Read Online The Splendor Of Silence by Indu Sundaresan - Free Book Online
Authors: Indu Sundaresan
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every year. It sometimes rains every day, and every night, with no respite. September will bring relief--the rains shut down, like a faucet turned off. A little, oft-overlooked footnote, which Sam did not miss, added: A few showers are possible in April, but the months of December to April are definitely the dry season.
Sam sprawls against the base of a tree, where he has thrown himself when they stopped. Twenty minutes pass and the three of them do not speak, and in the silence they harness their fleeing energies. Sam slouches into his chest, his chin touching the front of his shirt. He inhales and exhales with an effort, as though teaching himself to breathe again. His lungs draw in the damp air of the forest, the putrid stench of his mildewed socks, the stink of unwashed perspiration. His breathing then falls into such a quiemess that bluebottle flies buzz busily around his face and eyes, enticed by the rankness of his skin. If he stays still long enough, they will lay their eggs into his skin, uncaring that he might still be alive.
A sharp cry breaks through the silence. A monkey perches almost upside down on the lower branch of the tree that shelters Sam, gazing at him with hard, bright eyes. Sam moves his right hand to his side and lifts the Winchester up and at the monkey, the butt of the rifle against his stomach. They gaze at each other for a few long minutes, until Sam deliberately curls his index finger around the trigger.
The monkey protests, swings up on the branches, chatters madly, an d p elts a hard berry in Sam's direction before jumping onto another tree, then another, until he is gone.
"They are wicked," Marianne Westwood says, fatigue smudging the normally sharp edges of her voice. "It would have clawed your eyes out while you slept. I have seen a man mauled by a gang of monkeys near the village. They even ate parts of him."
"You're awake?" Sam turns to the woman leaning against a teak trunk on the other side of the all but blurred trail. He smiles at her through the dull green light of the forest. Above them, the sun has come to ride the skies again, but here the trees cram themselves into any space possible, depositing tiny and tender green saplings with a ferocity fed by the nurturing damp and warmth. Their branches meet on top, linking arms with each other, battling for a glimpse of the sun, and so the bottom of the forest is in perpetual shade.
Marianne nods. "I can't sleep."
"I hoped to frighten it away without you noticing," Sam says. "You would have wanted to keep it as a pet. And," he says, his tone lightening, "you've given me enough trouble already."
Her eyes come alive through the grime on her face. They are bright, like the monkey's, but hers are a blue washed into paleness by the hand of time. Marianne Westwood has labored under the Burmese sun for the last twenty-five years as a Baptist missionary in northeastern Burma where the Kachin live. She was married when she came here, but malarial fever took Joseph away during the first monsoon, and Marianne stayed on. She lived in a basha set atop teak posts at the edge of the Kachin village, made them construct a new basha for a church when the old one that Joseph had built disintegrated in the rains one year, learned their language, translated the word of God into their tongue. The Kachin children came to Marianne's Sunday school, listened to her exhortations to think of her god as their own, and called her prettily, in their lilting voices, "Marie-annne." The children, with their masses of glossy black hair chopped at their jawlines, their ready smiles, enchanted her. They also loved the chicken curry she made for them after Sunday school.
When Colonel Parsley sent word that the Japanese were in Burma, and that she should find her way to Myitkyina for a flight out to India, she decided to stay with her beloved Kachin.
"Just how many of them did you manage to convert?" Sam asks. H e k nows her history by now; they have been together for
Sam sprawls against the base of a tree, where he has thrown himself when they stopped. Twenty minutes pass and the three of them do not speak, and in the silence they harness their fleeing energies. Sam slouches into his chest, his chin touching the front of his shirt. He inhales and exhales with an effort, as though teaching himself to breathe again. His lungs draw in the damp air of the forest, the putrid stench of his mildewed socks, the stink of unwashed perspiration. His breathing then falls into such a quiemess that bluebottle flies buzz busily around his face and eyes, enticed by the rankness of his skin. If he stays still long enough, they will lay their eggs into his skin, uncaring that he might still be alive.
A sharp cry breaks through the silence. A monkey perches almost upside down on the lower branch of the tree that shelters Sam, gazing at him with hard, bright eyes. Sam moves his right hand to his side and lifts the Winchester up and at the monkey, the butt of the rifle against his stomach. They gaze at each other for a few long minutes, until Sam deliberately curls his index finger around the trigger.
The monkey protests, swings up on the branches, chatters madly, an d p elts a hard berry in Sam's direction before jumping onto another tree, then another, until he is gone.
"They are wicked," Marianne Westwood says, fatigue smudging the normally sharp edges of her voice. "It would have clawed your eyes out while you slept. I have seen a man mauled by a gang of monkeys near the village. They even ate parts of him."
"You're awake?" Sam turns to the woman leaning against a teak trunk on the other side of the all but blurred trail. He smiles at her through the dull green light of the forest. Above them, the sun has come to ride the skies again, but here the trees cram themselves into any space possible, depositing tiny and tender green saplings with a ferocity fed by the nurturing damp and warmth. Their branches meet on top, linking arms with each other, battling for a glimpse of the sun, and so the bottom of the forest is in perpetual shade.
Marianne nods. "I can't sleep."
"I hoped to frighten it away without you noticing," Sam says. "You would have wanted to keep it as a pet. And," he says, his tone lightening, "you've given me enough trouble already."
Her eyes come alive through the grime on her face. They are bright, like the monkey's, but hers are a blue washed into paleness by the hand of time. Marianne Westwood has labored under the Burmese sun for the last twenty-five years as a Baptist missionary in northeastern Burma where the Kachin live. She was married when she came here, but malarial fever took Joseph away during the first monsoon, and Marianne stayed on. She lived in a basha set atop teak posts at the edge of the Kachin village, made them construct a new basha for a church when the old one that Joseph had built disintegrated in the rains one year, learned their language, translated the word of God into their tongue. The Kachin children came to Marianne's Sunday school, listened to her exhortations to think of her god as their own, and called her prettily, in their lilting voices, "Marie-annne." The children, with their masses of glossy black hair chopped at their jawlines, their ready smiles, enchanted her. They also loved the chicken curry she made for them after Sunday school.
When Colonel Parsley sent word that the Japanese were in Burma, and that she should find her way to Myitkyina for a flight out to India, she decided to stay with her beloved Kachin.
"Just how many of them did you manage to convert?" Sam asks. H e k nows her history by now; they have been together for
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