Lobsang

A carpet may be spread for anyone:
spread for the Buddha bathed in blood,
and also for the weaver
of the same blood-stained carpet.
- "Every town is a hometown, all people are kin," Sukirtharani

Lobsang was aged thirty-two when I first met him. He was passing through Calcutta, headed southward. He had come down from the northern plains a few weeks ago. He was headed south to visit a hospital where a fellow monk, a friend, was admitted for surgery.

I was waiting for a north-bound suburban train at Sealdah when I wandered into the long-distance platforms out of boredom. I took a seat beside a tea vendor. When sipping on tea a beggar approached me, whom I told forthrightly that I had no money with me. I was unemployed and we were in the same boat.

"Give me the tea then. Or buy me one."

"No, I can't." An eerie sense of guilt went through my spine, recognizable through years of encounters. Passing through the streets of Calcutta, one becomes familiar with these feelings especially when indulging in hedonism in the gaze of the have-nots. The feeling goes away a few minutes later, very similar to any guilt induced by capitalism and inequality.

The beggar went towards Lobsang. Lobsang was seated on the ground. The beggar asked him for money and he handed some over. He asked again, and Lobsang handed over more money. This went on for a while till Lobsang got up and walked away. The beggar came back towards the tea vendor with a grin on his face and looked at me and said, "What would you do with so much money?"

I would later learn my guilt was nothing compared to what bothered Lobsang.

I ran into him the next day at Sudder Street. I was waiting by the crossing beside Blue Sky Café for a friend to arrive. She had texted to tell me that she wasn’t going to be on time, so I started wandering around the street and smoking cigarettes to while away time.

The sky was overcast with a comfortable chill in the air, one that didn’t require more than one layer of clothing. I liked to loiter around Sudder Street and observe people whenever I had a chance. One could find a diverse group of people here, from the middle class looking for a fix or a drink, to tourists waiting to be haggled by another class of Indians. A lot of white and east Asian tourists halted in the cheap hotels targeted for backpackers. Since the hippies first arrived, neighbourhoods such as these in most cities learned to peddle religion, drugs, ethnic trinkets and clothes to the young backpackers seeking adventure, belief, and authenticity.

It didn’t take long for the drug peddlers to start asking me what I was seeking. One of the peddlers told me some new stuff had arrived, which the city hadn't seen before. I told him I had no money. He asked me to spread the word. I responded with a certain nod of the head. When my friend arrived she stood with me on the street and smoked some more while we bathed in the comfortable winter wind.

That's when I saw him again, or so I thought. A Buddhist monk was walking by on the street.

"Oi, bald man. Oi, Buddhist. Need some stuff?" the peddler shouted out to him.

The crowd around the narrow crossroad turned its gaze towards the peddler. He kept shouting and calling out to Lobsang. Lobsang kept his eyes on the ground, not moving from the feet. As Lobsang walked away from the lane towards the main road, the peddler turned around to see the crowd staring at him. The peddler looked all around and started laughing as the crowd dispersed and he took a drunken walk to the curb and sat down.

***

Lobsang ran away from his monastery when he was twenty-nine. He had come to Calcutta to look for certain books when a man had mugged him on the streets in the night. With no money to go back, he reacted. He ran behind the man who stole the money and tackled him on the ground. The man reacted with his elbows but Lobsang hit him in the face a few times till his fist was bloodied. The tussle went on for what felt like a few minutes. When Lobsang got up, he noticed that the man was not moving and his clothes were tattered.

Lobsang went to the nearest police station with his bloodied, torn attire, surrendered and confessed the whole incident. He stayed locked up in the prison for eight months while he waited for his trail to finish. The state-sponsored lawyer made sure he was proven not guilty with a plea of self-defense. The man he had killed, was a repeating offender. It did not take the judge much to persuade.

Since then Lobsang has roamed the streets of Calcutta and Eastern India without any affiliation to a monastery, much like students unaffiliated to the universities, reading and studying on their own. Lobsang wrote about his days in the prison in a national daily. He wrote about how in his life of repentance he had come closer to the common people and in the process acquired greater knowledge. The insularity of the monasteries had never led him to ponder on deeper questions of practical ethics. When was it right or wrong to kill a man?

***

It was when he was published in the daily, which was later syndicated across various websites and social media, I recognized the man I saw on the streets those two times. Lobsang was a man who was much more complicated than he first appeared under the simple clothing. The ochre-colored cloth seemed to me like a vessel to carry the ascetic body and also a costume to hide behind. As the media lapped over him and slowly projected him as a man of wisdom, I started to wonder whether wisdom was too hasty a word to use for anyone.

During an encounter with Lobsang when I accompanied my friend Romila, a documentary director, he looked into the camera and gave elaborate answers to all questions Romila threw at him. During one of the interviews that he was giving for a television network, we followed him into the studio and recorded the interview from behind the studio cameras. His face never flinched when he confessed about the killing. His smiles transitioned effortlessly into a contemplative face. We replayed the videos in slow motion but couldn’t find an iota of guilt on his face. His wandering it appeared had indeed purged his guilt.

When we asked him what motivated him to write in the daily, his eyes looked into one of the cameras for a second and then looked straight into Romila’s eyes and he answered, “I wanted to share the knowledge I accumulated over the years.”

Written by: Debarun Sarkar

Photograph by: Michael Ken

Blood & Water

I have lost a great many things, including the manse that sits behind me, nestled along the riverbank. The cold water tickles my toes as I peer into the expanse of gray sky, mourning the loss of it too. This land, this sky, this river will be stripped away and sold for pennies, leaving me naked and alone.

As children, we were never allowed to play here. It was too close to the water whose current lurked beneath. Now there are no parents to warn me or siblings to play with. They are gone too.

I unlace my boots and edge further into the water, letting the sounds of executors and vultures slip away as the babbling flood fills my gaping heart. They pick through my home, my things, my family history as if it can be itemized and sold at auction for anything close to what we owe. These things are priceless. But does that mean they have too little or too much value to count? I suppose it depends to whom you pose the question.

My skirt is pulled into the river, and the sneaking current picks it up and tries to drag me away by my petticoat, but my feet stand firm on rock. I peruse the tree line looking for answers among the evergreens, but they are as quiet as the sky.

“Miss!” A squawking vulture calls from the back staircase.

I know precisely where he stands based solely on how his voice echoes against the stone. I know every breath of this land and it knows me, but that is not enough to keep it. The lawyers insisted on an estate sale, saying it was the only way to help correct the debt my family accrued and subsequently left me.

I turn to face Mr. Forrester, careful not to lose my footing on the rocks. To him, I am the very picture of grief: long, black dress, high collar, and birdcage veil. I am in mourning, but it seems a shame everyone should dress the same when the act of mourning is so different to each soul. In the Bible, men mourned in sackcloth and ash, erasing their individuality in the name of despair. I, however, want everyone to see the aching chasm in my chest where my heart once rested. I want them to know and suffer. Instead I am just another young woman in black. No one sees any difference from one plight to the next. Grief is grief and the more elegant, the more palatable it will be.

“Yes, Mr. Forrester. How may I assist you?”

“Miss Davenport, it is not safe for you that close to the water. The river has risen since last night’s storm. Please come back to the house.”

The house, not my house. We both notice the difference in the strained silence that follows, a silence in which we wonder if his words should be corrected, but we decide not since they are true.

I am inclined to listen to him, but I want to stay a few moments longer, just to feel the crisp water against my stockinged ankles one last time. I do not know where I will be after today, and I do not know if I will ever see a winter river again, surrounded by the protection of rock and evergreen. I feel its protection too and it calls me to stay.

“Your concern is most kind, Mr. Forrester, but I am quite well, thank you.”

When awful things happen to people, they either live or they die. It does not matter which. The awful thing does not stop to ask ‘What would you have me do?’ It simply happens, and the unfortunate soul either stays or leaves. It did not ask if I cared when my mother was taken by fever, or if I minded when Father drank himself into the grave. It was bothered none by my shame when my brother absconded with the remnants of our fortune to settle his gambling debt. It did not consult my disposition when my lover left on the eve of our wedding, or when the infant inside me threatened to abandon me too.

I place a warm palm over my abdomen. It has not yet betrayed me, but it will in time. The breeze turns angry as it whips and roars in my ears. My veil blows back off my eyes and I see clearly.

Tragedy begets tragedy until the white capped wave crests and crashes, leeching the breath and happiness from my body in one rescinding pull of the tide. It will not stop, and I will either live or die.

My cheeks flush with anger as I think of what little control I’ve had over my entire life. No tragedy that befell me was brought on by my own misdeeds. I deserved no part in the mistakes of others or the gluttonous lives they lived. My fiancé wanted more: more women, more freedom, more time. The Davenport men had a love of money, and they too wanted more, squandering what they had. Why, then, can I not have the same control over my future and fortune?

I step further into the river so the raging current pulls at my knees. I can choose to stay or go. I am more powerful than tragedy itself, a mockery to the tribulation and anguish with which God has plagued us.

“See?” I shout into the roaring wind as it sweeps down the river. “I, too, can take away.”

I step into the current and let the water, my only true companion, sweep me away to heaven.

Written by: HG Reed

Photograph by: Michael Ken

Hunting Party

Sunset Cloud loves the way they look, all the different colored wrappers spread out in the snowy glade. You never know what you’re going to get when you pick up one of the brightly-colored coverings. Generally, the bigger containers have more good stuff inside, but not always. Sometimes they have only one human and a bunch of inedible things, but that one human is often the sweet, melt-in-your-mouth kind. Sunset Cloud stays away from the smallest containers, the cramped, only-come-up-to-your-shin ones. They’re inevitably filled with the stringy, beef-jerky humans. She hates those. Old Treebreaker likes those the most, says they keep his jaw strong, but more likely it’s his constant talking. She likes a little fat with her meals. Good for her coat. Alpenglow says her hair shines like the river in the moonlight. Maybe she'll invite him for a swim in the moonlight when the thaw hits.

Treebreaker pushes closer to her. She growls at him, showing fang as she does. "Sorry," he says, continuing past her. She grabs his arm, her claws like daggers on his dull, gray fur. She remembers when it was as bright as the leaves of the aspens before the snow, but that was a long time ago when she could still walk under her mother's legs and her feet were smaller than a human’s. Now she’s the tallest in the clan, and her footprints draw spotters from all directions.

"Don't move.”

He stops, head hung, eyes downcast. She pities him, his strength leached away by the last hundred years. She knows it will be her one day. The more cubs she bears, the more she feels the passing of time and the weight of mortality. So she fights it the only way she knows how--y ensuring that the name of the Sunrise Clan Sasquatch of the Middle Mountains will go down in legend. For too many years the Sasquatches of the Western Water Clan have been preeminent among clans. They hold records for both the closest encounter with humans and for the number of encounters. And don't think they don't brag about that at every gathering. She's getting tired of hearing how they've found the perfect time of day and lighting to show just enough to keep the humans coming back but never enough for absolute proof. And the Western Water Clan is wasteful, too. They eat almost none of the humans they find, preferring to play with them instead. They get the humans all hopped up and excited and then just let them go. Of course, they can live on loggers and bear alone. Food’s a little more scarce here.

Sunset Cloud’s expectations for tonight are sky-high. The last path she made, over rocks and through piles of fallen pine needles with the occasional enormous print just clear enough to get hopes up, was a work of art. The humans started entering the glade an hour or so ago, after a two-day walk from the nearest road. Humans walked slowly and ponderously in the snow. Nightfall forces them to stop and settle. Tomorrow, they’ll get up early to look for her. She counted eleven containers, all bright colors. She could see a few of the humans moving around, doing whatever it is humans did.

A loud shuffling from behind her announces Alpenglow’s arrival. Snow falls from the trees with a soft pitter-patter as he slides to a stop behind her. Muted as the sound is, it still attracts the attention of at least one of the humans in the clearing below.

She grabs Alpenglow, pressing him deeper into the shadows. "Quiet,” she hisses.

He peers around her shoulder. "So many. Are we going to get one tonight? I hear it's easy when they are in their dens. The bears do it all the time."

"That’s why bears get hunted," Sunset Cloud answers.

His mouth opens in an O of understanding, and he nods. He’s not the brightest squatch, but he’s strong and good-looking. She probably should have left him behind on this trip, but the nights are long and cold this time of year. A little company makes them warmer and brighter. His red hair feels silky under her hands as she pats him reassuringly. "Don't worry. We’ll get one tomorrow. After we play with them for a while."

Alpenglow hugs her, smiling, and she leans into him. He’s almost as tall as she is, his feet almost as large. Maybe he would be a good father for her cubs. If she’s lucky, they’ll have his looks and her brains. "Back to the cave," she says. "I'll meet you there after I lay some more tracks."

Alpenglow leaves with a nose nuzzle, Treebreaker with a grumble. She ignores both of them, caught up in the fantasy of knocking the Western Water clan off their high perch. As the sun slips behind the mountains, a flash of light catches her eye. Two humans are watching her from across the snow. The game is on.

From the other side of the glade, the man and he woman watch her go. The man drops his high-powered binoculars. The woman looks through her scope a little longer.

"Should we go after them?" he asks.

“There’s three of them, two of us.”

“But we have guns.” He points his rifle upslope.

“One of them is ten feet tall,” she says.

"Good point. I just can't wait to show up to the BRFO Conference with an actual capture. Screw those Washington guys and their unfocused videos."

“Tomorrow.” She smiles. What he lacks in planning, he makes up for in enthusiasm and looks. "Don't count your sasquatches before they're caught," she cautions.

They head back down to the tents. “I hate winter camping," the guy complains.

“I bet we can find a way to get warm.”

“Now you’re talking,” he grabs her arm, hurrying her.

She looks back up the hill. Tomorrow.

Written by: Amy Wasp-Wimberger
Photograph by: Michael Ken

A Bloodless Year

Unseasonal snow in these parts. Bleached flakes trace the outlines of the dead trees. Victims from the summer fires. Scorched winter wonderland. Home to a slight breeze and a body. Woman. Throat slashed. Why always a woman? Pretty. Thin arms lying there at grotesque angles. Dirt and blood and snow.

I thought we were going to get through a year with no murders. No blood. I was wrong. Karina says that it’s time to go. You’ve done your bit, she says. Let it go, she says. I flip open my phone and dial her number. She doesn’t answer. Umm, something came up, I tell her recorded voice. I’m out past Black Jack Springs. I pause. There’s a body, I say. And then, It’s snowing. For a moment I forget I’m talking. Anyway, I say, don’t wait up. Okay. Goodbye.

Jackson comes up from the house. Cold, he says. El nino, must be. El what? I ask. El nino, Jackson says. He’s very young. Probably not even thirty. El nino. You don’t know what El nino is? I shake my head. The woman’s body is still there. For some reason I expected it not to be. Karina is right. It’s time to give this up.

Jackson says, The old man up...shit, sorry. The elderly man up at the house…

Jesus Christ, I say, I’m old with or without him. It don’t matter. Now stop faggot tapping around and get to the point. What did he say?

Says he saw headlights, Jackson murmurs.

What a pussy he is. Feelings hurt. Young cocks go thumping around with emotion and forgiveness. Expression this and that. Not one of them can handle a stern voice or eye contact, much less something more. Something real.

What time? I ask. About three in the morning, Jackson says. Bullshit. That old fart is in bed by nine, I say. Well, that’s what he said. Says he got up this morning to feed the cows. Found the body. Called it in.

I see two cows on the horizon. Thin and distraught. Silhouetted against the winter sky. Gray on gray. Sinewy meat. Diseased. Thank god Karina got me off that stuff years ago. It gives you cancer, she said. They pump them full of chemicals. Slaughter them by the hundreds. Cutting machines. Nothing done by man no more. Everything machines. In the end the only thing human will be art. And this shit. Machines never solved no murder.

Phone rings. A number I don’t recognize. 512. Austin number. No answer but they leave a message. Who was that? Jackson asks.

Last day of the year, I say. Forty years of this shit and they get me on the last day of the year. Huh? Jackson asks. A bloodless year, I say. No murders. One goddamned time I would have taken a bloodless year.

Really? Jackson says. You’ve never gone a year without murders? Jesus. That’s fucked up. It’s not like this is Chicago, you know what I mean?

Karina and I in church. It was during the summer fires. The whole sky was dark with smoke. Noon. No rain for weeks. Preacher said, these fires will cleanse us. He said, it is God’s way. To make something new from something old. Karina saying Amen whenever they ask her to. You see it in the big cities, Preacher continued. See it in the New Yorks. The Los Angeleses. You see it in the Chicagos, he said. Like Sodom and Gomorrah before them, these places have turned their backs on God, and for that He will punish them. And he will do the same to us. Even here in Texas, he will do the same to us. Unless we accept Christ into our hearts. Into our homes. Our families. And when we do that, he will protect us. Each and every one of us. He will protect.

Another phone call. Unknown. 512. Austin. Another message.

Can I help you gentleman? A young woman. Beautiful. Sandy blonde hair. Jackson’s age maybe. Dressed like a rancher. Cowboy boots. Brown. Blue jeans. Checkered shirt underneath a Carhartt coat. Also brown. Freckles on pale skin. Rosy cheeks from the cold. Perfect teeth. Strong jaw. Pursed lips.

Ma’am? Jackson says. Panting like a dog. My grandfather owns the land, she says. And the house. He said ya’ll were down here. He doesn’t know the days of the week, so there’s no telling what he said to ya’ll. I didn’t know if I could help. I’m Elise.

Phillip Jackson, he says. Detective. And this is…

Landry, I say. Marcus Landry. Firm handshake. Eye contact. Slight smile. Fuck me eyes not seen since my youth.

Can I invite you up to the house? she says. It’s freezing out here. Hot coffee?

I look at the body while Jackson says, That would be kind of you, miss. For some reason, she never remarked on it. Never even looked at it. Blue face. Lost eyes. Dried blood like a necklace. It could almost be her twin. Same blonde hair. Same build.

We walk up the hill to the house. The cows scatter. Snow falls. I dig my hands deeper into my coat. My blood is too thin for this weather. Karina came from North Dakota. Long time ago. She would laugh at me. Call me a wimp. My Karina. I smile. Jackson is talking up ahead.

You go to school there in Austin? he asks. Yep, she says. Senior. Go Horns. I come out every weekend to see Papa, but it took me so long this morning. Roads are terrible. Ice everywhere. Wrecks everywhere. We’re just not used to this weather, you know? Don’t have the equipment. Salt, or whatever. People don’t know how to drive in it. So dangerous.

My phone rings. Same number. Like lightning I am hit. Karina. My Karina. She is heading to Austin today. Doctors appointments. Icy roads.

Hello, I say. A pause. A voice on the line. Is this Mr. Marcus Landry? it asks.


Written by: Logan Theissen
Photograph by: Michael Ken