by Bapsy Jain
“GWC is the US Global Wellness Council. They have real powers!”
“Whatever. When Collette told me the story, something about it rang true. I never liked this guy Coleman. So I decided to check it out. I guess I’ll flunk out at Columbia this semester, but maybe I’ll get something out of the deal. A paper.” He turned to watch the children playing on the beach. “It looks like back home,” he said, “only it’s colder over there.”
Lucky touched Usko’s back, let her hand remain while she looked earnestly into his face. “I’d have done the same thing,” she said.
“Would you?”
“I would. I couldn’t stand there and let innocent people be killed.”
“That doesn’t make what I did right.”
“You tried to save them.”
“But I did not do the right thing.”
“You chose the lesser of two evils.”
“There is no lesser between two evils. Only evil.”
Lucky shook her head. “How can one know what’s right? It’s the oldest question in the world.”
“And the easiest to answer. What’s right never changes. People can rationalize to the end of time, but the truth stands: Life is the most sacred gift and we are here to respect it, to promote it. What other people do, what they believe, is no justification for my doing what I know to be wrong. Gandhi said, ‘An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.’ He said, ‘Victory attained by violence is tantamount to a defeat, for it is momentary.’”
“He also said, ‘It is better to be violent, if there is violence in our hearts, than to put on the cloak of nonviolence to cover impotence.’”
Usko looked at Lucky. “What he meant was that a false dedication to nonviolence as a mask to cowardice was no better than violence. Nonviolence does not mean impotence—the inability to act, or the fear of acting. Quite the opposite. A commitment to nonviolence takes the highest level of courage. Peace is not for the faint of heart. Even Sun Tzu said that ‘supreme’ excellence consists of breaking the enemy’s resistance without fighting.”
“You’ve read Sun Tzu?”
“But of course. I was an officer, remember?”
“So what else could you have done?”
“I should have stood my ground and died there with all the men and boys shot down in the pits they dug. I should have dug with them. I should have died with them. It might have made a difference if a Finn went missing. If people didn’t care about Bosnians — about Muslims — being massacred, maybe they would have cared if I had died with them. But I didn’t have the courage.”
Lucky shrugged. “What good would another needless death have done?”
“Who can judge what’s needless? Maybe the death of a Finnish soldier would have made a difference.”
“And maybe not…”
“But I have to live with it. And what’s worse, it wasn’t because I didn’t know what was right. I knew — but I was afraid.”
“But today —“
“But today what?”
“You weren’t afraid.”
“Of course I was afraid! What are you — crazy? Courage does not mean the absence of fear. It means the willingness to do what is necessary in spite of one’s fear. Only fools disregard fear.”
“But you did it. You faced your fear.”
“I did what I had to do. I guess you could say I’ve mastered my fear. But it doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.”
Lucky looked at Usko.
“Wait a minute,” she said.
“What?”
“You said you renounced violence — you left the army.”
“I did.”
“But would you disarm a man to save me.”
“Perhaps…..A little.”
“How do you disarm someone a little?”
Now it was Usko’s turn to laugh. “It would depend on the situation…..Are you testing me?” his voice trailed off. “Okay, so I’m not perfect. I’ll work on it.”
They walked on. “Tell me,” Lucky said, “why did you give it up — the army, violence, all that. What made you become a monk?”
“I was in Afghanistan in ‘03. We were moving on Kabul. Our camp came under sniper fire. I led a team up into the hills. We found the snipers. Oh, the Afghans are brave, and skillful in some ways, but in tactics, not so well-trained. They were easy to find. I had one in my sights. It was my job to kill him, and it was a job I did well. It was morning. We’d gone out at night and slipped through their lines just to get behind them. The sun was to the sniper’s back; he was a perfect silhouette. Just black. No features. That’s what they teach you — don’t think of the man. Think of the silhouette. It’s easier to kill that way. But there was a hawk in the sky above me, and he cried out, and the sniper turned and I saw that he was a boy of ten or twelve, and he was no different from the boys whom I had seen laying on their backs in ditches in Srebrenica with their heads blown apart. I had him in my sights. I couldn’t pull the trigger. At that moment, I knew two things: I could never kill again, and I was going to have to make up for all the killing that I did.
“I knew it when I was a boy, too, when I made my first killing, a deer. The scream of that deer never left my ears, but somehow, I never heeded the warning. I still joined the army. In a way it was my destiny. You know the rest, don’t you?”
Lucky shook her head.
“I went to The Hague and blew the lid off the massacre. Not just the Muslims — everybody knew about them. I’m talking about the Dutch. I went into court and I confessed everything.”
Lucky gasped.
Usko looked her in the eye. “They didn’t court-martial me for deserting in Afghanistan. They court-martialed me for murdering those two Dutch soldiers. The only reason I am free is that my lawyer claimed I was mentally ill. He argued — over my objection — that I suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. All I can say was that if God wanted me in prison, I would be in prison. Since I’m free, there must be some purpose for my life.”
“But everybody knows about Srebrenica now. How can they prosecute you?”
“How can they not prosecute the Serbs responsible? Deals were made. Reputations are at stake. There are people in power now who had a stake in things then. And they don’t want to be held responsible for their actions. They prosecuted me to make sure that anybody who knows anything keeps their mouth shut. The official story has to stand. What they did to me is called retaliation.”
Usko showed Lucky the building where they were headed. As they crossed the road they held hands. The clouds had rolled in again and the wind had picked up, but for just a moment, the full moon broke through a tear in the sky and flooded the whole beach with white light. They stopped and faced each other, and Lucky wondered exactly when her hand had found Usko’s. Just as quickly, it was dark again and to the west, they saw a curtain of rain sweep over the lights of the mosque.
They ran for the apartment, but were too late. The rain drenched them, and by the time they reached the apartment, they were soaked.
Lucky was shivering even though it was still warm outside. Her teeth chattered.
And then after a long silence she hesitatingly glanced sideways at Usko and said, “I don’t know how to put this but Coleman’s guy sprayed me with a red liquid back in New York. Do you think I could be infected? I mean, he did threaten me, saying I would need the mushroom.”
Lucky thought that for an instant Usko looked startled, but his voice was firm as he said, “That seems highly unlikely, Lucky, I mean it’s not easy to infect people, and besides, if you were infected, flu symptoms would have shown up by now, enough time has elapsed.”
“About now,” Lucky said thinking back, it’s been haunting me ever since that day. And now I’m shivering to death.”
“I think you are just cold and exhausted, let’s see if you don’t feel better when you’ve changed out of your wet clothes and had a warm drink.”
“Okay, I suppose so,” Lucky replied, trying to brush the thought away fro
m her mind. At last, they climbed up the entrance to the small building, which had ‘North View’ written over the rusted wrought iron gate. Lucky smiled. The gate and building were south facing! Perception!
It was an old structure, at least four floors high, with no elevator. They climbed the stairs to the first floor and entered an apartment. The door wasn’t locked when they came in, but Usko latched it behind them. Inside the apartment was a large living room, with three shut doors and an open-plan kitchen, along with sofas and a dining table for six. The gray stone floor contrasted with the bare white walls. The table and chairs were of rugged design, in dark teak wood.
Usko showed Lucky her bedroom where her luggage was placed on a stool. Lucky entered the room, which had a single bed and a side table. There was an old, heavy desk and a chair in one corner near the bathroom. She went to the bathroom, locked the door, and slipped out of her wet clothes. She rubbed herself vigorously in the shower, trying to scuff some warmth into her skin, but it was no use—she was still cold. So she changed, draped the sheet over her shoulders for some extra warmth, and lay on the bed, not knowing what else to do. She finally got up when she heard voices outside her door. But by the time she went into the large living room, no one was there, so she sank into the sofa.
A man walked past and went straight to the stove without saying a word, and Lucky looked on as he boiled water in a stainless steel pan.
“Who are you? Where is Usko?” Lucky asked. He didn’t answer.
He then offered Lucky a small, heavy, brown, ceramic mug of almost clear tea. She hadn’t seen him put any herbs into the water, but there was a light, delicate fragrance to the drink. She drank it greedily, letting it warm her. Cinnamon? Cardamom? Ginger? It seemed to have subtle hints of all of them, but there was something else, too.
Lucky felt a strange calm descend upon her. She wanted to soak in the silence, but she chided herself, Wake up and think ahead. When she drew a blank, she remembered Shanti’s words, “learn to accept the present.” The man was puttering around in the kitchen, oblivious to her presence. Sipping tea, she walked across the hall onto the open balcony. The rain had subsided, and the sky was a dull continual stretch of blue-gray. She could just make out the Haji Ali Mosque perched on its rock, the famous causeway almost submerged at high tide, breakers crashing against it. Nearer, she could see the waves of the rising tide closer and closer, occasionally showering the sidewalk with salt spray. Far out in the bay; the tankers and freighters lining the horizon vanished into the gray gloom.
After a short time, two monks entered and introduced themselves as Yeshe and Kamala. Kamala looked like a meek middle-aged gentleman, but he was texting on his cell, which Lucky thought might mean he was really in command. He spoke to Yeshe — Lucky couldn’t quite comprehend the dialect.
“Where is Usko?” Lucky asked.
“Coming,” was all Yeshe said.
Yeshe silently fetched another teapot and poured Lucky a cup of hot tea, this time made with sour milk. He also handed her a plate of vegetable dumplings, which Lucky tried hesitantly. The little balls were tasty, hot with peppers and garlic. There was a flash and a crack of thunder, and they all turned and looked out through the balcony at the rain as it came pouring down again. Lucky thought it was nice to listen to the storm without being outdoors. After a few minutes, Yeshe began chanting in an impossibly low, resonant voice, absentmindedly thumbing his prayer beads. Lucky got up and went back to her bedroom, perplexed.
It was after dark and her body ached, so she started to stretch in downward dog, then went into triangle pose—then stood up with feet apart, bent forward, arms stretched, palms upward facing the walls, and placed her head far between and beyond her knees –a lucky pose. She felt the stretch running up her side and her hip adjusted with a crunching crack. As if in answer, she saw shoes and a pair of jeans approaching through the bedroom door.
An upside down Usko appeared in front of Lucky.
She straightened up, meaning to sit on the bed, but she missed and sat awkwardly on the rough carpet.
Usko laughed, offered Lucky his hand, helped her to her feet and led her to the hall.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No, I was just stretching.”
Usko wore a long gray kurta over jeans and carried, slung over one shoulder, a long, wet, black cotton bag. It turned out to hold several bottles of water and a plastic package of plain white dinner rolls. “Best I could do,” he said. He handed Lucky a bottle of water.
Lucky could see Kamala and the other monk in the kitchen; a mild aroma of frying onions wafted toward her.
A monk appeared with a steaming pot from the kitchen. He said something and handed the pot to Yeshe, who set it on the dining table and opened it. Instantly, the air was filled with an intense mix of onions, garlic, and cilantro.
Usko smiled. “Do you like momos?”
“Right now,” Lucky said, “I could eat fried yak.”
“Careful what you ask for,” Usko said. “Somebody’s probably got some tsamba around.”
Kamala piled momos on a plate and pressed the plate into Lucky’s hand. They were hot but not spicy. Chicken, not yak.
After they ate, Usko told Lucky that they could talk in her bedroom. Usko lit the candle on the bedside table and sat on the chair near the table. Lucky sat on the bed and told him about her plight with Karsan Kaka Ishan, Mohammed, and Sonam. Then she told him about Dr. Vakil.
“He sounds most sincere, Lucky, and I hope he has news for you.” Usko said.
“What should we do now?” Lucky asked.
“Let’s wait for tomorrow.”
“But we need to plan now and we need a backup plan too.”
Usko moved toward her and placed his hand comfortingly on her shoulder, as if he were in control. He said nothing. Lucky placed her hand on top of his.
He looked lean and rugged in the candlelight Lucky got up and faced him.
“I am grateful to you Usko…” but he shook his head and pulled her closer. They hugged and he slipped her kameez over her shoulders, running his hands over her. His hands slipped to her back and his mouth found hers and then—she sneezed.
“Oh, God,” she said. “I can’t. I can’t do this with you.”
Usko looked at her. He was holding his breath, and then he closed his eyes and let his arms fall to his sides. “I know,” he said. “I’ll forever make a poor monk.”
“It’s not that,” Lucky said, taking him in her arms and pressing her face to his chest. “I have a boyfriend, too. And…well, yes, you’re a monk. And I have been through hell for many hours…..a few days more likely. The last thing in the world I want is to make you break your vows.”
Usko gazed into her eyes and took a long breath. Then he turned and left the room.
Lucky came out and watched Usko walk to the balcony. But instead of seeking shelter inside, he sat down and began to meditate in the rain.
Chapter 17
In her dreams, Lucky found a nail in the side of her head. It didn’t hurt much, and she pulled it out, but she was following her father through her old house in Calcutta and asking if she shouldn’t go see a doctor. When her father turned around, he had Richard Nixon’s face. An audience began to clap. She bolted up in bed, wondering where she was. Usko was kneeling bedside her on the floor, and she could hear the steady thrum of rain outside. She laid down again, and Usko bent over and kissed her cheek.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“How long have you been here?” Lucky replied.
“All night.” She looked at him quizzically and he added, “Thinking.”
“About what?”
“How to get you out of this mess.”
“And?”
He smiled and produced a straight razor.
Lucky caught her breath. “What’s that? You’re not going all Freddie Kruger on me, are you?”
“I’m going to shave your head.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
&n
bsp; “Do I look like the kind of man who kids with a straight razor? We’re going to try a different disguise. Didn’t you ever want to be a nun?”
Lucky rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “I don’t think so,” she said, but even as she said this she knew that, in a way, it wasn’t true. She was twelve when her father, Soli, took her to the priest to perform the Navjote—the purification and coming of age ceremony for young Parsis. She had recited her prayers, drunk the sacred nirang, and the priest had tied around her waist the sacred cord woven of lamb’s wool. It was a kind of dedication that all young Parsis underwent, and yet, when it was finished, she was still hungry for more. But Parsis do not encourage fasting or renunciation of worldly possessions. According to the priest, the soul was already liberated, born into this physical world for a purpose — to practice good and to renounce evil. No special calling required. And yet, even then, Lucky had wondered if there was, indeed, something more. “Maybe,” Soli had said, when Lucky asked him about this, “it is just that what people today consider special is just the way things are supposed to be all the time.” Soli also wore the sudra, the vest denoting the “sacred armor” of the Parsis. There was a single pocket over his heart, which was to remind Soli to collect good thoughts, words, and deeds throughout the day.
So now she was getting her head shaved in the manner of a novice nun. She smiled. Shanti had once said that one didn’t choose the path of enlightenment — that the path chose you. Why not shave one’s head and put on a maroon robe? Surely, there was a relationship between form and function, and just to walk around like that for a day must have its own lessons and insights, right?
