Mystic Tears

By Chand Singh

 NIGHTMARES AND A TWIST IN THE TALE

Child marriage and the traumas of family violence are set against a background of the systemic abuses of apartheid South Africa in full stride.

This heart-breaking memoir gives insight into a community, a time, a culture, a level of poverty and family dysfunction which is not as changed today as the writer might have wished for. The way it is written also provides some intrigue. Most revealing, however, is the poignancy which sifts its way through the often brutal narrative. Even when severely battered, human beings cry out for love and a place to be themselves.

Here is an intimate portrait of a family – and a country – struggling through the wars within.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chand Singh
• Release date: Dec 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781928276944

Book preview

2

I pulled the heavy drapes open and the sun shone brightly through the large windows. At six in the morning the sun was already up. It was going to be a hot and sultry day, unusual for the season (it was September) in this part of the country, but it suited me just fine. I felt quite energetic. A cool shower and a hearty breakfast would be the perfect way to start the day.

After breakfast, notepad and pen in hand, I took a walk along pathways bordered by thick lush greenery. I was enchanted by the exotic plants and flowers everywhere, and the man-made waterfalls and little flowing streams I came upon only added to the spectacular setting.

I was looking for a place where I could sit in the quiet and start writing again. Writing poetry has been a passion of mine ever since I can remember and places like this help me think clearly and allow the words to come out easily. I found a spot with a beautiful view and sat down under a colorful umbrella, taking in my surroundings. Before me were rolling hills and mountains, deep valleys and acacia trees dotted about. I gave a sigh of satisfaction. This was the most perfect choice of destination, a little piece of paradise. I picked up my pen and began to write, the words describing this restful place flowing easily.

The chair I was sitting on was wonderfully comfortable – it was made of wood and soft African grass – and the table in front of me reminded me of my grandma’s ancient kitchen table. The large umbrella above my head blocked out the blazing sun, providing enough shade, and a cool breeze blew gently. People of all colours and races passed by as I sat alone gazing out at the spectacular view, deep in thought. Some glanced my way and greeted me, while others just walked on. I was wondering what might be going through their minds when suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by a familiar, soft-spoken voice.

‘Hi. May I sit here or is this seat reserved for someone else?’

I squinted up into the bright sunlight. ‘Oh, of course, by all means. Please, sit.’

I could do with some company, I thought, but I didn’t say that. Instead I stood up and offered the woman a seat. She greeted me with both hands and asked how my day was going so far. I noticed concern in her voice and remembered the kindness she had shown me the day before, when she had rescued me from my nightmare. Within a few minutes we were getting comfortably acquainted. She was interesting and easy to talk to, this person whom I had met just a day ago; somehow she gave me the impression that I had met her before, maybe in a past life or something. Whatever the feeling was, it was as if I had known her all my life. In fact she reminded me of myself. It is hard to describe the feeling: strange and anxious inside myself, yet at the same time I felt happy and comfortable talking to her. She was of medium build and quite attractive, a woman probably in her middle fifties. I thought she would have been even more attractive in her early years, although her eyes showed a lot of pain, and sorrow was written all over her face. Again, how strange, I thought. She was like a mirror image of myself.

We discovered that we had a lot in common. I showed her some of my poetry, which she said she found fascinating, profound even. I really had a way with words, she said. She read over and over again the poem I had been writing that morning.

PIECE OF PARADISE

I wandered alone one summer’s day,

Found a place I was destined to stay.

Rolling hills and mountains that touched the sky,

With shades of green where eagles fly.

Patterns of clouds draped over morning mist,

The brightest sun shines in heavenly bliss.

Sweetest of breeze brushed through valley and hills,

Sending scents of sweet violets and golden daffodils.

Then a blissful sight brought my eyes to a glow,

When water in a rhythm fell into a flowing stream below.

The soothing sounds of humming birds and bees,

Little wild animals and rows of gigantic acacia trees.

So breathtaking is this piece of paradise I wandered in

To describe it further I fail to begin.

‘You are so talented,’ she said. ‘If you can write poetry so well, what’s stopping you from writing a book?’

‘A book?’ I replied.

‘Yes, why not write a book?’

‘I have thought about writing a book in the past, but about what?’ I said.

For a moment her sad eyes lit up, making her look even more attractive.

‘I will give you something to write about,’ she said, ‘but only if you agree, of course. With your talent I am sure you will make a success of it. I would be honoured to give you my life story.’

‘Your life story?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Please say yes! You’ll be glad you did.’

Without much thought or hesitation I said, ‘If you would be honoured to give me your life story, then it will be a pleasure for me to write about it.’

She gently touched the back of my hand. Then, after arranging to meet up later in the hotel lounge to discuss the book, she excused herself politely in her soft voice and left.

3

The weather was changing. It was still warm but the overcast sky predicted that the sky was about to open. When the clouds burst into soft shimmering rain I stepped out from beneath the shelter of the umbrella into the rain. I stood there, my face upturned, until my clothes were soaked, my skin felt cold, and my hair was dripping with water. It took me back to the times when, as children, my brother and I would deliberately get wet in the rain while we walked to school – which was a 10km walk from our home – then go back home as an excuse, hoping that our mum would take pity on us and keep us home for the rest of day.

I became conscious of people staring at me, standing there in the rain as if I’d lost my mind. After some time I managed to gather my thoughts and I walked back to the hotel.

I took a long shower and thought about the meeting with my new friend and discussing the book we’d agreed to do together. I found I was really looking forward to it and I was excited to begin. My sixth sense told me the book was going to be a success and that I was going to enjoy writing it.

I felt like dressing a bit more smartly this time, and I put on some make-up. We met in the hotel lounge and chose a seat next to the window so that we could enjoy the sight of falling rain against the pane. Although by then it was nearly dinner time, we both ordered coffee. I had brought my notebook.

Before my friend began talking a sense of sadness appeared again on her face. I couldn’t help but notice there was a lot of heartache and pain as she slowly began to speak, and I put pen to paper to record her life story.

‘My earliest memory,’ she began, ‘if my memory serves me right, comes from when I was around two years of age. I was sitting on a scatter rug eating putu sweetened with sugar from an enamel bowl. This staple food made from maize meal was my favourite and it still is. I sat with my chubby little legs apart and the bowl in between them. Putu was scattered everywhere around me. I picked it up with my sticky little fingers and savoured it, every bit I could reach, including whatever was left in the bowl.’

She gave a soft smile, glanced at me and continued.

‘As I ate I watched my dad. He was working on a baby cot which he was building for my newborn brother. As he worked the loud sounds of the hammer hitting the nails were frightening, but at the same time I felt love from his presence close by me. I can still smell the fresh white paint on the wooden cot. It lingered in the room for quite some time. I can still imagine this scene till this day. I was very close to my dad as I was growing up. As I think of that memory it brings tears to my eyes.

‘I also remember around that age my dad taking me to the bioscope one day, just the two of us. Nowadays we call it the cinema or the movies, but back then it was the bioscope. My mom dressed me up in red tights and a white shirt with white shoes and a hairband on my head. I tried pulling it off because it made me uncomfortable, but my dad kept putting it back on and straightening my hair. I don’t remember much of the movie because I fell asleep. But what I do remember is my dad stopping by some friends afterwards, where I threw tantrums and wanted to leave.’ She looked at me, smiling at the memory.

‘As I grew older, two or three years later we moved house with the rest of the family – grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. In those days families and extended families lived together in huge houses. We also moved houses a lot, like gypsies. One year in one large house, then another. I remember one house with a couple of newly painted rooms and a cemetery right next to it. These homes were all rented because the majority of Indians could not afford to buy