The Periwinkle
The dark skinny boy stood by the pavement holding his old brown bicycle. At the rear of his bicycle, he attached a wooden tray and placed a pod of plant in it. The plant had a flower sprouting out — a periwinkle; blooming in its full health. He smiled as he stroked the petals of the tender flower. The dew on the petals now moistened his dry skin and he rubbed his two fingers peacefully as if drinking the dew through his skin. He sat on the bicycle and started pedalling slowly. The periwinkle pod was tied to a rope in the tray but it wobbled lightly as the bicycle moved forward. He rode slowly fearing speed might jolt the fragile plant off the bike.
A short distance away from him, the young man spotted a hut by a barricade. It looked like a check post but he had never seen it before during his travel back and forth to the city over the last year. It was a surprise for him as the deserted road was barely used by any travellers. As he neared the post, he noticed a uniformed man stationed in the tiny hut. The tinkling sound of the cycle chain in the quiet patch of land alerted the uniformed man and he stepped out. The rifle flung across his shoulder and he wore a round helmet reminiscent of the World War II. The bright green helmet was enveloped in dust, the emerald shade almost not recognizable. The helmet had lived long past its age, perhaps older than the man himself who appeared to be nearing sixty. It was the silver metal flag on the front which still glinted at the exposure of the sun — shining as bright as new.
The soldier signaled the boy to halt. The boy balanced one foot on the ground and posed a salute. The soldier looked at his clothes attentively while the young man adjusted his eyes trying to avoid the blinding spark of the flag. He was only wearing a white shirt and trousers — both slightly yellowed. The pair was all he was left with and now he was biding his time until these clothes too would be lost. Yellow was still better than the red of the fire that gutted down his house a month ago, he thought. At least, there was something on his body.
He looked at the morning orange sun, absently blaming the ball of fire for the tragedy. Everything was lost that night. The villagers could not douse the fire in time. There was only one casualty dear to him– his dog Ezra. The boy of 25 was aware of the soldier’s gaze on his dirty clothes.
“Where are you off to, young man?” the soldier asked.
“To the city,” he answered. “There wasn’t a cabin here before.”
“They set it up last week,” the soldier said. “Where are you coming from boy, the village by the river Strum?”
“Yes sir, Strumsdale County. My hut was near the quarry.”
“I was born in the same village 60 years ago, y’know. Oh how I miss home!” the soldier smiled. “You movin’ to the city, eh?”
“Yes, looking for a job. My hut’s burned to the ground last month. Been on the road since then.”
“Come on in, son,” the soldier said walking into the cabin.
The youth got off his bike and followed him into the small shanty. He thought it rude to say no to the elderly man and reluctant to brush off a human emotion from a man in uniform. There was a wooden cot in the corner of the cabin and an earthen pot next to it with a glass facing upside down atop. Facing opposite the cot, there was a wooden shelf with a radio on it and a few books. The radio kept making a low hiss and chur sound.
“What’s your name?” the soldier asked.
“David,” he answered.
“How did your house burn down?” he asked, his voice turning soft.
David recalled the mud stains on his hands fresh from planting periwinkle saplings in the village school garden. He refrained from roses as the children were not old enough to be acquainted with the thorns, he had thought. He was planting the fifth sapling when a boy not older than ten came running into the garden.
‘Mr. Garcia, Mr. Garcia. Your house! It is on fire,’ the boy was palpitating.
David was on his feet instantly and ran towards his house. He reached there in a minute to the site of flames gushing out of the small hut. A crowd of onlookers surrounding the burning house gasped in agony. A few men were in the inner fence, splashing water by the buckets which seemed to be doing nothing to douse the fire.
David struggled past the chaotic human fence and towards the house. “Ezra? Where’s Ezra,” he yelled searching for his dog. When his cries did not elicit a response but only incoherent murmurs, he ran straight for the house. Men trying to put off the fire held him trying to make sense of his hysteria. Some men were however too busy containing the fire from spreading to the pastures. They mechanically transferred buckets from one man to another until the last one near the house rained it over the blaze. Within minutes, the last flame was extinguished. Billows of dark smoke with a distinguished smell of burnt rice rose to the sky.
The men restraining David now stepped away and he ran towards the ashes as his legs trembled. He picked up burnt logs casting them aside one by one until he found Ezra. The poor dog was dead.
David had a quiet burial for his friend in the backyard and then planted the sapling left at the school. The sapling was better than a gravestone, David though. The overcast clouds moved slowly for days, or so it seemed to him as he spent hours in the backyard in the remnants of his happy memories when he first brought Ezra home. Yet, it was less of a mourning for him; it was the guilt gnawing pieces of his soul as his heart broke. That morning had been busy, and he had left home in a hurry. Yes, he blamed solely himself for tying his poor friend up in the house.
He put the sapling in a tiny pot; weeks later, the periwinkle bloomed. It was the first time David had smiled since the passing of his dog.
He touched its petals tenderly, thinking of the soft fur of his Ezra. He stooped down toward the grave and smelled the flower, closing his eyes. The musky smell of the wet earth and the fresh flower was a reminiscent of Ezra. He turned over, now on his back to lie down next to the grave. He didn’t remember when he dozed off. But he knew one thing; he hadn’t slept so peacefully in weeks.
It was growling in his stomach that interrupted his nap. He was reminded that he was hungry. He looked up at the sky, the sun was almost setting. The skies were a tinge shade of orange. He wanted to stay there for a while but the noises in his belly were growing too strong for him to admire the view in its natural setting.
He got up and reached into his pockets. His pockets were empty. Not a single penny. His savings had also burned in the fire. He went to the school. They might want him to tend to the garden, he thought.
The school was quiet and the children were not in sight. A security guard looked at him and raised his hand. He was a young man of 20, almost the age of David. But David didn’t interact with him as much. He smiled forcibly and walked over to him after looking around once more into the school grounds.
“Where is everyone?” David asked.
“It’s 7, Dave!” the young guard. “The school’s over at 6, you know that.”
“Oh yes,” he sighed. “I’ll come tomorrow.”
The next day he walked to the end of his backyard to stand below the shade of the tree. It was a respite from the blazing sun. He looked up, as if staring into the eyes of the ball of fire. The rays hurt his eyes terribly but that was not enough to divert his cold gaze away. Instead he stepped out into the sun. The heat today was similar to the day his house was afire. He stood there until beads of sweat formed on his neck and chest and dripped down.
David imagined splashing gallons of water at the sun just so the earth would not have to bear with the uneasy heat cast on the ground. He tried to picture his house in the middle of the sun but couldn’t. His eyesight was affected, he knew. He closed his eyes but all he saw was red. The red of the fire. The red of his anger.
“You burned down my house. You killed my friend,” he yelled until he was tired. He returned to the shade so his eyes would cool off after the sun’s ravaging assault. But amid the unnerving sensation in his eyes that made him temporarily blind, he felt at peace. His shoulders felt lighter and breathing pleasantly normal as his heart continued to beat in a soft serene rhythm. It felt as if he had just met his best friend after months of not seeing his face or having heard his voice. It brought him a happiness of sorts and inner peace. He was not solely responsible for the fire anymore. The tragedy was the handiwork of the sun, his mind now believed it. It may not have been true but it was what he needed in that moment.
So he sat down and he never felt so good resting his back to that trunk of the tree. It was better than resting your back on a soft quilt. The grass had a velvet-like effect upon the touch, he felt as he continued to hover his fingers over the blades. The air was suddenly cold and his feet in a sweet embrace of the green grass. The noises in his belly had ceased to even whisper anymore, much like the voice in his head, which was gone. In that moment he felt content. He felt a sweet anesthetic sensation brooding over his head as his eyelids began to feel heavy. He gave in and closed his eyes.
David felt an arm on his shoulder. The old man was looking at him, his aging eyes soft with compassion. Suddenly, he wasn’t a soldier sitting next to him, only a man.
The old man had been sitting quietly for as long as he could remember. Listening to the young boys’ words, he started to fall in love with his child-like voice.
“I will pray you get peace, son,” he said with an infectious smiled. David responded with the same smile.
The periwinkle pod was still in David’s hands. The old man noticed that David’s fingers kept caressing its leaves absentmindedly. He was well versed with those finger movements. He had once caressed the cheeks of his new born daughter exactly the way he was doing now.
David was silent and the quietness, unnerving for himself, turned into a long wait for the old man. The old man had begun to fall in love with his voice. Maybe it was because he hadn’t heard a human voice in a long time. It took him back to the days when he didn’t have to live in the middle of the desert. The days he didn’t have to lead a solitary life. The time when he had a wife and a child. The girl child, merely seven, would talk a lot. With an extravagant personality, she had no problem become friends with new children.
The old man imagined what his daughter would look like now.
“She must have grown up to be of David’s age,” he thought while looking at David’s hair which also seemed much like his own daughter’s curls.
The old man now had a smile on his face but his eyes welled up. He pushed back the tears hating to become a spectacle in front of someone else. Yes, he had a tender heart but his uniform didn’t allow him to be a soft. It looked good not on soldiers but only on periwinkles. He was a brown trunk after all, his roots firm to the ground.
The old man wanted to hold David like he would hold his young daughter, the same way the young boy was holding the sapling. Of course, David was thinking of his dog, his best and only friend but he did see him grow up. The dog was his child.
Even though the old man listened to David’s ordeal, he knew that he would not be able to comprehend the pain he had experienced over the couple of months. He did not even want to pretend to understand. He was devoid of any pretentions. But his heart ached for his own loss. For someone who was not in his life. His daughter was the periwinkle for him.
“Wouldn’t you want to water it, son?” the old man said softly with uncertainty of his question cloaking his voice.
He wanted to hold the flower but it would have been awkward to ask for that. David handed over the pod to him and he eagerly accepted it. He tried his best to hide his happiness and the sudden satisfaction he had overcome with.
He took it from the young boys’ hands and walked towards the earthen pot. Holding the periwinkle, he felt happy.
“You’re going to take this plant all the way to the city?” the man asked David.
“Yes, I was thinking of planting it in my new home. I haven’t looked for it yet, but I will find one. There, I would plant this in the backyard.”
The soldier held the plant closer to his heart. David didn’t notice the abrupt shift of his arms and also failed to see how his lips twitched nervously.
While he stood there with the pod in his palms, a rather insinuating thought crossed his mind. Perhaps the boy wouldn’t mind terribly if the plant were to be misplaced, he thought. He tried to shake off the evil thought. He was a good man after all. He wouldn’t stand to hurt an innocent man. He never had practiced cruelty.
He fought off his temptation with much difficulty. He would ask the boy nicely to let him take care of the periwinkle. That didn’t seem so obscene. David might even agree given the long difficult road ahead. The sun could kill the flower.
Suddenly, the old man saw himself as the saviour and his chest rose filled with pride. A smile crept up on his face which he thought to be sinister laced with impure intentions. Albeit, he decided to go ahead with the plan. He could deceive David into giving up the tiny love, he had tricked far more smarter generals when he was at war. In his younger days, he had succeeded in even tricking that manipulative bitch-of-a-person in the enemy ranks and made it out alive.
“Listen David,” he started with an artificial hesitation and a soft tone. The young boy turned his head to face him. Expecting some words, he concentrated on the old man’s lips. His face had the look of fatherly love and a friendly compassion. He couldn’t have missed those caring eyes which spoke thousands of words without making a sound.
“I want to take care of your plant,” he continued.
Perplexed, David shifted on the uncomfortable cot. What does that mean, he asked the old man.
The old man readied his answer. His voice had the quality of the war era now. Promising. Inspiring and magical.
“You can’t take this flower out in the scorching sun. It won’t make it in that heat.”
David nodded. “You’re right. That sounds only kind,” he said while searching for words, not sure if he has to thank the old man for his gratitude.
His heart suddenly ached, afraid with the thought of leaving the periwinkle with this stranger. It was all that was left of Ezra. It still gave him a sense of respite thinking the flower had a better chance at survival in the house than in the rusty bicycle tray.
The old man gave him a suppressed smile as David announced he would continue with his journey.
He walked out of the door, hopped onto his bicycle and peddled away towards the city.
He had left his final shred of happiness at a stranger’s house. A part of him was happy thinking that Ezra has found a safer home in heaven; and on earth. The old man’s happiness knew no bounds. He was holding his daughter in his arms once again after years. That night, he did not sleep but sang lullaby to the periwinkle as the tunes echoed in the desert.
The next morning was different for both men. Those living in the city were baffled to wake up to the devastated gardens. Some saw a dark skinny madman pulling every flower off its roots in the city. Back in the desert, the radio kept making the chur chur sound. There was no other sound. The old man had stopped breathing.
…
