Sticks and Stones

She stacked the paper in a pile. Then lifted it, aligned it into rank and file, smoothed it with her hands and then against the desk. She knocked it once, then twice, then sighed at the mundanity of it all.

She put the stack of paper on her desk, and from the filing cabinet beside the door she retrieved the ring-binder. Expense reports, legal briefs, and research projects: it was her job to sort through them and file them all away.

Modern architecture gifted her a window, something her predecessors probably did not enjoy. The weightless clouds outside the window offered some relief. Absent-mindedly she let the stack of paper get ruffled as she opened the window.

The afternoon breeze was a relief, she lingered by the window, and to feel the liberating breeze a bit more, to allow her to escape from her stuffy reality, she removed her jacket and threw it lazily onto the chair. It slipped off but she didn’t care.

Outside a bird flapped its wings against the strong breeze - the breeze she found so liberating, it found oppressive -. It finally gave in to the wind and found safety on a tree.

Seeing the bird’s surrender, she too went back to the stack of paper, waiting to be filed away.

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The fire had ravaged across the plains for days, taking with it many acres of gnarled barley, burled corn, and a few ramshackle towns. The authorities had arrived on time but just one year after the collapse of the markets, the farmers could no longer afford the insurance necessary for protecting their lands.

Poor and without hope, Dara knew his father’s farm would be lost. He also knew the racist firemen would not waste their water on a black man’s property. So, he sat on the corner of his measly half-acre and worked out his losses on a spare piece of news-sheet. Mr. Crow’s farm would have been saved by now, no doubt his ranch house protected and his family safe. Who knew where Tyrone and Nigella were; an hour ago they would have been panicking, forced to pick whatever cotton they could save on Mr. Crow’s land even as the flames licked at their heels.

Dara sighed. Nightfall was approaching, after which his mother and brother would not be able to return home safely. His prematurely wizened features crinkled as he thought of their fate. The withering flames crackled and cackled, their soft glow casting shadows and highlights on his dirty oily skin. Brow furrowed, he sighed once more and dropped his heavy face into his leathery hands.

He heard the steady rhythmic pattern of Nigella’s feet. He looked up and saw what he thought was Jim Crow’s Model A. It seemed unlike that Mr. Crow would show kindness to poor black folk, but there he appeared to be, having driven Tyrone and Nigella to safety.

But the orange haze and choking smoke plays tricks on his mind yet again. He wakes up anxious and fearful. Vietnam is dangerous this year. Lying there he can’t forget his family, dead in the burning prairies on old Jim Crow’s watch.

Saigon is drenched in choking smoke and covered in orange haze today; just like Oklahoma was, that day, three decades ago.

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Security screening was not as unpleasant then. There was just one check, a skim through your passport and boarding pass and then a plush seat, with a screen and enough legroom for even the largest of men. Nothing like today’s frisking, slightly erotic, and totally unpleasant ‘encounter’ with security.

What was not so easy, nor enjoyable was the crushing sensation as the mighty aircraft lunged forth into pale blue virgin skies. Deep breaths, vigourous inhalations by four house-sized engines pushed me deep into my seat, it was as if I was being restrained for misbehaving.

And yet I had done nothing wrong, and yet I had this terribly unjust pressure on my chest.

‘It’s just gravity’ someone offered. It was not ‘just’ gravity, but ‘just’ torture I exclaimed in my head. The serenity of ambient lighting and cool wafts of air conditioning were now violently drowned out by the roaring engines.

As we climbed, my two year old skull felt like it was shrinking without having informed its contents before beginning to reduce.

The wail of the engines was nothing compared to my wailing from the hideous pressure drilling directly into the centre of my head.

‘Five hours from Singapore to Bombay’ I thought. ‘This may just kill me’.

And so I closed my eyes, a warm salty drop sliding down my cheek as the angry plane continued to push effortlessly into the sky and into my head.

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My parents had chosen the school. It was just one week before the start of the semester and I, four years old, had never seen the place I would spend another five years at. So, today was the day that I would get to glimpse the campus.

We were on our way to an event, I don’t remember what it was, and passed along Orchard Road to get there. Along the right was an endless fence. Tall, black, with gates at various intervals. The bars were thinly spaced so seeing the buildings was difficult.

The very first day was daunting. I know I must have experienced many new sights and sounds but what I remember most strongly from that humid Singaporean morning was the stench of steaming laksa being prepared for the hordes of giants in the High School.

The experience was vile. The buildings were unimaginably tall, cold, and bleached white from the glaring relentless sun. The teacher had a strong accent, I would only later learn that she was Canadian, which was exotic and hard to follow. Everyone was nervous, everyone felt tiny, and by 3 P.M. (nap-time) everyone was exhausted.

It was an anomalous start to a half-decade that I would love, but from that first day’s experience, I was dreading Tuesday morning 9 A.M., and the start of assembly.

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