The Catherine Lim Collection
Page 43
“No need to go that far, please,” said her Guardian Angel, Foramina, making a quick movement towards her to prevent the ready removal of her bead girdle, which she was always threatening upon disbelievers.
“All of you should see my evidence,” cried the winner of the top prize who sometimes descended from the heights to show off punctured eye, hacked off limbs, rat-chewed fingers.
“For goodness’ sake – ” cried her Guardian Angel, Forletchmy, rushing forward to restrain her. He let out a deep sigh of weary resignation, in which he was joined by the other Guardian Angels. At their earliest opportunity, they would ask to be relieved of their present jobs and be assigned new duties.
“Wait a minute, this isn’t fair,” cried Dora Warren.
“Just because I haven’t been bruised or burnt or battered does not mean I haven’t suffered. There are hundreds, thousands of women who never received a lash or a kick in their lives but who suffered terribly. There was Charlotte Brontë for example. Her letters quivered with pain. And let me tell you this about myself, sisters. Nobody’s done as much or suffered as much, fighting for the betterment of woman’s lot!”
“What have you done to better woman’s lot? Pray, tell us,” sneered the Scorpion-Receivers.
“For a start, I demythologised this whole sickening thing about Penis Envy that had kept us in thrall for decades. I developed my own Phallacy theory to counter the falsehood!”
“Did your Phallacy Theory stop the men from raping us again and again?” This from the bondmaid ‘Female’, raped by three generations of men and dead from a messed up abortion.
“I made women aware, for the first time, of the insidiousness of men’s language. I inspired them to rise to a new sense of their dignity and identity as women!”
“Did you? Did woman’s new sense of dignity and identity save her from being sold into prostitution by her own parents?” from the little Thai girl, sold as a ‘Virgin Prostitute’ in a Bangkok hotel to cater to aging libidos.
“Oh, but listen! I forced men to stop using only female names for hurricanes, typhoons and other horrid natural disasters and to use male names too. That compelled them to make an amazing paradigm shift, I can tell you!”
“Did your paradigm shift stop fathers from cursing at newborn baby girls so that their frightened mothers would no longer have to kill them at birth or throw them into dustbins?” cried a small, unnamed baby girl still with the strangling rag round her neck, while her Guardian Angel, Fornoname, said soothingly, “There, there, it’s all right. No need to get so upset!”
“Oh, please listen — ” begged Dora, but there arose such a cacophony of hisses, shrieks, yells and curses that she retreated hastily and went running, in tears, to her Guardian Angel.
“I told you,” he said wearily, “but you wouldn’t listen.”
“I suppose I’ll have to be contented with E-Station. Dammit! I had hoped that having gone through so much on Earth, I would deserve more in Heaven!”
“Hey, look who’s here!” said Fordora and he turned, with pleasure, to greet a fellow Guardian Angel whom he had not seen for a long time.
“Hello, Forcharlotte!” cried Fordora heartily. “And what brings you here?”
“Your charge,” said Forcharlotte, “My charge wants to speak to her. See here she comes!” A small prim-looking woman with a severe face and equally severe hairstyle appeared.
“Charlotte Brontë!” gasped Dora Warren. “Fancy meeting you here. I didn’t see you in E or S-Station.”
“I’m in E,” said the lady matter-of-factly, “Listen, I was observing the proceedings just now with great interest and seeing from the start that you stood no chance. Women like ourselves have never made it to S, because, compared to them, we have never known what real suffering is. I only discovered this here. We are the Egg-Receivers and they the Scorpion-Receivers. There’s just no comparison. Take my advice. Be content with E,” and the lady turned to go and slowly disappeared, followed by her Guardian Angel, who clearly adored her.
“What do you think I should do now?” Dora Warren asked her Guardian Angel dispiritedly.
“There are special cases like yours in which we Guardian Angels are authorised to use our judgement,” said Fordora. “And this is what I will do. I am giving you a choice: you either move on to E-Station or return to Earth and see whether you can accumulate the necessary merit to deserve S. Of course I don’t promise you will get S the next time, but I’m just offering you a choice.”
Into Dora Warren’s mind had suddenly flashed a scene which she thought she had dismissed long ago. She saw again the woman on the Allahabad railway platform, crawling out of her rags with her baby, past the money on the ground, in an attempt to touch her with her stump of an arm. She saw herself, not fleeing in terror this time, but crawling to meet this woman, crawling past her theories, past her demythologising and paradigms and syndromes, to meet and touch.
“I think I have made my choice,” she said, “Thank you, Fordora.”
* * *
“Mother, are you all right?” said Josie gently, bending over her as she lay on the hospital bed. She looked around and then down at her bandaged wrists. She felt so tired.
“Mother, you gave us such a fright,” continued Josie, “but you’re okay now, so try to get some sleep, Mother darling.” She was with a boyfriend whom she was going to marry soon, and in her new happiness, was sorry she ever said those nasty things about her mother at the interviews.
Dora continued looking around wearily, then started up, remembering something, and a new look of purpose came into her eyes and brightened them. Seeing a nurse come in, she asked, “Nurse, how soon before I can get up and go on a trip?”
“Heavens, Mrs Warren, you shouldn’t be thinking of trips just yet!” laughed the nurse good-naturedly.
“Josie, could you book me a flight to India, to Allahabad? Soon. Now.”
“Yes, yes, of course, Mother,” said Josie and she and her boyfriend and the nurse exchanged glances that said, “Dora Warren is far, far from well. She will have to be under observation for a long time.”
“Of course, Mother,” repeated Josie, settling her back gently on her pillows, “but first you must have a good rest.”
“Thanks,” said Dora, and was soon asleep.
About The Author
A prolific writer, Catherine Lim has written more than 19 books across various genres – short stories, novels, reflective prose, poems and satirical pieces. Born in 1942 Malaya, Lim was a teacher, then project director with the Ministry of Education and a specialist lecturer with the Regional Language Centre (RELC) before dedicating herself fully to writing in 1992.
Lim has won several national and regional book prizes for her literary contributions, including the National Book Development Council (NBDCS) awards in 1982, 1988 and 1990; the Montblanc-NUS Centre For The Arts Literary Award in 1998; and the 1999 regional Southeast Asian Write Award. She was conferred with an Honorary Doctorate of Literature by Murdoch University, Australia, in 2000 and a Knight of the Order of Arts and Letters by the French Ministry of Culture and Information in 2003. Lim was also Ambassador for the Hans Christen Andersen Foundation, Copenhagen, in 2005.
Many of Lim’s works are studied in local and foreign schools and universities, and have been published in various languages in several countries. She was the first Singaporean author to pen an electronic-novella over the internet, which has since been adapted into a movie.
Besides writing, Lim guest lectures at local and international seminars, conferences, arts/writing festivals and cruise ships worldwide. She has also appeared on radio and television programmes in Singapore, Europe and Australia.
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