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| Source: BBC news |
The way opposite things blend to form a tangibly intangible thing called everyday life is both funny and sad at the same time. Such that one is both wrong and right when you say everyday life is ironic. On my TV set, CNN reporters are slugging out the irony in the Philippines, where a fearsome storm has reduced to rubble, what the people knew to be life. Brokenness has replaced firmness. Death has mixed with life and now there are images of decaying bodies sitting by the road as living people roam the ruins of their old world almost hopelessly. Before I began to watch television, I had awoken from a restless night sleep. Before the restless sleep, I was in the middle of nowhere; standing amidst bushes, holding my cell phone out to my Uncle, hoping the light radiating from the phone’s screen would pierce the darkness enough for him to see the ground he was digging. I watched his heaving breath and heard his thick drops of sweat. He dug and dug. The ground was hard because it had not rained for weeks and because he was not a digger. In the times of my Uncle’s light, he is an IT go-to-man, in his hands, computers get fixed and internet connections link up strongly. Computer viruses fear him. With few taps of a keyboard, websites come to life. But in that night of darkness, he was masked by the black colour of the night, heaving, digging the grave of his son who was born dead.
In the light, I was anxious to see my
new cousin. I had vivid images of the things we would do together. He would
call me uncle. I would ensure my name was the first word he learnt to
pronounce, no matter how wrongly. His wrong pronunciation would be a thing to
laugh about for a long time. When he is ten and twelve and even eighteen, I
would remind him of the pronunciations and he would laugh and say I was making
up the story. But in the darkness, I held out dim light to his father while the
child lay wrapped in a piece of mackintosh as lively as a rock.
In the Philippines the light time was
composed of happy streets, yes there were occasional street fights, arguments
that went too far. But the crowd that watched was entertained. The men that
tore the fighters apart felt like heroes. Food was cooked and eaten and smiled
at or the cook was mocked. Children
anxiously awaited momma and papa to arrive home with goodies. Teenage boys
dressed and walked awkwardly to impress red-cheeked girls. There was music and
dancing. In the dark, the songs became sobs and trembling heart beats. They
became cries and screams, howling and the laughter of the insane. In the dark
the happiness was reduced to cold, wet, smelly rubble.
CNN has interviews with victims of
this typhoon. They have tear-drawing stories. “We had tea together in the
sitting room, tea and cake. Then we heard the rain and he went out to take
clothes off the line.” A woman says, then sobs and stutters before she adds
“And I never saw him again.” In the darkness, she could not see him, quite
logical really, who sees in the dark? In the light they had tea and cake, and
they heard the rains coming. I have such stories too about this cousin I’d
rather consider unborn. His mother had
tottered her way up the front stairs of my house last Sunday. His father was
behind her, propping her up, supporting, eagerly watching her every step. She
was smiling and rubbing her belly. I
held the front door open and smiled back.
I greeted them, telling her to watch her steps, saying they were
welcome, how wonderful it was for them to visit. We sat in the living room and Mother served
them stewed gizzard and canned drinks.
My unborn cousin’s mother said she preferred a can of Malt and Mother
gave her. It was assumed to be one of the rituals her pregnant condition
required.
We all laughed at her stories. It was her first pregnancy, so, the
experiences were thrilling even to Mother who has had four of us. My Aunty told us she ate like a starved
animal. She said the baby moved around in her belly quite often. He was having
a good time in there. She refused to tell us the sex of the baby. Yes, a scan
had revealed it during one of the numerous antenatal sessions, but she
preferred to keep it a secret, let it be a surprise. Then I hoped it would be a
boy. We talked about her delivery date. Next week, she said, the doctors said
next week. In the Philippines ‘next
week’ was scheduled to mean many things none of which was a raging storm that
would flatten bubbling towns. ‘Next week’ was a school week for school
children. ‘Next week’ contained the birthdays of many who waited anxiously for
it even though it would have passed rather uneventfully.
When ‘next week’ finally arrived, it
had with it a storm that un-did Tacloban and Samar Island. It got me a nearly
frantic call from Mother, who only calls when the matter is important. She
explained that the doctors could no longer hear the heart beat of my unborn
cousin through their gadgets. She did not say he was dead in the womb. She said
his heart was not beating audibly. She also said my Aunty was being consoled. I
was left to connect the dots. I trembled and lost interest in work. The office
suddenly was not the place I needed to be.
I pictured my Aunty being consoled and immediately needed consoling
myself. She should not be consoled, she should be congratulated. That was what
the script said. But in the dark, the script was different. It turns out the
real need is not a perfect script but perfect lighting conditions while the
actions go on. It is crucial to keep the
light on, to lock the darkness out. If we could do that, my Aunty would not
have been revealing the sex of a dead baby. “He is a boy,” she said at the
hospital, after the medical officers had confirmed that the baby would be born
‘still.’
Far away in the Philippines the light
is breaking back in. CNN says millions of dollars have been raised in USA, UK,
Japan, Australia and other countries. Planes saddled with relief materials are
hovering over the Filipino people.
Experts are arriving to examine the extent of damage. I see a video footage of
playing children. They have made new games from the rubble. They are laughing.
Here, my Aunty has been consoled. Grand ma would arrive tomorrow to do more
consoling, advising, praying. My Aunty is smiling already. She has been
consoled enough to make jovial remarks about having twin children in place of
the lost one. I too have begun to long for the birth of the twins who would be
healthy and alive. I too have regained the serenity to be able to watch and
comprehend CNN.
