Short story selected for the 2011 New Asian Writing Short Story Anthology
Laughter and bells of happiness constantly rang from House No. 22 on
Flute Avenue, a house which had otherwise been empty for the past few
months. The three of them were always together and so joyful. Something
about this man in his late forties and these two young girls that
accompanied him made me want to know more about them, who they were and
where they had come from.
Mrs Wellington, a boisterous old lady who lived next-door to the
newcomers, said: “They are a happy family, who have just moved into our
neighbourhood. They have drawn a rainbow of happiness on the street!”
I returned to work on Monday having forgotten about everyone but
myself. The 30-minute long underground train journey into the City of
London was not always the most interesting of journeys unless there was
some good gossip in the ‘Metro’ newspaper. But today was going to be out
of the ordinary. From the corner of my eye I spotted the Mr X from
House No. 22 seated opposite me. At Baker Street, when the carriage was
almost half empty, I got a chance to pull up beside him without any
congestion charge. I took this train every morning and so did he and
slowly our relationship culminated into a strong bond.
Mr Karan Patel, a fine Indian gentleman, held a prestigious Chief
Executive position in an American Company. What a perfect ‘global chutney!’
Mrs Neena Patel, his wife, had died from a brain tumour some years
back, leaving behind a devastated husband and a shattered little angel
named Meera. Karan decided he would never re-marry so, he brought up
Meera on his own.
A couple of years ago, they both decided to go for an exotic holiday
and pinpointed Phuket as their chosen destination. Phuket is a
beautiful, mostly mountainous island, set in the southern part of
Thailand. They chose to go to Patong beach, as Meera loved eating
bananas and Patong in Thai means ‘the forest filled with banana leaves.’
“Let’s celebrate Christmas on the beach,” she told her dad. That was
it then. They landed at Phuket International Airport on Christmas Eve.
It was party time. Jet-lagged or not, they were not going to miss the
Christmas party at their hotel. But something bothered Meera: “I had
this odd dream on the flight. Mom said to me that she was missing both
of us and wanted us to be with her, but the time was not right! I don’t
know what to make of the dream. Anyway, never mind, you and I will
celebrate now.”
For the rest of the evening, they discussed the next day’s plan and Meera expressed her wish to visit Kamala beach.
On the morning of the 26th, they grabbed a quick breakfast
and could not wait to jump into the blue waters. Meera was a great
swimmer although try as hard as she would, she never managed to glide
over the waves as her father could. She watched him as he swirled over
the waves like a fish. She turned around to look for an ice-cream stall
on the beach, then she turned back to look at her father. He wasn’t
there! To her utmost horror, all she saw was a giant monstrous wave
about thirty feet tall ready to consume the earth.
***
“Happy New Year.” Karan tried to turn his head towards the voice. It
ached as he slowly opened his eyes to a white uniform. The nurse had
come for her daily round and was happy to see him finally out of his
semi-conscious state. Karan held her hand and did not let go until the
story unfolded along with her words. Tsunami! Where had he heard of this word before? Probably in a geography lesson at school.
At a snail’s pace, it finally dawned on him. Meera’s dream! “No,” he
told himself, “Meera cannot die. Neena had said the time was not right. I
have to find her, and fast.” He tried to get up, but it was hard to
move. His left leg was wrapped in bandages. He was relieved to find out
that the bandages would be taken off that day and he would be discharged
in two days.
Up until now he had not looked around him. The effects of the tsunami
and how bad it must have been were only metres away from him. As his
eyes rolled around the ward, the shock and the pain he saw around him
made him feel sick. He spent the rest of the morning talking to every
doctor, nurse or ward boy about the other survivors.
Two doctors and a nurse surrounded the bed next to his. They were
trying in vain to comfort a young girl of about thirteen. Her parents
were dead and the body of her little brother was found an hour ago.
Karan’s bandages were removed in the afternoon and, by evening, he
was feeling much better. In the morning he was discharged. But, his
heart went out to Munira, the orphaned girl in the neighbouring bed.
Karan rushed off to the reception desk at the end of the corridor and
called up his hotel. He thanked god a hundred times as the hotel had
kept his belongings all completely safe. He decided to stay in the same
hotel until he found Meera, but asked for a different room.
He started his search at the police station where he was told: “Yes,
we have a survivors’ list!” Karan’s eyes lit up. I must be the luckiest
man on earth, I just have to look through this list, he thought and I
will find my puppet. His fingers shivered as they ran down the list. No,
Meera’s name wasn’t on the list!
The constable on duty comforted him, “Don’t worry Sir, we update this
list as and when we get more information.” Karan’s limbs felt numb. He
had to sit down. Meera is alive and well, Neena never lied. He was
advised to go to the local camps set up for survivors and search for her
there.
It seemed like an unending story. He had visited three camps in the
last two days but to no avail. Karan sat in a rocking chair in the
balcony of his room facing the sea. Who could have thought this calm sea
could actually become a hungry and wicked black hole? He saw his
daughter looking at him as he rode the waves on the day after Christmas.
Meera had wanted to go to Kamala beach the next day. Karan sprang out
of his chair and ran to the phone. “Is that the reception? Please book a
cab for me. Tomorrow morning I need to go to Kamala Beach.”
The drive to Kamala beach from Patong the next morning was an
alarming one. The entire area seemed to be badly affected by the
tsunami. Houses were flattened and people were scavenging through
leftovers, while others were just sitting around. At the northern end of
Kamala beach, the locals gave him directions to the survivors’ camp,
located a mile away. Karan’s heart started beating fast.
He had no idea why he had chosen to come all the way to Kamala when
he actually had separated from Meera miles away… or maybe he did. He
entered the makeshift camp located in a damaged school, of which only
enough remained to cater to the needs of the survivors. Running his
fingers down the survivors’ list, he once again couldn’t find his
daughter’s name. And then he saw her, sitting at the rear of the hall.
He rushed over and hugged her with tears of happiness, as he has finally
found the treasure of his heart.
As Meera was collecting the pieces of paper where she had been
scribbling down her diary of the past few days, Karan caught sight of a
familiar face. “Munira, you… here?”
Meera spoke up: “She was brought here two days ago; they are planning to put her on the next flight to the UK.”
Two of the foreign-looking volunteers stared at Meera and said, “We
thought this girl had lost her voice during the disaster! She has not
spoken a word since she’s been here.”
“At least we know her name now,” the other volunteer added. Looking
at Karan she continued, “That is why you have not found her name on any
survivors’ lists.”
The following morning, the two of them were boarding a flight to
London. As they fastened their seat belts, Meera’s eyes fell on the girl
sitting in the last seat in her row. It was Munira. On landing at
London Heathrow Airport, the three of them headed straight for the
Department of Adoption.
***
“Now” said Mr Patel, “Please be my guest at No. 22 today. We shall be waiting for you at the dinner table.”
That evening, Karan showed me around his new house. What intrigued me
the most were two intricately decorated identical cabinets placed in
each of the girl’s room. At the centre of each, there was a book: in
Meera’s room the Ramayana and in Munira’s room the Qur’an!
Bewildered, I looked up at Karan “So, which I mean really which is, the ‘religion’ in your family?”
With a big smile he answered, “Here, we follow the Tsunami Religion!”
sumber http://shortstoriesshort.com/story/tsunami
