Read Online Because I am a Girl by Tim Butcher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tim Butcher
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The latter had blindly ridden into the seller’s papayas and mangos, which were laid on a piece of flat cloth on the dirt road, and now the fruits were crushed into a mess. The old policeman heard the seller asking for 5,000 riel in compensation, but the taxi man only cursed her. When he was tired of cursing, he pulled his motorcycle away. Dara knew the man well – he had arrested him twice for heroin trafficking some years ago. But with the intense noon sun heating up the day, the old policeman had no desire to help with anything or arrest anyone. He walked between the customers and their sellers, ignoring their loose talk and crude banter, and stepped on to the dusty white road.
When Dara arrived home, his wife Chinda was frying fish in a wok, yesterday’s catfish leftovers with some steamed rice. Without a word to his wife, the old policeman sat on a bench in the backyard under a banyan, swallowing the mashed fish bones and rice. His two dogs came out, staring at his food and waiting, but eventually even they got bored and started to chase each other in the yard. The sun was burning hot above Dara’s head and flies whirled around his sweaty skin.
He had bought some gasoline from a roadside store, and filled the oil tank of his old Yamaha. For some days now, the engine of his disintegrating steel horse wouldn’t start, and the sparks weren’t jumping. Dara had been riding his Yamaha for nearly ten years, but now he had to fix the rotten thing twice a week. With the dogs fighting for their lunch nearby, he pulled the spark plug out and moistened the hole with a bit of gasoline, then he screwed in the spark plug and kicked at the bike to start it. Immediately, a puff of black smoke rose up and nearly set the motorbike on fire. The engine was working, and now the only parts that still needed to be fixed were the brakes, but Dara didn’t care much. Who needed brakes? Brakes wouldn’t get him to a village fifteen miles away in one short afternoon. All he needed was speed. Dara cooled down his face with a splash of water and jumped on his motorbike.
As the traffic gradually subsided, the old policeman’s motorbike flew faster and faster along road to the jungle village of Khna. He descended south towards Lacustrine Plain, and his wheels gradually sank into water. The monsoon rain had been falling for weeks now, and the forest had become soaked in the afternoon’s downpour. Now , with the sun setting fire to his skin, thoughts of his lost daughter filled his mind. Normally Dara didn’t think much; he only lived. But when he occasionally thought of his little daughter Bopah, big oily tears would roll quietly down his dark cheeks.
Dara was an orphan, and since he was a child there had been no one to count on or to care for. He had been wandering around the world like a weightless leaf. The day his wife bore him a daughter, he felt that he had finally become a true man and he wanted to love the little child for his next three lives. But then, Buddha and Angkor together had played their joke on his life. One day, when his daughter Bopah was four years old, she had been walking behind him on the way back home. As they passed a rice field, Bopah played with a white buffalo while Dara had a short chat with the rice farmer. At one point Dara realised he couldn’t hear his daughter’s laughter anymore. He turned around: the white buffalo was still there but Bopah was no longer playing on the grass. He searched around all the fields until the sky grew dark and the hairs on his skin stood straight. He walked to the nearby villages but again found nothing. He hoped that the girl had managed to get back home by herself, or that someone had helped her. He returned home, only to find his wife alone. Chinda began to cry bitterly. At night, the couple lay and waited on their bed, which was little more than a floorboard . Then his wife got up and lit a candle to pray to the Buddha all night. When the rooster sang at the break of
When Dara arrived home, his wife Chinda was frying fish in a wok, yesterday’s catfish leftovers with some steamed rice. Without a word to his wife, the old policeman sat on a bench in the backyard under a banyan, swallowing the mashed fish bones and rice. His two dogs came out, staring at his food and waiting, but eventually even they got bored and started to chase each other in the yard. The sun was burning hot above Dara’s head and flies whirled around his sweaty skin.
He had bought some gasoline from a roadside store, and filled the oil tank of his old Yamaha. For some days now, the engine of his disintegrating steel horse wouldn’t start, and the sparks weren’t jumping. Dara had been riding his Yamaha for nearly ten years, but now he had to fix the rotten thing twice a week. With the dogs fighting for their lunch nearby, he pulled the spark plug out and moistened the hole with a bit of gasoline, then he screwed in the spark plug and kicked at the bike to start it. Immediately, a puff of black smoke rose up and nearly set the motorbike on fire. The engine was working, and now the only parts that still needed to be fixed were the brakes, but Dara didn’t care much. Who needed brakes? Brakes wouldn’t get him to a village fifteen miles away in one short afternoon. All he needed was speed. Dara cooled down his face with a splash of water and jumped on his motorbike.
As the traffic gradually subsided, the old policeman’s motorbike flew faster and faster along road to the jungle village of Khna. He descended south towards Lacustrine Plain, and his wheels gradually sank into water. The monsoon rain had been falling for weeks now, and the forest had become soaked in the afternoon’s downpour. Now , with the sun setting fire to his skin, thoughts of his lost daughter filled his mind. Normally Dara didn’t think much; he only lived. But when he occasionally thought of his little daughter Bopah, big oily tears would roll quietly down his dark cheeks.
Dara was an orphan, and since he was a child there had been no one to count on or to care for. He had been wandering around the world like a weightless leaf. The day his wife bore him a daughter, he felt that he had finally become a true man and he wanted to love the little child for his next three lives. But then, Buddha and Angkor together had played their joke on his life. One day, when his daughter Bopah was four years old, she had been walking behind him on the way back home. As they passed a rice field, Bopah played with a white buffalo while Dara had a short chat with the rice farmer. At one point Dara realised he couldn’t hear his daughter’s laughter anymore. He turned around: the white buffalo was still there but Bopah was no longer playing on the grass. He searched around all the fields until the sky grew dark and the hairs on his skin stood straight. He walked to the nearby villages but again found nothing. He hoped that the girl had managed to get back home by herself, or that someone had helped her. He returned home, only to find his wife alone. Chinda began to cry bitterly. At night, the couple lay and waited on their bed, which was little more than a floorboard . Then his wife got up and lit a candle to pray to the Buddha all night. When the rooster sang at the break of
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