That Savage Water

THAT SAVAGE WATER

STORIES

MATTHEW R. LONEY

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Loney, Matthew R., author

That savage water : stories / Matthew R. Loney.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-55096-413-4 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-55096-416-5 (pdf).--

ISBN 978-1-55096-414-1 (epub).--ISBN 978-1-55096-415-8 (mobi)

I. Title

PS8623.O523T43 2014 C813'.6 C2014-902989-6

C2014-902990-X

Copyright © Matthew R. Loney, 2014

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Publication Copyright © Exile Editions, 2014. All rights reserved.

Digital formatting by Melissa Campos Mendivil

We gratefully acknowledge the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF), the Ontario Arts Council–an agency of the Ontario Government, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation for their support toward our publishing activities.

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for those who never made it

to the surface

THAT SAVAGE WATER

THE PIGEONS OF PESHAWAR

LES 3 CHEVALIERS

THE STAMPEDE

A SEVERED ARM

CRAWLING WITH THIEVES

A FEAST OF BEAR

THE VAGRANT BORDERS OF KASHMIR

FROM THE LOOKOUT THERE ARE TREES

A FIRE IN THE CLEARING

SOFT CORAL, SINKING PEARL

JESUS VERY THIN AND HUNGRY

THE ROAD TO JERUSALEM GOES THROUGH KARBALA

GLOSSARY

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Out where the eastern bank of the Ganges curved into a broad, alluvial sand belt, the backs of the melon farmers arched in broken parabolas over the low-lying foliage. Silhouetted against the sky, the women's saris blew out behind them like the curtains of forgotten attic windows. Closer, tourists in wooden boats clustered off the western shore. They drifted in front of the ghats, raising a bulwark of Nikons in time to catch the bathers dip beneath the surface and then rise with vigorous two-handed scrubs of their faces. Oars cradled themselves patiently in the roughened palms of the rowers; the water lapped against their hulls, a pacifist. Dawn in Varanasi always yielded spectacular photos.

Five months ago, Sal had woken before dawn for the same reason. The air, he remembered, smelled of burning hair and open sewer just enlivened by the sun. Whole families, undressed or fully clothed, descended into the Ganges on stone stairways flanking the shoreline. Grime floated past them in gelatinous layers. Petrified in the thick water, broken garlands of marigolds rode atop submerged plastic bags; ruptured shadows of rotten fruit hovered just beneath the surface. Perched on the wooden seat, eager with his camera, Sal too had been rowed out onto the holy river to catch the sunrise cascade off the bathers' bodies. How long ago that morning seemed, his first in Varanasi.

Today, however, he'd felt confident enough to ask the boatman in broken Hindi to row past the barrier of tourist boats out to the far bank where the melon farmers were already tending to the sandy fields. The face of the rower, once measled by acne, was stretched over by a taut jaw of grey whiskers. He wobbled his head in acceptance of the price Sal offered and pushed the boat away from the ghat, leaping aboard with silent, feline agility. Perhaps it was because death was so exposed in this city – the perpetual funeral of an eternal cataclysm – that the residents appeared at peace in their daily suffering and survival. Aghori sadhus, members of the most extreme of the ascetic sects, roamed the cremation grounds and ate from bowls made of human skulls. Naked, their hair matted like a mongrel's, they wandered the ghats or sat meditating next to funeral pyres, their bodies coated white with the ashen remains. Death smelled a different colour here.

Sal watched the curls of water surge against the hull with the rhythm of the rower's pulls. Marigold petals spiraled in orange mandalas over the particled surface. He'd seen what went into the Ganges. Riding back in the dark from visiting with Vaman, the pyres had burned on the shore like beacons. Dead bodies shifted into detonations of sparks as the logs cracked and flames shot skyward into the full moon. Vaman was right. All was delusional attachment to temporary sense pleasures; sooner or later, the body would disintegrate. He knew that now. The news over the last two days had confirmed it for him.

Nearly every day Sal had crossed the Ganges to meet with Vaman. Some intangible wisdom encircled the young vairagi, and his words clung to the fractures in Sal's psyche like warm, soothing pulp.

Once one becomes a master of self – Vaman offered Sal a tangerine – one becomes a master of life. This cage of the self is what is making our life so limited! How important to do away with all this nonsense.

Vaman's face seemed incapable of a frown. His expression was balanced in equanimity – the object of his meditations – but was not devoid of compassion. Confident, he spoke with an envious assurance that overrode any doubts Sal had about his age. A coarse beard roughened the young ascetic's chin and cheeks; his hair fell in tatted cords to his bare shoulders, and two lines of red streaked across his forehead. An ignorant question from Sal brought only a curious glint to Vaman's eyes, followed by a devastatingly practical answer.

The bank was already beginning to fill with families who came to the far side of the Ganges to picnic and escape the pestilent crush of the city. Doubling itself in its reflection, a white pony stood in the shallows and nosed down to its ripples to drink. Boys kicked up glittering fans of spray as they sprinted into the river and then dove beneath the surface – the offspring of the melon farmers who seemed so at home on this temporary embankment. When the monsoons arrived, the water would submerge the shore and they would exodus into the city to set up equally temporary shacks in abandoned alleyways. Having nothing meant freedom, Sal thought. It meant liberation.

You don't want this? – the guesthouse owner asked when Sal offered him his backpack – What's the problem, man? Where you going to put your clothings anyway?

Won't need any clothes. Just one pair, what I'm wearing.

No clothings, sure, sure – the man unzipped the bag and peered inside – No shoes too?

Don't need those either.

What you going to do anyway, huh, no-shoes?

The blades of the ceiling fan cut across the TV screen in the upper corner of the room. An Indian newscaster was reporting from the southeastern coast. In continual playback from shaky cameras, an enormous wave rushed into shore flooding the streets, cracking buildings, sweeping vehicles away. Upside-down fishing boats pursued men clinging to palm trunks. Intercut with women wailing in Tamil, the survivors picked through the rubble searching for remnants of their children. Indonesia had been hit the hardest. South Thailand and Sri Lanka were destroyed. Burma was a black, suspicious silence. The rocketing death toll convinced Sal even more.

You may not even have the opportunity to enjoy what you are working so hard for – Vaman had said – Everyday people's efforts are to acquire things that will most certainly vanish. What devastation! What devastation for the soul.

I keep the bag for when you come back – the owner's eyes were fixed.

I won't come back – Sal said.

Sure sure, no-shoes-man. Think you are the first white guy to come to India and meet a guru? I'm Dalit but I'm Dravidian also. That means I'm no dummy! I keep the bag for when you come back.

Thailand got hit too? – in the cool of a corner chair, an Australian backpacker slumped slack-jawed at the screen – Jesus, imagine that. All those tourist resorts on Phuket. Wham! A ton of dead foreigners on vacation.

Sal turned to leave – They all ran down to the beach to watch the wave.

He felt a tug tighten against him like an undertow. The ceiling fan sliced across the news anchor's face. It too would disintegrate.

To the left of the melon fields on a curve in the embankment where the Ganges turtles laid their eggs, Vaman's hut was a driftwood construction of scraps of tattered fabric. Perfect in its poverty, the sadhu's surroundings had intrigued Sal on his first trip to the far banks: a few oranges nested in a frayed basket, stacks of cow manure for a simple fire, a shrine to Rama, the Lord of self-control. Across the river, Varanasi swarmed while Vaman sat cross-legged, his eyes closed, chanting bhajans – a tranquil oasis opposite a flurry of death.

The desolation of the sandbank reminded Sal of an island tearing free of the mainland, a giant beach-raft of contented castaways riding farther from the chaotic shore. He felt nervous, as though if he lingered too long the city would disappear and he'd be caught adrift. Sal studied Vaman for some time before the sadhu finally broke from his meditation to stoke the fire.

I was just curious – Sal raised his hand at the sadhu who spotted him – I'm sorry.

You are on Krishna's land, not mine – Vaman replied – You need not make apology for that.

For a moment, Sal thought the man was a Westerner. He'd seen them in Delhi and Rishikesh, dread-locked foreigners in loincloths with begging bowls, pale-skinned disciples who'd grown tired of office politics, mortgages and dress socks, choosing instead to live in caves smoking hashish, owning nothing. How must it feel to leave everything behind? To pick up and walk away and start again?

Nature is the best teacher for us humans – the sadhu broke a disc of manure and dropped the halves on the fire – So easily it can show you the state of your spirit, yes? Come and look here. Look here at this fire.

Sal came to the flames, a few bright sticks ignited against the dawn.

The sadhu spoke –
If I am in sorrow, I will see that this fire contains sorrow, no? Or this river. To those who are not wanting to clean their hearts, it seems a filthy river. Yet to those who come seeking purification, it instantly becomes the Holy Ganges. Everything, you see, depends upon the vantage you are looking. But this takes time to understand. Much time! There are no shortcuts for this thinking
– As though he expected a response, he lifted his bony face to look at Sal.

He could think of none except – Right. No shortcuts.

Vaman continued –
Many people are now coming to India to learn meditation, to learn yoga. First, they lose themselves at the beach parties and then find themselves at yoga. In such an order it always happens. After, they go home to their countries and they want to make a school, to ask for money from students. Such a brilliant experience they had in India, they will tell you, so sure of enlightenment. After only these few lessons, maybe fifteen days or one month, they feel they can become a teacher!