The ever-green mountain ranges turned dark as the auburn ray of the setting sun filled the evening sky. It’s October, and an air of festivity filled the atmosphere. Each step taken in haste, each word spoken in jest, with every passing hour, the laughter got louder as their voices rang in elated eagerness. It was the time of the year the villagers look most forward to –the Harvest Festival.
The harvest was not good this year, but the villagers wanted to celebrate it with much pomp, as it always was. They expected the harvest to dwindle down for a few years now, but until this year, it always was unexpectedly good. The past few years have seen the mass exodus of the youth that drained the work force. But the festival is also the time to pray for the safety and health of ‘the foreigners’, and the fact that they have less harvest been the least that bothered the villagers.
Nu Lun thought she was the only one not eager about the festival as she ruefully eyed the run-down barn. She had wished for long to repair the barn, but Pa Lian was sick for most part of the year, and with all her children spreading across the globe, there’s no one to repair it. From her seat in the porch, she could make-out the meagre stock of corn, millet, yam and pumpkins lying in the corner, but the meagreness of the harvest or the old barn doesn’t bother her as much as she longed for her children.
Of late, Nu Lun confined in religion more than ever and God is the only one she can confide in. She used one of the deserted bed-rooms in their big-dingy house for prayer. She preferred praying in solitude rather than going to the church as she used to, as she was aware that the words that come-out of her mouth had been different for some time now.
Watching the setting sun from her porch, she was lost in her head until someone cooing name awoke her. She looked across the uncle’s house and saw it’s one of the aunts, which reminded her that she hasn’t feed the pigs. The last time when one of her children was with them, they hosted the feast and killed two pigs. The meat lasted for only two days, so this year she reared three pigs even though none of their children are home. She had hoped that at least one of her children to be home for the festival.
…
A year ago, Nu Lun was a lively boisterous woman. She loved her talks, she loved her gossips and she loved bestowing every young men and women that passed by with her famous ‘dollar blessing’. Till a few months ago, her words were the loudest and her laughter the most striking, and she still bestowed her trademark blessing with the utmost joviality. And she was also pretty vocal about the remaining young men who still stayed in the village; too poor to afford the trip or unlucky enough to be caught on the way. All those are past now.
Of her six surviving children, three have settled in the US. Her eldest son was rehabilitated from Guam in 2002, while the two youngest sons joined him from Malaysia last year. Her eldest daughter was rehabilitated from India and is happily married in Australia with two children while a son and daughter lived in South Korea and Japan respectively.
…
Nu Lun awkwardly walked towards the Uncle’s house with an empty three-tier Indian tiffin-box to bring some food for Pa Lian. She had never been a guest but the Host when it comes to holding the Feast. But this year, the Uncle requested the feast to be held at his house. It was uncustomary for a younger brother to host the feast while the eldest brother is still alive. Apart from that, Nu Lun thought, since Pa Lian is bed-ridden for most part of the year, it would have been most appropriate if tradition was followed, but Pa Lian had consented to his brother’s proposal. Initially Nu Lun was disappointed but she took some comfort in the fact that the Uncle accepted one of her pig for the feast.
The wind was cold and furious, the cloud swiftly fly past the horizon. She looked up the blinding ray of the setting sun wishing she could pull up and glue it in the middle of the sky. She wondered why the sun looks so lonely when it is the right thing that the bright and majestic should be adorned with more stars than the moon. After all, more people surround the powerful than the powerless.
…
It was nearly a year since her last children left home, but Nu Lun still think that her life hasn’t changed much. But she was changed. For instances, when she heard that she wouldn’t be able to communicate with her grandson in the US as he spoke only English, she took it as a personal catastrophe and whined for days. But today, her biggest fear is not to see her grandson before she died.
A few months ago, she talked to her two grandchildren in Australia when she visited the plain, and it had been her only topic of conversation in the months that followed. She cannot stop marvelling at the shrill voices she heard in the phone, while trying to place those voices to the faces in the photos they sent. She must have unconsciously missed hearing those ‘annoying’ shrill voices as she often caught herself lost –watching children play in her immaculate courtyard where no one was hardly ever seen playing before.
…
The Feast was as it should be –loud and noisy. The Uncle had invited, apart from their usual Aunts and Uncles, his in-laws who made up half the crowd. Nu Lun went straight to the makeshift kitchen in the barn, quietly greeting those who greeted her. She packed some food and was to leave when the Aunt came over and loudly insisted to join them in the table. Her protest and words of concern for the sick man were drowned in the confused clamour of the feast.
She hesitantly sat down to a plateful of ‘elder’s meat’ glancing around at the merry occupants. She felt unusually awkward, and with every mouthful she ate, her discomfort grew, forcing her to break into cold sweat. Something is happening, she murmured to herself as she tried to continue eating, but unable to contain herself anymore, she made up a lame excuse and left the table. She grabbed the packed food and rushed home without noticing anyone around.
Something is happening, she murmured to herself as she hastily walked home. Something similar happened during the previous year’s festival too. She was eating then too, when something pulled her to the gate. She went to the gate, uncertain what she was doing, and then she saw one of her son walking towards her. She thought out loud that he must be on his way to Malaysia, but he told her that the boat which was to carry them got busted and he somehow escaped the police. It made her festival then.
She hoped something similar to happen and said a silent prayer. Before she realized, she was standing at the gate. It was bolted –the way she left it. She looked around; the air was filled with life –the sounds of crying babies and dogs, laughter, clanking of utensils, mothers calling their children, the smell of meat and of burned rice … But it was silent, and empty, not a single soul to be seen in the street.
She calmly unbolted the gate and continued to look around. Then she heard something -someone whining from inside the house. Suddenly Pa Lian popped into her head and she breaks into cold sweat again. She rushed to the door and quickly unlocked it. It was the dog. It jumped out, wagged his tail, sniffed her feet and rushed out with his nose in the air. She sighed.
…
All those years of toiling under rain and sun have taken its toils and Pa Lian was in his feet for not more than a month in the past two years. Their children were concerned about his health. His condition was always the first question they asked whenever Nu Lian went down to the plain to talk to them. Every time they sent money, they told her a certain amount was for his medication, but Pa Lian categorically stated that he don’t need a doctor, he had never needed it and don’t need it now. Nu Lian had given-up pushing him a year ago.
That is not the only issue on which the children lectured her on. They also asked them to move down to the plain where everything, including money transaction and communication would be easier. But Pa Lian had resisted this too. He made it clear that the village was where he lived and where he would be buried. Nu Lun knew that, and she too dreaded moving out of the village to start a new life in the Plain where she had to learn everything from basic. The children don’t understand that –that a grown tree hardly survived transplantation. So, every time they lectured her, she whined, for she knew whining at least is within her control.
…
She lingered in the doorway trying to calm her rushing blood. She looked inside and saw the solar panel still connected to the battery. She pulled out the plug, and plugged-in the black and red wire that powered the two light bulbs in the house. She quickly walked over to the kitchen with her eyes on the sick man lying in the bed near the hearth. The fire was dying, and Pa Lian seemed to be sleeping.
He is sleeping, she thought, but still continued to talk about the in-laws at the uncle’s house while she unpacked the food in a plate. She pulled the small table with the tray of food towards the bed. She sat in the corner of the bed and touched his head to see if the fever was still there. He was cold and stiff, and suddenly everything dawned on her. She was too late; she broke into tears and sobbed out loud.
…
The night of the funeral, Nu Lun sat through the night at the porch blankly staring at the dazzling stars. She thought about the day’s event; the crowd was big with people even from the neighbouring villages coming to pay their homage, and she told them to kill the two remaining pigs for the guests. It was decent; the funeral was decent, she told herself again and again, trying to keep away the thought that jabbed her like a knife for so many nights now.
She thought of the night when Pa Lian was delirious with fever, and talked about his wish to see his three grandchildren and children sitting around the dinning table with him at least once before he died. Those words she heard had haunted and changed Nu Lun forever. The thought of dying without ever seeing her children haunted her in dreams and dream-out. She never thought of the whole thing in that light, but only as the blessing of the good Lord. And now, she’s not too positive that her funeral would be any different from her husband’s. The thought made her shudder.
She had made her biggest sacrifice, she only hoped that her children don’t have to make the same sacrifice. This is her harvest. She’s content and she’s torn; she expects nothing and everything from her six children. Deep in her heart she said a silent prayer; praying that her funeral wouldn’t be any different from her husband’s.
A fresh ray of the sun lit up the horizon, but the side of the mountain remains dark. It will take some time for the sun to come up the horizon; but she decided to release the chickens for the day. It looks like they will have a beautiful day –just like any other day.
