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Bless me, father

Opinion | Articles | Desmond L. Kharmawphlang | 07-Nov-2022

 Lying flat on his back, wild grasses teasing his face, Rimeki stared at the sky. Mesmerized by the theatre of clouds, like tufts of cotton or tula as the fluffy material is called in these parts, stretched in a pattern as far as his eyes could see, the voice of his grandmother sailing from across the years of great absence: “That’s the cat sowing maize in the sky.”  “But won’t all the maize fall to the ground?” Rimeki, the small boy had asked, curiosity aroused at this wonderfully strange proposition. His grandmother responded with a smile revealing stained teeth, two of which actually resembled maize kernels: “That’s why we get maize here in our soil. You have to thank the cat for maize, the rat for rice, the dog for soya sauce…”

Rimeki smiled as only deep sadness can prompt one, tiny tears coasting the corners of his eyes, so sharp and painful that they did not feel watery. Later on, in college, he came to learn that the folk adage, “maize field of the cat in the sky,” was a weather condition in the sky known as cirrus cumulus frequently obtained in rainy places. But he liked his grandmother’s explanation a lot better and now, in his thirty sixth year, after having traveled a life road in which he had tasted the rewards of his intelligence and hard work, had committed his life to obedience and celibacy for the Church, had seen the hopelessness and inconceivable sordidness of life, had experienced abysmal despair and loss of faith, found the folk phraseology of his infancy and youth comforting and reassuring.

Alone on the gentle hilltop that cupped his body in its shadow of trees and lonely air, he longed for the rough kindness of his grandmother. After an age of lost thoughts, when he could no longer see the heavenly maize field, he felt tiny tears watering, blinding him for the moment in time. He consoled himself by thinking that she was trying to reach him from across the moribund years, consoling him with her peasant- practical nature as whenever he was confused as a child or in the middle of a moral dilemma much later in life.

He had excelled at school and college and after joining a fortnight-long vocation camp organized by the parish for young boys, he decided to enter a religious order and take the vows of celibacy, obedience and poverty. His natural intelligence and spirit for team work stood him in good stead at the seminary. He was ordained a priest one rainy day in June along with two others and it was a rare moment indeed when, after Holy Mass, his parents and siblings kissed and hugged him. This was followed by long photo calls and a sumptuous lunch in the hall adjacent to the church.

Rimeki’s grandmother had passed away the year before, her body wasted and sore-punished. He had visited her when he was a novice and he surprised himself by not expressing emotions at the sight of her excruciating predicament. It was not that he loved her less but he had learnt to control his emotions, swimming day in and day out in the philosophical waters of stoicism and other dense discourses.

Rimeki was permitted leave for three days when she died and he remembered that he did weep when he saw her lying inert, the deep lines of her face finally still. But as a religious, he was quick to realize the expectations that his family had of him and marshalling his emotions, led everyone in prayer for the dead, his voice strong and clear.

The funeral took place after a couple of days on a warm afternoon and there was a big attendance of near and dear ones, neighbours and even a couple of his grandmother’s cronies who bravely hobbled all the way to the sprawling cemetery. The Laitumkhrah Catholic cemetery formed most part of a hill but gave the impression of being a valley after it had been worked over by man and machine so that the resting place of the dead looked presentable especially once a year on 2^nd November when crowds would congregate there with offerings of candlesticks lit on graves many of which would be flower-laden. There would be the occasional grave bereft of these morbid niceties of Roman Catholicism and Rimeki would remember his grandmother’s grace of constructing bunches of flowers left over from the main wreaths and placing them on these long-forgotten graves whose unknown custodians were probably tenants in the sub-soil of some other hillside graveyards. Looking around him, he saw that the cemetery still had a peaceful aura of soft breeze dancing in between the proud pines girding the place. The service was concluded predictably when the coffin was lowered into the grave and hands started noisily tossing fistfuls of earth into the open grave. The patter of dust, pebbles and soil on the coffin lid was a sound he would be hearing a lot more in times to come.

When the place was almost deserted, he pulled a young cousin aside and asked the boy to accompany him. He was, even today when he was an anointed vow-observing member of a religious order, curious about what is known colloquially as “the wings,” where individuals who died violent and unnatural deaths are buried. It is also the resting place of those who have not received absolution before passing on to the next world. Local wits call this section of the cemetery “Boot Hill,” at once evoking a picture of the famed Wild West graveyard where gunslingers and their occasional victims were buried with their boots on.

Rimeki was posted at Khliehriat Parish, in the East Jaintia Hills District of the state of Meghalaya to assist an elderly Malayalee priest. He lost no time in joining his assignment, finding himself thrown into the frenetic life of a coal-mining area. The church and parish buildings were perched on a small hill overlooking the small town cluttered with hastily constructed shops and stalls, clinging to whatever support there was available, offering wares of all kinds, predominantly mining tools, construction materials, food grains, hardware and alcohol. Specially-designed trucks for transporting coal, yellow sumo vehicles and SUVs crowded the single road that runs through the town. Human traffic was equally feverish with roadside vendors, traders, coal and construction labourers from parts known and unknown thronging the road and the arterial lanes, clogging every habitable space with the detritus common to all boomtowns. People from nearby villages with bags and babies also added to the bustle. To acquaint himself with the place, he frequented the houses of the faithful and was exposed to both opulence and squalor, the former, obviously, a product and consequence of the coal-driven wealth and the latter, the result of unimaginable marginalization due to loss of land and the now frequent blight of unproductive land and acidic streams.

Duties at the parish were routinely made up of saying morning Mass, supervising the primary school and keeping an eye on the repairs being done to the church compound. Father Mathew, the parish priest confided to him one day, while they lunched on a sparse meal of rice, lentils and vegetables, that he nurtured a long-cherished dream, (a pet project of sorts), to complete the work on the wall which was left abandoned some three years ago when the desperately saved funds ran out. Despite appeals made for special donations, money only trickled in and the spiraling costs of building materials compounded the problem. Only a small portion of the wall now stood at the farthest corner of the compound, giving an impression of defeat. Rimeki was surprised that money would be an issue for some of the parishioners who were evidently very wealthy judging by the number of cars parked in front of their large-sized houses. Father Mathew smiled and said: “There are a few things you are yet to know about this place”.

One evening, while he was doing his favourite thing, reading the Book of Proverbs, Chaphrang a boy orphaned since he was only five years of age and who had been adopted by Fr. Mathew, came to his room and requested him to come to the churchyard. Chaphrang, as they walked there, told him that a man came to the sacristy when he was dusting the priestly robes for mass the following morning, urging him to call Fr. Rimeki on an urgent and confidential matter. They saw the man pacing the church grounds, an expensive SUV close by, a look of great anxiety on his face. He was pale-looking with a receding hairline and his clothes looked ill-fitting although they were new and expensive. Rimeki saw all this in the illumination thrown from the tube lights fitted on iron poles along the church. “How are you?” asked Rimeki “and how may we help you?” “ Bless me, Father - I need to confess!” said the man.

“Well then, we will have to go inside the church. Chaphrang, go get the keys.” said Rimeki as Chaphrang went in the direction of the parish house.

Soon they entered the church and dipping his fingers in the holy water, Rimeki crossed himself and strode over to the confessional. Putting on the stole, he prepared himself and beckoned the man over. The man knelt and declared: “Bless me father, I have blood on my hands…”

Rimeki felt dizzy listening to the man, aware that for the first time he was coming face to face with a reality that was both terrible and dark. That night he could not sleep. He had skipped dinner and sat at the simple desk in his room, the Bible opened at the same page for hours now. He could only stare at the waste of night outside the grilled window and contemplate the lights marking the sordid township and all it represents. He celebrated Mass the following morning but despite the exhortation he fused into his sermon, he felt disturbed and discouraged.

After a simple cup of tea with a slice of bread, he got into the parish jeep, having to go and see to some work getting cement for school repair. Bhalang the driver greeted him and they were off. Now, Bhalang was a married man of thirty- five with two children. He was well- behaved and neat but one could discern that he was worldly. In fact, there were mornings when Rimeki could detect the faint odour of alcohol on his breath. He also smoked and seemed to know a lot of people in the place.

As they drove, Bhalang said: “You know father, there is some excitement in the town! A man, near-dead, was brought last night to the PHC. His left leg was almost severed in two. He is a simple man who had strayed to the copse of woods to the east of here and did not know that steel traps had been installed near there. You know those traps with serrated clasps meant for big animals? He stepped into one of them and his leg was caught in it. These traps are laid by mine owners to deter people from straying into potential sites. It is not certain whether the poor wretch will live or die”

Rimeki was struck by the violence of it all but was sickened to know that the commission of the activity and its shocking consequence was knowledge that he and only he and the confessional possessed.

Feeling thoroughly sick, Rimeki could not utter a single word. He just stared out through the windscreen of the car as it wove its way through the plastic and dirt- strewn road of the coal township. Finally, the car stopped by the side of a large hardware shop and Rimeki, followed by Bhalang, entered it. They were greeted by the Bengali salesman who greeted them in the local dialect: “please, father, have a seat. We are fetching your cement from the go-down”. Perplexed Rimeki asked: “How do you know we need cement?” “Oh! The boss told us to load up a pick-up jeep of cement for your school and church wall, I think? It is just getting done. Will you have tea?” For the second time that morning Rimeki felt sick and wordlessly looked around feeling faint. He ignored the tea that was brought from a tea shop outside feeling stupid because he did not have the money for the cement being loaded on the Mahindra pickup mini-truck. He had just enough for a few bags. The salesman understood the priest’s predicament and assured him saying that everything was fine and the matter will be settled by the boss. The pick- up was also ready to go and it will ferry the cement to the parish house. The labourers, who are already perched on the truck atop the cement bags, will unload the materials at the church, said the manager.

Muttering a khublei to thank the salesman, Rimeki followed by Bhalang went out of the shop, got into the parish vehicle and the two drove away. They looked at each other but Bhalang just offered a “don’t ask me” shrug and concentrated on the road.

A day after, Rimeki presided over a funeral: the man with the maimed leg was also a heart patient. The shock of the overall experience of losing a leg to the animal trap was too much for his poor heart and he died after experiencing a terrible ordeal at the PHC.

Rimeki was cast in a state of unbelievable depression, burdened by the terrible secret he harboured. He simply went through the motions of reading from the prayer book. He hardly knew the poor man but he knew how he was killed and the circumstances surrounding it. Rimeki, in fact, envied the dead man for he was at peace now, unlike him who had to carry the dark and terrible secret locked up in his heart. Meanwhile, repair work on the school and church wall resumed and it was finished in a couple of month’s time.

******

Dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, Rimeki looked in the direction of the forgotten complex of megalithic structures he had chanced upon while roaming the jungles of Raid Thayang in the Ri Bhoi district. Having been asked by Fr. Mathew the Parish priest of Khliehriat to take a month-long break, he had decided to come to this remote place where his cousin was a teacher at the local village school. His cousin, Ben, after picking up his teacher’s training certificate from a college in Shillong, heard about a vacancy announced in church, after Mass, one morning and there and then decided to apply for the position. He was offered the position and after a couple of day’s preparation,traveled to the remote village by bazaar bus, carrying with him only a suitcase.

Ben lived in the village, accommodated in a three-room hut where, clearly, he was very happy. He was loved and respected by all in the village and being the kind-hearted young man he was, went out of his way to help the children of the village especially those who came from poor families. He used to tell Remiki that the pay was small but he had no use for money as he was provided with rice, vegetables, fruits and the occasional produce from the generous chicken coop of the village headman. On weekends, he also went fishing with some of the village men to the Umshang and the Umiam rivers. He was contented, healthy and at peace with himself. His mother, Rimeki’s aunt, sent him provisions like tea, salt, bread and biscuits, through the bazaar bus.

There was a calm stillness in the mid-morning air sweetened by the songs of unseen birds as he reclined, trying to merge with the surroundings. He had stopped at a point offering a vantage view of the lush valley below and he smiled at the view for the first time in days when he felt a semblance of peace. He was sure that it was the calming effect of the place, the infectious happiness of Ben, the cordiality of the village folk and most of all, the simplicity of life that he saw around him. Reaching the site, he marveled at the number of vertical and horizontal stones arranged in a rough circle, many over-grown with elephant grass, lianas and other unknown species of wild plants. He sat on a flat circular stone and started taking pictures using his cell phone. Something about the place urged him to say something in prayer but he felt his faith, like torn flesh, being questioned again. He had been wrestling with himself in this manner for a long time and this was what perhaps, led to this depression which took a serious toll on his health and prompted the kindly old priest, Fr. Mathew, to persuade him to take a break from pastoral work. He sensed the presence of a special aura in this place and his lying on his back had nothing to do with fatigue or indolence but a primitive sense of wanting to be one with the wild pregnant surroundings.

The world from this vantage point seemed interesting as he looked up and saw and absorbed things he had always taken for granted projected differently. He saw the under wings of flies, the jungle spider mesh lit bright yellow by the sun’s rays, the nodding leaves almost in conversation with each other. He could also hear the faint tinkle of human laughter which he, at first, ignored but was drawn to it as it became stronger. Sitting up, he saw at a distance, a group of people making their way down the trail: there were five in all, two women and three men.

As the group got closer, he saw that the people were young, perhaps in their twenties and they looked like city folk. The people in the group also spotted him and they went quiet as they walked up approaching the spot where Rimeki was. “Kumno! Hello!” said a young woman who assumed the lead role, “a lovely place, don’t you think?” Rimeki took a little time to respond but eventually said: “yes, it’s very beautiful here.”

“Are you from the village?” asked the young woman with a smile “No, not really” replied Rimeki and he thought it was his turn to ask so he said: “Are you? I mean, I am a stranger here but… let me put it this way: I am not from these parts but I have been staying in the village these past three weeks and I have not seen you around…”

“Oh no,” said the young woman, “we are from Shillong but I am based in Pune. I teach at a college there. I am trained as an archaeologist and these are my friends and part-time assistants. We are camping in the other village across the Umsiang river and are working on collecting and studying the potsherds found in this area especially on that hillside”. She pointed to a distant hill with undulating slopes.

“I see,” said Rimeki “I… I am a nobody… I am here spending some time with my cousin brother who teaches at the village school.”

The young woman smiled and said, “you may be nobody but you must have a name! Mine is Saphira.” Getting to his feet, Rimeki extended his hand saying “I am Rimeki. Happy to meet you.” Saphira introduced her friends as Gloria, Danny, Ranghep and Mawsan.

They all sat on the stones and Saphira took charge explaining the intricacies of the megalithic culture found especially in the Bhoi country and how this megalithic complex could be linked to their work. About her current work, she explained that she was working on a commissioned article on the tradition of pottery for an international journal of archaeological research. It was evident that she was passionate about her work because she animated the discussion with gestures, expressions and drama which was very infectious. “Why don’t you join us to see how we work with our collected samples?” Saphira asked Rimeki, her eyes flashing.

“Well, Ok. When?” he asked a little hesitantly.

“How about tomorrow?” Saphira said, “you could come over to our site in the morning: we have a small camp there although we stay in the village across the river.”

“All right,” said Rimeki. “I shall come over in the morning”.

Rimeki found that working with his hands was fascinating. He loved feeling the texture of the soil as he sifted through it the way Saphira taught him how, and from time to time, using a small shovel and brush to clear the top soil and dig using extreme caution. His body responded very positively to the labours and his health improved.

It has been a week since he joined Saphira and her team at the site. Saphira was a good teacher who knew her stuff and much more importantly, was able to infect him with her passion for the dig. The site yielded many interesting cultural materials and the team became solidly involved in the work.

Rimeki had, in the last couple of days, opened himself up to Saphira confessing that he was a priest who have lost his faith. He narrated the outline of his life, the ordination, the parish posting the work and experiences, the severe bouts of depression, the faithlessness of his priestly functions and the semi-forced leave he was gratified to be given. Saphira listened to all that with great patience and understanding.

The excavation became more intense as the team put in more work with the discovery of some very interesting stone tools. Collectively, they decided to temporarily shift camp from the village to the site and Danny and Ranghep brought the team’s rations over to the site and all of them, including Rimeki camped near a stream, close to the site. One evening, when the team had called it a day after a particularly productive afternoon dig, Saphira got out the parsimoniously hoarded cans of beers and passed them around. Rimeki hesitated at first, but after a moment’s thought, accepted one and opened the tab the way he was shown how and took a sip. He found it pleasant. It took the edge of the thirst he had been harbouring after a dip in the water downstream.

 Saphira sat near him and they talked about things. After a while, she took his hand and pulled him up inviting him to walk with her to a rocky promontory she said she had always wanted to climb. On the flat rock sitting on a rug Rimeki had taken with him, they had a clear view of the paddy fields stretching to the edge of the distant village, listening to the loud and lusty ululating cries of the reapers who were on their way back home from the fields. The poignancy of the scene was deepened with the perfect moon glow emanating from the full moon.

Lost in the tranquility of the early evening, they sat in silence holding hands, sipping their beers. Saphira then leaned on Rimeki’s shoulder and kissed his cheek. He turned and kissed back and in an instant, they were all over each other, breathing hard, kissing and fumbling with each other’s clothes. Their lovemaking was frenzied, all-devouring, like the spirits of the wilderness around them. At last, when Rimeki emptied himself in Saphira, he felt a tremendous surge of love for everything and he cried out that love: he was sure that the nocturnal birds in the trees nearby heard him. Yes, they, the moon and most certainly, God. Saphira was unmindful of the tears on her face. She kept on stroking Rimeki’s face and kissing him gently.

 ******

A week later, Rimeki was back at the Parish lying on the cot in his bare room. He had confessed his helpless love for Saphira and their farewell was not long-winded or teary as he had anticipated. Saphira was a mature woman, thoroughly professional about her work and she understood commitment. She had touched his shoulder and lightly kissed his cheek when he strove to explain that he would have to re-join his duties at the parish. He knew that it would amount to insulting her if he told her that it was in the wilds of Ri-Bhoi and that it was with her he found faith again. In a garbled sense, he felt the touch of God when he handled the ancient potsherds, when he bathed the scratches and chaffed skin of his hands in the cool waters of the stream, when he tasted the sweat he shared with Saphira...

Waking at dawn, he knocked on the door of the old priest’s bedroom. The wizened face of the priest appeared and the door slowly opened:

Rimeki  said : “ Bless me, father - I need to confess !”

Courtesy Indian Literature - the story was first carried by the Sahitya Academy publication

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Desmond L. Kharmawphlang is a poet and folklorist. He teaches folkloristics at North-Eastern Hill University, Shillong. He can be reached at desmondkharmawphlang@gmail.com

             

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