Broken Hug

The Bullet

Receiving the news of Rohan’s mother with tears in her eyes was difficult for Fai. Difficult because she couldn’t be near Rohan. She called him up a fourth time the same day.

“Raw-han,” she said. “What do you think if I fly to your city tomorrow itself?”

Rohan and his two friends accompanied with his cousin were on their way to the Funeral Parlour with his mother’s dead body in the rear compartment of the van.

“Umm,” Rohan began to think. “Fai,” he said at last, “I think let your exams get over and then you can plan for your visit.”

“I know what you are saying. But my examination is in January and this is November end.”

“I know. And I also know you want to be beside me. But you only have a month of preparation. I think the exams are in the first week of Jan.” 

“Dai. Ya,” she said, sounding downcast. Then, “Okhay.”

“We’ll talk everyday, dearie. That way I’ll know you are there right here.”

They decided she would come in January once the exams got over by the third week.

*

Fai’s study leave had begun, and she was on her way to the city library. With Rohan’s loss, she seemed to have lost her bearings and her sense of direction. As she got down from the blue board bus, she realized she had disembarked on the wrong stop. The only thing left was to walk the nearly two kilometers to the library. She relied on her instincts. She was walking somewhere, she knew, but went on ahead sometimes with a purpose, and sometimes without any purpose at all.

All of a sudden she found the side roads deserted, the shops with their shutters pulled down. An old woman came out from a lane and was crossing the road. Fai followed her with quick steps. She asked her in Thai what the matter was.

“Those roads ahead to the right are blocked,” the lady said. “Anti-government protestors are holding demonstrations.”

Yes, it came back to her mind: Anti-government protestors in fierce demonstrations in some areas of the city.

The shopping mall to her right was closed. It seemed to be sleeping. If not that it lay wounded. Peeping ahead, she found young men hiding behind overturned trucks and some behind building walls. Their red and black bandanas gave them a ferocious look. Ahead lay sand bags heaped outside a building. Behind the heap, policemen hid themselves, their hands gripping pistols.

Fai had quickly stepped inside a lane when someone suddenly shot out from the left lane and grabbed her arm. She twirled her head in a furious sweep to her right and looked into the face holding her close. He wore sunglasses, dressed in grey-blue, a cap of a similar colour on his head.

At first, she was taken by sudden surprise. Then anger boiled up.

“Sitthichai,” she shouted in suppressed wrath. “What behaviour is this?”

“What are you doing here?” Sitthichai whispered, looking once with a furtive glance at the entrance to the lane and then at Fai.

“Going to the library.”

“Don’t you know a part of the city is boiling to throw the present government?” he looked into her eyes. “And demonstrations and shooting is a child’s play? Look.” And he pointed at a spot on the street ahead. “That’s blood. And you know from whom?”

She looked at a maroon oblong patch.

“That’s blood from a man’s head, one of the anti-government protestors.”

One protestor began running behind the cover of a building, and as he rushed forward, he threw his right hand up in the air behind him. The Molotov cocktail bottle flew with an angry tongue of flame and landed on an empty passenger bus. In the flash of an eye, a shot rang out in the air, and the bottle thrower became disoriented, staggered and slumped on the floor.

Fai stared at the scene, mouth open, her eyes wide. Breath stuck inside her chest seemed to press the life out of her.

“You see what’s happening.” Sitthichai, the policeman spoke with gritted teeth. He looked into her eyes. “I’ve sent you e-mails.” He paused. “And all my calls go unanswered.” His eyes softened more as he put his left arm around her, his right hand in a loose grip around the butt of the pistol. “Don’t you know I love you, Fai?”

She looked at him, then turned her face.

“Do your work, Sitthichai.” Her voice was soft and calm, but firm. “I have to disappoint you,” she declared. Then she looked at him. “Something that your parents and my dad had said when we were children doesn’t mean that we have to like each other and think of love and marriage.”

“But we were married.” He looked deeper into her eyes. “At the temple by the priest.”

“You know what happened,” she protested. “We were children, and your parents and my dad took us to the temple. It was all arranged. The priest said some prayers and placed his hand over our heads. That’s not marriage.” 

A sudden shout of anger rang in the air. One protestor spotted a policeman rush into a lane.

“I have to go,” Sitythichai said. “Phom rak khun, Fai.” He gave one last look into her eyes. “I love you, Fai.”

“But I don’t,” she replied, her voice flat.

Then things happened at the wink of an eye.

Sitthichai rushed out.

At the same time a bullet rang out.

The bullet missed Sitthichai.

The bullet hit someone else.

That someone crumpled on the ground, clutching the ankle, the piercing pain biting into that someone, and that someone’s groans throbbing inside the lane.

Fai writhed in pain on the little pool of dirty and muddy water. Seconds crawled like years as pain shot through every nerve of her body. Her face coated with perspiration.  

The old woman peeped inside the lane from a door. She found someone lying on the ground. Pregnant silence ruled in the lane.

The old woman came out and hobbled towards the body on the ground. It was the same lady who had spoken to her a while ago. She bent down. Fai was continued groaning. Her right ankle was covered with blood. The old woman held Fai by the armpits and tried lifting her. But Fai’s body was heavy for a woman on the late side of sixty. She panted after several efforts. And Fai groaned as pain from her bloodshot ankle rushed to her brain. Her head hung loose, her body limp. With great effort the woman dragged her to a small house inside the lane while Fai gritted her teeth in excruciating pain.

The woman gently placed her on the floor.

Weakness began crawling all over Fai’s brain. “Raw-han. Raw-han,” she whispered. Her head began a slow swirl, and she could see Rohan’s hair flying in slow motion all over his head. His cheeks stretched with the force of a slow but sure wind as a dull thud dominated Fai’s head; and Rohan began to move away from her as a whirlpool of nothingness sucked her deeper and deeper into oblivion.

*

A low hum crept all over Fai’s brain. But who was this she, she wondered. She opened her eyes; at least she struggled to. Yet all she could do was open them into slits. But the light was enough to wound her eyes and she closed it in an instant.

From somewhere deep down the well – in a slow and steady manner – she began to rise. And as she came up, Rohan’s face appeared, blurred by the ripples in the water. “Raw-han, Raw-han,” she murmured, but her own voice sounded muffled, choked by gnarled invisible fingers clutching around her throat. Her senses slowly pushed open the windows of her memory. She heard her own voice calling out to Rohan. But it was no more than a mumble.

Her eyes opened a bit more; and the room was draped in half darkness, without the light on, like a glow of afternoon-darkness. On turning her head, her eyes fell on the white wall with an open door. A green curtain shut the view outside. She looked to her right, and there too the wall was nothing but white.

But Rohan was not anywhere around.

She moved her left hand, it seemed heavy. She turned her face and her eyes fell on her arm. A white tape around the wrist? The arm was suspended and transparent liquid stirred awake every second as drip ran down the tube. A glow of faded light stood as a guard on the left wall.

In slow and steady baby steps, the picture started coming back: Sound of a pistol – a man slumping on the street – Sitthichai’s words – he rushing out – another gunshot – Fai falling on the lane – ankle in excruciating pain – an old lady pulling her inside a room – she fading into oblivion.

Fai made an effort to lift her right leg. But her efforts bore no fruit. She looked at the white sheet covering her. She slowly lifted the sheet with her right hand. Below her right thigh was a pillow.

The part around the ankle was bandaged.                                                                             

She craned her neck but heaviness dominated her head.

Yet she strained further.

Part of the leg was missing. Yes, it was missing. Missing from the ankle.