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Caterpillar
song
Short Fiction by
Matt Donahue
Major Black was born in
the jungle, miles from Colombo, the youngest of sons. He
graduated school. He captained the team. As was the custom,
he ate with his fingers. At age 19, he received a commission
from the army and was sent to the Wanni. He fought for 12
years, without a vacation.
Thrice
decorated for gallantry! Veins of tissue cracked his
features. When his commander fell in Mankulam, he galvanised
the troops to hold the perimeter. He raped women and men. He
tortured and murdered. He ordered the digging of graves.
“We cleaned them up,” he said, “In masterly
fashion.”
When Black was a boy, he
used to pray daily, six times, once in each direction. To
the East, he bowed on behalf of his mother and father:
“Having been supported by them, I will support them,” he
pledged. “I will perform their duties. I will be worthy of
my heritage.” In return, he was taught, his parents would
reciprocate. They would guide him from evil, support him in
doing good, teach him skills, and bestow his heritage upon
him. In this way, Black believed, he would be at peace with
the East, making it free of fear.
He would then bow to the
South, on behalf of his educators:
“I will rise to
greet you when you enter, I will wait upon you, I will be
attentive to your teachings, I will serve you, and I will
master the skills that you teach.” In return, he was
taught, his teachers would reciprocate. They would
instruct him thoroughly. They would ensure that he learned
what they taught. They would recommend him to their friends
and colleagues. They would provide him with security in all
directions. In this way, Black believed, he would be at
peace with the South, making it free of fear.
He would bow to the West,
on behalf of his brothers:
“I will honour you.
I will not disparage you. I will trust you. I
will give you gifts.” His brothers would reciprocate, he
was told, and in this way Black believed himself to be at
peace with the West, making it free of fear.
To the North, he bowed on
behalf of his friends:
He pledged to honour them
with gifts and kind words. He would look after their
welfare. He would treat them as he would treat himself.
He would keep his word. In return, Black was told, they
would look after his property when he was inattentive. They
would provide him refuge when he was troubled, and would not
desert him. In this way, Black believed, he would be at
peace with the North, making it free of fear.
Below, he bowed on behalf
of workers. He pledged to supply them with wages. He pledged
to care for them when they were ill. He would share special
delicacies with them. He would not dehumanise them. In
return, he was taught, they would reciprocate. They would
perform their duties attentively. They would not steal. They
would be bearers of his praise and good repute. In this way,
Black was told, he would be at peace with the ground below
him, making it free of fear.
Lastly, Black bowed above,
on behalf of spiritual teachers. He pledged kindness to
them, in deed, speech and thought. He pledged to open his
house to them. He pledged to supply them their needs. In
return, Black was taught, they would reciprocate. They would
restrain him from evil, encourage him to do good, be
benevolently compassionate toward him, teach him what he had
not learned, and guide him toward redemption. In this way,
Black believed, he would be at peace with the Zenith, making
it free of fear.
The International
Terrorists’ Handbook states: “Provocation is the
subversive’s task. Incite the government to reflex its
impulses. Injustices strengthen anti-establishment
causes.” So lads on bikes rode with guns on laps to kill
unsuspecting symbols of authority. Human decency called for
retribution. It granted the government emergency powers,
which allowed it to obstruct certain freedoms, and wield
power less reckfully. The rakshasas ensured that their
visions were chosen, by process of elimination.
Only 13, then 14, Black
understood little. He knew rugby. Letters on shirts and
garlanded sleeves. Black and his buddies, cousins and
brothers also knew that life wasn’t easy. “Life,” they
said, “is like rugby.”
On the rugby field, Black
was a leader. Courageous and vicious. His opponents were
marked and the goal was victory. He didn’t hate his
enemies. He fought for what was at stake. “Be brave,
machans.” That was Black’s mantra.
At 16, he watched his
eldest brother hug neighbours. His mother wept, and Black
tried to console her. “Why cry, Amma?” It was a festive
occasion. His brother received blessings and gifts, a
carefully wrapped cloth of mother-treats. There was an
elephant parade at dusk.
Less than a year, and
Black’s second brother followed the first. To Black, he
seemed as noble as the cause. A steel-eyed lion. There were
flags, banners and impassioned speeches. Girls kissing and
waving. Never once did the terrorists enunciate their cause.
“If you have a grievance,” the speaker spoke, “state
your solution precisely. Otherwise stop blowing things up!
The Tigers want a separate state? What kind of separate
state? Will it protect its people from oppressions? Until
justice is its vision, the LTTE will have no moral
authority. It would be to all of society’s benefit if it
did.”
Two months later,
Black’s third brother joined. Another month, his fourth.
“We’ve lived together for fifteen hundred years! How to
separate?”
Seventeen, and a man.
Black had watched outcasts wreck havoc on the unsuspecting.
He was courageous. He could not watch idly. He said as much
to his friends and none argued. They shared his disgust. In
one year, they would become soldiers. In the meantime, they
practiced. They beat up kids who wouldn’t enlist. They
nurtured emphatic optimisms. They drank arrack cocktails.
Identity is a fragile
concept. If Black had been born someplace other than in the
jungle, he would have turned out differently. So how to
differentiate Black from his surroundings? Since everything
makes the world, and everything is all things, not a single
thing can change without changing all the world. No thing is
constant. As facts change, the world changes. Mountains
collapse. Stars plunge from their orbits. On the quantum
level, things change constantly. Thinghood can’t exist in
a world where change is constant. A non-constant thing is
not one thing but many, and many things are not one. For a
thing to be a thing, it must be that thing, or some other
thing. It couldn’t be both one thing and another,
simultaneously. Nor could it be neither one thing nor
another, because it would then be nothing. For a thing to be
a thing, it must have some essential nature—something that
does not change—some intrinsic identity—but there is no
evidence that such a thing exists, and there can be no world
of something else’s, if there is no world of things. Of
all human parts, it is the I that is the most fragile.
Black rode to the Wanni in
the back of a camouflaged truck. He felt on the cusp of
powerful changes. There were other men. Each felt like an
avatar of some eternal.
Were Hitler’s millions
more victimised than the millions in India who starved when
food was diverted to British soldiers? The commies followed
Hitler. The Iron Curtain. Mutually Assured
Destruction. The New World Order. In what sense victory?
When? For how long? Isn’t having enemies the only reality
that enemy having creates?
After 12 years, Black’s
fingers shook, but he’d survived with his body intact.
When he walked past glass, he imagined how it might shatter.
Instead of fireworks, he heard enemy gunfire.
After 12 years, happiness,
for Black, didn’t exist. There were varying degrees of
experiential intensity. He hiked to a cave that housed
thousands of bats. Their shit was higher than his thighs,
and the cave was squirming with poisonous snakes.
“Adventure sport,” he called it.
After 12 years, Black
found a lover in Colombo. They drove to the ocean, at 90
kilometres per hour, past checkpoints where soldiers played
slow motion games of Russian roulette. She gave him head
along the way. They romped in the ocean, had sex in the
sand, drove naked past wide-eyed sentries. After 12 years,
life was a dare.
After 12 years, he
hadn’t had a vacation. He’d been thrice decorated! His
father met him at the station, with unspoken apologies.
Black placed his vices before him. His mother entered the
room. He waited for her to leave, then wanted more. His
head was abuzz. At any moment, anything was possible, even
chaos. “I’m desperate,” he said. “There’s nothing
I won’t do.”
Of all human parts, the I
is the most fragile. “What am I,” asked Black. “Am I
still he?”
Sonya wanders like that
Wednesday in November, when she packed a bag with hope, and
hitchhiked 20 towns away. She met Black at one of
Colombo’s casinos, playing baccarat on the minimum bet
table. It was November 1999, and Sri Lanka’s troops had
just been routed by the LTTE. She expressed her condolences,
and by his eyes, she could tell he knew her to be sincere.
They passed the rest of the night, winning big and drinking
heavily.
“There’s someone I’d
like you to meet,” she told him. After 15 or so drinks,
she wasn’t even slightly drunk. Her cheeks were tender and
her eyes were wide. Black hair draped like silk across her
shoulders, her breasts. She placed small, calculated bets.
Before they left, she donated her winnings to the bathroom
attendant.
“Have you ever
experienced tragedy,” Black slurred. She shook her head
no, and took his hand. “It’s the capacity for redemption
that separates us from beasts. Better days are created, by
thoughts, actions and speech.” |
