Grandpa. We would sit next to each other by the river, never touching and never talking. There was no old-man gibberish or child gibberish. We would sit and share the silence together. He taught me that the crane can feel when the fish approach by the change in water flowing against its legs. Grandpa was wrong but I never told him so.
The crane never knows when fish are approaching; it is simply always ready. The crane bends its body at its hips so that its eyes stare down into the water, and thereafter it stands still as steel, poised. At the moment the crane sees a fish within its reach, bam! It throws its beak into the water. The closed beak pierces the water and opens under it to grab the fish. Once thebeak closes over the fish, the crane lets its neck go floppy, allowing the fish some freedom to wriggle. The crane uses the fish’s own momentum to draw it from the beak cavity into its throat. It is a dance of one second but if you watch many such motions you will see this. The crane fishes in exactly the same way regardless of whether it is hot or the monsoon rains are falling. It is constant in variable surroundings.
Little girls are not cranes. They never stand still; they run inside when the weather darkens and it rains. There were bars across my window and a lock on my door and the clouds were very dark. I could feel the flow of water changing beneath me, but I did not have the ability to remain constant in the shifting stream.
The old woman led me back to my room. I was still overcome by the smells of the dining room and by the experience of meeting my new uncles. I felt emotionally layered, like a hut painted in many colors, one on top of the next: tiredness superseded by loneliness, coated in panic. I did not cry for fear of ruining my makeup.
Again I was locked alone in the room. Candles burned from tall black metal candelabras that had been placed on both sides of the bed. I jumped onto the bed as if it were an island that would enable me to avoid the swirling undercurrent beneath me. The bed had been made up with fresh crisp white sheets that shone in the candlelight, making the bed appear to me as a glowing refuge, fool that I was.
Minutes later the old woman returned with a tray on which lay a plate of sweet-cakes, but I had lost my taste for them. I was hungry though, but more for Mother’s stew. Also on the tray were incense sticks, which the old woman lit. They were not as gagging as the ones in the dining room but I still detested the smell. Grandma, who never threw away anything, used to overspice the meat to hide the fact that it was partially rotten. Her spices did not hide the meat’s taste and the incense sticks did not disguise the doom that hung in the air.
The old woman sat down in the chair next to the bed. I looked at her but she did not look at me. I could sense a tension in her. She continued to stare downward at nothing. I was comfortable in the silence but asked, “Can I have my coloring things?” She glanced up at me, moving only her eyes. Her only answer was a pencil-thin smile that skimmed across her mouth.
There was a soft knock at the door. The old woman unhurriedly got up and opened it and in walked Uncle Smiley-Nir. “Hello there,” he chimed, with his big smile stuck on his face. He looked at me on the bed as if I were a precious vase. “It’s Batuk … right? Remember me? I’m Uncle Nir.” I looked down at the floor and nodded. “Batuk,” he continued, in a slow, carefully metered voice, “we are going to have a lovely time together. But first, my little darling, I want to hear you sing some more.” I nodded and said, “Yes, Uncle.” I looked at the floor and noticed a centipede inching toward the bed, looking for sanctuary there. The old woman stood up and drifted to the far end of the room next to the door (in case I tried to escape?). Uncle Nir took his place, sitting with his hands on his knees on the wooden chair next to the bed. He smiled at me.
Then
The crane never knows when fish are approaching; it is simply always ready. The crane bends its body at its hips so that its eyes stare down into the water, and thereafter it stands still as steel, poised. At the moment the crane sees a fish within its reach, bam! It throws its beak into the water. The closed beak pierces the water and opens under it to grab the fish. Once thebeak closes over the fish, the crane lets its neck go floppy, allowing the fish some freedom to wriggle. The crane uses the fish’s own momentum to draw it from the beak cavity into its throat. It is a dance of one second but if you watch many such motions you will see this. The crane fishes in exactly the same way regardless of whether it is hot or the monsoon rains are falling. It is constant in variable surroundings.
Little girls are not cranes. They never stand still; they run inside when the weather darkens and it rains. There were bars across my window and a lock on my door and the clouds were very dark. I could feel the flow of water changing beneath me, but I did not have the ability to remain constant in the shifting stream.
The old woman led me back to my room. I was still overcome by the smells of the dining room and by the experience of meeting my new uncles. I felt emotionally layered, like a hut painted in many colors, one on top of the next: tiredness superseded by loneliness, coated in panic. I did not cry for fear of ruining my makeup.
Again I was locked alone in the room. Candles burned from tall black metal candelabras that had been placed on both sides of the bed. I jumped onto the bed as if it were an island that would enable me to avoid the swirling undercurrent beneath me. The bed had been made up with fresh crisp white sheets that shone in the candlelight, making the bed appear to me as a glowing refuge, fool that I was.
Minutes later the old woman returned with a tray on which lay a plate of sweet-cakes, but I had lost my taste for them. I was hungry though, but more for Mother’s stew. Also on the tray were incense sticks, which the old woman lit. They were not as gagging as the ones in the dining room but I still detested the smell. Grandma, who never threw away anything, used to overspice the meat to hide the fact that it was partially rotten. Her spices did not hide the meat’s taste and the incense sticks did not disguise the doom that hung in the air.
The old woman sat down in the chair next to the bed. I looked at her but she did not look at me. I could sense a tension in her. She continued to stare downward at nothing. I was comfortable in the silence but asked, “Can I have my coloring things?” She glanced up at me, moving only her eyes. Her only answer was a pencil-thin smile that skimmed across her mouth.
There was a soft knock at the door. The old woman unhurriedly got up and opened it and in walked Uncle Smiley-Nir. “Hello there,” he chimed, with his big smile stuck on his face. He looked at me on the bed as if I were a precious vase. “It’s Batuk … right? Remember me? I’m Uncle Nir.” I looked down at the floor and nodded. “Batuk,” he continued, in a slow, carefully metered voice, “we are going to have a lovely time together. But first, my little darling, I want to hear you sing some more.” I nodded and said, “Yes, Uncle.” I looked at the floor and noticed a centipede inching toward the bed, looking for sanctuary there. The old woman stood up and drifted to the far end of the room next to the door (in case I tried to escape?). Uncle Nir took his place, sitting with his hands on his knees on the wooden chair next to the bed. He smiled at me.
Then
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