r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal winter 2008 fiction
hunger and thirst by sandra hunter page two
hunger and thirst by sandra hunter page two
“The light is just here behind me on the wall.”
The boy comes closer. “Hold on.” There is a struggle with some kind of material and Arjun
hopes he isn’t about to be blindfolded. Then the light is turned on. Arjun doesn’t move.
The intruder comes around to him. He is dressed in black sweats, and wears a black
balaclava, obscuring his nose and mouth. He is a large boy with thick eyebrows.
As Arjun blinks against the light, the boy comes into focus. Arjun says,
“You are so young.”
Slightly muffled by the wool, the boy says, “You don’t know how old I am, do ya?”
Arjun considers the smooth skin. “Sixteen? Seventeen?”
“You’re wrong. I’m fifteen.”
“You are such a big boy.”
“My mum’s side. We’re all big. You should see my sister. She’s huge.”
Arjun has a vivid picture of a teenage girl crammed into sweats wearing a similar balaclava
and tries to dismiss it before he starts smiling. This is no smiling matter. Despite the fact the
child is so young he could easily do a lot of damage.
“You want the money? I can tell you where it is.”
“You got money here?” The brief note of hope is dismissed. “Nah. I can’t take your money,
uncle.”
“But, you went to all this trouble. Breaking in and what-all.”
“How come you’re Indian? Me mates told me no one’s Indian over on this side.”
Behind the balaclava, Arjun thinks there may be a ferocious sulk going on.
“We’ve been here for many years. No other Indian families moved in. What to do?”
“How long you been here, then?”
“Almost fifty years.”
“Fuck off. I mean, you’re joking, right?”
“It’s almost fifty years. So many people have come and gone.”
“Yeah, well I didn’t come here to listen to all that.”
“Son, go to that cupboard over there. There’s money. Take.”
The boy pulls the cupboard door open, squats down and pulls out a few envelopes. He
leaves them on the floor. “If only I’d hit you like I was planning. Then I could’ve taken the
money and run.” He pushes at the balaclava. “It’s like Ashok says. I’m rubbish at this.”
“But if you’d hit me first, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you where the money was.”
“Yeah, but I hit you until you tell me.”
Arjun imagines the boy sitting enthralled in front of a detective show. “Son, that kind of
hitting is for a much stronger fellow than me. One hit, pachaak, and I’m done for.”
“Yeah. You’re really old, innit. No offense, like.” The boy sighs. “I better go.”
Despite his difficulty with breathing, Arjun is curious. “How did you get in?”
“Your front door, mate. You want to change the locks. Get one of them deadbolts.”
“Aha. I see.” Alert to the noises of the house, he hears Sunila moving upstairs. “Son, you
should go quickly. My wife has a phone upstairs. And we have one of these emergency red
buttons.”
“Shit. I’m off. Listen, uncle, get a deadbolt.” He hesitates, snatches up one of the
envelopes, and exits through the front door.
Arjun listens for the running feet, but there is nothing. Despite his bulk, the boy is light on
his feet. He admires the boy’s ingenuity. He must be experienced at breaking in to deal with
their lock so easily.
He imagines Sunila, terrified upstairs, wondering whether it’s safe to come down. “Sunila.
Come down. He has gone.”
His voice is so weak he is certain she can’t have heard.
“Arjun? Are you all right?” Her voice is shaking.
“I’m fine. You can come down.” His heart rate is returning to normal but he cannot project
enough force into his voice to send it up to her.
“Arjun? Is the robber gone?”
“He’s gone. Come down.” He is frustrated with this upstairs-downstairs business. Must the
whole neighborhood listen in? Why can’t she come downstairs and talk to him?
“Arjun? Are you there?”
“I am here, you deaf old cow.” He is shocked at his bad language, but there is pleasure in
the fact that she can’t hear him.
“Arjun, I called the police. It will be all right.”
He doesn’t know why she won’t just come down. “Listen, the boy is gone.”
“I am waiting here to see if you are all right.”
The flashing blue lights reflect through the curtains and he knows he will not tell the police
that the thief was just a child.
He waits while the police enter, check the premises, ask him questions which is he now
almost too tired to answer. No, he didn’t hear the robber enter. No, he didn’t get a look at
the robber’s face. No, the robber didn’t talk much to him, other than make vague threats. No,
the robber didn’t harm him.
The police are intrigued with this last point. Old age and infirmity are rarely deterrents for
thieves. Did Arjun know the robber? No, he had never seen him before. About how old was
he? It wasn’t possible to tell since the robber wore a mask. A young man, he thinks.
“You’re lucky, sir. You could have been killed. It’s mainly kids. They’re after drug money. You
know how it is.” Arjun doesn’t know how it is, but he nods anyway.
Sunila is brought downstairs. She can barely walk and when she sees him, she clings to the
police woman and weeps. “Arjun. Arjun.”
He suddenly realizes she thought he was dead and was terrified of having to see his body.
She continued to talk to him because she would not believe he was dead until the police told
her. He imagines her crouched against the window upstairs, believing she was finally alone.
Her eyes are puffy from crying. She is leaning against the police-woman. He has a moment
of sympathy for the officer. Sunila is not a light-weight.
And then he is irritated. She has had her moment. Another police woman is patting her
shoulder. “Mrs. Dasgupta, everything is all right. Your husband is fine.”
But she can’t resist. “Oh god, oh god.” And she weeps noisily. The two women officers try
to get Sunila to sit, but she stays standing.
He clears his throat. He wishes for the strength of his voice so he could ask them all to
leave, so he could tell her exactly what he thinks of her hysterics. How can she behave in
such a low-class manner?
“I thought he was dead! I thought he’d been killed!”
Really. There is something indelicate, this shouting about his death with such gusto.
“Mrs. Dasgupta, please sit down. You’ve had a terrible shock.”
Arjun fumes silently. He was the one who could have been killed and just look at her,
hedged about with uniformed sympathy. Someone is in the kitchen making a cup of tea.
One of the officers speaks to him. “Mr. Dasgupta, I’m sorry to take up so much of your time.
You must be very tired. I wonder if we could send someone over to talk to you tomorrow?”
“Yes. That’s fine.”
The officer collects the others, but not before someone has brought Sunila a cup of tea and
she finally sits down. The tea-bearing police woman remembers and looks over at Arjun.
“I’m so sorry. Did you―?”
“No, thank you.”
Sunila stands up, in charge again. “He must get his rest. He’s not well, you know.” Gracious
and bearing up under tremendous stress. He hates her.
The officers smile and pat her as though she is a well-behaved dog. She smiles up at them.
She sees them to the door and he manages to get himself back into bed.
With any luck, she’ll leave him alone.
But she comes in. “Arjun, are you all right?”
“I’m tired, Sunila. I want to sleep.”
“How can you sleep? You must talk about it, isn’t it? Did you see the robber? What was he
like? I heard voices and there was all the banging and thumping. Did he steal anything?”
“I don’t know. I can’t talk about it now.”
“But what was he like?”
“Sunila, please. I want to rest.”
“I didn’t see anything. I was listening, but I didn’t get a look. I waited by the window to see
if I could get a glimpse. It would have been so helpful for the police.”
“You could have come downstairs and had a look at him.”
She tightens her lips and her nose whistles as she breathes in and out. “Oh yes. It’s easy
for you. You were down here with every chance to have a good look at him. How are the
police going to catch him without a proper description? You didn’t even try to see what he
was like.”
“I was trying to avoid being killed.”
“He wouldn’t have killed you. He just wanted the money.”
“I gave him the money.”
She sees the open cabinet door. “He took the money?”
He hears the heartbreak in her voice. Not the money. He adds, “Not all. Just one envelope.”
“But that was for the poor people in Chad. I was going to take it to the bank tomorrow. To
send to the mission. And now it’s gone. What am I going to tell them? What if they don’t
believe me? They’ll think I just spent the money on myself.”
“Sunila, no one will think that. They will be sorry. That’s all.”
She is sorting through her envelopes and stacking them neatly back in the cabinet. How
often he has told her not to leave money there, but she won’t listen to anyone.
“Of course, he would take the one with the most money. They’re like that, you know. And
now those poor people in Chad will have to do without.”
“Sunila, take your money and put it in the bank.”
She closes the cabinet door and stands up. “Well, that’s it. Nothing to be done. No good
crying over spilled milk. Are you hungry?”
I’m not hungry you stupid old woman, I am exhausted from nearly being killed by a foolish
child. How can you stand there babbling about money for Chad?
And then he realizes; he is hungry.
“I’ve got some of that chicken curry. We can have with pilao, yes?”
She bustles off to heat the food and he feels the anger subsiding. The comfortable noises
of plates and silverware, the thunk and ka-thunk of the microwave door opening and
shutting. The hum as it starts heating the food. The water from the faucet streams into the
sink and she fills the kettle for tea. The fridge is opened and he hears the tuk of Tupperware
being opened. She must have found the cucumber and tomato salad and his favorite
coriander chutney. He imagines her arranging it all on the plate and putting the plate on a
tray to bring to him.
He usually sits in the Laz-y-boy for his meals, but he can’t move from the edge of the bed.
He tries leaning on the walker, but his legs won’t respond, won’t bend, won’t take his weight.
Sunila comes in. “I’m making some tea. Oh.” She stops. “Let me help.” She puts her arm
under his and eases him upright so that he can lean on the walker. Together, they shuffle to
the Laz-y-boy and she helps him sit, plumping the cushions behind him so that he is propped
forward.
“Thank you, Sunila.”
“Not at all. Can I bring your food?”
He smiles at her. “Yes, please.” There is gentleness in his smile. He wants her to see that
he loves her. He wants her to see that he understands her panic. How strong she is. Instead
of continuing to fuss over the money, she just gets on with the next thing and the next. After
they eat, she will clear away the dishes and wash them. She will help him back into bed. And
tomorrow, she will go on, cleaning and washing and cooking and helping him write his letters
and reading to him when he is too tired to read for himself.
And after, as he listens to her climbing the stairs, quietly closing the bedroom door, he will
pray for her. Lord, give her the strength she needs so that she can keep on doing the next
thing. And the next.
The boy comes closer. “Hold on.” There is a struggle with some kind of material and Arjun
hopes he isn’t about to be blindfolded. Then the light is turned on. Arjun doesn’t move.
The intruder comes around to him. He is dressed in black sweats, and wears a black
balaclava, obscuring his nose and mouth. He is a large boy with thick eyebrows.
As Arjun blinks against the light, the boy comes into focus. Arjun says,
“You are so young.”
Slightly muffled by the wool, the boy says, “You don’t know how old I am, do ya?”
Arjun considers the smooth skin. “Sixteen? Seventeen?”
“You’re wrong. I’m fifteen.”
“You are such a big boy.”
“My mum’s side. We’re all big. You should see my sister. She’s huge.”
Arjun has a vivid picture of a teenage girl crammed into sweats wearing a similar balaclava
and tries to dismiss it before he starts smiling. This is no smiling matter. Despite the fact the
child is so young he could easily do a lot of damage.
“You want the money? I can tell you where it is.”
“You got money here?” The brief note of hope is dismissed. “Nah. I can’t take your money,
uncle.”
“But, you went to all this trouble. Breaking in and what-all.”
“How come you’re Indian? Me mates told me no one’s Indian over on this side.”
Behind the balaclava, Arjun thinks there may be a ferocious sulk going on.
“We’ve been here for many years. No other Indian families moved in. What to do?”
“How long you been here, then?”
“Almost fifty years.”
“Fuck off. I mean, you’re joking, right?”
“It’s almost fifty years. So many people have come and gone.”
“Yeah, well I didn’t come here to listen to all that.”
“Son, go to that cupboard over there. There’s money. Take.”
The boy pulls the cupboard door open, squats down and pulls out a few envelopes. He
leaves them on the floor. “If only I’d hit you like I was planning. Then I could’ve taken the
money and run.” He pushes at the balaclava. “It’s like Ashok says. I’m rubbish at this.”
“But if you’d hit me first, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you where the money was.”
“Yeah, but I hit you until you tell me.”
Arjun imagines the boy sitting enthralled in front of a detective show. “Son, that kind of
hitting is for a much stronger fellow than me. One hit, pachaak, and I’m done for.”
“Yeah. You’re really old, innit. No offense, like.” The boy sighs. “I better go.”
Despite his difficulty with breathing, Arjun is curious. “How did you get in?”
“Your front door, mate. You want to change the locks. Get one of them deadbolts.”
“Aha. I see.” Alert to the noises of the house, he hears Sunila moving upstairs. “Son, you
should go quickly. My wife has a phone upstairs. And we have one of these emergency red
buttons.”
“Shit. I’m off. Listen, uncle, get a deadbolt.” He hesitates, snatches up one of the
envelopes, and exits through the front door.
Arjun listens for the running feet, but there is nothing. Despite his bulk, the boy is light on
his feet. He admires the boy’s ingenuity. He must be experienced at breaking in to deal with
their lock so easily.
He imagines Sunila, terrified upstairs, wondering whether it’s safe to come down. “Sunila.
Come down. He has gone.”
His voice is so weak he is certain she can’t have heard.
“Arjun? Are you all right?” Her voice is shaking.
“I’m fine. You can come down.” His heart rate is returning to normal but he cannot project
enough force into his voice to send it up to her.
“Arjun? Is the robber gone?”
“He’s gone. Come down.” He is frustrated with this upstairs-downstairs business. Must the
whole neighborhood listen in? Why can’t she come downstairs and talk to him?
“Arjun? Are you there?”
“I am here, you deaf old cow.” He is shocked at his bad language, but there is pleasure in
the fact that she can’t hear him.
“Arjun, I called the police. It will be all right.”
He doesn’t know why she won’t just come down. “Listen, the boy is gone.”
“I am waiting here to see if you are all right.”
The flashing blue lights reflect through the curtains and he knows he will not tell the police
that the thief was just a child.
He waits while the police enter, check the premises, ask him questions which is he now
almost too tired to answer. No, he didn’t hear the robber enter. No, he didn’t get a look at
the robber’s face. No, the robber didn’t talk much to him, other than make vague threats. No,
the robber didn’t harm him.
The police are intrigued with this last point. Old age and infirmity are rarely deterrents for
thieves. Did Arjun know the robber? No, he had never seen him before. About how old was
he? It wasn’t possible to tell since the robber wore a mask. A young man, he thinks.
“You’re lucky, sir. You could have been killed. It’s mainly kids. They’re after drug money. You
know how it is.” Arjun doesn’t know how it is, but he nods anyway.
Sunila is brought downstairs. She can barely walk and when she sees him, she clings to the
police woman and weeps. “Arjun. Arjun.”
He suddenly realizes she thought he was dead and was terrified of having to see his body.
She continued to talk to him because she would not believe he was dead until the police told
her. He imagines her crouched against the window upstairs, believing she was finally alone.
Her eyes are puffy from crying. She is leaning against the police-woman. He has a moment
of sympathy for the officer. Sunila is not a light-weight.
And then he is irritated. She has had her moment. Another police woman is patting her
shoulder. “Mrs. Dasgupta, everything is all right. Your husband is fine.”
But she can’t resist. “Oh god, oh god.” And she weeps noisily. The two women officers try
to get Sunila to sit, but she stays standing.
He clears his throat. He wishes for the strength of his voice so he could ask them all to
leave, so he could tell her exactly what he thinks of her hysterics. How can she behave in
such a low-class manner?
“I thought he was dead! I thought he’d been killed!”
Really. There is something indelicate, this shouting about his death with such gusto.
“Mrs. Dasgupta, please sit down. You’ve had a terrible shock.”
Arjun fumes silently. He was the one who could have been killed and just look at her,
hedged about with uniformed sympathy. Someone is in the kitchen making a cup of tea.
One of the officers speaks to him. “Mr. Dasgupta, I’m sorry to take up so much of your time.
You must be very tired. I wonder if we could send someone over to talk to you tomorrow?”
“Yes. That’s fine.”
The officer collects the others, but not before someone has brought Sunila a cup of tea and
she finally sits down. The tea-bearing police woman remembers and looks over at Arjun.
“I’m so sorry. Did you―?”
“No, thank you.”
Sunila stands up, in charge again. “He must get his rest. He’s not well, you know.” Gracious
and bearing up under tremendous stress. He hates her.
The officers smile and pat her as though she is a well-behaved dog. She smiles up at them.
She sees them to the door and he manages to get himself back into bed.
With any luck, she’ll leave him alone.
But she comes in. “Arjun, are you all right?”
“I’m tired, Sunila. I want to sleep.”
“How can you sleep? You must talk about it, isn’t it? Did you see the robber? What was he
like? I heard voices and there was all the banging and thumping. Did he steal anything?”
“I don’t know. I can’t talk about it now.”
“But what was he like?”
“Sunila, please. I want to rest.”
“I didn’t see anything. I was listening, but I didn’t get a look. I waited by the window to see
if I could get a glimpse. It would have been so helpful for the police.”
“You could have come downstairs and had a look at him.”
She tightens her lips and her nose whistles as she breathes in and out. “Oh yes. It’s easy
for you. You were down here with every chance to have a good look at him. How are the
police going to catch him without a proper description? You didn’t even try to see what he
was like.”
“I was trying to avoid being killed.”
“He wouldn’t have killed you. He just wanted the money.”
“I gave him the money.”
She sees the open cabinet door. “He took the money?”
He hears the heartbreak in her voice. Not the money. He adds, “Not all. Just one envelope.”
“But that was for the poor people in Chad. I was going to take it to the bank tomorrow. To
send to the mission. And now it’s gone. What am I going to tell them? What if they don’t
believe me? They’ll think I just spent the money on myself.”
“Sunila, no one will think that. They will be sorry. That’s all.”
She is sorting through her envelopes and stacking them neatly back in the cabinet. How
often he has told her not to leave money there, but she won’t listen to anyone.
“Of course, he would take the one with the most money. They’re like that, you know. And
now those poor people in Chad will have to do without.”
“Sunila, take your money and put it in the bank.”
She closes the cabinet door and stands up. “Well, that’s it. Nothing to be done. No good
crying over spilled milk. Are you hungry?”
I’m not hungry you stupid old woman, I am exhausted from nearly being killed by a foolish
child. How can you stand there babbling about money for Chad?
And then he realizes; he is hungry.
“I’ve got some of that chicken curry. We can have with pilao, yes?”
She bustles off to heat the food and he feels the anger subsiding. The comfortable noises
of plates and silverware, the thunk and ka-thunk of the microwave door opening and
shutting. The hum as it starts heating the food. The water from the faucet streams into the
sink and she fills the kettle for tea. The fridge is opened and he hears the tuk of Tupperware
being opened. She must have found the cucumber and tomato salad and his favorite
coriander chutney. He imagines her arranging it all on the plate and putting the plate on a
tray to bring to him.
He usually sits in the Laz-y-boy for his meals, but he can’t move from the edge of the bed.
He tries leaning on the walker, but his legs won’t respond, won’t bend, won’t take his weight.
Sunila comes in. “I’m making some tea. Oh.” She stops. “Let me help.” She puts her arm
under his and eases him upright so that he can lean on the walker. Together, they shuffle to
the Laz-y-boy and she helps him sit, plumping the cushions behind him so that he is propped
forward.
“Thank you, Sunila.”
“Not at all. Can I bring your food?”
He smiles at her. “Yes, please.” There is gentleness in his smile. He wants her to see that
he loves her. He wants her to see that he understands her panic. How strong she is. Instead
of continuing to fuss over the money, she just gets on with the next thing and the next. After
they eat, she will clear away the dishes and wash them. She will help him back into bed. And
tomorrow, she will go on, cleaning and washing and cooking and helping him write his letters
and reading to him when he is too tired to read for himself.
And after, as he listens to her climbing the stairs, quietly closing the bedroom door, he will
pray for her. Lord, give her the strength she needs so that she can keep on doing the next
thing. And the next.
man in chair by tamar factor