Dadu

The greenish black of the bush closes in, autumn brightness left far behind at the turnoff.  Aamir cuts the engine and opens the car door. An alarm chirps and he removes the key from the ignition. Nearby, water gurgles over rocks. A tui’s bell-like call ends with a jarring rasp.

“This is it.” Aamir steps out.

“I don’t … it’s not right … I’m not coming.”

“Please, Santosh.” No response. “I can’t put it together. Please.”

The passenger door creaks.

“We used to come here. Dadu and me.  It was our place.”  Aamir reaches for the blue canvas bag on the back seat.  “You bring the shovel.”

The Kalka Mail arrives at Howrah station. A tide of scabby, stinking children, aged four to pubescent, surge towards the passengers alighting on Platform Eight. The boy pushes through, fingers moving deftly into pockets, finding a coin, the occasional note. He swoops on a dropped newspaper, worth a few pence. Enough for a portion of rice from the darbar.

Aamir protects the bag, trying not to let it bump against his leg.  He slips and steadies himself on the trunk of a young miro. The contents of the bag shift with a dull rattle.

“Just around this corner,” Aamir calls over his shoulder. “There’s a clearing.”

It’s eight years since he was last here with Dadu, walking the track, identifying trees. Eating meethi matri in the clearing, listening to Dadu’s stories of Calcutta, of Manchester, then travel to New Zealand.

Aamir stops and waits for Santosh. “This is the place.”

They alternate, digging or resting on a matai stump. Angled rays of sunlight filter through the canopy to dance in the clearing.

The boy lies in the shadows near the ticket counter. He tucks the aching stump of his hand between his legs. Today he had no energy to push past the others. Without that, he doesn’t eat. Across the platform, the collectors nudge sleeping forms with their boots. He’s seen them pick up bodies, the weak, the dead.  Soon, it will be him.

Aamir unzips the bag, exposing the chalky jumble within. Santosh gently lifts the skull.

“The place to start.”

Aamir watches as his friend removes each grey-white length.  Santosh considers and places, until there is a recognisable form lying before them. It’s smaller than Aamir imagined, not an adult. The bag is littered with fragments and delicate pieces.

“I can’t tell what’s here,” said Santosh. “Phalanges, carpals, cuneiforms.”

Santosh lifts them in handfuls, laying them as hands and feet. “This will confuse whoever finds him. Or her. Who was it?”

 “No idea. Indian medical students had to buy a skeleton.” Aamir selects a lancewood sapling.  “Dadu’s gone. Dida wants it gone too.”

He settles the tree on top of the bones while Santosh fills the hole with soil. Together, they firm the earth and scatter humus and leaves around it. A tui sounds a blessing.

Aamir picks up the empty bag and they walk back to the car.

Rosemary McBryde