Tags
Fiction, India, jesus, Love, Mango Trees, Musing, Par River, short-story, Solitude, Walking, Wandering, writing
Join Marx Ward for another chapter from his book-in-progress, India Stories. While most of his vignettes are, like India itself, are full of people, this story recounts a solitary stroll. He brings up an intriguing question: do places have a soul? Read his story and see what you think. Send your thoughts to this WordPress site. If you feel inspired, write about one of YOUR favorite places, If it’s OK for me to publish your piece in a future guest post, indicate your wishes. Meanwhile, happy reading! The text below is an excerpt from Marx Ward’s memoir, India Stories.
The field lies on the muddy bank of the great Par River; Quiet and still – as always, as another Indian day passes. The sun shines hot. The dark water flows warm and the wind, the dust laden wind blows – all as it has for a millennium, or even millennia. So it is for a field.
Does a small field have a soul? This one feels “he” does. He stretches during the day through his hundreds of mango tree branches – reaching to the sky, all the while trying to break the boredom. Sometimes he even drinks from the river. Things have always been this way, nature’s way. He has spirit.
Now the world is full of men, but not so many here; for often it’s weeks and even a month that nobody visits the field, all the while, everyday, as a thousand honking cars and everything else that can possibly carry a motor – passes just meters away on the Gujarat Coastal Highway. Do they even look over? Loose cows seem to give him more attention.
The old walk-in gate swings in the wind. Sometimes it stays open, sometimes it blows shut. Sometimes somebody fastens it. Sometimes they don’t. What does it matter?
Thoughts of the master whoever he is (now) hardly come up anymore, but he used to come there most every day. Oh, that’s so long ago he has forgotten his face and probably wouldn’t even recognize his voice. In fact, he’s forgotten most of the hundreds and maybe thousands of masters he’s had throughout the ages. That’s the way it is for a piece of land. Anyway, last he heard, the old master gave him away (again) to his son a few years ago. And now, that boy owner is in the America – whatever and wherever that is.
He thinks he remembers the first time the boy stopped by; at least he thinks that was him. He walked through the gate and proudly looked around, crossing the mango tree rows, even touching a few trees. He appeared to have plans in his mind and to be dreaming about the possibilities – as all men have done many many many times before.
The field had dreams too, but rarely do field dreams ever come to pass. Fields just lay and watch and hope that men will nurture them. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t. Lately, for a long time – they don’t.
Yes, the new master came back a few times, but less and less often. Years turned to decades and now decades – well who knows what’s going on now? The last time he came he brought a stranger, a foreigner, one from the America’s.
They seemed happy and both had that dreaming look – looking around. They crossed the rows; they touched the trees. The pale one even tried to count the number of mango trees. They walked down the steep bank and visited the river and looked into its soul. They talked funny and the field couldn’t understand – it wasn’t Gujarati, but he felt excited anyway.
The field’s spirits rose and for a short while, for just a short while – the field was happy. He was excited. He thought something might be happening, especially since the master brought his friend to visit.
All three entities were happy. The men were talking and smiling. Even the Par River chuckled. What a great time in the millennium of the field.
But just as quickly as they came, the two men decided it was time to go. They turned and slowly walked back through the gate, kindly shutting it; both taking a final glance before shuffling around and walking away. The field didn’t know what to think.
He caught the pale one turning around and looking back, strangely or stupidly trying to see if he could count the number of rows of trees (again, for one last time); But he soon gave up and finally turned away for good. In a few minutes they were out of sight, but not out of mind. The field immediately felt alone, very alone again. Jesus, that went fast.
It is not easy for a field with spirits. The ages must be difficult.
For whatever good it is and whether the field knows it or not – the men didn’t forget about him. The master created plans for him, plans for him to go to a new master in the not-so-distant future. It was difficult for him to do that, but he wanted him to be cared for- cared for by “his own”. Of course, the field knows the deal. Seems that it’s always been that way.
Now the pale face, he too, couldn’t quit thinking about the field. Why? Who knows? Things like that happen in India. Long after he left – he thought about that field and after he got home, he even looked at him from “above” – on his computer with Google Earth. More than once! He wrote this story about him; such was the field’s effect on him.
Oh, and he still was unsuccessful in counting how many mango trees there were. Even using Google Earth!
The lonely field with a soul knows exactly how many mango trees there are.
Elaine Pinkerton is an author living in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Her india novels include Beast of Bengal, All the Wrong Places and The Hand of Ganesh. They can be ordered from Pocol Press or Amazon. View Pocol Press’s catalogue HERE. Don’t miss a single post: sign up her website and follow her on Bluesky @elaine_pinkerton.bsky.social on: Threads @juniperjunctionauthor.
The Goodbye Baby 