The Blue Notebook

by MD James Levine

  He awakens long before he appears. As soon as I hear movement from his room, I hide what I have been writing behind the cushion of the armchair. I hear him use the toilet, run the bath, and speak on the phone. He switches on some modern music. It must be at least an hour before he comes out from the bedroom. He is wearing a long white robe and his messy hair is wet. I have a strange impulse to go and dry his hair but this urge only crosses my consciousness like a rustling of leaves in the breeze. He walks over to me. I do not fear him but look downward in a show of deference. It is not by design that my eyes fall to the spot on the floor where I had been his football the night before. “Here,” he says, and thrusts a piece of paper toward me. “Thank you,” I say as I take it from him. “Read it,” he says. It is a poem.

  My Sword

  My sword is made from the finest steel

  And flies at every thrust

  It parries opposition

  To never break my trust

  My arm is always forward

  My eyes have focused sight

  My guard is always ready

  I never lose a fight.

  His handwriting is far tidier than mine and the penmanship is flowing and without correction, which leads me to believe that he wrote a draft and that this is the final copy. It is the poem of a boy. I look up at him and smile. “It is brilliant, master.”

  I see he is not accustomed to praise, as he smarts. “Well, it is certainly better than yours,” he says. “Yes, it is … would you teach me to write like you?” I ask. “Well, first of all, a poem has to rhyme. Yours didn’t rhyme properly—it was rubbish.” “Next time, master, I will write in a rhyme, if I can. Will you let me write you another poem, I beg of you?” He answers, “Well, I have to go out today with Father. Write me a poem while I am out and I will read it tonight.” I answer, “I will try my best … but please do not be angry if it is not good … I will have to study if it is to be like yours.” This angers him; my attempted subservience was in error. He throws his head back and raises his voice. “If you think someone like you can ever write like me, you are more stupid than I imagined.” I fall at his feet and grasp his ankles. “Please, master, give me another chance. You are right, you are so right. I will never write as you do … I can only try my best.” I feel the tension alter in his feet muscles as he adjusts his body against my hands. I press my head to his feet. He orders me to get up. “Thank you, thank you, Master Iftikhar,” I whimper. He orders, “Switch on the television and clean yourself up.” I switch on the television and hand the control box to his outstretched hand. I go to the bathroom, which is becoming my refuge. Iftikhar was not tidy; water has pooled on the floor and wet towels are strewn everywhere. Just before I turn on the bath, I hear him talking on the phone again.

  I smile as I lie in the hot water; I have been compelled to write all day long at the bidding of my master.

  I did not stay for long in the hot water. I dried quickly, put the dress back on, and returned to Iftikhar. He was watching television. I entered silently but he heard and called to me, “Come here.” I went over to him and sat on one of the armchairs; I did not lean back, as the furniture invited me to do, but instead sat upright. The morning sun was shining in my eyes. I had no sense of his current mood; suffice it to say he was not exuberant. “Get on your knees.” The hot water had stung my abrasions and my face pounded from the previous night. I knelt in front of him. I knew from experience that the encounter would not take long but I feared the consequence of its brevity. I started to stroke his thighs through his robe and almost immediately saw his bhunnas hardening. I was trying to work out how best to proceed when fate intervened.

  Fate is a misplaced retreat. Many people rationalize an unexplained event as fate and shrug their shoulders when it occurs. But that is not what fate is. The world operates as a series of circles that are invisible, for they extend to the upper air. Fate is where these circles cut into the earth. Since we cannot see them, do not know their content, and have no sense of their width, it is impossible to predict when these cuts will slice into our reality. When this happens, we call it fate. Fate is not a chance event but one that is inevitable; we are simply blind to its nature and time. We are also blind as to how fate connects one occurrence to another.

  There was a knock on the door. “Hell,” Iftikhar said, “breakfast is here.” He stood up and I fell off him. “Come in,” he shouted. The bulge through his robe was still evident as a gentle shadow in the morning sunshine. The food man entered carrying a tray of breakfast and laid it on the table. He was the same man I had seen the previous day, but this time he glanced at me with dislike rather than flirtation. The seemingly ever-present, ever-invisible doorman sealed me back in with Iftikhar when the food man left; two pickles in a jar.

  Iftikhar surveyed the morning’s food. I remained sitting, perched on the edge of the armchair. Iftikhar sat at the place that had been laid for him at the head of the table. The plates were made from delicate, almost transparent white porcelain with a gold-patterned rim. The porcelain may have been delicate but Iftikhar was not. He drank tea like a common man, holding the tea cup clasped in his hand rather than by the cup handle as Father Matthew did. As his sipped, he looked at me. “Turn the television so that I can see it.” He knew that I was watching him eat. I was hungry but I was well conditioned to be so.

  At times in my nest I would dream of food, and on each occasion, the dream would contrive for me not to be fed. For instance, in one dream I was behind bars. I saw a feast in front of me in a far-off room, but could not break through the bars despite their being made of paper. In another dream I was swimming in the river when I saw a festival feast being laid out on the river’s bank, but however hard I swam I could not reach the bank, even though the water appeared still. In both these dreams my feelings deceived me, for on both occasions I was hungry but did not strive to eat. This is how I felt now, hungry but not wanting to be at the table.

  I noticed that Iftikhar drank unsweetened black tea and liked a breakfast of eggs and sausages. For a little man he seemed to eat an incredible amount. He ate like a hungry person even though I knew he could not be. He held his knife and fork in an undignified style, grasping each implement in his fist. He jabbed at the sausage pieces the way I used to stab for fish in the river. He did not take his eyes from mine as he ate, that same steely gaze.

  As he wiped his mouth on his sleeve he said to me, “Now, come over here and finish what you started.” It seemed that my previous dilemma had been postponed rather than canceled. He pushed his chair back from the table, half stood up, and pulled his robe up over his thighs. He sat back down with his entire lower body exposed and parted his legs. I knelt before him and looked ahead between his legs. His bhunnas was hardening before my gaze. It was shorter than my fist. He had a dense patch of curly hair that extended up his upper thighs and stopped at his testicles, which were completely hairless. It looked as though the artist who made him had dabbed a splash of black paint down there for good measure but had then given up when she realized her painting was displeasing.

  I placed my palms on the outside of his thighs again and gently started to stroke up and down. I lowered my head and started to kiss the inside of his right knee. I could taste remnants of soap on his skin. I heard him moan and then felt his thighs contract on my head. He cried out. I looked up and saw that he was emitting his essence skyward. It had taken seconds. They were short little white squirts, six of them. His bhunnas must have been slightly angled to the right, as some of the juice splashed onto his right thigh and then slid downward. The remainder was in my hair. I hesitated and then drove my head deep between his thighs and started hungrily kissing both his legs. I pushed my head into him so that his thighs divided and I started to kiss his scrotum. I moaned, “Oh master … oh master … thank you. You are …” Before I could finish my empty applause, he grabbed my hair in his fist, pulled my head up, and threw me away from him. As I flew backward, my shoulder hit the table’s edge. My head
flicked backward and struck the table with a loud thump. The table shook. The force was so strong that my head flicked back a second time and hit the tabletop again, although the second impact was negligible. I slumped onto the soft carpet and knew to close my eyes and not to move.

  Above me Iftikhar shouted out “Oh shit” repeatedly as a mantra of self-rebuke. First he lightly kicked me with his foot to see if I would respond. I did not. Then he knelt down and shook my shoulder. He placed his hand on my head before quickly removing it and repeating his mantra; I realized my blood must be on his hand. My head was pounding, my shoulder stung, but I was fine. I wanted to be back on the street and I prayed my submission would get me there. Tiger was furious and roared. “Shh, shh Tiger. I am fine—behave yourself.”

  Iftikhar ran for the main door, found that he had locked it, and pounded on it. He shouted out, “Help—open the door, open the door.” He ran to the bedroom, presumably to fetch the key, but I heard the door unlocking. Iftikhar ran back to the main room screaming, “Quick! Get Mr. Vas … get Mr. Vas.” The door opened. Within moments, a person knelt beside me who smelled of the streets. He gently shook my floppy shoulder and stroked my hair; he whispered in my ear, “Are you awake, little girl?” I was silent. I opened my eyes a slit to see the white hair on the back of the elderly doorman’s head. He was calling to Iftikhar, “Hurry, she needs a doctor, quickly call a doctor, call the doctor!” Iftikhar was on the phone. In a panicked voice he said, “Come. You need to come … right now … there’s been an accident with the girl … she fell.” Just as he put the phone down, I heard a woman’s voice coming from the vicinity of the door. It was Hita. She cried out, “Oh heavens, oh heavens, not again.” I could feel the rush of air ahead of her as she ran toward me. She knelt beside me and shouted at the doorman to get out. “But she needs a doctor,” he cried; Hita screamed, “Get out! Now!” The door slammed shut.

  I felt Hita’s bony fingers on my neck and then she proclaimed to herself, “She’s alive … she’s alive.” I felt Hita kneel close to me. “I feel her breathing. Call Mr. Vas,” she ordered Iftikhar. “I have already,” he answered in panic. She called in my ear, “Batuk, Batuk darling. Can you hear me?” She gently shook my shoulder as if to loosen a response from me that was stuck. “We need to get her onto the bed. Master Iftikhar, please help me.” Iftikhar obviously did not move since she repeated her request, which now sounded more like a demand. I felt three hands under my back and a hand under my head. I was lifted onto the bed. Iftikhar was told to go and get a towel and water. He did not know to warm the water first because its coldness made me start. “She’s moving,” Hita said, principally to herself. “Batuk, Batuk, wake up, darling,” she pleaded.

  The phone next to the bed suddenly rang. This too made me start. Hita answered it. “Master Iftikhar, the phone. It’s for you.” He had left the room, it seemed. “It’s for you,” she called again. Iftikhar used the phone in the main room but it was easy to hear what he said. “Yes, Father … it was an accident … she fell … she tripped over the carpet running around.” “And Buddha is a melon,” I heard Hita mutter. Iftikhar’s voice was tremulous. “No, Father, it’s this stupid hotel, everything is falling to pieces … she tripped over the carpet … no, no, she is fine … right, Hita?” he called. “She’s breathing,” Hita responded. “You heard that, Father,” Iftikhar repeated. “She’s fine, Hita just said so … all right.” “Come here,” he called out in the direction of the bedroom. “Father wants to speak to you.” Hita left my side and walked to the phone, “Yes, master, yes, master … yes, master … she is injured … on her head … it’s bleeding and her face is bruised … I don’t know, she is unconscious … I wasn’t here … yes, she probably … yes, a terrible accident … yes, she most likely tripped … I think we should get a doctor … yes, sir, yes, sir, you are right, we should wait … Mr. Vas is coming … yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Master Iftikhar, your father wishes to speak with you again.” I heard Hita return to the bedroom and sit next to me on the bed. It was impossible to hear what Master Bubba said to his son, but he was screaming at him; I could hear it right across the room. This tirade was punctuated by a loud knock at the main door. Hita ran to answer it, “No … no one called the hotel doctor … no, everything is fine … everyone is fine.” She shouted, “I said everyone is fine,” and slammed the door shut and locked it.

  I lay on the bed for about half an hour when there was another pounding on the door and muffled cries of “Hita, open it.” Hita sprang from beside me, where she had been intermittently wiping my head. She ran to the door and unlocked it. The door opened. She was slightly out of breath. “Sorry, Mr. Vas, I left the key in the lock to stop the doorman and the cleaners from coming in.” “Fine, fine,” he said, “where is she?” I heard the pairs of footsteps enter the bedroom and felt bodies standing over me. Hita said hurriedly, “She’s breathing fine.”

  There was a short pause and I heard footsteps go into the bathroom and the bath being run. In an instant I felt a torrent of cold water drench my head. I sat up coughing and spluttering. Mr. Vas stood at the end of the bed with a tipped-over silver bucket still dripping with water. “She’s fine,” he said. He did not scold me but his look told me that he understood my pretense. He was not wearing his blue suit but rather gray trousers and a white shirt. He was a handsome older man.

  I sat up on the bed, my face wet, hair drenched. There they were: Mr. Vas and Hita. Iftikhar entered the room, looking like a condemned man awaiting the firing squad. The firing squad was soon to come.

  The silence was broken by Mr. Vas. “Master Iftikhar, might I please suggest that you get yourself ready as your father will be here in a minute to go out to the factories. Hita, do you have clothes for the girl? I suggest she wash up. We’ll be leaving soon, so there should be plenty of time for you to put her back in shape.”

  While Hita had been frantically scurrying around, I was rehearsing in my head. “A poem,” I groaned. “What?” Mr. Vas asked. “A poem … Master Iftikhar told me to write a poem today.” Here was the opportunity I could not let pass: a chance to write all day long. I continued, “He is teaching me to write as brilliantly as he writes.” I certainly had not meant this to be a joke but Mr. Vas burst out laughing. “You said what? Master Iftikhar is teaching you to be a poet?” For the first time in ages Iftikhar spoke. “I got an A grade in English last term and Mr. Mitra said I had a gift in composition.” Vas laughed again. “What Mr. Mitra meant,” Vas responded, “was that he had a gift from your father to give you an A.” Mr. Vas repeated half to himself, laughing, “A poet …” Humiliation ignited anger in Iftikhar. “Listen, Vas, you are my father’s servant, and when he hears what you said he …” Vas cut him short. “Listen, Master Iftikhar” (he said “master” with a sarcastic leer), “you go right ahead; you tell your father whatever you want. I have a strong feeling that your father will have more on his mind than your poetry right now. All I will tell you is that if you are a poet then I am Elvis! Yes, Master Iftikhar, Elvis reborn as an old Indian!” Even Hita smiled. I stayed impassive as I had a feeling that it would be in my interest to do so. It was a plan well executed. Whether Iftikhar was a poet or not, Hita would understand the need for me to appease him and write the day away.

  Vas was still chuckling at his humor (and partially I think, out of relief that I was still alive), when Bubba burst in. Even from the bedroom you could feel the sonic boom of his entrance. “In here, boss,” Vas called. Bubba strode in, jangling. Iftikhar was still standing in his nightclothes. I was sitting on the bed with wet hair as Bubba looked me up and down. “Well, pretty little thing, you seem alive,” he boomed. Vas said, “Yes, she came to.” “Good,” Bubba said, “then no harm done.”

  He then walked over to Iftikhar, raising his right arm as he did, and without a moment of hesitation, he struck the boy’s head. The power of Bubba’s descending open hand could have snapped a cricket bat in two. Iftikhar was completely unsuspecting of this assault
and on (jangling) impact was launched under his father’s power two feet across the room before landing in a pain-ridden heap. I am sure that his howl was heard in Delhi. I was smiling internally as soon as I realized that he and I would have matching bruises across the left sides of our faces. As I looked down at Iftikhar, bouncing around the floor in pain, you could make out the indentations from Bubba’s ring on his face.

  “Boy!” Bubba boomed. “We have to be at the first factory in an hour. Get your clothes on or you’ll be going in your sleeping gown. Now get dressed.” I could have sworn that the windows rattled with the might of this final command.

  Iftikhar opened the closet in the bedroom, still gripping the left side of his head. He was whimpering while Hita helped him dress. Bubba ushered Mr. Vas into the main room to speak to him privately. I do not think they were aware that I could hear. “What the hell are we going to do with the boy?” Bubba asked. Mr. Vas answered, “Well, we could send the girl back, and then we’re done with it.” “But you already paid for her,” Bubba responded. “It wasn’t pricey,” Vas said. “Say he finishes her—that’s going to cost us another hundred thousand.” “I am a father, Vas. Part of a man’s job on earth is to prepare his son for his path, right? My father got girls for me … and look at me. This is what you do for your boy. Look, Vas, if he finishes her, he finishes her … the trouble is she’s a pretty one. You know … if I were a few years younger, I wouldn’t mind a taste of her myself!” He laughed and slapped Mr. Vas so hard on the back, I could hear the thump. He sighed and then with a voice loud enough to wake the dead, shouted, “Iftikhar, I am leaving.” Iftikhar, still holding his head, followed his father and Mr. Vas out the door.