I wrote this little narrative based on a black-and-white photograph from a clip-art service. I sent the same picture to Priya, just to see what she’d come up with, and she wrote her own version. As expected, the two are completely different. Priya has written an entire short story, while mine is little more than a really long photo caption. We hope you like them both.
At the Drop of a Hat — by Charles
It wasn’t like she didn’t know the rules. She knew them all too well. When we started our strange little sect, Alice was the one who suggested the dress code. She said it would show loyalty and dedication, and the rest of us agreed. You had to wear a white shirt. If you didn’t have a white shirt, gray or beige was acceptable, as long as it wasn’t dark or colorful. No one was to smile. Ever. And most important, whenever you were outdoors, for any reason and no matter the weather, you were required to wear a hat. The punishment for failing to do these things seemed severe at first, but as time went by we all saw the wisdom in it. We couldn’t tolerate any kind of slack behavior. You would be shot. If the first bullet didn’t do the job, you would be shot again, and again, until you were dead. Then the rest of us would drink tea in your memory. It was, in its way, a beautiful notion. The tea part, at least.
That’s Alice, bareheaded and at the left of the picture. Why she showed up for that particular Saturday morning meeting without her hat was anybody’s guess. True, one of her cows had busted through the fence and escaped onto Highway 7. The sheriff had to be called and it took three deputies to get that cow back to her pasture, and of course they gave Alice a good scolding about wasting the county’s money for having to deal with such an ornery beast on an otherwise peaceful day. (That ornery beast I referred to just there was the cow, of course, not Alice.) She felt awful about it and offered to bake some cookies for all of the officers, which they agreed to and which she did; that didn’t completely balance out the inconvenience, but it sure helped. (That was Alice who baked the cookies, of course, and not the cow.) Anyway, maybe her hat flew off in all the confusion, or she forgot about it on account of she was late for the meeting.
The man with the rifle is Crazy Ben. He liked to do the shooting, and since he was the only one who owned a rifle, and because he had the finest hat, we always let him. Ben’s twin sisters, Bernice and Beatrice are seated just in front of him. They were in charge of slaughtering the chickens we raised. They seemed to enjoy that. There was some peculiar kind of violent streak that ran through their family, but no one ever talked about it because it wouldn’t have been polite, and particularly because Ben was the only one in the group who owned a rifle.
Pete is at the far left, the one holding the camera. He’s our picture-taker and he records each execution, for legal purposes. He tends to focus rather intently on his work. Last March, when we all went out to shoot Martha Johnson for wearing a bright pink dress, Pete got attacked by a bear and his left leg was chewed off. Luckily, Ben had the rifle already loaded, otherwise we’d have had to find a new picture-taker. Pete also apparently lost all sensation in his groin area, too, so he’s able to use the side rail post to hold himself vertical without so much as a flinch. But he still takes a heck of a picture. By the way, we asked Bernice and Beatrice to butcher the bear, but they refused, and said some things we’d never heard from any woman before, or any man for that matter.
I’m seated toward the back, the one with the tea cup in my hand. Just moments before, the truck had stopped abruptly and I had spilled some boiling water into my lap. I was trying to hold still for the picture, but unlike Pete, I could feel pain in that region of my anatomy. Luke, the man with his feet on the wheel, thought it was funny, although he didn’t dare laugh or even smile. Louisa, the woman to my left, kept telling me I should try iced tea, a suggestion that annoyed me almost as much as the original scalding.
The man at the very back of the truck, the one wearing dark glasses, is Alice’s husband, Will. There were rumors that he was going to attempt something daring. He might try to rescue Alice, even kill Ben and take over the group. But we’d heard such things before. Ben may have been crazy, but he never stopped paying attention. If the rumors had made their way to our ears, they’d found his, too. Like I said, it was a strange group. We were like a family. We worked together, ate together, and traveled around together. We were inseparable. All you had to remember was a white shirt and a serious face and you knew these people would always be there. They would love you and stand by you forever. And one other thing you had to remember, of course, was that they’d kill you at the drop of a hat.
* * * * *
The Whistle-Blower — by Priya
Shyamlal Boro didn’t see much in them, the firangi scoundrels. They were white-skinned devils, who brought the wrath of God on his land, his people, and his family – his home. He didn’t even find them worth his hatred.
They would have to pay for their sins, though. They would.
By 1835, Shyamlal Boro and the people of his community had succumbed. The Boros and the other tribes worked in their own ancestral fields for pittance to grow the latest discovery the English lords had made – the Assam Tea. It may have been a big conciliation, but it helped bring fish and rice to the plates, gave them roads and hospitals and schools. So what if most of the time these facilities had to be obtained through pleas and a compromised self-esteem? Some ran away to the then distant Guwahati to work as rickshaw pullers or sweepers or construction labourers, so that their children could study in the local schools.
But not Shyamlal. He wouldn’t run. He was obsessed with teaching them a lesson. Particularly the bandook shaitan – the gun wielding devil. They called him Simon sahib. The trigger happy Simon didn’t shoot people. He did shoot the sky when he wanted to shoot people, though. Sometimes some people wished his bullet had hit them, their misery was such.
Simon Forsyth was no shammer. He had nothing to hide, particularly his hatred for the black scum. He and his friends from the other sprawling tea estates often met to remind themselves about the good old Britannia. On some Sundays they took their women to the jungle after the mass. It was meant to be just a merry jaunt to see the quaint Assamese people, but it mostly ended up with some adventure with the natives. A welcome change for the seekers of a daily ‘kill’. The ladies were fearless, the men fervent. But Simon was the keenest of them all. He sometimes wished Gwen could match his passion. But she was different.
Servants have a way of knowing – a way of perceiving the unspoken. And they like to discuss. It had only been a year since Simon sahib’s memsahib first set foot in the Barak valley, and the villagers knew that Simon and Gwen weren’t quite made for each other. They could live together in one room for the rest of their lives and still feel no need to communicate. It was a matter of common joke that they talked through the helpers at the house.
Their bungalow was set amidst the tall teaks and sprawling tea bushes. Painted white, it invited the visitor to see what was beyond the chintz curtains. The verandah circling the entire building indicated what was to be expected inside. Wood. Lots of it.
Shyamlal delivered beeswax to the bungalow every week. Well, not just delivered, but also polished every single wooden object inside the house. It was relatively new, so it needed a weekly coat of polish to buff the surfaces, to make them shimmer and shine like the memsahib’s silver-framed mirror.
Gwen Forsyth was sitting under the huge linen fan that spanned almost the entire drawing room that morning. Two women sat on the floor, pulling the ropes attached to the fan, making it sway ever so gently. It wasn’t all that humid, or Gwen would’ve goaded them to show some spirit.
“Memsahib, where today?” Shyamlal asked Gwen.
“Tea room, Shyamlal. There’s a special batch today.”
Simon’s tea estate had exported an experimental batch to the distant Hills Bros three months back to try out a possible collaboration. The packaged tea had arrived this morning.
“And do the table, too.” Though she couldn’t be bothered where he went to polish, Gwen found it all right to direct him on some days. In general, she was tired of the incessant humidity that made her want to either kill someone, or herself, to just somehow, for Pete’s sake, deliver her from this hell. She had no interest in running the house. She was tired of Assam, and she was tired of India, and she was tired of her mother’s decision to get her married to an unfeeling monster.
Shyamlal entered the tea room and started his work. He began with the doors and wall panels. They were Burmese teak and would require the better half of the day. He’d do the table later.
Shyamlal was sweating with the humidity. He wouldn’t have noticed it, though. He had been living with it all of his life. The sun was peeping in through the skylight; the wall panels and doors were done. The tea table sat next to the French windows overlooking the very English garden. It was Indian rosewood, the tea table. Not quite the rich, dark colour it eventually takes, but it was getting there. Changing the tin of wax, he began polishing the table. His hands moved in swift circles on the table top. Though the smell of beeswax didn’t bother him usually, he had carefully tied a piece of clean with cloth over his nose for today’s polishing. It must’ve been the heat and the rivers of sweat streaming down his forehead.
It was almost four now, when Simon sahib was due to come back for tea. Shyamlal’s work was done just in time. He picked up his polishing aids, carefully washed his hands at the water hand-pump outside, blowing his usual whistle. The deliberate, whispered waft merged with the grim purr of Simon’s car approaching the gate.
It hardly took the sahib a few minutes from his office to the bungalow. He mostly walked, but chose to drive back today. Walking in through the huge door especially designed to optimise ventilation, he heard Gwen call for the maid.
“Doya! Doya! Nariyal paani laao,” Gwen was losing her patience. Where was the coconut water?
Simon winced. Who drinks coconut water at tea time?
He went straight to the tea room, expecting the tea to be laid in another 5 minutes.
The jasmines were in full bloom. He had to admit, if only to himself, that the smell was divine. It drifted in every now and then, filling the room with a bit of earth, a bit of sky, and a lot of life.
There was much to be done here. So much to do! The land needed control, its humans needed civilisation. It was a fantastic prospect for Simon Forsyth, who didn’t find much to do in Britain. Everything was already perfect there. Here, the jungles were wild, the animals strange. The climate was killing, and the population despicable.
So much to do, it gave him a headache. And the humidity didn’t help either. Where was the tea?
“Doya! Get the tea, for the love of God!”
He never felt quite all right when he thought about all the things he had to do here to bring its people to their place. His heart pounded, his blood flooded the veins as if the sluices had just been opened. His limbs trembled with passion. Today the ferocity of his sentiments was terrific; perhaps because of today’s rebellion at the estate office about the missing woman last seen around Simon’s outhouse. Yes, that must have been making all that trembling and pounding so bloody suffocating.
“Doya!” He called, but didn’t quiet make it.
Doya was panicking. Rushing out of her mistress’ bedroom, she muttered to herself about Gwen’s foolishness. When it was tea time, why did she ask for nariyal paani? She didn’t like it all that much either.
The tea trolley was outside the bedroom where she had left it. She rolled it in to the tea room, hoping that Simon was in a good mood. Her hopes might well have been answered. He looked like he’d chosen to take a nap right there in the tea room! How curious. He never did that.
“Sahib, tea,” she preferred never to look at his face.
If she had seen it today, she’d have seen the blood making its way out of his nose. Finally liberated.
If she knew a little more about her own land, she would have smelled the peculiar smell of gaaj. The fumes of this herb could paralyse and kill in minutes when mixed with beeswax and then rubbed on wood. Losing its toxicity equally quickly, it left behind a sweet smell.
If Simon’s eyes could actually see in the direction in which they were pointed, they would glimpse the jasmines mixing with the roses outside. But it was too late for that now.
Sitting on the huge diwan in her bedroom, Gwen was fanning her wrecked nerves when she felt a sudden urge to whistle; something she did only when she was happy.
————————————————————————————
Possibly unfamiliar words in The Whistle-Blower, in their order of appearance:
firangi — literally, ‘of a different colour’. Used for the British when they were in India. Now a common name for any white person.
Boro — One of the tribes of Burmese origin spread over north-eastern India. The Boros were among the several tribes incorporated as cheap labour in the tea plantations of Assam.
Guwahati — Now the capital of the state of Assam.
Barak valley — One of the valleys popular for growing the strong, malty Assam tea.
memsahib — Indian adaptation of madame. Originally used for the English women, subsequently for any woman of a ‘higher’ stature. Becoming just a little derogatory in some situations now.
Doya –Mercy. Doya is the Assamese/Bengali pronunciation of the Hindi counterpart Daya
Nariyal paani laao — “Bring the coconut water”
gaaj — a fictitious herb.
Melinda
July 4, 2011
Wow two totally different takes. What a clever idea to both make up a story. Sorry about spilling your tea just before the picture. It isn’t noticeable and thus is Facebook worthy whenever they get to inventing that.
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bronxboy55
July 6, 2011
I’m sure if we had ten people writing from this picture, we’d get ten different stories. It makes me wonder about using eyewitness accounts as evidence in criminal trials. Do we ever all see the same thing?
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Allan Douglas
July 4, 2011
Hey… I know those folks; they live down the road from me. I believe the photo was taken one Sunday morning as they prepared to go to church… hence the fancy duds. Coveralls? Oh, well… those were his *clean* coveralls; the ones without holes in them yet. He saves them for going to the Sunday Meetin House.
I enjoyed both stories, and you’re right; totally different in perspective and content.
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bronxboy55
July 6, 2011
And you take out the guy with the rifle — or take away the rifle and maybe give him a fishing pole — and the stories would have been dramatically different. Or it could have even been a church on wheels. (Does such a thing exist?)
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Allan Douglas
July 6, 2011
What – they don’t take rifles to church where you are? Around here a rifle or shotgun is as much a personal accessory as a wristwatch.
Sure: revivalists have been working out of wagons and vans forever. They usually set up a tent too, but they haul their stuff around in between.
Good point though; add or remove just one small detail and the story it spawns could be very different.
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Joseph Gilmore
July 4, 2011
These are wonderful! At the Drop of a Hat reminds me of the story by Donald Barthelme, Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Colby.
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bronxboy55
July 6, 2011
Thank you, Joseph. Those are some great stories on your blog, including the ones you wrote. I’ll be back to read more later.
http://rootgilmore.wordpress.com/
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souldipper
July 5, 2011
Two very different and delightful character portrayals.
Charles, your depiction of yourself was too funny! I love how you chose one unlike any others – you’re even looking in the opposite direction to all others. Your last line? Well! Wasn’t that a hat trick?!
Priya, you give more insights into the intricacies of a life in India that I’ve wondered about. I was about to Google gaaj and decided to finish your story first. Good thing, you rascal! Even if gaaj wasn’t real, I suspect that many an Indian would have appreciated it if it had been available! 😀
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bronxboy55
July 7, 2011
Thank you, Amy. It was a lot to read, and I appreciate that you did.
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dearrosie
July 5, 2011
As I said to Priya I’m impressed. You guys are fantastic writers.
I’m amazed at all the little details you saw Charles. I loved all the little stories : the one woman who didn’t wear a hat even though she knew the rules, Crazy Ben – we let him be because he had the finest hat, and Pete the one legged guy whose leg was chewed off and his sisters “said some things we’d never heard from any woman before, or any man for that matter.” LOL.
You’ve also got a powerful ending:
They would love you and stand by you forever. And one other thing you had to remember, of course, was that they’d kill you at the drop of a hat.
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bronxboy55
July 7, 2011
I still have much to learn, Rose, about this process of how characters and stories become real. It’s a little mysterious, isn’t it? But fun, too. Priya is way ahead of me, but I may catch up to her, someday.
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Anonymous
July 5, 2011
Great job, Charles & Priya. I appreciate your creativity.
Charles, your version reminded me a bit of Flannery O’Connor’s stories, particularly “The Lottery” and “A Good Man Is Hard to Find”–except that the people in those stories didn’t consider themselves strange. Thanks for all the details you included: they made me go back several times to the photo to look at it more closely.
Priya’s version was, as you (Charles) mentioned, a completely different interpretation, influenced by cultural considerations, which added to its fascination. Loved the totally unexpected plot twist at the end.
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bronxboy55
July 7, 2011
Thank you anonymous former Connecticut neighbor, author, professor, and good friend. I hope you didn’t read these while wearing your editor glasses, because they were whipped up pretty quickly. I wonder if you use photo prompts with your students; I bet you do.
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magsx2
July 5, 2011
Hi,
Absolutely fantastic story’s by Charles and Priya.
I have to say that I liked both, and really did enjoy the read. I love how you also put in the explanations for the unfamiliar words, a fantastic post, and a great idea to have the 2 story’s.
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bronxboy55
July 7, 2011
I’m glad you enjoyed the stories, Mags, and I’m sure Priya is, too. Your blog continues to be one of my favorites, because I never know what I’m going to find there, but it’s always unforgettable. For example:
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Linda Paul
July 5, 2011
What a fun shared assignment. It illustrates the vastness of imagination and the power of a story. There are no two stories alike, much as this fact pains the truth squad.
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bronxboy55
July 7, 2011
Linda, I had a few excellent English teachers in junior high and high school. One of them impressed me with the idea that when we write something, the result is unique, because no one else would have or could have written it just that way. I’ve never forgotten that.
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Snoring Dog Studio
July 6, 2011
Brilliantly fun and beautifully written. I love the way your personalities shine through the tales. There are so many old, old photos stuffed into antique stores – each had a story to tell. I’m thrilled you chose to do this. The power of the imagination to entertain and delight is a wonderful thing.
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bronxboy55
July 8, 2011
One of the things I like about old photographs is the idea that a momentary decision has been captured — a person smiles or doesn’t, looks left or right, crosses their arms or hugs the dog — and that’s what gets preserved. It always makes me wonder what happened just before and just after the picture was taken. Usually we can’t know, but the mind refuses to walk away empty-handed.
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Anklebuster
July 6, 2011
We had a day off at the CCC, so this was a timely treat! I love these collaborations between you and Priya. This is the second one I’ve seen. Are there more?
Priya’s story reminded me of the movie Australia, while Charles’ story reminded me of – Charles! Those catholic school stories and all your other quirky tales do not have any comparison – other commentators’ opinions not with any standing. LOL No hate mail, y’all.
Write On!
Mitch
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bronxboy55
July 8, 2011
Thank you, Mitch. You have one of the most energetic minds I’ve ever come across — it seems to be constantly crackling with ideas — so it’s nice to hear that you were entertained by something we’ve written.
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Anklebuster
July 8, 2011
Thank you, Charles. That crackling is static electricity from my comb. LOL
Cheers,
Mitch
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savitha Rao
July 6, 2011
What a clever idea! May I join in your assignment next time? It might be just the thing I need to start writing.
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bronxboy55
July 8, 2011
Yes, of course. We’ll take turns finding the pictures. But you’ve already started writing. Here’s one I liked a lot:
http://todayscooking.posterous.com/gratitude
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Bill Chance
July 6, 2011
Great idea! It’s facinating how the same image brings forth two completely different ideas – especially in the way they relate to the picture. Yours is quite literal, while Priya used it to establish a cast of characters and especially a sense of setting.
I’m going to look for some photos and try this.
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bronxboy55
July 8, 2011
Thanks, Bill, but just to be clear: this wasn’t my idea or Priya’s. Writing teachers have been using this method for many years. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.
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She's a Maineiac
July 7, 2011
Excellent idea. I finally had a moment’s peace and what a treat to read these stories over my coffee this morning!
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bronxboy55
July 8, 2011
Darla, I’m happy you liked the stories, but even happier that you had a moment’s peace. I hope you’re enjoying the summer.
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Kevin Glew
July 8, 2011
Very clever. A great writing exercise for students as well. Thanks for sharing this.
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bronxboy55
July 8, 2011
I agree, Kevin. This technique allows the imagination almost complete freedom, but also gives it something concrete to focus on.
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Val
July 9, 2011
Great stories from both you, Charles, and Priya (whose story I’ve commented on over at her blog). I love both takes on the photo, and aren’t pics the best writing prompts, don’t you think? I remember a teacher at a college I went to giving us the best photos as prompts and I did manage to write some very creative stuff – just as you have, here. 🙂
Though truly, the reason Crazy Ben is holding that rifle is because he’s fed up with people taking him to task for losing the back of his trousers…
Anyway, there’s something for you in my current post here… a clue: no rules.
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bronxboy55
July 12, 2011
The photo prompts are liberating in some way. We can’t control what’s in the picture and we often have no idea who the subjects are or what they’re doing, so we’re free to run wild.
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writerwoman61
July 9, 2011
I love it, Charles…you are such a keen observer of human behaviour! Hilarious!
Wendy
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bronxboy55
July 12, 2011
Thanks, Wendy. I don’t know about keen, but I do a lot of observing.
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journeytoepiphany
July 11, 2011
What a fun post! It was so interesting to see the different stories come from two very different minds…I hope you continue to do this…maybe as a series, with different guest story writers?
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bronxboy55
July 12, 2011
Priya and I talked about that. It would be interesting and fun to have five or six people writing from the same image. I have no doubt we’d get five or six unique stories.
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Lenore Diane
July 11, 2011
To say I am behind on reading is an understatement. This post has been on my radar for days. I am thrilled to have finally had the chance to sit down and read both takes on the same photo.
You and Priya created two very different yet equally wonderful stories. You’ll do this again, right? Please?
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bronxboy55
July 12, 2011
I’d like to do it again, Lenore. It was challenging, but being forced to write from an unfamiliar and specific starting-point is like playing a game and not really knowing the rules — you can make mistakes, and you have a built-in excuse.
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goodbyereality411
July 12, 2011
It’s interesting how two people can have such different reactions to the same story.
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bronxboy55
July 13, 2011
I agree. I doubt any two people would tell the same story.
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icedteawithlemon
July 22, 2011
Absolutely delightful–both versions!
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bronxboy55
July 25, 2011
Thanks, Iced Tea. This was fun, and I’m glad you liked the results.
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