THE miracle of WAITING

Agartala, 11.7.2015

My friend, Mr. Chandan waits for death. But, miracle happens in the end.

Of course, there are many beliefs about waiting. Some believe a miracle will happen by waiting. Some indulges carelessly, never worrying about what will befall. Some prepare themselves to be meek and understanding whatever be the outcome.  

  

W

aiting is a game each player play with, variously. Let me say it so!

I was in need of help and needed to approach for my friend’s help as I did not have anyone else to turn to. Mr. Chandan is a wealthy man and a helpful man. He helped many people, had never failed to help me before. However, as is the established fact of life, he has certain negativities to equilibrate his great helpful nature. All through the years, I had known him to have an innate problem of ‘trying to know everything.’ Many people called him ‘Mr. Knowing All.’ Any sorts of argument would not end until everyone submitted to his opinion. Talk about the future: he has the conclusion. Talk about pain and suffering: he is the painful antidote. Talk about beliefs, he will churn you in his own path of belief. When he met youngsters, he would say, ‘You have to study! When I was at your age, I gave tuitions and study at the same time.’ But, secretly I knew too well the number of exams he could not clear, that all his wealth was inherited from his rich father. 

There were times when I told him about my difficulties. But, he could not say out words which would comfort me. It is not in his nature. He is a born ‘know-all.’  He would say, ‘Why? Try to be a man! Try to forget things!’ I always consider him to be an idiot, only the smartest being in his own thinking. But all through I felt I was wrong. Just because I see him as a quarrelsome idiot does not mean that he is a bad person. The preciousness of a human is far too precious to be judged for one cannot read other people’s heart.  

The summer rain drops churns on the roofs as I walked along the empty street. People took temporary shelter under the awning roofs, streets cattle stood under the shade of roadside trees, waiting for the rain to subside. I walked under my raincoat uninterrupted towards my friend’s plushy house. When I pressed the doorbell, the door was opened by a male servant, who immediately helped me in taking off my wet raincoat. 

I asked, ‘Where is your master?’ He pointed toward a long corridor dimly lit at the end. I walked toward the direction and knocked at the already opened door. He slowly stood up and when he saw me, expressed welcoming gestures and said, ‘What the hell brings you here? You’re the least of person I expected to see in this moment!’

I replied philosophically, ‘The unexpected is what we need to expect all the time, Mr. Chandan!’

He said, ‘You’re damn right! The unexpected terrible surprise is what all these waiting will bring forth. And in my case, it’s cancer.’

I could not perceive his intended meaning. And so, I reconciled myself to believing that he meant nothing with those words. I emitted silent smiles as I sat and looked around. A half-cold food with a glass of wine by his side was left untouched. His hairs were tattered, uncombed. He was physically poorer. It was not delightful to see Mr. Chandan in such a sad state under his well fabricated house. Some instinct told me that this time round, I might not get the help I needed. And it was right. He was too much occupied by something else. He did not have time for me.

He looked up and said, ‘I lost my mind. I don’t have anything left in me.’

I said, ‘My friend! You are living in a mansion. You have a beautiful wife, a son, and anything you could think of. Yet, you said you have nothing left?’

He gave a stern look at me and requested me to close the door. He said, ‘I have totally lost my mind. Yet, I cannot tell my family. I can feel the pain as it approaches me. I know I am going to die a slow death. What will happen to my wife and my child?’ I had never seen him sobbing in peril like this before. 

I said, ‘What happened? Why are you in such a peril?’

He said, ‘I’m going to die of cancer, soon.’

I said, ‘What? You’re suffering from cancer?’

He said, ‘Yes! That is it! That is what I’m waiting. Why do I have to wait? Why doesn’t it kill me now, at this very moment? I hate waiting. I hate waiting and having all the time for thinking. I hate living with the burden, waiting for the news that will kill me. I hate living and having nothing to do…..nothing hopeful!’

I asked again, ‘Are you really suffering from cancer?’

He said, ‘Not right now! But I will be….soon enough! I’m waiting for my biopsy report,’ and he waved his mobile phone and continued, ‘The report will be received with this gadget. I’m scared of its every beeping sound. Oh! How I hate this waiting.’

My curiosity built up. I asked, ‘I don’t understand. You’re not yet having cancer, but your mobile message will tell you that you are having cancer and you’re waiting for that?’

He said, ‘Exactly.’

I said, ‘In that case I assume it is the most lousy make-up prediction about the unknown future. Let’s suppose, Mr Chandan, the reports is negative?’

He shouted, ‘How dare you say that? There can be no supposition. What do you know about my condition? Do you think you have even a small glimpse of what it is like to be in my condition?’

I stick firmly to my words and said, ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t see much thing to worry about. I just blankly hope that you will be fine.’

He gnawed his teeth, ‘Don’t dare give me advice. Healthy people should not give advice to the sick. You don’t know shit about what I have been through. It’s been a week I cannot eat nor sleep. I don’t have any energy to do anything. I completely lost hope.’

Any words for comforts were useless. And we sat there, gripped by the sorrow of waiting, waiting for the fatal disease---cancer---that may or may not come forth. 

I broke the silence, ‘I see nothing to worry about. You’re just caught up by the sorrow of waiting, the sorrow of expecting something terrible.’

He said, ‘I’m not to be blamed. Doctors! Doctors! They’re all convicts. See what they have done to me. They give me cancer. They are killing me.’

I asked, ‘How’s that possible?’

He said, ‘Four years ago, I got a tiny blister inside my mouth. I met a doctor who said that it was nothing and it would go away with simple medication. I took the medication, but the blister remains. I met the same doctor again. He gave me the same medication and advised me to chew with the other side of my mouth. Nothing happened. A year passed and then another. And then something happened. Instead of wanting to find the cure, the blister and I started to share some mutual affection. It had turned out to be a good companion. Whenever I felt lonely or something, I would touch it with my tongue and I would be reminded that I was still alive. I was kind of addicted to the low, soothing pain it gives. But then, it started to swell bigger.’

I started to take him seriously. I asked, ‘So….that’s the origin of all these sorrowful waiting…’

He said, ‘I went to a different doctor two weeks ago. The doctors used his special clinical light and examine the swelling blister for a good 15 seconds. I was shivering, and I know from the way he examined me something was very bad. I began to know that the earlier two doctors were hiding the truth. I had the proof that I have been infected with a very bad ulcer. When he was done examining me I said to him that the tiny blister had been malignant tumour, after all!. The doctor, to my disgust said that it was nothing, just a tiny papilloma and would get alright by excision.’

And then I laughed and said, ‘And so, that’s it! It’s not a tumour…after all….,’ with a bounty relief.  

He waved his index finger at me, over and over and said, ‘My friend, you don’t want to understand. You don’t want to know the gravity of the problem. But I understand you. Your kind will never know what this sick man undergoes. But then I urge you to listen! At least.’

I said, ‘As you wish!’

He said, ‘I shouted at the doctor! I screamed at the top of my lungs narrating all the occurrences with the earlier two doctors, telling him they are all convicts. I tell him to tell the truth, that I don’t want myself to fight my disease with the power of ‘not knowing.’ You know that right….Steve! When doctors want money they hide the actual facts and let the patient struggle with hope. And you should know….Steve, hope in medical terms means money. I don’t want myself to be in that boat of fraudulent conduct. If I’m to die, I want the fact. And if I can hope, I’ll know it.’

I said, ‘You’re very right!,’ and although I wanted to add the word, ‘Why? Try to be a man! Try to forget things!,’ But I did not. He is such a best friend and fighting for his own incorrigible way. 

 

He continued, ‘We did the excision after many attempts. It was painful. The terrible things I knew were right, even from the way the surgeon cut it out. But I couldn’t talk. The anesthesia numbed my tongue. I was rested in the operation bed for 3 whole hours. When I could talk, the first thing I asked was the lump. The surgeon showed me. And I said I wanted to take home as some sort of remembrance. He said that he would definitely give him. Inward, I was happy to be relieved of something almost permanent to my being, such a company, such a reminder, such an unforgettable blister and such a terrible tumour. And I wanted to keep as a memory, to stare and to teach my life what life’s all about; that waiting is just waiting for the permanent truth, death. But of course, in different ways.’

I was silenced by my friend’s deep thoughts. 

He said, ‘When I walked out of the operation room, I saw my doctor calling me. I sat on the chair opposite to him and he said that the tiny lump needed to be tested for biopsy. I was right then, filled with darkness. Everything was just blank and hopeless. In hysteria, I asked the doctor why he elongated the process, why he didn’t tell me the whole truth in the first place. He said that any tissue that is taken out of the body needed to be tested and is a prevailing law these days. I did not have anything to say more. I did not want to say more. I paid Rs. 3000 for the excision and Rs. 1000 for the biopsy test. I felt I purchase my death ticket for Rs. 4000. He said that the biopsy report will be known after seven days and that I needed not met him again, it would be sent to me through my mobile number.’

I looked at my friend, speechless. 

He said, ‘I’m to get the result any time now. Steve! I envy you. Indeed, I’m jealous of you to have such a healthy body, free from any rubbish diseases. But for me, it’s over. It’s all just some days or months of waiting….waiting for the final predicament. Every day for the past week I kept thinking, thinking about why I marry my wife just to make her a widow and my son, an orphan. I regret why I was such a selfish being, why I had not helped the needy much more. And most of all why I have to suffer from cancer, why me, amongst all the people in the world.’

I had not much to say more. I gasp and said, ‘I’ll pray to my God for your sake.’

I went back home with a heavy heart. I locked up in my room and pray the whole evening. The next day I didn’t hear from my friend. I expected he would inform me about the result. Two, three days passed, he was still silent. 

One day, I walked along the market and unexpectedly saw Mr. Chandan, holding his son dearly, running towards me. He said, ‘Steve! I’ll tell you what…I’m a new Chandan. I now find the real meaning of life.’  His wife, too, came towards us. They were very happy.  Chandan said, ‘It was not a tumour, just a congested fibrocollagenous tissue. And Steve….one thing! Why did you visit me that day? Did you need anything?’

I said, ‘Yes! I needed some loan from you!’

He said, ‘I’m so sorry. How much do you need? Can we settle it now itself?’

I said, ‘But now I don’t need it any more. The plot of land I promised my wife had been given to another person. I was a little too late.’

He said, ‘Oh! That’s too silly. Another plot of land will come. And then you will have it. My friend….Keep waiting for that miracle.’ I believed that was the sweetest, most encouraging words of advice I ever had in all the years from my friend Chandan.

Today, as I write down about what Chandan had been through, many questions come into my mind. Why did he say that he was a new Chandan? Was it because of the taste of the misery of dying while being alive? Or was it because of the killing of something so inborn in him by his agonizing waiting? Or was it the realization of the fragilities of life? Or was it because of the question of why we live rather than asking why we have to die?

As I am not in his shoes, and never will be, I will not know the real reasons. So, I leave the answers for him.  

Unsuccessful Pheikei

Stephan C. Hmar. 03.01.2015

The torture this winter gave to my ailing physique was worsened by the two fearless rats that constantly ransacked our kitchen. Day or night, they did not give us any break. They had already eaten away a big chunk of the plastic dust bin. They littered stuffs on the floor, collected fish bones and other items of their favourites inside unreachable corners. During any dead of nights, they would bang pots and vessels, raced around the gas stove, dived to-and-fro from one corner to the other, and on top of these, they would squeal with joy. We would listen these menacing sounds from the bed.

I don’t know how many times I gnawed my teeth in anger.   

I had seen them many times, these two rats. They were big, black haired, canny eyed rats and always prowled about in pairs.  Their strategy of looting was to watch and wait for the perfect time---when we were out of the kitchen or out of the house or late in the night when we were asleep. When the perfect time came, they would not waste a second, they would feast on anything they could lay their limps on, with their greedy appetite. Many times I had tried to kill them, but miserably failed always. They were as fast as a moving bullet. They would dash to the big hole beneath the wash tub and disappeared underground.    

The most sickening moment would happen when my wife would run out of the kitchen screaming, Rat!Rat! What shall we do? I am scared. Then she would ask me to check the kitchen if they were still around. This had become a common occurrence, and many times our kitchen errands would get delayed. My wife is hell scared of rats. They are like monsters to her. I am not scared, but disgusted by the sight of them. Whenever I sighted them, annoying saliva of distastes would pile around my throat and that would affect even my appetite.

We came up with many possibilities on how to get rid of them. First, ratʼs poison. But we learnt that poisoned rats usually die inside water tanks or in some secluded corners of the house and their dead carcass would stink awfully before they could even be located. So, poison was a bad idea.

Second, we thought of ratʼs trap. We went to the market to get one. The trap we found was in fact ʿRatʼs Prison,ʾ designed to house the trapped rats alive, inside the trap. How would I like that? I did not want the rats to be seen alive. I wanted them to be trapped, squeezed, bull-dozed, and I wanted to sing a song of triumphant hymn over their dead bodies.

And the story of how to kill the rats grew longer.

We had many things in mind. Like, setting a dynamite on their path. Like, planting a sticky moreah ratʼs glue. But nothing, as gruesome as I had wanted, could not be plotted. Out of frustration and irritation, an idea came up to me. I recollected that there was one type of snare call pheikei that can mercilessly crush rats.  During my teenage years, I used to come across people who would bring home their pheikeis with bundles of crushed rats. The pesky rats met with a brutal, fatal blows of the snare and I could remember them bleeding through their nose, eyes popped out, tongues sticking out between their teeth and some of them with ripped intestines. These brutalities exactly suited what I had in mind. And so, I decided to recreate this brutal ratʼs snare, the pheikei, and gave the worthy death sentence to the two prowling rats.

I carefully checked my remembrance: Pheikei is a snare that makes use of stored potential energy in a bending bamboo. First, you trim a bamboo so that it can bend perfectly, and then on the base of the bamboo, you clutch a strong circular iron railing for the unknowing rat to walk in. Then in between the circular iron, you fix a strong iron wire connected to a strong thread, which in turn is fixed on top of the bamboo. Then, you bend the bamboo, and you equilibrated the potential energy of the bending bamboo by another small bamboo, which will trigger the bamboo, to release its potential energy. This ʼtrigger-bambooʼ is holding both the wire and the thread together. Then another small bamboo is placed in the middle of the circular iron, weakly guarding the ʻtrigger-bambooʼ from  setting off, and also acting as a bait for the unfortunate rat. When the rat walk through the circular iron, it displace the small bamboo placed in the middle, which in turn cause the trigger-bamboo to set off, which in turn cause the bamboo to release its potential energy. It pulled the wire dead tight against the bamboo, trapping the rat in between, giving a slow, painful, gruesome, death for the rat.

I had never made pheikei in my life, and this was how I remember from my teenage years.

First, I needed bamboo, which I easily got. Locking up inside my room, and checking keenly my remembrance, I started recreating pheikei. I collected all the parts needed---a strong iron railing, a strong wire, strong thread, and a pliers for bending the iron rail.  That day, in no time, I recreated the pheikei of my memory. But, it won’t set off. I blamed the bamboo, maybe it was not strong enough. The next day, I collected a better bamboo and started trimming again. My hands started to ache. After another whole dayʼs work, I built the second pheikei. That night I placed the ʿready-pheikeiʾ at the entrance of the rats. When I checked the next morning I saw that the pheikei set-off, but the wire was gone. The rats had eaten away the wire and escaped, leaving the pheikei in shame with a hanging thread.

I did not want to give up the battle. I decided that I should start from the beginning, checking each step minutely, use stronger wire and stronger thread. I collected new bamboo, re-started the process again by trimming. My hands could not bear anymore. There were painful blisters on my palm, my fingers bled. But I carried on saying, No Pain, No Gain. The picture of those ugly rats in my brain had made my determination stronger. After completion of the third pheikei, I had a strong feeling that it would work perfectly. Again, I placed the ʿready-pheikeiʼ with the best of hopes. The next morning I jumped out of the bed with good expectation. I found the pheikei set-off, but half of the bamboo was pulled inside the hole. I slowly pulled out the bamboo, with a hope that the ugly rat would be mercilessly trapped and squeezed. But alas! No rat! The wire was gone completely. The trigger-bamboo was half eaten. The whole thread was gone. I could also see teeth-marks on the sides of the bamboo.

I wiped my face in deep despair. In all, I had invested three days to make three pheikei, but they miserably failed all along. My hatred for the rats grew, I wanted to cry out loud. My wife consoled me, but it was of no use. My hands were steaming with blisters and cuts, I had to eat food using spoon. The squealing sound of the rats in the kitchen grew wilder. We just sit in the room, listening helplessly to the persistent, annoying sounds.

New year day was about to arrive, but I could not be happy. I failed to kill the rats in my house. The pangs in living with the fact that my enemy number 1—rats---still prowling around my house was unbearable. And for that reason, I embarrassingly consider the year 2014 an unsuccessful, unfruitful and one cursed year.  

On the night of 31st December 2014, my wife and I were alone in the house, waiting for the clock to strike midnight. The two rats howled about the kitchen with joy. When the clock struck midnight, my wife prayed, thanking God for all the blessing He showered upon us in 2014, asking Him to renew more of His blessing in the coming 2015. I was deeply touched by her prayer. After the prayer, I went to the kitchen, switched on the light and looked around. I saw the two rats escaping through the hole. I saw a bucket full of rice. I saw two bottles of oils---refined and mustard oil. I saw a packet of salt, a packet of daal, plates, spoons, sugar, frying pan, pots, pressure cookers, buckets full of water, dustbin full of eatables, etc.

Suddenly, strange questions set-off in my mind: Was there any single day in 2014 when I go hungry? Was there any day when my kitchen was without  rice, daal, salt, plates, spoons, water, frying oils? Was there any day when I go begging for food? Was there any day when the plates and curry bowls were deprived of rice and curries?

The answer to all these questions was a big NO.

And then I began to realize that the two fearless rats found my kitchen worth visiting because there was food always. There were ample supplies for them and for their pups too. Summer, winter, spring or autumn, the stocks was always full. Oh! After all, I was a very blessed man. And the rats were there the whole time to tell me that. And then suddenly I regretted why I tried so hard to kill them. I was their saviour, supplier, life-giver. What position was more important than that? And then, I shouted uncontrollably, I love you, my dear rats!

I looked at the three unsuccessful pheikei. I prayed to God in my mind to let all the bad and dreadful things that await to trap me in 2015 to be as unsuccessful as my three very usucccessful pheikei.

THE END