Silencio

 

It took us the whole winter to plan the trip because Molly kept changing her mind so many times. She wasn’t sure how far north she wanted to go.

In the end, her dad helped to settle things for us. Tucson to Phoenix, then down Route 93, as far up north as Molly wanted, before we turned and drove home again.

He also gave us a bunch of his friends’ addresses on Route 93 whom we could count on for a hot meal and bed. Back in the day he’d made a lot of pals on the route and he’d kept in touch with every single one in true trucker style.

Mr. Beak, Molly’s Dad, warned us not to drive the nights. I figured he was worried Molly wouldn’t be able to take the strain of it, so we had to plan our trip meticulously to get to ‘safe-havens’ for the night.

Route 93 was Molly’s idea. She had read this December 1992 National Geographic magazine at her grandfather’s place in Montana, where the writer Michael Parfit had covered life on the highway. He had written so melodiously about it, it obviously got to Mols’ imagination.

She couldn’t believe that something as mundane as Route 93 in Phoenix, close to home in Tucson, could be made to sound so magical. She said she wanted to go.

She pestered Mr. Beak to take her. But the old man couldn’t face another drive down the route and her brothers weren’t willing to leave their families behind and hang out with her on the highway for weeks.

So I offered to go.  

That spring Molly and I got our driving licenses. It’s an understatement to say that we were excited. We were finally free. We could go places. Or so we thought.

We also had to prepare mentally to take the trip because Mr. Beak had warned us about the ‘el silencio’ of Route 93.

I laughed when I heard the phrase.

He gave me strange look. You’ll know when you get there, he seemed to say.

“What do you mean?” I asked jokingly.

It was going to be just us on the highway. No parents. No friends. Just us and the road. We had to get used to the long hours of driving in silence and seeing absolutely nobody for miles.

“You’ll hate it,” he muttered.

My dad allowed us to borrow his old truck and Molly and I were thrilled that we would be driving the same way both our dads had done before us. We were the next generation of truckers, carting things up north and then back home to Texas again.

We were packed and ready by Sunday, May the 1^st,2022.

I drove up the front drive of Molly’s house.

Her entire family was there to see her off. I shook hands with her older brothers and their wives. Her mother kissed me on the cheek, and Mr. Beak slapped my back. I was among good, old friends.

Molly took one look at me and grinned a half-smile.

Then she got in the front passenger side, kicked off her shoes, and put her feet up on the dashboard. Nobody told her she could do that. She just did. And I think she believed it would be all right with me.

Her dad took my hand. “Mark, I’m indebted,” he said, “If, at any time, you want to call the whole thing off, you ring me. We’ll drive over and meet you wherever.”

I smiled a reassuring smile that I hoped would convey to him that there would be no need for that at all.

“All right, sir,” I said, “We’ll be going now.”

The sun streamed in from the passenger side and Molly’s brown hair glistened blonde.

“Bye, Mom!” she cried with faint excitement, “Bye, Dad!”

“Bye, Mr. Beak,” I said, trying to make my voice sound more jovial, “Goodbye Paul! Bye Ryan! Goodbye ma’am.”  

As her family slowly faded out of view, I turned my eyes from the rearview mirror to the windscreen. The sun beat down on us, and I felt a nervous thrill flow through my body like electricity.

“Mols,” I asked, “want some music on?”

She shook her head and then put on her earphones.

We started the journey in absolute silence.

I could almost hear Mr. Beak telling me that it would take us 4 hours to get from Tucson to Phoenix. And, already, el silencio had descended.

*

Molly’s mom had given me strict warning not to let her remain quiet for long, so I made up my mind to get her to talk every fifteen minutes. We had only just begun. There was still a long way to go. Our first stop would be Phoenix.

I put my hands on the steering wheel with the lightness of a butterfly. The engine throbbed beneath my feet, and hummed a merry tune. I glanced across at Molly.

A wave of sadness washed over me. The poor…

I distracted myself quickly and focused on driving. But my thoughts kept running back to her with the surety of summer waves slapping an ocean shore. I could tell that Molly’s mind was roaring, roaring with doubts, questions, pain, and sheer disbelief. All she wanted was to be alone on the road, by herself, trying, like a cat to unravel the massive tangle of thoughts that were slowly taking her down.

Her mother was worried.

“No good comes from thinking,” she would say, “You have to get her to talk.”

But I didn’t want Molly to talk, if Molly didn’t want to talk. I wanted her to heal, on the inside, before she could tell the rest of us what had happened to her.

I stole another sideways glance at Molly. Her blue eyes were glistening, and I could tell it had begun. She was rummaging, sorting, picking, investigating…all on the verge of tears…

“Mols,” I said, “Excited about Nevada?”

She didn’t respond. I don’t think she even heard me.

“What about the Grand Canyon?”

There was a deathly pale look on her face, but she kept her face firmly fixed on the view outside.

“And Montana?”

I wondered if anything I was saying was even entering her head.  

In frustration I decided to talk out aloud.

“Sometimes life just happens Mols. Bad things happen, I don’t think we ever get answers. There isn’t cause and effect and consequence and…and…legitimacy…sometimes there are random things that happen. And it may have just happened to you. Now, now…”

I was afraid that my pep talk was going too far, that Mols might lash out, that the sky would open and it would pour down rain on us… I was afraid…

“Besides, you’re safe now…. Can’t you let things go?”

Then I hated myself for saying that out loud. I knew, I knew as Molly’s best friend, that you can’t let things go. You can’t just brush elephants under carpets and pretend that things are okay when they’re not. You can’t have a dead skunk in the house, and pretend there’s no stench. You can’t…. But that’s what we all wanted Molly to do. We wanted her to smile again, to laugh, to be our vivacious Molly, and not this half-alive version of our golden girl. Wasn’t that pure selfishness on our part? Weren’t we irresponsibly putting ourselves first?

“I’m sorry,” I said, and at that point I was sure I was just talking to myself, “That came out all wrong. You’ve got every right to be angry and upset, Molly. You’ve got every right….I’m sorry…”

But I couldn’t remain quiet. I couldn’t stay silent. I couldn’t shut up, I wanted to say something to her, something that would soothe the storm-tossed one, and feel like a ray of hope to her. I wanted to put all the broken pieces back together again and have her say to me on highway 93, “I’m healed now. Let’s grab a burger when we get to Phoenix.” I wanted to fix her from the inside, so she would never have to go through what she was feeling right now.

Why did I want all of that?

Because when you love someone, you can’t see them in pain. But you know, instinctively know, that unless they come to terms with their grief, you can’t either, and as long as they are grieving you will be grieving too… it’s a back-and-forth thing.

“It’s selfish of me, Molly,” I whispered, “I know you’re not the type to wallow. Nor are you the type to pretend, but it’s killing me just as much as it’s killing you. So at some point we have to talk about it because I’m dying as well! A part of me is dying as well….”

And then I loathed myself.

So, I shut up.

I told myself that Molly didn’t owe us answers.

She had to find them by herself first. She had to do this alone.

I could only watch from the sidelines, and be there for her when she wanted me to. I couldn’t… I couldn’t… I couldn’t rush in there like a protective mama bear and defend herself from all the hurt in the world. I couldn’t even though that’s what I wanted to do.

So, we drove in complete silence to Phoenix. I wiped my eyes. Molly didn’t budge from her spot.

I knew better than to poke a hornet’s nest. It was when we both settled down for lunch at a Phoenix diner that Molly suddenly turned to me and whispered, “You don’t even know the half of it, Mark.”

*

Back in Tucson, I knew Molly’s mom would be worried.

So, I called her from my cell.

“Hi Mrs. Beak,” I said when she picked up.

“Hi Mark,” she said and then, “How’s Molly? Is she cheerful?”

“She seems all right, ma’am. Didn’t talk much, but there was no crying either, so that’s some good news, isn’t it?”

“All right, honey, you make sure she takes her pills on time, and if she says she can hear anything, you report it to me.”

I agreed and disconnected the line.

Molly’s pills…and the voices…right, I could remember that.

I went back to the diner and back to our place.

“Mols,” I said, “Want to check out Phoenix or drive through?”

“Drive through.”

“Okay.”

“Are you okay Mark?” she asked, after removing the metal Coke straw from her mouth.

That’s when I want to tell Molly the whole truth, that I’m not okay, that I can’t be until I know she is, and that our lives will never be the same again. But I don’t have the courage to have the “talk”.

I don’t…

“I’m okay, your mom said to take the medicines timely…we’ll be staying with a Matt Rodgers in Wikieup…that’s as far as I’m driving today.”

Molly nodded.

“Thanks,” she said, “you’re a good friend.” 

I felt comforted when she said that, so I plucked up the courage to ask her, “Are you hearing the voices again, Molly?”

She wouldn’t answer.

“You need to tell me if you are,” I said firmly.

Then Molly gives me one of her sass-filled looks and laughed. It’s a full-throated laugh. It’s almost frightening.

“They don’t stop Mark,” she says.

And I know how much pain that answer must bring her. Because I don’t know what it feels like…I don’t want to know what it feels like…I don’t want Molly to live with such an unexplainable disease for the rest of her life.

I asked Molly’s psychologist the same questions that were pounding against my chest now. Why were the voices diabolical? If psychosis was a problem with the nerve transmission, why wasn’t Molly hearing sounds like “La-la-la” or “Badum badum badum” or “poink” or I don’t know…! Why was she hearing actually meaningful words, with an actual meaningful intention, with an actual meaningful agendum? That certainly beggared belief.

The psychologist did not have any answers. Yet he prescribed medication and said the psyche was still unexplored, like an iceberg, keeping most of its secrets hidden. I’m not very stupid nor am I very bright, but I do know what happens when the hardware fails…the software won’t function…but it won’t or shouldn’t function manipulatively, the way the voices in Molly’s head had functioned. Their chief goal, and this Molly had told us then, was to get her to kill herself.

*

We sat on a rock and stared out into the red canyon. The summer sun was setting behind us and we watched the shadows creep up.

“Mark,” whispered Molly.

“What is it?”

“I’m not afraid anymore.”

I turned to look at her. The ice-cream dripped from the waffle cone. What isn’t she afraid of?

“I’m not afraid.”

I didn’t probe her any further. I believed it was important to let Molly talk of her own accord, talk until she wanted answers from her interlocutor, until she asked for them.

“I don’t care if they keep messing with my head…I’m just going to let them. I can’t fight this, Mark. I just can’t.”

Live Again

 

Live Again

Lydia took the early morning train to the beach on the third anniversary of Lawrence’s death. She wanted to meet the ocean.

She dropped off an excuse at work which was met with grim, reluctant acceptance. Several vital projects were running, and the boss had wanted all hands on deck. So Lydia had to beg him to gain the leave.

She sat in an empty compartment clutching her handbag and looked out onto the platform as the train pulled out of the station. Was there anybody running up to stop her?

Lydia had vowed never to love again. Only today she realised the weight of the sentence she had passed on herself. Miserable, and utterly alone, she wished somebody would enter her compartment just so she could feel reassured by the presence of another person. Her need for human companionship was paramount.  

At Bally, another gentleman did board the compartment. He sat opposite to Lydia but busied himself with a newspaper. Lydia looked at him for a few seconds, was almost about to make a confession, but decided not to engage him in conversation.

“I have to see mother,” muttered Lydia, “Only she will understand what I have done.”

Even when she was growing up at the Lila Rai Memorial Institute for Girls in Goa, Lydia had felt a bond akin to kinship with the ocean, and for that matter with any water body. Whenever any of her friends at the Institute found themselves a new home, with a new mother and a new father, she consoled herself that the ocean was her mother, the rivers her sisters, and the lakes and ponds her brothers. They were the family she would always have.

Lydia never resented not being adopted. She told herself stories to explain her fatherless and motherless existence. She was like Sita, born from the womb of the Earth, or like Karna born when the Sun God Surya handed a child to Princess Kunti. Her explanations satisfied her in childhood and she ceased to look for any other.

Her youth had been pleasant. She had an urgent need to please her elders in the orphanage, and so, took on responsibilities without being asked. She ferried the younger children at the orphanage to school and back, helped them with their homework and took them to the toilet in the dead of the night. The women in charge of the institute thanked her and complimented her for her care and Lydia was pleased to have been of service to them.

While still at the institute, a certain teacher gave Lydia some kindly advice. The teacher told her that once she turned eighteen she would have to make her way in the world, so it would be wise for her to start preparation for a career. Lydia chose to become a teacher.

But life after the Institute had not been easy on Lydia.

When she left the institute at eighteen and entered a teacher’s training college, she had felt for the first time a case of the “angsty reds.” She had gotten the term from Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It was Holly Golightly’s word for the unexplainable moments in life that cause pain like a stab in the heart. When the “angsty reds” came on, she would burst into tears and wonder why she had been born without a family to call her own.

But it had all changed when she met Lawrence. They met while working at a school in Mumbai. Lawrence was an orphan like her, and when Lydia had found that out she was excited to get to know him. Here was another person like her, the child of the wind and the offspring of the Earth, a child with no beginning and end. Surely they were given life to love each other.

Lydia made the first move. One day she told Lawrence her story, and she could make out in his eyes that some spark of love or protectiveness towards her was emerging in his cold black eyes.

“You’re like me,” he said softly, “the daughter of the Earth.” Then he blushed. “I’m sorry,” he hastily apologised, but his mistake helped Lydia to understand that he, too, played the family game. They were children of the Sun. The Earth was their native place. The Sky was their protector.

From then on, they became inseparable. They spent their breaks together watching the children play in the yard, and on the weekends they travelled together, every moment spent in amazement at the mystery that somehow from the Earth had sprung up two pearls of the same kind and in the vast expanse of the Universe they had chanced to find each other.

*

Lawrence took Lydia to see the Jog Falls in summer, and the Mansarovar Lake in autumn. They went to Sri Lanka and played with the elephants and took long walks at night on Marina Beach.

They always walked hand-in-hand wherever they went. She would play with the strap of her purse. He would feel for her fingers. And, somehow, just as the ocean meets the sky at the horizon, their hands would meet, interlock, and stay encased in the security.  

They never tired of each other. For them, there was no pulling away. There was always a gentle curiosity to grow closer, to grow fonder, to know more about what the other person had to say.

Like lovers they did quarrel. They fought to the rhythm of the rain. There was thunder, lightning, dark clouds, strong winds, but every war ended always with a new dawn, a fresh beginning. The Sun never left off appearing in the Sky even though she had raised black clouds from the depths of the Sea.

They moved in perfect harmony, the way the wind dances across a plain of paddy fields, swaying and bending the frail leaves. He danced with her softly on the terrace, under a black sky full of pinpricks of lights. “Marry me,” he asked one day, “And then we’ll travel the world. Just you and me. And we’ll be in each other’s arms till the day we die.”

Lydia was content to be asked, “All right,” she said, “but you have to promise that we’ll always be together.”

Lawrence nodded and swore with the half-moon as witness. “I will love you forever,” he said.

*

To fulfil his promise to her he took a job with a travel company. It was his responsibility to take groups of people on vacation. Lydia accompanied him whenever Lawrence found a place that felt to him like home. Like this, they had seen all the delights their mother, the Earth, had laid out for them.

Lydia’s angst abated during this period. Lawrence was the Sun of her Sky. She rose with him and worked in the light of his glow. His smile was to her the precious gift of the universe. There was no more solitary existence, no more lonely thoughts. Every idea she ever had, she told Lawrence about it and he bared to her the visions of his soul. They fulfilled the longing in each other for a person to call home.

Then one night Lawrence took ill.

And at once they both knew that the Darkness that comes for everybody had come for Lawrence. The spirits in the sky had taken note of their happiness, and growing wildly jealous had sent Death on their heels. Lydia screamed.

At his funeral she swore with all her might. “I will never love again. I will never live, again.”

Darkness enclosed her. For her, the Sun had stopped giving out light.

*

The long brown swathe of sand on the beach glimmered under a lukewarm Sun. It was afternoon. Lydia walked along the beach alone. She was the only one there. For miles before her the ocean stretched out like a tent.

“Mother, I’m home,” she whispered.

Waves crashed against the rocks in response.

She could feel the sand under her feet. The crunch-crunch sound of gritty dirt was music to her ears. Cool white froth from the ocean bathed her ankles.

“I can’t live without him, mother,” she screamed to the ocean, “I don’t want to.”

Then she began to cry. “I’m going to drown in your arms tonight, so you can reunite the two of us in the Darkness.”

The ocean made no answer.

Night came, and Lydia sat on the rocks and thought over what she would do.

“I can’t go on like this forever. I love him and I can’t live without him.”

But it was hardly true. She uttered the words as if they were an oath though her heart knew that the wound of Lawrence’s death had healed. Now, it was up to her to put away the gloom and take up living again.

Lydia never lied. She had never wanted to. Lawrence was gone, and she was miserable, but her soul, which beat to the music of Nature refused to let her follow him.

“I have to give him up,” she whispered, and loosened his ring from her finger. “But I promised to love only him always! Mother, what should I do?”

“I’ve lived like the half-dead. I’ve given up on life, and I know that it’s wrong! I want to feel the Sun again!”

“Why did I make a vow to love only him for the rest of my life? Was I so wise to see the end of my days? I want to be free from the vow I made, Mother.”

*

The next morning, like a child of the Dawn, Lydia raced to the beach. Fishermen were coming in with their boats. She was smiling and laughing.

Last night, she had thrown Lawrence’s ring into the ocean. For her, today was a new beginning. She had freed herself from the oath of loving him even after his death.

She could feel the warmth of the sun on her face, arms, and legs. The lusty ocean crashed against the rocks of the beach.

Some fishermen were excitedly talking to each other and calling all the others to come and see. They had found a ring caught in a fish’s mouth. They were congratulating the fisherman who found it. It’s a new beginning for him, they cried, he could sell it and buy a new boat!

Lydia heard and joyfully plunged into the ocean.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Short Story #010: The White Garden

 

The White Garden

“The problem is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil is interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else.”

-Ursula K Le Guin

 

“W

hy do you look so glum child?” asks Mrs White of me. “I’ve seen you go about the house. You walk around with a pall of gloom over your face as if you’re in habitual mourning. Have you suffered some great loss I know nothing about?”

“Oh it’s nothing,” I say and quietly resume sipping my tea. I’m surprised Aunt White noticed.

“You mustn’t go about with a glum face, Carol. You’ll attract all kinds of other glum thoughts floating in the air. One after another they’ll come to roost in your head and soon you’ll have a farm of sadness.”

I think she means that as a joke so I give her a half-smile.

“Tell me dearest,” she asks again kindly, “Is there something going on?”

“You needn’t worry aunt,” I say exasperated with all the sudden attention, “I’ll be all right.”

This is the first time Aunt Katherine and I are sitting down to have a chat. Mrs. White—my Aunt Katherine—has been very busy over the weekend to pay me any serious attention. Today’s the first day since my arrival at her large country house that she’s at a loose end, hence the lecturing.

“How old are you Carol?”

“Thirteen,” I say.

“That’s too young to be looking so morose. Is there anything weighing you down child? I can help if I’m told.”

“There isn’t anything weighing me down. Do stop,” I say as politely as I can without sounding annoyed.

I’ve just told her a whopping lie. It’s just that it’s not my habit to confide in semi-strangers. Mrs. Katherine White may be my godmother, but she is still a bit of a stranger to me. Also Aunt White’s known to be quite eccentric in the family circle, which is why I don’t know if it’s okay to make her a repository of my secret troubles.

 “Joy, real joy is what mankind was made for. Look at my garden Carol! Isn’t it a joy to behold?”

I’ll give her that. She owns the most fantastic garden you’ve ever seen. It’s completely white. By that I mean she grows only plants with white flowers and nothing else.

I turn in my seat and look at her garden as instructed.

“It’s all right,” I say to her. I’ve purposely said this to rile her. I want to see if she’ll have an outburst or something. She must be so used to people raving about her fantastic garden all the time, she’s probably not prepared for a negative response like mine.

“All right Carol?” she cries, eyes almost popping out of their sockets, “Have you a heart of stone? Whenever I look upon my garden my heart is in raptures. It’s such a fantastic sight to behold! And you say it’s ‘all right’?”

She drums her fingers on the table as if she’s displeased.

“Sullen child…”she murmurs, “It’s a sin to go around being displeased with things of beauty.”

“Is it?” I query.

“If you won’t dance when they play wedding music for you or cry when they lament what is the use of giving life to you? Have you never been delighted child? So very, very delighted that you spent the whole day smiling to yourself making people wonder at what could’ve possibly happened to put you in a cheerful mood? There’s something so mysterious about a woman who smiles, quite like the Mona Lisa…”

I snort in my head. Mysterious like the Mona Lisa! I don’t aspire to that benchmark.

“I saw that!” she cries in a loud accusatory voice and I jump in my seat. “Insolent child!”

It takes her a while to be mollified.

“You’re quite the typical teenager aren’t you? So full of pent-up angst,” she mutters. “Why are teenagers so full of pent-up angst, do you know Carol? Any guesses?”

“No, it’s just the way the world is. It’s fashioned to make and keep a person eternally displeased. I don’t work to get sorrowful aunt,” I mumble.

“You’re too grown-up for your age,” she says and sighs. “I was like that at your age. Why am I being hypocritical? I used to question every single thing under the sun.”

I lower my gaze and eat another cucumber sandwich. I don’t believe my eccentric aunt. Everybody loves to believe they can empathise with a teenager but in actuality very few can.

“Come on then, if you’ve finished your tea we’ll take a walk around my garden. It’s breath-taking this time of year.”

The time of year is summer. I roll my eyes when I know Aunt Katherine can’t see.

*

Aunt Katherine’s garden is vast, almost an acre I am told, and completely built from scratch. Mum said she built it herself, with the fountain at the centre and the summer house at the back, but I find that a little hard to believe. So I ask her.

“Mum said you built this place by yourself, is it true aunt?”

“Yes,” she says, “Excepting the summer house everything is put in its place and installed by me, the fountains included. Why, are you amazed at your old aunt?”

“Yes,” I say. It’s quite a feat. “How old were you when you started?”

“Around forty. The land belonged to my father, your grandfather. He left it to me to take care of and I wondered to myself—what shall I do with it? Strangely, Carol, the idea to build a white garden came to me when you were born. I saw you in your tiny white clothes at the hospital and I suddenly thought of what your wedding bouquet might look like. I don’t know why I thought that, but that’s what I thought—this little mite will get married one day, what will she do for flowers? She should have her pick of white flowers to choose from. That’s when I decided to set this place up. And now I’m the supplier of flowers for marriages all over the country.”

I’m mildly touched by her story but I act like I don’t care. To think it was my birth that started her off. Capital!

“It’s a pity you hardly come to visit me,” she mutters under her breath.

We begin our walk down from the porch on a pebble-covered path. Both sides of the path are lined with white periwinkles and large white gerbera daisies.

“Periwinkles and gerbera daisies,” says Aunt Katherine pointing them out with her walking stick, “Plants that require the least care.”

The path is narrow. There isn’t enough room for the two of us to walk abreast so Aunt Katherine walks ahead while I follow behind.

Beyond an arched gateway covered with profuse white bougainvillea there is the bulb garden. Gangly white spider lilies and starched stiff white tulips flutter in the morning breeze. Surrounding them are delicate calla lilies and singular peace lilies. My aunt has categorized her garden well.

“I don’t know why teenagers go through this “teenagey” period, Carol. It’s like a rite of passage I think. You want to do certain things a particular way, nobody understands why, nobody understands your way of thinking, nobody understands you. Or that’s what you like to think. I think I learnt early on in my life, Carol that it pays to be happy about everything. Don’t make me beg you to tell me what’s wrong with you. Go on! Spit it out!”

“There’s nothing to say,” I protest. I don’t want her to label me as “typically teenage”. I don’t know why but I just don’t like the term.

“If you say so,” says Aunt Katherine, “Remember, dear, I offered to help. I can sense things others can’t. And I sense you’re full of rage. Only I can’t understand at what.”

I feel like I’ve been a little exposed so I steal a quick glance at her face. She looks very serious.

We walk on.

*

Beneath a canopy of frangipani trees we continue our garden tour. White magnolia and hydrangea bushes line the winding path. I like hydrangeas for their sheer volume. My mom compared them to the size of my head once.  

“Next up is the rose garden,” says Aunt Katherine.

I lag behind a little.

“When I was a little girl I used to be very protective of your mother. She’s ten years younger than me. I would never allow our mother to grow roses in our garden at home in case your Mom pricked herself.”

“And fell into a deep sleep?” I ask and laugh a deeply cynical laugh.

“Full of sunshine aren’t we?” mutters Aunt Katherine and later, “I’m trying to get you to talk to me Carol.”

“I don’t want to talk! Don’t push me,” I shout back with sudden force. Big mistake. Aunt Katherine turns around and gives me a stare.

“Oh,” she says. And then silence.

We keep walking through her white garden without saying a word to each other. Aunt Katherine pets her plants and talks to them in a lovey-dovey voice. I hang back a little and glare at her. I know I shouldn’t have yelled, but I wish she would stop snooping. I made it quite clear to her as politely as I could that I didn’t want to talk. She should’ve taken the hint.

In the rose garden Aunt Katherine cuts a bunch of roses to take back to the house in perfect studied silence. I offer her no help.

Here’s the thing about me. I’ve become very cynical about the world lately. I don’t believe, and I’m too scared to say it out loud, but I don’t believe there is a God, a good and a kind God at least, one who watches over our troubles and wants to help us out of it.  

I don’t believe He exists because I prayed really hard, like crazy, about something, and my prayers weren’t answered.

And no, I didn’t ask for a doll.

So I figured either God doesn’t like me very much or He doesn’t exist. How do I tell her that?

She’s a staunch Christian. She’ll be sure to give me the same old platitudes—‘God’s ways are higher than our ways’—‘Even though you don’t understand it now, you will later’—‘Don’t question God as if He’s your playmate!’.

And I don’t want to hear stuff like that.

*

When we get to another section of the garden I see some very beautiful flowers. “What roses are these, Aunt?” I ask pointing to the flower that looks very much like a rose.

“They aren’t roses. They’re ranunculi. Aren’t they pretty?”

“Ranunculus singular?”

“Yes, dear. Ranunculus.”

That sounds like a spell from Harry Potter.

“Ranunculus?”

“Yes, ranunculus. Aren’t they pretty?”

I quite like the flowers so I nod assent. Aunt Katherine whacks her cane against some myrtle bushes. She needs the cane because of the arthritis in her knees. I look at her in wonderment. Why would she do something so unlike her usual plant-loving self?

“I heard from your mother that you were sick, Carol. She told me to make sure you took your pills. What are the pills for?”

I don’t believe Mummy. She was the one to tell me not to tell anybody.

“Tuberculosis,” I say.

“Oh dear,” she says and a furrow forms on her brow, “that’s terrible news. Where do you have it? In the lungs?”

“I don’t know,” I say truthfully, “they couldn’t find it anywhere in my body though they are medicating me for it. That’s why I had to go to Vellore. To get tested.”

My aunt looks at me puzzled. “Is that why they had to drill your spine? To test your bone marrow? To rule out cancer?”

“Yes,” I say and suddenly it’s too much to hold in. I burst out crying.

*

I don’t believe Aunt Katherine.

I expected her to tell me to get over my pain and not be a wuss, but she comes over to me and gives me a hug.

“That must have been the most painful thing you’ve ever endured, wasn’t it?”

I don’t say anything.

“Honey,” she says when I’ve finished sobbing, “Is that why you’ve been so under the weather?”

“Yes! You don’t know how painful it was! The pain was enough to drive me out of my mind. I think I’m going to die because they can’t find out what’s wrong with me. Nothing makes sense, Aunt. I prayed so hard. I thought if God really loved me He wouldn’t let me go through that kind of pain but Aunt, He did! Why did He do that?”

Aunt Katherine’s grip on me is tight.

“I heard your mother couldn’t stand to hear you screaming when they were drilling your spine so she left the OT. She told me all about it, Carol.”

This is something I didn’t know. I thought Mummy was outside the whole time.

“You didn’t answer my question. Am I going to die?”

Aunt Katherine doesn’t answer me immediately.

“No,” she says after some time, “You’re not going to die. When will the test results come out?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble.

“Carol, are you holding onto that pain and not letting go?”

I gape at her without answering.

“That’s a wrong thing to do. I have arthritis in my left knee and I go through excruciating pain every day. I don’t blame God for it. I believe God lets these things happen to us for various reasons. He does it to get us to call out to Him, to seek Him, to understand that Jesus died in the same painful manner to free us from the power of eternal Death.

That’s why, no matter how much pain you face, Carol, you should always be joyful. Because the eternal life God has purchased for you is worth letting go of all the pain. It is joy that mankind was created for.

Come on, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

*

Meekly I follow Aunt Katherine as she hobbles through her garden to a gate in the wall.

Taking a key out from beneath a rock she opens the gate and invites me to enter.

“There’s a dance I do this time of year. Come in. I’ll let you see me.”

I enter through the gate in the wall and the sight I see is astounding.

In a vast field, thousands of kash flowers are beating against each other, swaying gently in the soft breeze. Wave upon wave of silvery white flowers and green grass are bent and made upright.

Aunt Katherine plunges into their midst.

“Come on, Carol. When God created the world the sons of God shouted for joy! Shout for joy because you have the gift of eternal life.”

I look woodenly at her as she jumps and shouts in the field of kash. She prances and dances a curious dance with deft movements of her hands, as if she’s a bird and her arms are her wings. She mimics a stork in the way she walks through the field of kash blossoms. Over all, I wasn’t expecting her to be so comical.

I look at her and a weak smile breaks out on the corners of my mouth.

Aunt Katherine is very amusing, to be sure.

“Why are you standing there, Carol? Come and dance with me!”

I obey the command and plunge after her into the sea of silvery white. She takes hold of both my hands and gets me to dance with her.

“I can’t dance!” I protest but she hears none of it.

“I’ve got a secret to share with you Carol.”

I limply follow my Aunt Katherine’s movements.

“Do you know why Christ thought nothing of the pain He felt when He was being crucified? I’ll tell you why. The joy of being with His Bride was nothing in comparison to the pain He endured on the cross, which is why He could endure it. He knew that the joy that awaited Him would last a lifetime.”

Her words sink in to my soul.

“And you and I are that Bride Carol. Don’t hold on to the pain as if God betrayed you. Let it go and be free in the knowledge that you are loved.”

I don’t know whether I should believe her and be so easy. I was planning on giving God a rough time for putting me so much pain. I didn’t think that Jesus had endured similar pain on my behalf—without giving me a rough time about it.

“Come on, what do you say?”

I think about it and nod. It’s easy to become bitter at God for the things He makes us endure without realising that Jesus endured the same kind of pain to set us free from the grasp of Death.

I grab onto Aunt Katherine’s hands and together we dance our funny stork dance in the field of kash.

Short Story #009: On Cloud Nine

 

On Cloud Nine

I’d like to think that I’ve beaten depression once and for all. Let’s hope for the best, as my therapist likes to say.

The victory isn’t at all my doing. I think God helped.  

He was the one who helped me to figure out all my burning questions, like, why are we put on this earth? (Answer: to worship Him), what am I supposed to do with my life (Answer: Do everything for the glory of God), and what happens after I die (Answer: There will be eternal life for those who believe in Christ Jesus).

I think about all the twists and turns this journey of life has taken me on and I’m humbled that I made it through so much and lived to tell the tale. It is only the grace of God which has sustained me so far. Glory be to God Our Father in Christ Jesus!

I first began my battle with depression as an eight year old child. It started with me hearing voices.

I can clearly remember the day it all began. My mother and sister were teasing me about something and being a hyper-sensitive little tyke I locked myself in the bathroom and cried. That’s when I heard a soft, sweet voice say to me—“I’ll be your friend” and I assumed it was the voice of Jesus. Soon I began to have merry conversations with this voice.

Turns out, the voice didn’t belong to Jesus, but it took me eighteen long years to figure that one out.

This is my first time writing about this particular incident. It may sound super funny in the present but just think about the seriousness of it. I shared my life with a disembodied voice for eighteen long years under the impression that I was talking to God. That’s how lonely, isolated, and deluded I was.

The depression began soon after this incident.

Even as a child I was very private kid, and till this day I am still wonderfully withdrawn as a person. With a sullen gloomy expression, I look as if I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders (I’m a bit sociable now because I’m done answering most of my burning questions). I seldom shared things with even my closest friends. I have no one to blame except myself and my need to be super secretive about all things.

My motto was—the less people know about you the less they can ruin. It ultimately led to my degradation because the less people knew about me, meant they knew next to nothing about me, and it became a problem because they filled in the blanks however they liked.

*

I’ll tell you what depression is really like.

It’s nothing.

And by that I mean you feel absolutely nothing—no joy, no sorrow, no grief, no ecstasy, no throes, no highs, no lows, nothing. It’s a flat line at zero. And that’s the scary part. It’s like staring into the pitch black unable to feel your way out of the abyss you’ve fallen into.

It gets worse on some days, and on some days it gets better. But don’t let that fool you. When it goes, it comes back with a vengeance and that’s the stupidity of believing one sunny day means the cloudy days are over. So do the cloudy days go? Yes, they go. Once you’ve felt your way through all the questions that are bothering you, and there will be some questions that are bothering you, the cloud just lifts and shifts. That’s the root of depression: unanswered questions and secret sorrows.

There is usually a whole host of reasons: long standing social wounds, childhood grievances, loneliness, worries about the future, plain old angst, just to name a few.

But I call depression a blessing in disguise. I and my fellow sufferers are mentally much stronger than those who don’t go through depression. We question life from the bottom up. We rip everything we know down to its most basic entity and then try to make sense of it before we put them back together. Personally, it led to me discovering a lot of answers about God and the world in general, and about what I’m meant to do with my life.

In a world which is fast losing its raison d’etre, it’s important to take time out to understand where you are heading as a person. 

*

You’d be surprised by how thin the line between giving in to depression and fighting it off is.

I was struck by how powerful I really was. A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ was all it took to either spend the day doing something productive or simply lying in bed. I was that much in control of my life and I really felt the burden of my free will. I was free to mope or not, lie in bed or not, cry or not, and I didn’t like being in so much control.

That’s what left me stumped, and I’m still a bit stumped till today. You’re so free you just don’t realise how much of a weight that freedom is on your shoulders. For some it may sound like I’m crazy to be complaining about being completely free to do whatever I like, but that’s what I felt. What was I supposed to do?

Was I supposed to A) write a book, B) get a Master’s degree C) get a job?

There were so many options to choose from and I was confused. At times like this you really wish your future self would come to the present and give you advice. There’s no way of knowing which road leads to success.  

The scary thing about life is that you make mistakes as you go and they cost you heavily in terms of years and money. No wonder people go to fortune tellers.

Having a perfectly functioning free will without the necessary manual on how to use it, is a recipe for disaster. So Jesus says—“the yoke I put on you is light.”—all we need is that yoke on our free will, if we’re meant to do something productive with our lives. And it’s important we go to God to find out what his will for us is.  

*

Middle of this year, I started fighting back. I told myself enough was enough. I would regain lost territory. I started plaguing my family with questions about life and God and what would happen once we died. They weren’t always able to help me but the answers did come.

They came through my own working out of the problems. Through trial and error I managed to make sense of the world.

The world is created for the good pleasure and sole benefit of God. Everything with Him at the centre makes sense and has meaning otherwise human life is no different from dumb animal life.

During this time I understood the importance of worship. For those who worship, the spirit of heaviness flees before them. Joy fills their soul, the joy of the Lord which ultimately becomes their strength.

Getting out of depression was hard.

You’ll need someone to throw you a rope to pull you out of the mire. There’s got to be something to live for. Something worth striving for. Something you can look at on the dark days and think—“I’ve got You, You’re all that matters.” You need to find this golden Snitch then the game of Life is over and won.

What’s your raison d’etre? Ever thought about that?

If you suddenly find yourself struggling to find meaning in anything, that’s a problem. I went through a phase where nothing—and I can’t stress this enough—absolutely nothing, held any meaning for me. What was the point of living? It appeared to me to be sheer banality.

Why do we draw, paint, write, cook, eat, educate? There’s no need to. Sure we do it because we like to, but it doesn’t serve any purpose in and of itself. Everything is so transitory it isn’t worth the effort, or so I thought. I got educated to work at a career. I worked at a career to make money. I needed the money so I could survive. When I refused to survive that’s when my house of cards came crashing down.

What do you do with a person who refuses to survive?

I don’t know. You let them wither away and die, I guess.

But I do know why I behaved so defiantly. I thought I was getting back at God for putting me through some tough times. It was my way of “showing” Him who was boss. ‘You can’t make me live,’ I screamed on the inside. You can’t put me through a whole host of things and expect I’ll be willing to go on. It’s just not fair!

My argument is an argument that defeats the grace of God. I don’t know what God felt about what I did. I don’t think He was too pleased.

*

The mistake I made was in giving in. I gave in to the capital D when I ought to have fought it off.

Now, it’s time I made a little confession.

There were times when I enjoyed giving in. I gave in for the sheer heck of it. I wanted to cry, I wanted to mope, I wanted to lie in bed all day and not do a thing. There were a lot of things I hadn’t cried about when it was the time to weep, so now I cried with a vengeance. It was a very angst-ridden phase of my life. My frame of mind was such that I wanted to show God I didn’t care two hoots about life and I was just going to waste my time on Earth. I was angry at him because I believed He didn’t take care of me at the time when He should’ve.

One day I went out to lunch with a school friend of mine.

I believe God sent her in to my life at the right time to tell me something very important about the wrong attitude I held.

We met at a restaurant.  Over lunch I told her about my theory of “boycotting” life because I’d been wronged. That’s what I had decided to do. I’d decided (and it really sounds crazy in hindsight) I was going to stay locked up in a room and never live again. 

My friend heard me out and made a comment which left me gobsmacked.

“You’re daring God to send you to Hell!” she said, “Bad things happen to everyone. And there’s nothing that’s happened to you that you can’t overcome.”

I stared at her and regretfully realised that she was right.

I went through some rough years but nothing had happened to me which I couldn’t overcome. I was just stubbornly refusing to get over those incidents.

“That’s not true,” I replied in a little whine, miffed as I was.

There wasn’t much weight behind my response. It was like God had trapped me at my own game.

*

Post recovery I can’t say I’m on cloud nine all the time, but on most days I am jovial and eager to meet the day. I got a job as a content writer. It’s something I enjoy doing. I know I have good friends. I have a great, supportive family. It’s all you need really. You need to surround yourself with loving people if you want a fighting chance out of this mess.

I believe I’ve triumphed. I no longer feel that gaping emptiness I used to feel. I communicate better. I don’t lie about what I feel. I don’t prevaricate or obfuscate. I live according to sound principles I’ve found in the Bible. I know why I’m here and what I’m doing with my time. I’m not selfishly living for myself. I have never wanted to.

I wrote this piece in the hope that anybody reading it and going through the same ordeal knows and finds the right way out. Let me be very clear here, there is a right way out, let me leave you with no doubt about that. Jesus is that way.

Even though I went through depression after I was born again, I believe it was for a purpose. It led me to a closer relationship with my family from whom I was very estranged. It also helped me to speak up about all the hurts I went through in the past.

I can genuinely only thank Christ Jesus for my recovery.

Amen.

Short Story #008: The Laodicean

The Laodicean

“Write this to the angel of the Church in Laodicea: …I know what you do, that you are not hot or cold. I wish that you were hot or cold!”

Revelations 3:14,15

Once upon a time in the secluded village of Rela there lived a very strange young girl.

While children of her age went through a myriad of feelings or ups and down as it is called, the temperature of this young lady’s mental make-up reached the half way mark at all times. She was neither too happy nor too sad nor too disappointed nor too overjoyed. At all times she presented to the world a face of calm indifference as though too much emotion was a waste of feeling.

All her friends went through the throes of growing up while she watched with the aloofness of one who has seen all there is to life and can no longer be amused by it.

Beulah, this was the girl’s name, was the youngest of three daughters and doted upon by her family. When her older sisters had married and left the family home her parents overcome by a deep sense of loneliness vowed never to let their youngest make a match and leave to live apart from them.

This decision the young girl met with perfect indifference. To be married or not, either way she was content. This was what was so very queer about this young girl. She looked upon the world with the indifference of a Stoic, never allowing herself to be carried away by any strong passion or feeling. As a consequence she lived very half-heartedly, as though never really sure if she was happy to be alive or not.

Time passed, and one day both the parents of this strange creature passed away.

News of their death reached the surrounding villages and neighbouring folk came to comfort her for her double bereavement.

They found the young woman, for she was now very grown up, taking the news with the equanimity of one who has seen it all and is not surprised. Not a tear fell from her cold eyes.

“My dear,” said a friend of her mother’s, “Are you not the slightest bit aggrieved at your beloved mother’s passing?”

“No,” said the young woman, “I expected it to come. Though I did not expect father to go as well, it’s a small consolation that they went together.”

Her mother’s friend looked at her wide-eyed. “Upon my word, you are a strange thing to bear up with your loss so bravely!”

“There isn’t any point in getting carried away,” murmured the young woman, “What has happened has happened.”

The musicians struck up a mournful dirge and all the mourners followed behind the two caskets to make the trip to the graveyard. The young woman led the procession but she did not mourn. Her sisters were riven with grief but she stoically bore her loss.

For a month after the funeral she was the talk of the town. Everybody remarked on her poise and calm at the funeral and her general lack of interest in the demise of her parents. They spoke in wonder at her reactions and openly condemned such unnaturalness in a young person.

Youth is full of the mistakes of hot blood, but youth was wasted on Beulah.

After the passing of her parents, the young woman lived in seclusion. She was suitably wealthy and needed nothing for her family had been owners over acres of the surrounding farming land, all of which she was now mistress over.

Slowly but surely the village folk let her be and rumours of her strangeness spread around the neighbouring places. Everyone agreed that her behaviour at the funeral had been oddly discomforting.

One day there was a wedding feast held in one of the neighbouring villages and the young woman, a friend of the bride’s, had been invited.

She went to the wedding as though it were just another ordinary day. She neither dressed in special clothes nor wore expensive jewels nor decked her hair with flowers. Her vesture was her everyday clothing and her adornment was nothing. She carried on her person a small golden ring as a present for her friend the bride.

All her servants were appalled at this lack of interest in the wedding, but they knew better than to say anything.

At the wedding feast she neither sang nor danced nor did she congratulate her friend on her good fortune. She merely sat among the others guests and was the topic of village gossip.

“How can she be so disinterested? All her friends have entered into the spirit of things and are dancing and singing with gusto, yet she has merely graced us with her presence and does not so much as partake in the festivities.” Words such as these were spoken by everyone present.

The musicians at the feast picked up a merry tune and soon all the invited began to sing and dance. Wine flowed smoothly.

Very soon all the good wine was consumed and the bridegroom looked about him in panic. A friend of his mother’s was near him and he said to her, “Aunt, the master of ceremonies just signalled to me that the wine has run out. Isn’t there anything you can do to help?”

The lady at once went to the side of her young son and said something to him. The young man gave some instructions to the servants and out they went.

The bridegroom waited nervously. All of his family who knew about it also looked worriedly at each other. It would be a great insult to them if they failed to serve their guests well.

After some time a jubilant servant came out with a bowl and gave it to the master of ceremonies. Drinking from it the master of ceremonies looked at the bridegroom in amazement. “Why have you kept the good wine until now?” he asked, and gave orders for the wine to be served.

When the guests had tasted this new wine they too were filled with amazement at the bridegroom.

“Everybody serves the best wine first and when the guests are drunk brings out the new wine but you have kept the best wine till the end.”

All of the bridegroom’s friends and guests were amazed at the taste of this rich new wine. It flowed like never-ending good news.

Everybody rejoiced.

All, except the young lady, who overheard from a neighbour that Mary’s son had caused water to turn to wine, and was not amazed. She looked upon the happening as commonplace and displayed no curiosity.

A man had just turned water into wine but she would not join in with the others to call it a miracle.

*

Two years passed and Beulah continued her solitary existence. She seldom mixed with the people of her village nor did she participate in any of their festivities or daily activities. Her few childhood friends had all been married and gone, only she remained, alone, distant and reclusive in her large house.

One day news came to Beulah’s household that Mary’s son Jesus was passing that way with his disciples.

This young man who was of Beulah’s age had since His miracle at the wedding feast become a great Healer and Teacher in the country. He was full of the Spirit of God. It was reported that even the demons obeyed Him and fled. The whole region of Galilee was in an uproar because of Him for they believed Him to be the Messiah come to deliver them from the Roman rule.

The news reached the doors of Beulah’s house. All of the servants in Beulah’s house asked her permission to go and hear the good man preach, they begged her also to accompany them.

“Never before since Elijah has a prophet such as this arisen in our country, come let us all go and know what is to be done to inherit eternal life.”

Beulah herself was disinterested. She languidly gave the servants leave to go for they seemed determined to take the day off without waiting for her say-so.

She declined their persistent imploring but on persuasion agreed that she might sometime go and listen to Him speak. She retired to her room to think.

As a young child Beulah had been a great thinker. She thought because she needed to know what she was doing on the good earth. Her thinking had led her to conclude that there will always be sorrow and suffering no matter how hard one tried to escape it so the best course of action was to keep one’s chin up and endure, for both sorrow and joy are fleeting.

What new thing could that man from Galilee probably preach? He preached eternal life. He preached repentance. All these things she knew. And as for signs and wonders, she was not convinced that the power of God was behind it, having been acquainted with a great many magicians.

Beulah did not go to see Mary’s son, but her servants went and when they returned they told her stories of the number of people the young man Jesus had healed.

“The blind can see, the lame walk and the deaf can hear!” cried her maid, “You would not believe even if we told you. You had to be there to see it.”

“I see,” said Beulah woodenly.

“And everyone was rejoicing and praising God!”

This was something Beulah had never done.

“How fortunate we are to see the young Galilean perform His miracles!”

“Why Miss Beulah He will be staying here for some days. Why don’t you invite Him to the house?”

“No,” she said. She was not in the least bit curious. It didn’t matter to her but worse still she didn’t care.

*

That night Beulah could not sleep. She tossed and turned in bed and at last decided to go out walking. It was her habit to do this whenever she felt a bit restless at night.

The thoughts of the Galilean teacher bothered her. Her whole household had been in an uproar over Him and she wondered if she had not missed anything great. Languidly she told herself that He could not be as spectacular as the magician from Phoenicia she had seen only last month.  

While she walked on her lands in the moonlight with a servant by her side she was overcome with a deep longing to speak with the Galilean teacher. She could not explain why she felt this way at all but quietly matched step with the maid at her side and walked into the woods.

Then she came to a little clearing in the woods where she saw a young man kneeling on the cold dew covered ground and calling out with all His might to God.

She and the maid were struck dumb by the sight. “Madam,” cried the maid, “It is the Galilean teacher!”

Beulah was arrested by His presence, for the man prayed unlike anyone she had heard pray before. He made loud groans and sighs, tears coursed down His face as though He was in inconceivable pain.

“Why does He cry out to God like this?”

“It is because He loves passionately all those who are dear to Him. It is for their sake that He spends the night crying out to God in hope that they might not sin.”

Beulah had never heard such passionate utterances before. She was astounded and she stepped close to watch Him.

“Does He call out to God or to His Father?” she asked for she was surprised to hear the young man call out ‘Abba’ from time to time.

Who was this young man really speaking to?

“It is said,” whispered the maid for she was now ashamed to be eavesdropping on the young man’s prayers, “that He is the Son of God.”

Now Beulah was greatly surprised. “The Son of God?” she murmured.

“Leave!” she ordered the maid, “I must speak to Him alone.”

The maid was very glad to be sent back, but gladder still was she to know that the curiosity of her mistress had been aroused.

Beulah watched the young man for a while more then decided to intervene.

“Sir,” she called out and the young man turned and saw her. He left off praying.

Beulah came closer.

“Beulah!” He said.

“How do you know me?” she cried incredulously as the young man wiped the tears from His face.

“I know you,” He exclaimed. “You were at the wedding feast at Cana.”

“Oh I see,” she said and nodded in amazement that He should know her by name though they had never been formally introduced. Still, she knew that He was Mary’s son so what was there to wonder that He knew her? Someone at the feast might’ve told Him her name.

“Why are you crying?”

“I am weeping because of the pain I am in.”

“Oh,” she said, “who has caused you pain that you should weep with so much fervour?”

The young man did not answer her at once instead after gazing at her for a while He said, “I dearly wish to sleep tonight but I cannot because my heart is heavy. Will you please help me to rest?”

“How can I help?” she asked for she was surprised to find that He suffered that night from the same malady as hers.

“I am in so much pain I cannot sleep, I long to fall asleep as if I do not care about anyone or anything at all. And I know you don’t care about anyone at all. Your heart is indifferent to the world.”

The look in His eyes seemed to pierce through her soul.

“I know what you are like,” He continued, “You care for nothing and for no one. You are aloof and distant. The sorrow of people does not move you neither does their joy overwhelm you. What I wouldn’t give to be like you for one night so I could rest in peace! I have the cares of the world laden upon me. Tell me young maiden will you exchange hearts with me so that I may sleep the peaceful slumber of indifference for one night only?”

Beulah did not know what to do. She was moved, for the first time in her life, by deep compassion for the young man’s earnest request.

“Gladly,” she responded, “but how shall we exchange hearts?”

“Oh I shall do that,” He said, and reaching out into her body He pulled out her indifferent heart and exchanged it with His own weary heart. Soon He was overcome by sleep and He slept.

But for the Beulah the exchange proved painful. When His heart entered her body she felt everything He had ever felt.

Suddenly she felt the weight of the world come upon her. Love for the world as deep as a well filled her soul. And the object of her love was people.

How she was filled with love for them! They were like little children to the man, children He had made and created to live with and yet how those children treated Him! Painful memories of rejection the Galilean had suffered Beulah now vicariously felt. How badly people had rebuffed His advances! He had gone everywhere in the earnest hope that everyone might repent and come to know God as a Father, but the terrible things they had said of Him! They had said He had a demon in Him, a man whom God had anointed by His Spirit!

Beulah felt the turmoil within her heart too great for her to bear. How frustrating it was to watch the people see the miracles yet not understand what was expected of them! She felt as dejected as the young man might have felt.

Yet how He continued to love them! He loved His friends and disciples so dearly it would be harder to imagine anyone who could love them more. How He desired that none of them should perish, but that all should live!

Then suddenly she perceived some new feeling in the young man’s heart.

There was a woman this young man loved with all his heart. Beulah could see the woman in her mind’s eye. She was a very cold, aloof, and passionless young lady. She was a woman who did not care about life, a woman who lived half-heartedly, as if she could not make up her mind whether to participate fully in life or not.  

This woman did not care one jot for the young man, yet the young man hoped for her love.

He had travelled a great way to visit her country in hope of winning her heart but she had not deigned to even let Him enter her house. He was crushed.

The woman had rejected Him at every attempt He made to tell her that He loved her and Beulah began to feel sorry for the young man.

He was tired out with trying. She perceived that even His haters had not hurt Him as much as this woman who did not care had hurt Him.

She shook the young man awake.

“Who is the woman whom you love so dearly but who does not care about you?”

“It’s you Beulah,” he replied half-asleep in a whisper.

*

Puzzled and confused Beulah sat down to think. The stories she had heard of this young man had seldom interested her. She had never been to hear Him talk nor had she gone to see Him teach the people. She had killed Him with her indifference.

The next morning He woke up and looked tenderly at her.

“Thank you for your kindness, I shall never forget it. You allowed me to sleep one night indifferent to the cares of this world, while you were burdened with everything that burdened me. I cannot thank you enough.”

“I-I do not know what to say to you sir,” she stammered, “except that I perceive that you love me and that troubles me deeply.”

“Why should that trouble you Beulah?” He replied, “When you do not care?”

His words cut deep into her heart and she continued to stare into His deep brown eyes.

“Live with all your heart. Drink deep from everything life has to offer. Don’t be so half-hearted in anything you do. There is nothing more painful to me than someone who lives a half-life the way you do.”

Stung by His sharp rebuke Beulah looked at Him wide-eyed. The dawn was rising in the east and the young man returned to Beulah her indifferent heart and left with His heavy laden heart.

Beulah went home and remained in deep wonderment and thought. What could He mean by live with all your heart? It was true that she did not. Hitherto her response to life had been lukewarm. What was she to do?

A week later she heard from her servants that Mary’s son had gone up to Jerusalem and had been crucified by the people there.

Overcome by grief Beulah cried as she had never cried for anyone before.

Her servants were surprised at this show of emotion. She neither ate nor drank nor bathed. The signs of her grief were visible to everyone around.

“What has come over her?” her people asked one another.

But no one knew of the interview Beulah had had with the Galilean. His words kept haunting her.

From then on she lived as though a secret fire burned within her soul.