his head in
acknowledgment. “It is a nice evening for a stroll, Sir.”
“Yes,” he replied, preoccupied with his thoughts. “Yes,” and continued to walk on.
He was much respected, given his wealth and status - deservedly, he believed. It was hard earned
respect for he had started in such humble circumstances.
Yes, his wife had been his secret. She had been the impetus for his drive and his wisest counsel. She
had often said that if she died before him, and if there was an afterlife, she would come visit and tell
him all about it, so he could be ready. And in the last year, he had wondered more than once if there
was such a thing because he hadn't heard from her.
Or, could it be she had met Wah Sun? No, it couldn't be. Yet, the new thought had begun to nag him.
She was, is, the most precious thing in his life. They were to be together for eternity. Could he lose all
of that? He had always assumed he would die first and be able to talk his way out of it with Wah Sun.
He could always talk people around to his point of view. But she had gone first. Yes, he was worried.
The sky had turned magenta. It will soon be dark, he thought to himself. He had better be getting
back. Pui Yang might be worried and dinner might be getting cold. He could have kept a cook but she
loved to cook for him. Yes, she had been a fine daughter to him. However, he did employ a
housekeeper to ease the burden, and also someone to clean and maintain the house. Yes, she had
been a fine daughter to him.
It must have been a few weeks later. Negotiations had been going well with a new suitor who Pui Yang
was not completely indifferent to, and he had high hopes this time. He was taking his usual stroll when
he heard a voice calling his name. It was very familiar but not quite the same. As he slowly realized
what was happening, he was dumbstruck. He steadied himself with his walking stick. 'Ting Ting. Could
it really be?' he thought to himself. 'Or, is my mind playing tricks?'
Then the voice called again, “Why did you do it? Why did you do it?” several times.
He reeled back. 'It's Ting Ting. She knows.' His mind went blank, then in his mind's eye, there he was
in his village again, and he was remembering vividly those fateful events of more than fifty years ago ...
It was a beautiful day, clear as only an early spring day can be. The air almost crackled with
crispness. They were going to climb the mountain that dominated the skyline. Climb? No, conquer it.
That's how they felt: the mountain today and the world tomorrow. Their mothers had packed lunches
and snacks, just some rice, vegetables and dried fish.
As they walked along the base, spring was everywhere. Little creatures scurried away as they
approached: squirrels, an occasional rabbit, and birds hopping, pecking, flying off, landing, and doing
the same again; male birds singing from trees, laying down property rights; watching females, carefully
appraising suitors.
Yes, it was spring and both young men were thinking of Chan Ting Ting. Wah Sun supremely
confident. He had, after all, been admitted to the most prestigious School of Engineering in the
province and was the academic star of the school.
Kai Ming was envious. Try as he might to dispel such feelings – for he wanted to be loyal to his friend
– jealousy and envy remained. He tried to compensate by being specially nice to him. It was he, after
all, who had helped him get through High School. Why was it he could never stay awake in class? He
was always dreaming. Yes, Wah Sun had tutored him all through school from the earliest years. Yes,
he had been a good friend.
Why couldn't he, Kai Ming, be good at anything? Even the games they played now ... Wah Sun beat
him regularly at table tennis. Oh, he might win an occasional game but that was rare.
He had to admit it, he smiled wryly to himself, Wah Sun was better at everything. What chance did he
have with Ting Ting, he, who was going to work in a shop now that schooling was over. He smiled
ruefully, looking at his friend's back. He was leading the way, as usual.
'I am stronger than he is,' he thought to himself. 'We are both the same height but I am heavier and
stockier. I could take him down if we wrestled, he thought. Still, he beats me at arm wrestling. How
does he do it? I get tired and ease up; he ... he is just so determined. You can see that gleam come
into his eye whenever he competes at anything.
'How come he knows everything? When we were wondering where babies came from, he bought an
old book with its pages coming apart, from somewhere, and was soon explaining the whole shebang to
anyone who would listen. I started to look at my mother and father and laugh. And then' – smiling
broadly – 'we had gotten curious and compared our things, you know. And guess what, I was the
biggest. So ha, ha!'
During this reverie, Wah Sun had kept up an incessant chatter on the botany of their surroundings: the
plants, the shrubs, the flowers and anything else that came to his mind. He was a well of information.
But one could tell, from the longer pauses, the climb was getting steeper. The green was less lush.
Soon it would turn to all rock with patches of ice clinging to the nooks and crannies. He began to part
whistle, part sing a popular song pausing intermittently to take a deep breath.
Kai Ming smiled to himself again for his friend could never carry a tune and never realized he was tone
deaf. He had tried to show him many times to no avail. He was always quite receptive. He'd say, “Hey,
thank you now I've got it,” and then repeat it out of tune again. Yup! music he understood better.
It had become steep and they had had to scramble up some rocks using their hands to steady
themselves. A few patches of ice made for some slick areas and Wah Sun kept telling his friend to be
careful. He was always looking out for others, insistently telling his friends what was good for them.
Why they should give up smoking, why they should exercise, why this, why that. He was convinced he
was helping them, and was loved by his friends. The truth was they were a little tired of him, and were
glad he would be out of their lives come the commencement of the college year in a few months. The
teachers loved him: he was their success, their hope for the future. He had scored the highest ever, by
far, of anyone in the village and near the top for the whole province. He was going to be a Civil
Engineer and build dams and bridges to help people. Yes, helping people was what he did never
realizing that most people just wanted to be left alone and resented what they considered criticism.
The smokers wanted to smoke because it cut a dash with the girls – more important than health
problems, may be thirty years from now. And who wants to exercise? Only the old doing their tai-chi.
Then who wants to be nagged about it? Anyway, why is it his business, they thought. But that was it,
he felt compelled to help people improve themselves.
The pictures in his mind grew sharper and he began to mutter to himself ....
Yes, that was another thing. I knew people; I just knew them for what they were. I knew Wah Sun was
harmless and meant well, and it was easy for me to put up with him. And it got me through high
school. Now, I was going to work in the best shop in the village with old man, Lao. But I had worked on
him for almost six years now. I fetched and carried without asking anything in return. Yes, he'd give
me a little something now and then. Everyone thought he was taking advantage of me, as did he. But
as I had known all along, he began to like me – and he had no children. I was going to work hard and
save every penny. I just knew I would own that shop one day.
“We are almost there,” Wah Sun shouted, exultant at the prospect of reaching the summit.
A few more minutes of climbing and there we were: it was a beautiful sight. Climbing, we had been able
to see a semicircle behind us, now we commanded a universal vista. We could see not only our own
village but all of them scattered in clumps around the mountain. The farmers in the fields carrying
baskets of vegetables on bamboo poles across their shoulders looked like muscular-jawed ants
heaving large leaves in their mandibles.
“Just look at the big beautiful blue sky here,” he said whirling around obviously pleased. “Do you know
why the sky is blue?”
“No, why?”
He launched into a long explanation of refraction and wavelengths, even taking a detour through
mirages. I just looked like I was listening. I was enjoying the scent of the fresh, cool air, purifying,
filtering through my lungs cleansing out the clotted smoke of two decades of wood fires down below in
the village.
“Don't you remember the Physics class?”
Well, I had spent most of my classes dreaming about different businesses I was going to set up, and
knowing why the sky was blue wouldn't have helped my future. I didn't answer.
“Come on, let's eat,” he concluded. He always led the agenda. “Then, let's carve our names on the
rock here, so we can come and see it twenty years from now, when I am a famous engineer. But I'll
never forget you Kai Ming ... and Ting Ting,” he added softly, musing after the last thought. I wondered
what he was thinking, probably that he wouldn't have to forget her if he married her. The color rose in
my face. I bent down so he couldn't see it and ferreted in my knapsack for the packed lunch.
Yes, Ting Ting saw beyond his irritating manner and said he had a good heart. She was always
looking after him, giving him little things. She gave me things too but I had the feeling that if ever he
asked her to marry him, she'd jump at the chance. Fairly or unfairly, considering all he had done for
me, he was my rival, and I hated both what had happened and my ambivalence towards him. But I
never showed it. I could not afford to lose him as a friend for he could very well be useful in the future.
What matters in this world is who you know, and I was careful to cultivate and maintain relations with
people who could be important, and I tried my best not to make enemies. I always cleared up
misunderstandings and talked people round. I never let conflicts fester. In fact, I would not be boasting
if I said I was the most well-liked person in our class. They always said he should go far, then looked
down and wondered how.
But Ting Ting's behavior was unsettling. I had always banked on her as a partner, and no longer did it
seem quite so certain. It was frustratingly difficult to read Chan Ting Ting. She was like the Egyptian
Sphinx we had come across in World History class. To me she appeared to be keeping an open mind,
if not favoring him and rending apart my dream.
“Yes, let's have lunch.” The top of the mountain was a wider area than I had imagined. We found a
good-sized rock as a back-rest and shelter from the wind, and settled down to eat. In brotherly fashion,
he began to give me advice on my shop job, expressing touching concern that Mr. Lao would take
advantage of me. I was touched and amused. He had a knack for always missing the key element in
any human interaction. I just kept eating and nodding and thanked him. My mind was on Ting Ting
and how a shop boy could win her heart.
“Time to go down,” he announced.
“What about our names?” I ventured.
“We spent too long eating. It's getting late. We'll just have to do that some other time. Perhaps in
summer.”
That's the way he was. No other opinion mattered. He was not being disrespectful. Other opinions
were very simply beyond his purview: his answers were always the correct ones in class; he was always
right on facts, issues, everything we discussed; so, he had just stopped considering anyone else's
point of view.
Down we went. He set quite a pace almost skipping along. I warned him to be careful. There were ice
patches still, and just below the shallow slope down from the ridge was an almost vertical drop. I really
was not paying attention. All I could see was Ting Ting's face in my mind's eye, and, to my way of
thinking, my severely diminished chances.
Then it happened ... my mind is a blur ... it all happened so fast. He slipped, went sliding down the
shallow slope in a semi-tumble and ended up hanging down from the edge which sloped inwards. He
was screaming for me to help. I slid down very carefully on all fours.
He was hanging on a precipice, unable to reach the cut away ridge face for a toe-hold. “Help me!” I
could see the fear in his eyes.
“I am not strong enough to lift you without sliding. We'll both be killed. Hang on Wah Sun, I'll tie our
rope to a solid rock and throw it down to you.” I climbed back up to the ridge, and sat down on the
other side, out of view. My memory is hazy ... all I remember are images of Ting Ting flashing before
my eyes: how she bent to pick up a pail of water, her skin, her beautiful calves, the way she would
smile, her warm, gentle, yet teasing eyes ...
I have always played percentages. That's how I became successful. What were the chances the old
man would sell me his shop at a favorable price as he had no one except his wife? What were the
chances he would actually leave it to me if his wife died before him and I behaved towards him like a
son? What were the chances ... yes, what were the chances ... I couldn't get the thought out of my
mind. What were the chances of Ting Ting marrying him?
Now this I can not understand. I reached down into the bottom of my knapsack and pulled out a packet
of cigarettes and a match box. This was a secret from Wah Sun. I would now and again smoke a
cigarette, not regularly, just now and again.
There I sat, and I lit a cigarette. My arms and legs wouldn't move to take the rope, secure it, and throw
the end down to my friend. I don't know why. They just did not move ... they were beyond my control. I
could hear him calling “Hurry Kai Ming! Hurry!” And then just a scream. I finished my cigarette and
went down the mountain, a brisker business-like pace. I felt a new man, as if a load had been lifted off
my shoulders.
Over the years Kai Ming had rationalized his action: the rope would not have held him; no boulders or
edges to secure the rope as far as he could remember; no place to brace his feet if he were to tie the
rope around himself, and so on. Then he had forgotten it. The memory had been buried deep until
his wife died and the thought of her encountering Wah Sun began to prey on his mind.
He heard his wife again.
“Why did you do it?”
He could now hear Ting Ting sob, “Why? Why, when I always liked you so much more? Wah Sun was
an unbearable know-it-all. No one can explain love, and I loved you, Kai Ming.”
He heard her sobs again. He was in a daze. All of a sudden, everything began to whirl in his head ...
thoughts, trees, the sobs, the shore line rising up and spinning around ... as he fell, dropping his
walking stick. A wave engulfed him, drawing him off the island to a distant shore.
They looked everywhere for him but all they found was his walking stick.
“No grave for me to honor,” cried Pui Yang again and again.
Adiga's "Between the Assassinations"
Business as Usual in India
By Charles R. Larson
Source: Counterpunch
Between the Assassinations refers to the time between Prime Minister Indira Gandhi’s death on the last
day of 1984, when she was killed by her own bodyguards, and her son Rajiv Gandhi’s similar death, by
assassination, in May of 1991—years that Aravinda Adiga shows as troubled ones for India’s quiescent
democracy. Not a novel in the conventional sense, Adiga’s skilled narrative is more loosely a collection
of overlapping short stories: same place, same time, some continuity of characters but, above all,
variations on a theme of extreme difficulty for many of his country’s millions.
There are poverty, corruption, race and class tensions—to mention only three in what for me is a much
more accomplished book than The White Tiger, for which Adiga was awarded the Man Booker Prize in
2008. The events depicted in the new work cover a period of only seven days and all take place in
Kittur, an imaginary city in southern India, somewhat akin to R. K. Narayan’s imaginary and always
inventive Malgudi. The same adjectives apply to Adiga’s work.
In the second of these stories—but still set on the first day—a businessman named Abbasi spreads
some of his own excrement into a glass of Johnnie Walker that a government official expects as part of
his pay-off for approving Abbasi’s newly opened shirt factory. Abbasi himself is an enlightened
employer, concerned that the detailed embroidery on the shirts his workers produce is slowly driving
them blind.
He’s done everything he can to improve their lot, but the system itself is so corrupt that it’s hard to
make a rupee. In the four months since he decided to re-open what was once his father’s shirt factory,
he’s had to pay off: “The electricity man; the Water Board man; half the Income Tax Department of
Kittur; half the Excise Department of Kittur; six different officials of the Telephone Board; a land tax
official of the Kittur City Corporation; a sanitary inspector from the Karnataka State Health Board; a
health inspector from the Karnataka State Sanitation Board; a delegation of the All India Small Factory
Workers’ Union; and delegations of the Kittur Congress Party, the Kittur BJP, the Kittur Communist
Party, and the Kittur Muslim League.”
It isn’t difficult to understand why the little instances of revenge—excrement, urine, and spit mixed in the
officials’ drinks—give Abbasi an occasional satisfying feeling of revenge. But the real problem is red
tape and the obvious implication that with everyone on the take capitalism cannot succeed. Finally, in
a more ambitious act of revenge, Abbasi directly confronts the latest government officials who visit his
factory for a bribe and experiences a genuine feeling of satisfaction. However, his story itself is
anything but hopeful about India—still trapped in the legacy of Indira Gandhi’s corrupt leadership and a
bureaucracy so extensive that little ever gets done.
In later stories, Adiga shows us the unrest of students at the university, of migrants from the country
who seek their fortunes in Kittur only to have those dreams crushed, of Muslim/Hindu tensions. In one
particularly revealing sequence, a journalist discovers that an article he had published weeks earlier
about a riot in Kittur was far from the truth of what had actually happened. Discovering doctored police
records, he learns that the violence was planned by government officials—for profit, of course. By the
end of the story, his idealism has vanished and, sadly, he’s begun to question his entire career as a
print journalist.
Though any number of the stories in the volume are worthy of note, I was particularly moved by the
quietness of one that concerns a woman who is forced by her family to cook in the households of
upper-class Indians. For forty years, she toils with no reward—giving up the possibility of marriage and
children—never even seeing her meager wages, which are always sent home to her family and her
more fortunate siblings. At the end of still another several-year position cooking for a rich family, she
covets a blue ball that one of the children in the household has abandoned. It’s even partially
damaged, but when she asks the boy if she can take the ball with her when she finally returns to her
family, he answers with an emphatic NO. What follows is, again--as in the story of the owner of the shirt
factory--a fleeting Chekhovian moment of happiness, virtually all she will ever get out of life.
The stories in Adiga’s Between the Assassinations are both beautiful and troubling: quiet moments of
despair and frustration, resignation and happiness. India’s stagnation under the Indira Gandhi
dynasty, he implies, bordered on the claustrophobic. Yet there is truth, and finally even hope, for
those who decide that enough is enough, that it’s time to take things into their own hands.
Between the Assassinations
By Aravinda Adiga
Free Press, 339 pp., $24
Charles R. Larson is Professor of Literature at American University, in Washington, D.
June 15, 2009
Trouble at Sea --- Obama, the Dreamboat and an Iceberg
Arshad M Khan
Your indulgence, Mr. President, but I had a very puzzling dream last night, and as you played a central
role, I feel obliged to write to you. We are on board the Titanic. The ship is on the high seas but a
small boat has come alongside and the Captain is leaving the ship. He turns back to wave and smiles
a characteristic smirk, shouting above the crashing waves, "Don't forget the 'nukaler' option." The
Captain has left his crew on board, and the ship continues to steam ahead into a mist beginning to
form.
Now here is the odd part: you, Sir, are not the Captain of the ship. No, you are the head steward in
First Class, bowing politely and solicitously attending to the needs of those privileged passengers.
Some want a trillion salmon croquettes, others a trillion beluga eggs --- though why by count and not
pounds of caviar, I do not know.
And then there is steerage where some passengers have not had a decent meal in several days. They
have gambled their money away and in steerage they have to pay for their food. How did that happen
you might ask? Well, there are several gambling casinos.
The casino for the steerage passengers is a plain gambling den, smoky, practical, business-like -- the
players look very serious as if the future course of their lives depended on the throw of a dice. It does.
Some are happy -- they have had favorable outcomes and expect a good start in the New World.
Others look glum and depressed for they have literally lost their shirts. You, Mr. President, continue to
smile benignly at the proceedings reminding people how important it is to take responsibility for their
own lives and mistakes, and how they must overcome adversity for that is the American spirit.
The casino for First Class passengers is a happy, festive place. There is cheery laughter to be heard,
drink is flowing freely and everyone is having fun. Plenty of people have won large amounts of money;
some have lost. Now here is the surprise: every time a passenger loses a very large amount of
money, the floor manager signals to the croupier, and he returns the losses. You are explaining it this
way: the shipping line relies on the custom of these passengers and cannot afford to have them lose
their money. It would starve the shipping line of their major source of revenue and capital for growth.
In one corner of the ship, a group of predominantly young males, dressed in some kind of uniforms are
firing guns at an unseen enemy. You are smiling benignly at everything --- a smiling presence in your
head steward's jacket, seemingly everywhere but flitting back constantly to attend to the needs of those
First Class passengers. The ship continues to steam ahead ... and I wake up.
Mr. President, I wish you well and continue to hope you will do the best you can for our country and the
majority of its people.
May 20, 2009
The Trip of a Lifetime
Arshad M. Khan
It was a long, long time ago ......
I woke up with a knot in my stomach. I cursed the calculus exam that was doing this to me; I cursed the
system that required me to take calculus when the chance of me ever using that skill was as remote as
encountering a space alien within the hour; I cursed the society that required me to spend the best and
most adventuresome years of my youth cooped up in a classroom, or a library, or a dorm room, instead
of outside, in the fresh air, seeing the world, preferably with varying female companionship.
It was a short walk from the dorm to the exam center – or, in my mind, the torture chamber – and I was
there just in time. The professor was distributing the papers. But, guess what, it was the nice lady who
taught the chemistry class. Now, chemistry I liked, especially organic chemistry, and it was important
for me as a pre-med student. I also liked the teacher; she always had time for you. It was never like
that with Shiva, the terror of the Indies, master of calculus, who traveled the world delivering papers on
obscure mathematical topics, yet managed to always be there for his classes. He didn't suffer fools
gladly, and if you asked him a question to which he felt you should already know the answer, he made
you look an idiot.
Ah, the thought, the wonderful, satisfying, luxuriating thought – he had been struck down by Delhi belly
or Motezuma's revenge, or whatever you like to call it, on his travels. I imagined him sitting down, doing
the obvious and I burst out laughing. People turned to stare at me, so I straightened up and put on a
straight face.
By this time the teacher was distributing the exam papers to my row, in the back, and I received mine.
My smile vanished, my jaw dropped and I was in shock – it was the organic chemistry exam. I was
certain this was scheduled for Monday and I had the weekend to study for it. I whispered to the guy
next to me, who was in my calculus class for sure, “Hey, what happened to calculus? I thought the
calculus final was today.”
“You are all screwed up, man; calculus is next Monday,” and he went back to concentrating on his test.
I broke into a cold sweat. I had mixed up the dates of the two finals. I could see my dreams of
becoming a medical doctor vanish as I bombed organic chemistry – something that was really important
for med-school admission. I raised my hand, and the professor beckoned me. I walked down to her
desk at the front of the class.
“What's the matter?” she asked. She must have noticed I looked like hell. “The exam not what you
expected?”
“Well, I ... I don't know how to put this but I thought the chemistry final was next week and today was
calculus.”
Those smiling blue-gray eyes hardened into steely-gray slits. “You know, I've heard electricity failures,
dead grandmother funerals – for some reason that's a popular one – stomach flu, other sicknesses
and injuries, but never, until today, a calculus exam. It's so outrageous it might even be true, but I can't
help you. Now that you are here, you must take the exam.”
I went back to my seat. The rest of the ninety minutes are a blurry haze. I did the best I could with the
test knowing full well that my 'A' was going to end up a 'C' in organic chemistry and my Med-school
admission chances had severely diminished.
I walked out into the open air feeling as if I had escaped a suffocating hold. I thought of the reasons for
my wanting to become a doctor. When it came right down to it, let's face it, I was in it for the money.
Oh yes, healing the sick and all that made a good front and made me feel heroic, but no, the truth was
quite venal if I was honest with myself. I really did not like the smell of hospitals, the sight of sick
people, or even very old people, but I felt I could overcome this distaste for the reward over the
rainbow. There was no essential goodness in me. Greed was the primary motive. I realized I was
really the kind of guy who'd marry a girl for her money when he really didn't love her. Poverty does
those things to you, not to everyone, but to some.
I had just crossed the street to the dorm when my musings were interrupted by a shabbily dressed guy
accosting me, “Can you help me, Sir? I really need your help.”
“Look, you are talking to the wrong guy, I don't have any change to spare. Sorry.” I started to walk
away.
“No! No! It's not your money; it's your tachyonic charge that I need.”
“My what!?” I stared at him, startled.
“Look, I have identified you as having a high tachyonic charge. It happens in your species under
emotional stress. Look, maybe if you come with me to my spaceship, I might be able to help you and
then drop you back.”
Everything that's happened today, I thought to myself. And now a loony who thinks he's from outer
space that I can't get rid of. “Excuse me, I've gotta go. I've my own problems.”
“Sir, please, I beg you. It's taken me a very long time to find someone with your tachyonic potential and
I've got to go home. Please, you have nothing to lose. Just hold my shoulders for thirty seconds while I
hold yours.”
I figured if this is the only way I can get rid of this crazy, I might as well do it. “Okay, but make sure your
hands stay on my shoulders,” I said, “I don't want to lose my wallet.” That would really cap this shit day,
I thought to myself.
Well, there we were in the middle of the sidewalk holding each other's shoulders, and then, WOW!! I
had the strangest sensation. I felt like all of me had started to melt from inside out. Then suddenly, I
was in a swirl and then there I was holding the shoulders of this odd looking thing, not too different from
the pictures alien abductees draw, in a gleaming shimmering room, no, more like space. Then other
similar looking things were moving towards us.
“Don't be frightened,” my companion said. “We are nonviolent ... manufacture our food artificially. You
have nothing to fear. They are just coming to disinfect us.”
His remarks were partly reassuring. After all, I wasn't going to leap from a bad chemistry test to a pan
for someone's lunch! “You know, this is hard to believe. I was convinced you were one of those early
lack-of-funding releases from a psychiatric hospital. Tell me what were you doing on Earth?”
“Well, the closest thing you have to what I was doing are 'adventure tours'. This has been my annual
three-week vacation, six months in Earth time, and I worked as a Chicago bus driver. And I tell you it's
been exciting. You are a violent race. One man robbed me. He couldn't budge the fare box so I had
to give him the money I had. Another was so belligerent I had to use my protective shield. He never
could figure out why he couldn't hit me when there was no physical barrier that he could see. He was
drunk and just went away muttering, shaking his hand. Of course, the element of danger makes the
vacation exciting. In our world, technological mastery has made life a little dull. You are an interesting
species in many ways and there is so much variety that I have had friends go to Earth time after time
for their vacations. Anyway, I am just rambling on. I promised to help. Now tell me, what was your
problem?”
I took a deep breath and explained all that had happened including the realization that I was going to
be a doctor for the wrong reasons – basically, for the money and what I could buy with it.
He explained that, in his society, since technology provided all needs, money and the status that came
with wealth was nonexistent. His society valued only one commodity – time – because it was finite,
limited by individual lifespan. “Life is to be lived and enjoyed, and you can only, really have a fulfilling
life if it provides a useful service to your society and that service is enjoyable for you to perform. We
figured this out millennia past and all tedious activity is robotized.” He continued, “Now you love
organic chemistry and I am going to send you back in time to that exam. Just ignore the other people,
who you might find acting strangely. But first, a crash course in organic chemistry through S.I.T. Yes,
that's self-induced teaching. We have an efficient way of transferring information directly to your
neurons without the intermediary of your senses.”
I was taken to a small chamber, where my new-found friend attached what looked like electrodes to my
temples. Then he selected the appropriate course materials, pressed some buttons, and suddenly my
brain seemed to fill up with shapes, sizes of molecules, compounds, theories, and more organic
chemistry than I could have imagined. I wanted to learn more, but he said he was already in trouble
with his superiors for bringing me on board, and he could not let me stay much longer.
We bade our goodbyes. He pointed out it was more likely a final farewell. He said he would try to look
me up on his next vacation, but because of the duration of Earth time in one of their years I was going
to be very old if not dead. He wished me a long and happy life.
I had formed a strange attachment to this odd being and I felt quite sad and sorry to say goodbye to
him. He clasped my arm firmly above the elbow in their version of a handshake, then moved back.
Again, I had the strange melting feeling, and then I was back in the exam room. Something was
different, however. I didn't grasp it, at first, but then it gradually dawned on me. Everyone else's
movements were in extreme slow motion, as if ... as if they were all waiting for me to catch up. I did.
I became a whiz at chemistry. I had ideas nobody had dreamed of. Dreamed, yes, that's it, I dreamed
them. But that dream was so real – it is real, it happened. I know it happened. And, I believe in extra-
terrestrials. I know you will think me a loony, but I am not. I am a respected Professor of Organic
Chemistry slated by many as a future Nobel Prize winner. And, I owe it all to my alien friend.
April 18, 2009
Remember, dear friend, when I took you "BEHIND THE TREE", I promised to tell you how I came to be
where I was. Well, as I have said before, I always keep my promises, so here is the story ... don't be
afraid ...
TATTLE TEETH --- Edgar Allan Poe Redux
Arshad M. Khan
Look around you. Everything that lives is going to die. I will go so far as to say that the essence of life
is mortality. And death is immortal -- the fossils live on forever. Ponder these premises as you read on
...
You see, I am not a bad man. I am a good man. I am a thoughtful man; I give serious thought to my
surroundings -- I pay attention. It was just such meticulous attention that directed me to the plight of my
old neighbor across the road. I noticed he limped badly as he tried to push his lawn mower. The
mower did not move in a straight line but in the direction of the limp. I noticed that it was a push
mower. It meant that he could not afford a power mower. I had noticed also that his house over the
past year or so, had begun to take on a run-down appearance.
No one ever came to visit the old man. He lived alone. As he limped along leaving whiskers of uncut
grass, I felt sorry for him, and I decided to help. I walked across the street to talk to him. Seeing me
coming towards him he stopped mowing and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He looked exhausted.
Close up he looked older.
"I am not doing anything," I said. "I thought I'd come and help."
"I don't have any money to pay you. My social security barely covers the necessities, you know, food,
medicines and such like. And I never have anything left over by the end of the month. If I'd known
what old age over here was going to be like, I wouldn't 've come here in the first place."
I hadn't noticed it before but I could now detect a faint central European accent of indeterminate origin.
"No, no, no!" I said. "I am just being neighborly. You don't have to pay anything. Anyway, the exercise
will probably do me good and I won't have to go to the gym as often. Even save on gym fees,
perhaps." The latter I said as a joke, of course, but he took it literally. His manner changed; he was
more comfortable now that the idea of a deal with mutual benefits had been introduced.
"Well," he said, "You better start this way ..." And he proceeded to give me detailed instructions on
how to mow his yard. Was he fussy? He didn't want the mower clipping any flower beds, or being
bumped against the fence, which he claimed had been freshly painted. The way it looked, it must have
been at least ten years. But then memories compress in old age, and, being a nice person, I was
willing to allow him every latitude. He wanted the edges trimmed and the walks brushed clean, etc.,
etc., etc. When he finished, he held out the handle of the lawn mower to me and SMILED.
All the time he had been talking to me I hadn't realized. He talked with his lips covering his teeth and
he smiled seldom - no, almost never. But now he had smiled, and he had bared his teeth. Those
teeth. They were the most ugly, fearsome and disgusting teeth one could imagine. They were long,
jagged, stained in shades varying from yellow at the tips to brown next to the gums. Where they
adjoined, they were black. And when he opened his mouth a breath emanated that could only be
likened to a dog with a bad case of gingivitis.
I finished the work and the old man who had retreated into the house came out and thanked me. But
then he also had some words of advice as he called it. He criticized the work in minute detail getting
agitated at certain points.
More or less the same pattern was repeated every week when I went to help him with his yard. I tried to
not let it upset me -- the criticism I mean. I just thought it odd, considering I was helping him out. I
made allowances for the old man's age. And I am a nice person. I like to help people and I liked the
old man.
It's just that his teeth, those horrible ugly teeth ... they would send a cold shiver of fear and loathing
whenever I recalled them. At night I would wake up from my sleep thinking of them. Disembodied they
would be talking, criticizing my yard work, making a peculiar clicking sound as they talked.
You see I had noticed something. I have told you before I am a careful observer and I am. I noticed
that when the old man made normal conversation his teeth remained hidden behind his lips. It was only
when he started to criticize and became agitated that the lips parted back, and the teeth -- oh! those
teeth -- were revealed ... almost as if the teeth were clicking and clacking out the nasty words
complaining of this, complaining of that without the old man's participation. Did I say, "almost?" No! not
almost. It WAS the teeth I am sure. I had nothing against the old man. It was those teeth, bared fangs
spitting out the poison.
I don't know exactly when it happened. I don't know when I reached the inescapable conclusion. But I
knew that for me to have a normal life again, those teeth, which were now with me, in my mind's eye,
night and day, would have to go.
It was as if I had passed a tipping point. I had gone over a precipice into a world out of my control, a
kingdom ruled by tyrant teeth that had to be destroyed to regain my freedom. I didn't know what I could
or would do, just that I would have to do something to preserve my sanity.
I felt like I was riding a wave to an inexorable destiny, yet I maintained careful control of my day-to-day
actions. I was like a surfer who goes where the wave takes him but he controls his balance on the
surfboard to stay afloat. I was the surfer and I practiced my game with just as much caution.
The leaves were beginning to turn color. It was Fall now and the days were shorter. Dusk arrived
earlier before the rush hour traffic of pedestrians and automobiles. In the dark with fewer people about
I would be less likely to be observed. You see how I thought of everything. But now that I was ready,
the teeth were never bared. I was no longer criticized. Perhaps, I had become better at the work;
perhaps the old man was tired. And I had no quarrel with the old man. I liked him. It was the teeth I
had to destroy.
It was a cloudy day, dark and miserable portending winter and more immediately the events that were
to transpire. The old man wanted me to plant some bulbs and I went over in the gathering dusk of late
afternoon. The bed was large and the earth caked. I wanted to do a good job so I thought I'd turn it
over a little bit to make it more hospitable for the bulbs. I went and fetched a spade.
What I hadn't realized was that he had other bulbs planted in the back and I was supposed to plant the
tulip bulbs in the front rows of the bed. As I dug, humming a tune, I noticed some small bulbs, scarred
and damaged by the spade, turning up with the earth. At the same time, the old man, curious as to
what I was doing with a spade, walked up. We both saw the damaged bulbs at the same time. There
was a moment of complete silence -- no traffic on the road, the neighbors all at work and the anonymity
of darkness as dusk waned. Then the old man turned to face me, his face livid, his teeth bared as they
began to spit out the words, "What the hell do you think you are ..."
The words died as I hit him; just one blow with the spade and the teeth stopped clicking and clacking. It
was suddenly quiet and peaceful. But I was not resting. I dug furiously in the hour before the
neighbors would start to return home. I placed the old man's body in the hole I had dug. But I was not
taking any chances with the teeth. I severed the head and put it in a garden sack. I covered the body
and finished planting the bulbs. I am not one for backing out of promises, and I had told the old man I
would plant the bulbs for him.
I had something else in mind for those teeth. I had purchased a small strong box with a stout lock. I
placed the head in the box and buried it right under the sun deck in my own back yard. Ha! Ha! Those
teeth weren't going anywhere and they certainly weren't going to bother me again.
It was about a week before the police came. But I was ready for them. It transpired that a raccoon
lured by the scent of flesh had dug up all my handiwork. I was truly concerned he had not let the old
man rest in peace under a perennial wreath as I had envisaged.
Having heard that I helped the old man with his yard, the police came to interview me in the course of
their inquiries. I was generous, even magnanimous. We sat on the deck right over the spot where I
had buried the teeth. I offered them sodas and they accepted. But after they had finished asking me
their questions, they still sat there chatting.
I was now becoming uneasy for I could hear a faint click and clack like the chatter of teeth. It was very
faint. You'd have to know what to listen for to hear it. Fortunately, the officers just kept talking quite
unmindful of it. But hark! the noise began to get louder and the officers just kept on talking. Why
don't they go away?
"Look, I've told you everything," I said to them. They stopped talking and looked at me in surprise.
The silence was shattering as they stared at me, and breaking the silence the loud click-clack of the
teeth shouting "What the hell do you think you are ..."
I put my fingers in my ears. Yet the click-clack still kept ringing. It was so loud now. I had to shout over
it. They must hear it. Yes, they can hear it. They are just mocking me. They know! They know.
They are making a jest of me. And I won't be their fool anymore.
"All right! All right!" I shouted, "I did it." The rest of him is buried right under you."
April 11, 2009
BEHIND THE TREE
Arshad M Khan
I do not dislike anything; it is just that I do not like anything. I wasn't always like this - I was full of
love but the passage of time and the heartache of loving changed me little by little, so
imperceptibly that, at first, I was not even aware of the change myself. Once upon a time I even
loved a tree. It was a big, no, huge, beautiful elm with a trunk the diameter of a man's extended
hands. The corner it occupied shielded the house and its neighbors from prying eyes across
the alley, and, more importantly, from my point of view, vice versa. It gave me the illusion of
having a little cottage in the country rather than a cheap little house in an ordinary suburb. A
beautiful tree -- but the electric company felt differently about it. First, they trimmed it, actually
they removed branches the size of trees -- made it look like a man whose hair has been cut by
the barber's apprentice on his first day. Even after the shearing, it still bothered them - too
close to the wires. Every now and again, their yellow truck would come around, and the man
would get in his box atop a ladder. The machinery would whiz and whirr, he'd be hoisted up,
and he'd hack away at the poor tree's attempts to grow. Eventually, the tree itself started to get
a little sick. I mean, who wouldn't after what had been done to it. Instead of trying to cure it, this
was all the excuse they needed and euthanasia it was -- they cut it down. But it was a majestic
tree. Most trees, they send a crew and it's all over in a morning. This one, the slaughter, went
on for two days. First, they'd send workmen up who'd prepare slings for thick trunk like
branches. Then the rope would be slung over even higher branches and the cut branch
lowered slowly down to the ground. This went on for two days, as I said, until just the bare trunk
remained, looking for all the world like it was giving the finger to the electric company. But it
was its last hurrah and soon it was all over. Sitting here in this little cell, I have endless time to
think, to reminisce to myself, to remember. My thoughts often go back to my childhood. Was I
sad? Well, as I said, it was a long time ago, it was when I could love, and so, yes, I was sad.
But as you might have realized, it was a selfish love -- the tree did all these things for me; I
didn't do anything for it -- the kind that doesn't last. And I soon got used to living without it. In
fact, life took on aspects of a soap opera, because I was now cognizant of the comings and
goings in the house behind the cut tree. For some time, I had been puzzled, and attributed a
particular odd fact to a freak of nature, of the DNA undergoing an extra twist, an unusual
unraveling and joining. Perhaps they had some blond genes somewhere. You see they were
sallow Latins with black hair both quite good-looking, especially the wife. She would take her
little preschoolers for a late-morning stroll after her husband had left for work. The first two of
the children were recognizably theirs; the third, much lighter colored with blue eyes, he was big,
heavy-set and already the size of his older sibling. I wondered if he was adopted; if not, what
did the husband think of the cuckoo egg in their midst. But then, humans have a tendency to
rationalize away unpleasant truths and the more bizarre an explanation the more believable.
You only have to look at religion around the world and the attempts to explain its truths in the
light of modern scientific knowledge. I am talking of religious detail, the paraphernalia of
religion, the stories and homilies, not the existence or, for that matter, absence of God.
Anyway, to get back to the story, I was sitting outside in my favorite spot behind light shrubbery
where I could see but not be seen, enjoy the sun and also be able to move into shade if it got
too hot. I was having a late lunch. It was late spring, the smell of lilacs was in the air. The
cardinal was doing his sounds proclaiming his territory in song. It was a beautiful day, the
temperature, seventy-four degrees Fahrenheit, the air, conditioned by nature, and as a a
bonus, perfumed; the sun's warmth just enough to balance the chill of the breeze. The sound of
a workman's truck pulling up broke the spell. A young man got out and walked to the front door
of the house behind the cut tree. What caught my attention was his quick, furtive glance back
and to the sides before he rang the doorbell. The door opened almost instantly and he
disappeared inside. About forty-five minutes to an hour later, he reappeared, the same wary
look left and right and he marched quickly to his truck and drove off. This time I watched him
more closely through a pair of binoculars that I always kept beside me for watching birds. He
was a handsome man, in his middle twenties, I would guess, small nose, sensuously curved
lips, a longish strong chin jutting out just slightly, suggesting a determination belied by the
gentlest of blue eyes, large and baby like; all crowned with a shock of unruly blond hair. He
was a big fellow, tall, at least six foot two, broad-shouldered and large boned. He was vaguely
familiar and I noticed he had not taken any tools with him into the house. He came again the
following Tuesday and the one after that. By this time I had lost interest for I had discovered
why he looked familiar. He was a dead ringer for the third son. In time, shrubbery surrounding
the old tree grew taller and we were walled off again. The family moved away and others came
in their place. All in all, not too different from the birds nesting in the forsythia - the female
seeking genetic variation to improve the survival prospects for her own genes. Life goes on.
And what about me, why am I in a cell all by myself. Let me whisper it in your ear ......sh.....very
quietly: they say I am dangerous. I think, only to those who are dangerous to me .... I'll tell you
all about it next week.
________________________________________________________________________
____
SEVEN
JEWISH
CHILDREN
a play for Gaza
Caryl Churchill
No children appear in the play. The speakers are adults, the parents and if you
like other relations of the children. The lines can be shared out in any way you
like among those characters. The characters are different in each small scene as
the time and child are different. They may be played by any number of actors.
Tell her it’s a game
Tell her it’s serious
But don’t frighten her
Don’t tell her they’ll kill her
Tell her it’s important to be quiet
Tell her she’ll have cake if she’s good
Tell her to curl up as if she’s in bed
But not to sing.
Tell her not to come out
Tell her not to come out even if she hears shouting
Don’t frighten her
Tell her not to come out even if she hears nothing for a long time
Tell her we’ll come and find her
Tell her we’ll be here all the time.
Tell her something about the men
Tell her they’re bad in the game
Tell her it’s a story
Tell her they’ll go away
Tell her she can make them go away if she keeps still
By magic
But not to sing.
Tell her this is a photograph of her grandmother, her uncles and
me
Tell her her uncles died
Don’t tell her they were killed
Tell her they were killed
Don’t frighten her.
Tell her her grandmother was clever
Don’t tell her what they did
Tell her she was brave
Tell her she taught me how to make cakes
Don’t tell her what they did
Tell her something
Tell her more when she’s older.
Tell her there were people who hated Jews
Don’t tell her
Tell her it’s over now
Tell her there are still people who hate Jews
Tell her there are people who love Jews
Don’t tell her to think Jews or not Jews
Tell her more when she’s older
Tell her how many when she’s older
Tell her it was before she was born and she’s not in danger
Don’t tell her there’s any question of danger.
Tell her we love her
Tell her dead or alive her family all love her
Tell her her grandmother would be proud of her.
Don’t tell her we’re going for ever
Tell her she can write to her friends, tell her her friends can maybe
come and visit
Tell her it’s sunny there
Tell her we’re going home
Tell her it’s the land God gave us
Don’t tell her religion
Tell her her great great great great lots of greats grandad lived
there
Don’t tell her he was driven out
Tell her, of course tell her, tell her everyone was driven out and
the country is waiting for us to come home
Don’t tell her she doesn’t belong here
Tell her of course she likes it here but she’ll like it there even
more.
Tell her it’s an adventure
Tell her no one will tease her
Tell her she’ll have new friends
Tell her she can take her toys
Don’t tell her she can take all her toys
Tell her she’s a special girl
Tell her about Jerusalem.
Don’t tell her who they are
Tell her something
Tell her they’re Bedouin, they travel about
Tell her about camels in the desert and dates
Tell her they live in tents
Tell her this wasn’t their home
Don’t tell her home, not home, tell her they’re going away
Don’t tell her they don’t like her
Tell her to be careful.
Don’t tell her who used to live in this house
No but don’t tell her her great great grandfather used to live in
this house
No but don’t tell her Arabs used to sleep in her bedroom.
Tell her not to be rude to them
Tell her not to be frightened
Don’t tell her she can’t play with the children
Don’t tell her she can have them in the house.
Tell her they have plenty of friends and family
Tell her for miles and miles all round they have lands of their own
Tell her again this is our promised land.
Don’t tell her they said it was a land without people
Don’t tell her I wouldn’t have come if I’d known.
Tell her maybe we can share.
Don’t tell her that.
Tell her we won
Tell her her brother’s a hero
Tell her how big their armies are
Tell her we turned them back
Tell her we’re fighters
Tell her we’ve got new land.
Don’t tell her
Don’t tell her the trouble about the swimming pool
Tell her it’s our water, we have the right
Tell her it’s not the water for their fields
Don’t tell her anything about water.
Don’t tell her about the bulldozer
Don’t tell her not to look at the bulldozer
Don’t tell her it was knocking the house down
Tell her it’s a building site
Don’t tell her anything about bulldozers.
Don’t tell her about the queues at the checkpoint
Tell her we’ll be there in no time
Don’t tell her anything she doesn’t ask
Don’t tell her the boy was shot
Don’t tell her anything.
Tell her we’re making new farms in the desert
Don’t tell her about the olive trees
Tell her we’re building new towns in the wilderness.
Don’t tell her they throw stones
Tell her they’re not much good against tanks
Don’t tell her that.
Don’t tell her they set off bombs in cafés
Tell her, tell her they set off bombs in cafés
Tell her to be careful
Don’t frighten her.
Tell her we need the wall to keep us safe
Tell her they want to drive us into the sea
Tell her they don’t
Tell her they want to drive us into the sea.
Tell her we kill far more of them
Don’t tell her that
Tell her that
Tell her we’re stronger
Tell her we’re entitled
Tell her they don’t understand anything except violence
Tell her we want peace
Tell her we’re going swimming.
Tell her she can’t watch the news
Tell her she can watch cartoons
Tell her she can stay up late and watch Friends.
Tell her they’re attacking with rockets
Don’t frighten her
Tell her only a few of us have been killed
Tell her the army has come to our defence
Don’t tell her her cousin refused to serve in the army.
Don’t tell her how many of them have been killed
Tell her the Hamas fighters have been killed
Tell her they’re terrorists
Tell her they’re filth
Don’t
Don’t tell her about the family of dead girls
Tell her you can’t believe what you see on television
Tell her we killed the babies by mistake
Don’t tell her anything about the army
Tell her, tell her about the army, tell her to be proud of the army.
Tell her about the family of dead girls, tell her their names why
not, tell her the whole world knows why shouldn’t she know? tell
her there’s dead babies, did she see babies? tell her she’s got
nothing to be ashamed of. Tell her they did it to themselves. Tell
her they want their children killed to make people sorry for them,
tell her I’m not sorry for them, tell her not to be sorry for them,
tell her we’re the ones to be sorry for, tell her they can’t talk
suffering to us. Tell her we’re the iron fist now, tell her it’s the fog
of war, tell her we won’t stop killing them till we’re safe, tell her I
laughed when I saw the dead policemen, tell her they’re animals
living in rubble now, tell her I wouldn’t care if we wiped them out,
the world would hate us is the only thing, tell her I don’t care if
the world hates us, tell her we’re better haters, tell her we’re
chosen people, tell her I look at one of their children covered in
blood and what do I feel? tell her all I feel is happy it’s not her.
Don’t tell her that.
Tell her we love her.
Don’t frighten her.
Seven Jewish Children is Caryl Churchill’s
response to the situation in Gaza in January
2009, when the play was written.
Seven Jewish Children first published in Great Britain in 2009 by
Nick Hern Books Limited, 14 Larden Road, London, W3 7ST,
in association with the Royal Court Theatre, London
Seven Jewish Children copyright © 2009 Caryl Churchill Limited
Caryl Churchill has asserted her moral right to be identified as
the author of this work
Typeset by Nick Hern Books, London
ISBN 978 1 84842 047 2
Performing Rights
Seven Jewish Children was first performed at the Royal Court
Theatre, London, on 6 February 2009.
The play can be read or performed anywhere, by any number
of people. Anyone who wishes to do it should contact the
author’s agent (details below), who will license performances
free of charge provided that no admission fee is charged and
that a collection is taken at each performance for Medical Aid
for Palestinians (MAP), 33a Islington Park Street, London
N1 1QB, tel +44 (0)20 7226 4114, e-mail info@map-uk.org,
web www.map-uk.org
Author’s agent: Casarotto Ramsay and Associates Ltd,
Waverley House, 7-12 Noel Street, London W1F 8GQ,
fax +44 (0)20 7287 9128, e-mail agents@casarotto.co.uk
This text can be downloaded free of charge from the
following websites:
Casarotto Ramsay, www.casarotto.co.uk/page/sjc
Nick Hern Books, www.nickhernbooks.co.uk
Royal Court Theatre, www.royalcourttheatre.com
THE BUS RIDE
by Arshad M. Khan
It was a day like any other. Desmond Larson was waiting for the seven forty bus to take him to the
suburban train station. Then he'd take the train downtown and walk to his law office as he had done for
the last eleven years. He was a lawyer, a successful one and a partner in his firm. Not much went past
him where he could not assess a measure of self interest.
The bus was right on time. A new driver, he thought to himself. The new ones were meticulously
punctual, realizing only with experience that being a minute or so late gave rushing commuters a grace
period and fewer missed the bus. He got on, produced his season ticket to display to the driver, who
seemed to him a little too old to be driving a bus, only to be told:
“You won't be needing that, Desmond.”
He was startled. “How did you know my name?”
“Oh, I know the names of all my passengers. That's how I know where to take them,” the driver
responded.
Desmond looked around the bus. It certainly was not the usual crowd. But for a few exceptions like
himself, they seemed to be retirees. Then he noticed the bus itself was different. The windows were all
shaded so dark you could not look out. And the bus seemed to move without the usual bumps and
road noise; in fact, it was gliding along so smoothly, he could have sworn it was flying.
Not the kind of person to frightened easily, he had a feeling of unease mixed with curiosity as he
walked up to the driver and confronted him.
“Is this the bus to the train station, or not?” he asked in measured tones.
“I think you know the answer to that, Desmond,” the driver replied.
“I don't know who you are or what you are up to, but I think I want to get off,” Desmond sais.
“You can't. Nobody can.”
“Stop the bus and open the door,” Desmond shouted, now quite agitated.
“I can't.”
“Well, I am hopping out the next time you pick up a passenger.”
“As it happens, you were my last pick up on this round, but even if you weren't, you would not have
been able to get off. You would have found an invisible barrier stopping you, while the person on the
other side getting in would've come through easily.”
“What do you mean, 'the other side'?” asked Desmond visibly agitated.
“Well, let me put it this way. You did something quite uncharacteristic of you today. You remember the
little boy waiting for the school bus while you were also at the bus stop.”
“Yes!”
“You remember, how he, looking the wrong way, stepped off the curb just as the bus came and how
you jumped in front of him, scooped him in one arm, and threw him back on the sidewalk."
“Yes!”
“Well, you didn't get back on the sidewalk in time yourself, Desmond.”
“What! You mean... you mean...I... I am dead.”
“Yes, Desmond.”
“But how can you people do this to me. I did a good dead. And I am only thirty-eight years old. I have a
young wife and two young children.”
“You surprise me, Desmond. According to the records of you billing hours to clients, you are seventy-
six. Now be calm and I'll be dropping people off at heaven or hell, as I am directed. Be seated, please,
we never like to have to use restraints.”
Desmond's eyes rolled up; his mouth fell open, and he collapsed on an empty seat.
EPILOGUE
Desmond arrives at the gates. He expects to be going to hell because of the way he has led his life. But
he ends up in heaven because, when it really mattered, he chose to rescue the little boy even at the
expense of his own life.
Copyright 2009 by Arshad M. Khan
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