My first thought: Why on Earth did Emil Grotesqcu have me give a Calcutta beggar a counterfeit Benjamin?
*
They moved me out of the hospice into a recovery room of sorts, a place whose clientele had reasonable hopes of postponing their meeting with Jesus for a decent interval. They supplied me with a threadbare cotton pajama bottom and a shirt of stitched-together old flour sacks. The visiting barber scraped away the beard I’d sprouted over the past six months. It had helped blend me into the Indian masses, but I was so glad to be rid of that itchy tangle that I didn’t begrudge the lacerations his dull razor added to my already torn up hide. The Sisters brought me some sticks and rags, with which we fashioned field-dressing splints on my broken appendages. I had a few fractured ribs, too, but all you can do about those is endure the pain for six weeks, and with no analgesics, not even an aspirin, endure it I did. They’d swabbed me down with the same untreated water they use for washing clothes, floors and latrines, with the result that my wounds were festering, not healing. The food was at least better than what they’d given me in Tuol Sleng, the Khmer Rouge’s torture chamber, I’ll give them credit for that.
Mother came around again to see how I was getting along. Better, I assured her, and I gave her sincere thanks for her help.
“Tell me, Jake, how did you come to be in India in the first place?” she asked. “Perhaps you had some business here?”
JAKE’S STORY OF THE AMRITSAR MASSACRE
“I work as a consultant,” I explained. “People hire me for advice, or for services, having to do with a variety of situations. My background is military intelligence, so often I’m employed in matters of security. I was approached last year by a man who claimed to represent the Indian government. He wanted to hire me to make assessments of preparedness of the Indian military for anti-insurgency and anti-terrorist defense …”
“There is so much violence and ill-will in this world,” Mother sighed.
“True, unfortunately. The man’s credentials seemed legitimate, and the assignment he outlined seemed within my capabilities, so I agreed to come to India and explore how I could help, with the understanding that a larger assignment would follow if my talents suited the situation.
“I flew into New Delhi in June, and from there took a small plane to Amritsar, in the Punjab region, where my contact met me. We discussed the situation, that region being one of great potential conflict, lying near the border with Pakistan. He told me that ever since the partition in 1948 in which Hindus streamed east and Muslims west, slaughtering each other by the millions as they passed, bad blood has threatened to erupt into war, so I was to advise the intelligence service on how to thwart guerilla attacks. Their headquarters, he confided, was in a most secure fortress, into which I would enter in strictest secrecy, as the program I was to advise was ultra-confidential. He had me change into a uniform, assuring me that it was of a branch of his service and my wearing it was a matter of security, as anyone seeing an American involved would have cause to investigate. Early in the morning we approached an extensive, ornate building in Amritsar. There seemed to be an unusually large number of armed troops in the vicinity, which he explained as standard public safety precautions in border areas. The tanks I noticed in the side streets he explained as being on maneuvers.
“He gave me a cloak to wear over my uniform. We crept in through a side door, and he took me through dark corridors and obscure passages. The men I saw in the building all wore turbans and heavy beards. There seemed to be a lot of religious décor and artwork. He led me through a door that opened onto a walkway leading to a dazzling gold-covered building at the center of a large reflecting pool. That was the headquarters, he told me. His orders were to remain out of sight, so I was to go to the headquarters alone. To gain entrance I should stand in the middle of the walkway and shout the passwords, banchut and matachut…”
“Those are very naughty words,” Mother tut-tutted.
(Sister-fucker and mother-fucker, respectively, I learned later)
“The whole set-up seemed fishy to me, but he removed my cloak with reassurances, and I did as instructed. And all of a sudden guys with turbans and beards popped up and started shooting at me from every direction. Instantly, a rattling cascade of gunfire erupted outside the compound in answer. I had nowhere to run, so I dove into the pool. It was shallower than it looked, and I hit my head on the bottom, which momentarily stunned me, and …”
Just then the racket of a commotion broke out in the reception area, shouts and screams and sounds of breakage. Mother shuffled out and I hobbled along in her wake. A man was running amok, knocking people around, smashing glassware, pounding furniture. A weaselly little fellow, his left leg was cut off at mid-calf and his left eye was scar tissue. He maintained astounding balance on his serviceable leg, the crutch with which he walked made an excellent weapon, and lack of depth perception didn’t hinder his accuracy with it. With two younger Sisters at her side Mother strode up to him and stared him into temporary quiescence. “May I help you?” she asked softly. “Jesus loves you. We Sisters love you.”
The man glanced about furtively. Mother moved in closer. From her bent-over sub-five-foot height she reached up and placed one of her large, wrinkled hands atop his head, beaming an embracing smile. His one good eye held as much evil lust as any other man’s two did, and its glint indicated an intention to avail himself of Sisterly affection. I watched him edge over toward Sister Shalimar, the younger and more comely of Mother’s two accomplices. As his hand snaked down toward the hem of her habit, preparatory to sliding up inside it, I intercepted it with my good hand and, clamping a come-along hold on him, administered enough of Jesus’s kisses that he quietly wilted and sat down on the floor.
“Mother’s hands are so soothing,” Sister Shalimar gushed.
“You poor man,” said Mother. “What brings you to our Mission? How ever did you descend to this sorry state of desperation and violence?”
“Let me tell you my story,” said the man.
THE POOR MAN’S STORY
“When I was a little lad I enjoyed a happy home. My younger sister, Lakshmi, and I basked in our mother’s sweet and ever-flowing love. Father was a stern but upright man and well thought of in our village. He was kind to my sister and me. He must not have inherited these traits from his mother, however, because she became jealous of his affection for our mum and one day doused her with kerosene from the cooker and burnt her to death before our horrified eyes. This happenstance completely undid father. He became listless and ineffectual, neglectful of both family and village duties. Eventually he took to drinking to excess, which caused him to beat me and my sister viciously. Finally it became too much to bear, so one day I laced his spirits with wood alcohol, blinding him and sending him insane. Not long after that he stumbled into a latrine and drowned.
“A kindly merchant in the village took us orphans into his home and undertook to raise us as his own children. However, after several comfortable and contented years a most terrible thing happened. My little sister, at the age of eleven, took it upon herself to seduce me, wiggling her cute little bottom before me, showing succulent little toes and enticing ankles from under her sari, smiling at me in invitation all too plain to see. Finally I was lured to caress her, and she then made her evil intentions clear by resisting and fighting my advances, all too aware that doing so would only inflame my passion the more. In fact, I had to beat her unconscious before I succumbed to her wiles and had my way with her.
“The merchant, returning home that evening, found her in a tearful state of collapse. He pressed her for an explanation and, believing the lies she told to cover her sinful behavior, he thrashed me mercilessly and cast me from his premises. I bundled up my meager belongings and left, taking with me also the money I had found hidden in a little chest behind the collection of pornographic artwork on his shelf. Being young and inexperienced I fell in with unsavory
companions and soon my funds had dissipated. I cast about for a way to earn my crust and was taken up by a man who managed an organization of beggars. The usual practice in India is for beggars to affect disguises for sympathy—false wounds, fake injuries, feigned mental impairment and so forth. My master was of the opinion that genuine deformities opened the gates of compassion wider, so he cut off my foot and blinded my one eye and, once the wounds healed, set me up on a busy corner in a well-to-do section of this city. In fact my injuries, not to mention my outspoken anguish at having sustained them, worked wondrously well, and soon I was raking in more revenue than any other of his crew. Then I received a letter from my beloved sister, which told a story of profound sadness…
THE POOR MAN’S SISTER’S STORY
“Oh my dear brother,” said her letter, “I have written this secretly and sent it in hopes of its reaching you, persuading one of my customers to post it in return for providing him extraordinary services (I pray he honors the bargain we made). I am in deepest despair and have nowhere else to turn. After you left, our merchant benefactor, reflecting that once the end of the loaf is cut off no one notices a few subsequent slices, took up having his way with me. Inspired by his collection of vile pornographic art, his disgusting demands became insatiable. However, spies working on behalf of his rivals in the village observed his taking liberties with me and spread the word. Rather than admitting to his sins he denounced me as a whore and sold me to a brothel located near an army encampment. As I was young and pretty, soon my favors were in great demand every Saturday night, not to mention on holidays, which as you know occur with great frequency, reflecting as they do the variety of religions in our nation. It has reached the point where many nights I get only an hour of sleep between one evening’s onslaught of lustful soldiers and the next morning’s resumption of my loathsome duties to service the townspeople. I am exhausted and at wit’s end. The brothel keeper tells me that my freedom can be bought for 50,000 rupees. Please, please, please save me from these dreadful nights. Signed, your loving sister, Lakshmi”
“Needless to say, her letter ripped my heartstrings loose from their moorings. What could I do? What choice did I have? Thinking to redeem her and thus rescue her from the consequences of her depravity and set her back on an honorable path, I started holding back from my daily takings. However, my master soon caught on. Not sympathetic in the least to my altruistic program, he beat me bloody and cast me out into the street with naught but the rags on my back.
“What could I, crippled, half-blind and destitute, do then? A man must live, after all. I sought honest employment to the point of starvation, but being impaired with no one willing to testify to my good character, my efforts turned up fruitless. Grasping the last straw, I joined a band of dacoits who specialized in snatching purses and picking pockets. My role was to lag behind the snatcher and, if a victim gave chase, to trip him up with my crutch. This proved a lucrative occupation until one day the police took notice and began a program of surveillance on me. I ask you, have the police such a right as that to interfere with a poor man’s living? Not even an hour ago I noticed the hounds of the state on my trail, so to evade their persecutions I steeled myself to prevail upon your charity to those in dire need.
“And that is my tale of woe,” he concluded.
“Talk about sad,” sighed Sister Shalimar.
“You poor, poor man,” said Mother. “Jesus loves you, you know. He never forgets the poor, the suffering or the desolate. He resides in them through all eternity. We offer sanctuary to the oppressed, but we cannot provide you lodgings here. Come, share a meal with us. You will see in action the love of Christian charity, perhaps leading you to the first steps toward a productive and compassionate life here on Earth, and salvation in the Hereafter. Please accept this prayer card, with my blessing. Follow me.”
“A thousand thank yous, Mother,” said the poor man, stuffing the prayer card into a grimy pocket. “I am grateful beyond words for your benevolent offer to assuage my woes.”
As they started toward the food tables I put a hand on Sister Shalimar’s shoulder and held her back. “Keep an eye on everything not nailed down,” I whispered.
“Goodness resides in all God’s creatures,” she replied quietly.
That evening the dishwashing crew found their utensil count short a few items.
So I never did finish telling Mother how the KGB had set me up, hoping the CIA would be blamed for provoking the civil war that was sure to result in the wake of a massacre at the Amritsar Golden Temple of the Sikhs, to which the Indian army had brought tanks and artillery to dislodge the Sikh rebels who’d taken control of the Temple and were demanding a separatist Sikh state. All hell subsequently broke loose across that benighted country, and me in the thick of it. But that’s a story for another time…
*
I’d been at Mother’s Mission three days, helping where I could and watching the Sisters go about their business. A humble lot, they washed their white habits in buckets of water, brushed their teeth with ashes from the kitchen stove, had no personal possessions, lived in as severe poverty as their clientele. They taught the slum children to read and had the girls learn typing as a means of finding work. Many of the Sisters had come to the Mission as children and found a permanent occupation there. They worked hard and accomplished great good.
As I lay on my charpoy—now outfitted with a slightly more comfortable pad—concerned that my wounds were not healing and wondering what to do next, Mother approached. “How are you feeling today, Jake?” she asked.
“Not much better,” I admitted. “I really think I’d benefit from more advanced medical care.”
“It is in Jesus’s hands,” she said. “We do the very best we can, but medicine is not our specialty. We did send word to the American consulate, and we expect we will be hearing from them. Until we do, there is no place we can send you. But listen. I noticed how you assisted me in calming down our recent visitor, and I very much appreciate it, as he was not responsive to my gentle ministrations. Certainly you saved Sister Shalimar some embarrassment. I was wondering if, while you are staying with us, you might help us by, um, insuring that the better angels of our visitors emerge, as you did with that poor man, should the need arise again.”
“Sure,” I said. “And let me know if there is any other way in which I can lend a helping hand.”
“So much to be done,” she sighed. “So many are in need…”
“How did you come to this line of work, Mother?” I asked. “I understand you hail from Albania. That is quite a distance from here.”
“It is a long story…” she began.
MOTHER’S STORY
“I was born many years ago, in the city of Skopje, in the region of Macedonia that was at that time Serbia, then became Albania. My father was a prosperous merchant and entrepreneur, as well as active in politics. He was a learned man and spoke Albanian, Turk, Italian, French and Serbo-Croatian. My mother was active in the Roman Catholic Church. We lived well, in a happy, upright home. Following the Great War my father made a trip to Belgrade for a political conclave. He returned home sick and hemorrhaging, and soon died, we suspect of poisoning by his political enemies. Then his erstwhile Italian partner seized the assets of their business, leaving the surviving family virtually penniless.
“Despite our poverty my mother was always charitable. ‘Never eat a single mouthful unless you are sharing it with others,’ was one of her tenets. She saved for the poor and cared for the destitute. So I learned charity and service to the less fortunate right from the cradle. I learned about suffering also from tales told by people from the nearby villages. One old woman told me a story that affected me deeply, which I remember clearly to this day…”
THE OLD WOMAN’S STORY
“My family originated in a village high in mountains not too distant from here,’ the old woman told me. ”My village has a tradition goi
ng back centuries, and it contains lessons for us all. Long, long ago a Serbian army came to the village and demanded that the villagers surrender. The men of the village, being proud and war-like, refused. The Serbian delegation became overbearing in their demands, so the villagers killed a couple of them. The Serbians therefore surrounded the village and laid siege to it. The village men thought nothing of it because, being atop a hill, it was easily defended by armed men.
“However, in their pride the men overlooked that the village had not provided for an extended siege, nor, with the Serbs controlling the roads, could they procure food or other essential goods. Soon the village larders were emptied of ready food. Next the village ate their reserves, then their seeds. They ate their livestock, then their dogs and cats. With the cats gone, rats multiplied, so the villagers ate the rats. Meanwhile the Serbian army camped down the hill, singing, drinking, carousing …waiting.
“After all the rats, mice and other vermin were gone, the villagers ate their shoes and their harnesses. They sucked the glue from book bindings. Parents gave their infants sips of their own blood to sustain their little lives. Starvation seemed inevitable. The villager elders in desperation formulated a final, hideous plan: To save the village, each woman would sacrifice one buttock which, stewed with tree leaves and thistles, would maintain the village one more day while all prayed for deliverance. Looking ahead, they concluded that it was best to spare the prettiest women (most of whom were wives of village elders) until the very end in the interests of re-populating the village when the siege lifted. This plan greatly distressed the village women, of course, but all faced certain starvation unless they made this sacrifice. The plan commenced, and the village resisted the siege for two more agonizing months.
“Then their prayers were answered. The Turkish army marched in from the other direction and in short order routed the Serbs, who had grown fat and complacent and lost their fighting spirit while awaiting the village surrender. A cheer rose up from the villagers, but alas their joy was short lived.
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 21
