"I am like that old fig tree in our garden– too big to be uprooted and planted in a fresh new pot, doomed to stand erect; it doesn't matter if the lightning strikes or the wind fights back, I'll still be standing here– stoic and poignant."

At nine, I couldn't quite understand what my Mother meant. Why was she a fig tree? They are not even pretty. She'd rather be a flower– chrysanthemums– they are beautiful, and also have 'mum' in them.

*

Way before, when I was still cocooned in my mother's womb, my Grandfather brought a few saplings home– those, which were distributed by the opposition party during their elections' campaign. They had sworn to revamp the village, and the first step towards it was by planting the cherry blossom trees– which they believed, decades after, would serve as a tourist attraction and help fill the pockets of the villagers. However, fate had different plans. The party lost the elections, and it wasn't the pink flowers that became the reminiscent of our village but these green, poached figs– as it happens, the seedlings had been accidentally swapped.

I was seven years old when I had my first encounter with figs– freshly picked from the backyard. At the first glance, the fruit looked ordinary but when cut open, the bright red pop of color and an unusual visual texture of the pulp, resembling the fibrous strands of an alien flesh tear opened, made its appearance rather repellent. The taste wsn't exemplary either. But unlike me, our pigs loved it– they half-snorted half-giggled while munching on the fruit with their human teeth. It bothered me how these Hampshire breeds were eerily big and gluttonous, their droopy eyes just made them look more depressed. It seemed to me that, perhaps, they knew why they were being raised– so they were just awaiting their death row, lying in their beds whilst binging on food.

"It's their destiny", my mother would say as she fed them the Rainbow trouts that had flipped over, exposing their bellies to the fickle welkin– the sun was over our heads now, but just a few hours ago, it was the erratic rain that had left us distraught– rainbow trouts are highly sensitive species, even a slightest variation in its temperament can result to death– so, a rain shower was the last surprise we needed during the peak of breeding season. Needless to say, the damage was done. Sure, it was a heavy blow to my parents' efforts but all I could worry about was how piteous those dead fishes looked. At the time, I thought to myself, I wouldn't ever want to be born a fish– they are weak, they die too easily.

*


"Appa, we need to talk about this. We can't postpone it forever."

He hissed at me– a warning hush.

"Appa…. we've possibly done everything in our reach. If anything, we're just stalling time to reach a dead end anyway. It's not any easier for me to say this, but I think it's time for us to let go. Appa–" I stopped when I felt the weight of his hand on my left cheek.

"You scoundrel! You speak the words of the devil! I dare you to speak a word again, and I'll see that you regret it!"

I quickly apologized, and left the room. I was mad though. It wasn't easy for me either. Why did he have to react so harshly? The insides of my nose was tingly from holding back tears. I could feel my lips quiver as I tried to pacify the eddy of emotions in my stomach from refluxing back to my throat.

"Dad didn't mean to hurt you. He just has a lot on his plate to take care of, so don't bother him for a while." My mother would say to me later.

"Didn't mean to hurt me? But he did. He slapped me."

"He's troubled right now. You're no kid, Cheme. Don't make a fuss about it."

"So, that's what it is. When you're an adult, you don't cry when you're wronged– you just make peace with it. Right?"

She didn’t bother to exchange a word further, she just continued to fold her laundry.

I cried to sleep that night.
***

"Cheme, look after the house. Feed the pigs on time and make sure to check the water pipes connected to the tanks, we can't afford more losses. Your mom and I are visiting Ajyo today."

My Ajyo was an agile man– as chatty as the neighbourhood sparrows and as busy as a bee. Everyday, he'd be out in the fields and into the forest, humming the melodies from some late 80s Bollywood songs, singing with an accent that already made it sound funny but his demeanor– that of a mondegreen, made it only funnier. When I was young, he'd carry me on his shoulders to the wash tower to see the bird eye view of Mt.Kanchenjunga. Later, when I grew older, I preferred staying indoors rather than following around. He called me a poultry kid– I was one. Many a time, one would catch him saying: "What's wrong with the kids these days? Kids should go out and play in the sun. Always sitting in your room, sticking your nose to the phone…..it won't do you anything good. Back in my days, when I was your age, I was thrice the size of you. There was nobody in the village as robust as I was– whether it was ploughing the fields or carrying the load, I could do it all. And look at these chickens, they can barely do any work." But this was over ten years ago, before he lost his ferocity. Now, he was lying in a hospital bed, painfully silent– as dead as a rock in a river's bosom. The last time I saw him was a month ago. He looked as miserable as a fish on land, or even worse– there was a cobweb of cables and drips covering his body– for oxygen, fluids, blood, urine…..it seemed to me as if his insides were now laid out, and I could see everything that was happening in his body. How could it be that a man who allegedly lifted mountains and fought bears was subdued like this? No way a man who was full of life could also look as stale as a loaf of bread. I hadn't been to the hospital ever since, I couldn't bear to see him lifeless.

I remember the morning I entered his room– he wasn't the type to oversleep, not even for over a minute. He woke up at 5:00 am sharp every day, so, it came as a shock to me when he wasn't awake thirty minutes past his habitual time. My mother had already set out for her usual round trip of cut-and-carry for the household cow, and Appa had locked himself in the hatchery; he wouldn't be out for the next hour or so. I was in the kitchen, making Ajyo some butter tea. To me, it seemed the perfect day to clap back at him– I was so ready to walk up to him and say, "A man who wakes up late has a shorter day than a man who has already lived half his day." On entering his room, I placed the tea on the table, then quoted his quote while gently patting his back which faced me."Ajyo, what's wrong with you today? It isn't like you to be laying in your bed this late. Why is my Ajyo so lazy today?" As soon as I wrapped my arms around him, something felt off– like it wasn't a human body I was holding. It made my skin crawl in layers, and now my heart was thumping on a presto tempo, pumping anxiety throughout my body. At this point, I was still in contact with this body, so I slowly pulled myself away from it and reached for its left arm to roll it onto its back. Now face to face with it, I was reassured that the body was indeed my Ajyo's, but there was still this air of eeriness surrounding it. When I touched him before, why did it feel like it wasn't him? His body felt inanimate– it definitely felt cold and stiff but also damp, almost wriggly and mushy. There was no way I was mistaken about it. Besides, I had tried hard to brush off the ominous stench lingering around the body, but now it had just become impossible for me to look past it– something cold was slithering on both my hands. I was fidgeting as I brought my hands closer to the light, and what lay before my vision was nauseatingly gut-wrenching. My body was trembling from the tingling spasms running under my skin, accelerating the blood flow, which could possibly rupture my vessels. A delayed screech from my diaphragm bolted its way out of my throat, I was screaming hysterically.

I rushed out the room, tumbling down the stairs towards the hatchery. I was breaking in cold sweats. Panic-stricken, I banged on the door with very little strength left in me. As soon as I heard the latch move, I jumped onto my father, "There's something wrong with Ajyo. His body is smeared with maggots. It's eating his flesh. Appa, what should we do? I'm scared."

I can only remember bits and pieces of what happened after. I think I might have heard my father wailing, but I'm not too sure. The memory of that day is distorted in my head, except for the gruesome image that haunts me to this day.


***

"Are you back alone? Where's Appa?"

"He just asked me to leave by myself. I didn't nudge further. He's barely hanging by the thread. He might want to spend some time with Ajyo. The situation isn't getting any better. So, Cheme, we must try to be as quiet as possible around him. As you know, he's gotten sensitive. It's been hard for him."

"Wow, what a loving wife! Just how much love do you have for him even after all these years of marriage?"

She smiled faintly– you could hardly call it a smile.
***

The next morning Appa returned home with a guest– a lawyer.

He wanted to file a case.

"Why are you doing this?"

Appa took a moment to craft a response,
"He will die if he doesn't see the mountains."

"What are you talking about? What has mountains to do with this?"

"Sangmit, you know it too, we are banjhakris. We worship nature. Our Gods, they are angry at us. We shouldn't have agreed on selling our land to the Company. It's because of us that Aba is bearing the weight of our wrong choices."

My mother's mouth was hanging agape in the air. "What nonsense are you spouting?"

"Call it what you want, but I will not sit back and watch him die. We can't save him if we don't try enough. I need your help. Please."

My mother was still in shock. She could hardly believe her ears.

"Let's say it's true, but how will you manage to fight against the Company? Do you think they care for your ailing father to give back what they'd eyed for so long?"

"That…that will be taken care of."

"How? What do you plan to do?"

"I will beg our neighbours if I have to. If the Company threatens us, I'll appeal to the court. I've talked on this matter with our lawyer. He will be representing us."

"How exactly will you do that? Is that even possible?"

"Allow me to explain, ma'am. It might be a tedious battle, but I can assure you that we stand a chance. Luckily, you have not received any compensation. So, if we succeed in bringing the rest of the families on our side, we shall have a higher stake in winning the case."

There was a brief pause in the conversation. I couldn't tell if my mother was being swayed or not.

"You heard him right? We can save Aba. Sangmit, I need your help. Courtship will be expensive, so let me borrow your gold bangles. I promise I'll get them back for you. Please, just this once."

I was baffled, that's when I blurted out in anger, "I've had enough of this baseless talk. At this point, I think Appa might be the one who needs treatment. Doctors have already expressed their opinion on it. It's time you let Ajyo go, your selfishness is only hurting our family."

"What did you say?" He looked at me with scornful eyes. When our eyes met, my body trembled to its core. I tried hard not to lose my composure but I felt it within me– the mind and body of a weak, fragile woman. I hated it. This feeling of subjugation that was nurtured to subdue me. I hated it because I was scared– for it might have been true that I was indeed subdual and domesticated.

He walked towards me holding a cane firmly in his hand. I could see rage fuming off his body. In this moment, he no longer looked humane– but more like some transcendent force that could engulf me entirely. As his right forearm swung in the air, I flinched in response– funny enough, my first reaction was to close my eyes instead of shielding myself from the whips– that was how gravely passivity was ingrained in me. What a joke!

"Enough. Stop it." My mother's voice was as placid as the water on the other side of the dam.

"Do I really have to sacrifice so much for someone I don't even share my blood with?"

My father looked bewildered. It wasn't my mother's nature to question him, more so, such a bold question.

"How can you put it like that? He's my father."

"Yes, he is your father. Not mine. He's your responsibility, not mine."

"What did you say? I ought to whip some shame in you!"

"Shame? It's you who is shameless to be asking for my belongings."

Honestly, I was at loss for words. It was probably the first time I saw my mother take a stance for herself. I was afraid my father would harm her but surprisingly, she fought back. It was such an unruly sight that I was having a hard time believing it wasn't a dream.

A lot of commotion followed that night, but the morning next day, it was as usual as it could be. My mother was feeding the pigs, and Appa had left with the lawyer.

"Did you really hand him your earrings? They were gifted by your Mother, who knows if he'll even be able to bring it back to you."


"What else could I have done? We share the same room and a bed. I do not have one of my own. Yesterday, after we were done fighting, we still slept beside each other. Our backs faced each other in that small bed we shared and I couldn't help but chuckle as I thought to myself, this is what marriage is– a shared room with a shared bed. I can just hope that he keeps his promise."

"Aren't you angry?"

"How couldn't I be? I'm so angry, if I could I would just get up and leave. But you see, we're only born as vessels of flesh– what's underneath is the reflection of time, people, and the civilizations that have passed us by. Look at me closely, and you'll see the eyes resembling those which bowed before men, delve deeper and you'll find a substantial mind of a mother, strip me off and you'll see the subjection of a woman, and wait till you see my bosom feed the revolt. Again, it's not something intrinsic to me. I am one who does not have a room of her own but I have a room that I share– one that encompasses boundaries across time and space, countries and races. It's burden that we share in this room of ours."