Orphan (Hunger Book 1)

by Scott Richards

  His mother had been a stunningly beautiful woman, and Mohinder was now a handsome young man, and, unlike the majority of his peers, was clean shaven, although he did let his hair grow long enough to form a ponytail.

  Mohinder told Fires that Hindu’s were supposed to keep their hair clean by wearing the traditional turban, but Mo washed his daily and felt no urge to hide his tresses under such a stifling rag, as he called it.

  He kept his hair braided in a silver clasp off to the left side of his face during the daytime, but removed it in the evenings to let his long black flowing locks frame his dark and angelic face.

  Fires admired him and wished he too could grow his hair straight and long like Mohinder had done, but his always went into unruly and straggly curls after it was washed.

  He detested them and so he would have it mercilessly chopped off. At one point he was even tempted to shave it all off like Hennie Lubner, but Mohinder talked him out of that notion.

  ‘Come on then, Fires...It’s time to shave you like a man.’

  For the past five years, Fires and Mohinder had attended school together, often done their homework together, shared the chores and always played together like brothers.

  They laughed loudly down by the river, throwing each other into the swirling dark of the murky waters, swimming, splashing around as teenagers will do, teasing and tormenting one another with jibes and trying to out-do the other in all things, particularly diving.

  Mohinder even cuddled with Fires during those early nights at the Valjee household, when nightmares of his own Great Trek had re-visited Fires in the early hours as he slept fitfully, re-living the horrors of the war in his homeland.

  Now they stood unashamedly naked together in the glaring white of the tiled bathroom, listening to the muted sounds of packing and cleaning in readiness for the voyage to Natal, washing their sun-browned bodies.

  Mohinder methodically lathered soap suds into a bowl with a large horse-hair brush and then sharpened the cut-throat on the strop hanging by the side of the basin stand.

  He gently slaked the soft lather onto the fine fuzz on his brother’s cheeks and chin, smoothing it carefully around his mouth and avoiding his lips before slowly scraping the blade over his skin.

  Soon, Fires’ face was smooth, and devoid of any trace of whiskers, and Mohinder wiped the remaining stray soap suds from his face, watching intently as Fires wiped himself dry with the towel.

  ‘Now you are a smooth, handsome young man, Janse Van Valjee, just like your brother...’ Mohinder murmured, cupping Fires face within the soft brown palms of his hands and looking into his eyes.

  Fires gazed back at the older youth and smiled his thanks.

  Mohinder was a hypnotically handsome man, Fires realised, but he was totally unprepared and shocked when his elder brother leaned forward and brushed those soft warm lips against his own.

  He pulled back, a little embarrassed by the kiss, and felt his cheeks suddenly flush with heat, looking deep into Mohinder’s large eyes with a quizzical expression...Searching...Probing.

  ‘I love you more than you could ever know, Fires...’ he said softly, then turned aside looking ashamed, ‘Now let’s get to bed, boetie, we have a long day ahead tomorrow...’

  That night Fires slept fitfully again, but not due to any nightmares or thoughts of home this time. He was continually puzzling over the strange actions of his elder brother and running his hand over the smoothness of his newly shaved flesh, wondering how long it would be before he had to shave again, and why Mohinder had kissed him, but by the following morning he had dismissed it and forgotten about it.

  They were far too busy piling their belongings onto the cattle cart to ferry to the quayside for him to give it much more thought, but from time to time, the scene replayed itself in his mind.

  Only his mother had ever kissed him before, and never on the lips, never as softly, or as lovingly, as Mohinder had done that night.

  ‘Maybe brothers did such things...?’

  He was an only child and never had a brother, so how was he to know?

  By mid-morning the family finally locked up the front door of the house, which Mohanlal’s solicitor had been given instructions to place on the market for sale shortly after their departure, and were making their way down to the docks to board their ship, the SS Shah Allum.

  The voyage to Natal was a relatively trouble-free experience for all parties concerned, though Mohanlal did seem to spend a lot of the time gazing out to sea or throwing up over the side, or hiding in his cabin to sleep it off and try to allay the sea sickness.

  Fires and Mohinder shared a double bunked birth, very similar to the one Fires had shared for those fateful days with Hennie, except that this one had a porthole that they could look out of together – not that there was much to see other than the waves.

  It occasionally made Fires a little sad at the untimely death of the man who had saved his life and changed it forever, and he would gaze wistfully out to sea through this tiny window, rolling the gold medallion absent-mindedly around in his fingers, hoping that there was indeed a heaven and that there was, perhaps, room up there for Hennie Lubner.

  Still, he reflected, he was a fare paying passenger now and able to dine in comfort with his family and the other travellers, and had even been invited to sit at the Captain’s table once, before retiring to his cabin and the welcoming warmth of his berth.

  Fires had claimed the upper bunk and, one night, just before they arrived in Durban, he laid awake, tossing and turning and replaying that kiss over in his mind.

  Mohinder’s muted voice came from below him in the dark,

  ‘What’s wrong, little brother...? Trouble sleeping...?’

  ‘Why did you kiss me, Mo...?’ he responded.

  ‘Because I love you, Fires...’ Mohinder said immediately, without the slightest trace of hesitation.

  ‘You wouldn’t love me so much if you knew about my past life in South Africa, Mohinder...about the things I did to get from my home near Pretoria down to Durban...what I did to survive...’

  ‘Perhaps not, but you did what you had to do in order to survive. And you did manage to survive, despite the odds. You came into my life at a time when I had lost my own little brother, my sister and mother, so surely that is a good thing, yes...?’

  ‘Maybe...but there are things that I have done, unspeakable things that are best you never know of...’

  ‘Yes, Fires, maybe this is so, but I too have my own guilty secrets. Things from my past that I also feel very ashamed of...Things that I have seen and done that I have never told you about.’

  ‘Bad things...?’ Fires asked cautiously.

  ‘I did not think of them as bad things at the time that they were done, but they have begun to make me an outcast...Someone who is shameful and a person to be shunned...’

  ‘Tell me, Mo,’ Fires said, curious to learn more about his brother and wondering if it had anything to do with his religion.

  ‘Another time perhaps, when you feel that you are ready to tell me your secret sins. Now please try to get some sleep, will you...? We disembark in your homeland tomorrow...’

  ‘I know...’ Fires murmured, but more softly he added, ‘I know.’

  Surely, he thought to himself, there could be no greater sin than that of eating the flesh of another human being?

  Their secrets remained unshared for the next twelve months.

  By March of 1906, the family was renting a two-bedroom house in Umgeni Road, hawking their fruit and vegetables from a stall outside on the pavement and using the back room for secretly plying their trade as goldsmiths.

  The other downstairs room at the front of the house was used as a kitchen cum dining space, whilst the upper two rooms were used as traditional bedrooms, with the back one being adapted to create a makeshift bathroom for them.

  Mohinder and Fires shared the front bedroom and Mohanlal slept in the back bedroom, where all three of them would bathe behind a hastily hung cur
tain before the old man retired for the night.

  Mohanlal claimed that the smell of the bath salts and soap hid the stench of the metal works below enough to allow him to sleep and that the aromas soothed him and made him feel more relaxed.

  They were making good money from both enterprises and were all hoping that soon they would have saved enough spare cash to buy a property in a better part of Durban...

  On April 4th of that year, in a smoke-clouded, noisy shebeen on the outskirts of Durban, three drunken men, who were members of a local amalaita gang, hatched a plan to burgle the foreigners’ house on Umgeni Road, and to relieve them of the gold and jewels that they must keep there.

  They had been informed that the fruit business was just a front for their other business of gold smiths and jewellers to the rich middle classes of the area.

  By 8.00am of the following day, the three black men had watched the foreigners’ house in eight hour shifts over the previous twenty-four hours, in spite of the risks they were taking of being caught breaking the 9pm curfew, and unanimously decided that they would have to act soon.

  They also decided, after some heated debate between them, that they would probably need to carry some weaponry on the job as insurance, mainly because of the close proximity of a tightly knit community of neighbours likely to lead to unwanted attention, or worse, interruptions.

  The izinduku, or fighting sticks, might have been enough, but the consensus between the men, after their discussions, had been that knives would be far better for this job.

  Indians reputedly always carried knives...

  On the 7th of April, Mohanlal and Mohinder prepared a special sixteenth birthday supper as a surprise for Fires, after sending him out on various errands delivering the fruit and vegetables to one of Mohanlal’s regular customers, using the time he was away to lay on the feast and cook all of the dishes themselves.

  It was a sumptuous meal, enjoyed by all, and although they were Hindus, Mohanlal and Mohinder saw no wrong in opening three bottles of vintage red wine that an appreciative customer had left in part payment for his recently acquired bracelet.

  Their bellies were filled almost to bursting point, but the three men remained seated around the table, sipping at the wine and talking about business, their plans for the future expansion and how far they had come since arriving here the previous year.

  They toasted Fires’ health, wished him a happy birthday and were having a really good time.

  Fires thought that he had never seen Mohanlal look so splendid in his formal evening wear, and Mohinder had also made a special effort to look smart, casting aside his usual silver hair clasp for a more delicate filigree gold one composed of writhing snakes.

  Mohanlal’s moustache now held more than a touch of grey, as did the hair at his temples and he cleared his throat and looked more sternly at his dinner companions after the toasts.

  ‘That bloody fool Gandhi is causing trouble here for us,’ Mohanlal said bluntly.

  ‘Who is Ghandi?’ Fires asked, putting down his glass and reaching for the decanter to top up his glass.

  Mohinlal frowned, and swirled the dregs of his own wine around the bottom of the glass, then sighed,

  ‘A hot-shot lawyer, who used to live to the south of here on Grey Street, but now he practices from an office in Johannesburg...’

  ‘And what sort of trouble is he causing, father?’ Mohinder asked.

  ‘It started with the Natal Indian Congress...’ Mohanlal started.

  ‘I’ve heard of that,’ Mohinder said distractedly nodding.

  ‘Yes, well...’ Mohanlal smiled, ‘he’s escalated his actions on what have come to be known as the “satyagraha campaigns”, but there is more...’

  ‘Tell us, father.’ Fires said flatly.

  Mohanlal cleared his throat,

  ‘Some of the black Africans have been involved in a revolt here in Natal and at least two policemen have been killed. It doesn’t bode well for us...’

  ‘How do you mean, father...?’ Mohinder enquired.

  ‘Well,’ Mohanlal continued, ‘the authorities have declared martial law, prosecuted twelve of the Africans and condemned them to be put to death...’

  Fires cursed, but Mohanlal held up his hand to silence them both,

  ‘They will be strapped onto the mouths of cannon, apparently. A horrible way to die...but Gandhi has made matters much worse.’

  ‘How...?’ Fires asked, feeling a growing knot of unease swell in his stomach.

  ‘How...?’ Mohanlal repeated, scowling across the table at his adopted son, ‘He actually praised William Morcum for stating that twelve lives are to be forfeit for the sake of just two and that the policemen were killed before martial law had been declared, so the matter should have been tried by the Supreme Court...’

  ‘Which means...?’ Mohinder pressed.

  ‘It means that brown faces are now no longer seen as any different to black ones here in South Africa and that we are challenging the authorities, Mohinder.’

  ‘But that’s rubbish, father.’

  Fires nodded his agreement with this sentiment and added,

  ‘We are here as a legitimate family business, aren’t we...? We have no political axe to grind one way or the other, and certainly have no affiliation to Gandhi, other than the fact that we come from the same country as he does...’

  ‘We, Fires...? I appreciate your loyalty to the family, but you are not one of us.’

  Fires reddened at this,

  ‘I am, according to my papers, Janse Van Valjee, and I am one of you...Your troubles are mine too...father.’

  ‘That may well be, young man, but ultimately there are people here who will see the distinction between your skin and ours, and that will be fuel for the fire, if you’ll pardon the expression...They will not take kindly to what they see as one of theirs siding with trouble makers...’

  ‘So,’ Mohinder asked, ‘what is to be done?’

  ‘Tonight...? Nothing...Sleep, I think, is the order of the day, but in the morning we are going to have to take stock and decide on a plan of action...’

  Mohinder and Fires regarded each other pensively over their wine glasses glistening brightly in the table’s candlelight, and then Fires broke the silence, speaking softly but firmly to Mohanlal,

  ‘I am not leaving. This is my home and you are all the family that I have ever known for the past six years. I stay. Verstaan jy...?’

  Mohinder and Mohanlal now exchanged amused glances, shrugged and then smiled grimly at Fires.

  ‘So be it. Ek verstaan, Fires.’ Mohanlal said, and then added, ‘Now, off to bed with you, please. I’m getting far too old for this sort of thing. Goodnight, gentlemen. Lekker slaap...’

  He excused himself and went up to his bedroom, with Fires and Mohinder following shortly afterwards, not bothering with any of their usual night-time ablutions, as they decided it was far too late for boiling the water, and besides which, the wine had taken its toll on all of them.

  Fires felt a little giddy from the effects and collapsed clumsily onto his bed, spread-eagled across the light cotton sheets and gazing blankly up at the ceiling whilst Mohinder undressed.

  He looked across from his bedside at the unmoving Fires, made a disgusted and undisguised tutting sound of contempt, then padded barefoot and naked over to him, grabbed his arms and gently pulled him to his feet.

  ‘Come on you drunken boetie, let’s get you ready for bed...’

  Mohinder unfastened the cuffs of his shirt, pulled the shirt flaps free from his trouser waistband, and then began working his way down the buttons at the front.

  Fires giggled and initially tried to help, although his clumsy efforts hindered the process, so Mohinder impatiently slapped his younger brother’s hands aside and continued.

  He slid the shirt from Fires’ shoulders and unbuttoned the fly of the light cotton trousers, then the clasp and allowed them to fall to the floor.

  He held Fires firmly but gently by the sho
ulders to steady him and told him to step out of them, which he managed to do without losing his balance or falling flat on his face.

  ‘I feel weird, Mo,’ Fires whispered.

  ‘Well, you probably shouldn’t have gulped down that third glass of wine...Now hold still.’

  Mohinder knelt and slid Fires’ underwear down around his ankles and let him step out of the shorts, then stood facing him.

  Mohinder placed both palms flat against Fires’ chest, either side of the small gold medallion, and then he gave the youth a light push, causing him to fall backwards onto the bed once more.

  Mohinder grabbed his ankles and spun him around on the bed so that he was laying lengthways on it.

  Fires looked up at Mohinder, smiling stupidly at him, murmuring a muted and idiotic, ‘Thanks...’ and was about to say more when he noticed the far away look in Mohinder’s brown eyes.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mo...?’ he asked.

  Mohinder pressed his lips into a thin line, gently shook his mane of black tresses and turned aside to walk around to his own bed.

  ‘Nothing...’ Mohinder said over his shoulder, not sounding at all like the Mohinder that Fires had always known, and certainly not convincing.

  ‘Tell me, Mo...what is it...? What’s bothering you...?’

  Mohinder turned and sat at the foot of Fires’ bed, one leg crooked under him, the other bare foot resting on the cool wooden floor, he gazed across at his adopted brother in the gloom.

  ‘Sometimes it bothers me to be so near to you, Fires.’

  ‘Why? What bothers you?’

  ‘Your body...Your nakedness...’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Mohinder, you’ve seen me naked countless times. We bathed and swam together hundreds of times in the river back home. Why should it bother you? It doesn’t bother me...’

  ‘Because you are not like me, Fires...You are not like me at all.’

  ‘In what way...?’

  Mohinder sighed heavily.

  He had to tell someone, so why not Fires?

  ‘I am, and always have been, attracted to men, little brother, for as long as I can remember...sexually...I like men, not women.’