The End of the Dark and Stormy Night

By Rajni Mala Khelawan

If we assume that God exists, what path do you think will lead straight to Salvation?

In this hilarious, tongue-in-cheek novel set in Elkford, British Columbia, Mrs. Anand believes that not eating cows is the answer. For this reason, she hates Jesse, the red-haired cow eater who married her talentless writer son, Ravi.

Mrs. Hicks, a legalist, is convinced that Salvation only comes to those who are born-agains. And that Jesus hates lesbians. What Mrs. Hicks does not know is that her only daughter, Elisha, is a full-blown lesbian, her son, a porn addict, and her husband, an adulterous man.

Elisha, who is in love with the half Jamaican single mother wonders how exactly born-again lesbians find Salvation. She wonders if the mysterious stranger who wears a top hat and carries a garbage bag full of only-God-knows-what knows the answer to this eternal quest that plagues our characters' everyday existence.

Rich with a multicultural cast, irreverent humor, and a twist of magic, Rajni Mala Khelawan weaves a tale of ordinary people seeking to end the blindness that corrupts their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Nov 26, 2008
• ISBN: 9781466926042

Rajni Mala Khelawan

Rajni Mala Khelawan is an emerging Indo-Fijian Canadian writer. In addition to being a visiting writer at The University of the South Pacific, Fiji Islands in August 2011, Khelawan was profiled on hit TV and radio shows such as Bollywood Boulevard, CBC Radio, Omni South Asian News, Asian Magazine TV, and NUTV. Her second novel, Kalyana, was published by Second Story Press in March 2016 . She lives in Calgary, Alberta.

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© Copyright 2008 Rajni M. Khelawan.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Note for Librarians: A cataloguing record for this book is available from Library and Archives Canada at www.collectionscanada.ca/amicus/index-e.html

Edited by Carmen Wittmeier Cover Design / Photo by Curt Bilson

Printed in Victoria, BC, Canada.

ISBN: 978-1-4251-5756-2

ISBN: 978-1-4669-2604-2 (eBook)

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Contents

Acknowledgements

PART ONE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

PART TWO

20

21

22

About the Author

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Acknowledgements

Special thanks to Nishi Anand, Catharina Kerssens, Barbara Mackin, and Michelle Mckay-Mcleod for their emotional support and belief in my abilities.

I would also like to thank Emeka Enwere, who made me dream of possibilities, and Arlene Cassidy, whose printer never ran out of ink.

Also, thanks to Carmen Wittmeier for her editorial services and the staff of Trafford Publishing for their support and expertise during the printing of this book.

Last but not least, a Big thank you to my daughter, Laila Blue Khelawan, whose insight and patience never fail me.

9781425157562_B3.pdf

For my daughter, Laila Blue Khelawan,

and my father, the late Mr. Shirpat Singh.

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"A blind man (or woman) who sees is better

than a seeing man who is blind."

—Persian Proverb

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PART ONE

  1

It was a dark and stormy night…

Ravi sat in front of his Macintosh. It must have been the glare of the monitor that affected his sight, for he was momentarily blinded. He was not blind in an ordinary sense: he could see the physical world around him quite clearly. Rather, he was blind to the fact that he was a writer born without a shred of talent. Oddly enough, he was aware of an energy channel of sorts…a connection…between him and his computer. And he always thought that this connection was what defined him as a true writer: he believed that true writers had a special relationship with their medium. What the medium was did not matter. It could be a computer, a paper, or even a chalkboard (in spite of the chalk dust!). Ravi decided that he had this connection, that he was a real writer even though he had not published anything yet.

It was a dark and stormy night…

Ravi sat there, staring at his monitor. All writers experienced writer’s block. It was only natural. Even Anil Singh—the king of horror novels—experienced it while writing The Cemetery. (The Cemetery was 1174 pages long, and one needed a magnifying glass to read the words on each page. And yet Singh had experienced the block somewhere after writing 300 or so pages.)

Ravi was experiencing the block on his first page. Sometimes he managed to write a whole page, but by the end of the day he had thrown it away and started over again—as many writers do.

It was a dark and stormy night in Elkford, British Columbia…

Write what you know—the number one rule of writing. It was reasonable that Ravi added Elkford, British Columbia, to establish the setting of his story, as he was born and raised there. As a matter of fact, he had never left. Elkford was a small coal-mining town in the heart of the Rockies. His mausi (aunt from the mother’s side of the family) used to humor Elkfordians by saying that she did not dare to blink while Mausa drove to Elkford, because if she did, she might miss it. And his dad, Rajen Anand, worked in the Elkford coalmines. Anand bragged about making forty dollars per hour without a university education. You ain’t gonna find a better deal anywhere, Son, he would say.

It was a dark and stormy night in Elkford, British Columbia…

Ravi sat there staring at his monitor.

Jesse sat on the battered old sofa, rubbing her mood ring on her wedding finger with her small thumb and changing channels.

Jesse had married Ravi four years after graduating out of Elkford Secondary School. She married him because she was unbearably attracted to East Indian men. She married him because her rebellious side wanted to piss off her redneck parents.

Of course, the reasons why she married him did not matter now. What did matter was that she did not marry him because she thought he was a writer. Even when they were dating, she thought he was more like the talentless scruffs who believed they were hot stuff on America’s Next Idol auditions, the ones who got booted off the stage by Simon Cowell. She read his dribbles back then, and she told him that he was a great writer. And within six months of courtship, Ravi was down on bended knee proposing to her with a fifteen-dollar mood ring that he had purchased at the local store. She remembered his promise to her that when he became a published writer and sold several million copies of his book, he would buy her a real rock. That was three years ago.

Jesse switched to Channel three. The television screen was only twenty-six inches and not the fifty-two inches that she had seen at the local electronic store. The store had had some Walt Disney movie playing when she stood there marveling at the size of the screen. The moving pictures looked lucid, but Ravi did not have the money to give her this. Or a big mansion with waterfall backyard and a grand wide entrance; or a big master bedroom with an oversized walk-in closet with hundreds of shoes and plush Egyptian cotton sheets that would melt against her delicate body; or that real diamond ring that he had promised to slide onto her finger the moment he sold several million copies of his book. She knew this every second of the three years she had spent married to him.

She glanced down and saw the pale blue mood ring choking her finger. It must have been the color of the ring that impaired her vision because she failed to see the love Ravi had felt for her when he slipped it onto her finger, and the commitment he still felt when he laid down beside her at night.

Jesse lit her second cigarette and noticed that the ashtray was overflowing with butts. She got up to dump them in the tin can she kept under the kitchen sink. On her way to the kitchen, she glanced over Ravi’s shoulders at the monitor. She grimaced.

It was a dark and stormy night, said Jesse. What the fuck are you writing now, Ravi? A Snoopy comic strip? Jesus!

Jesse opened the cupboard under the kitchen sink. She took the tin can full of ashes and dumped them in the garbage bin. She took the ashtray and tipped it into the empty can. Jesse mumbled something. It was hard to make out the actual words, but it sounded something like ‘fucken loser.’ Then she opened the fridge door, knocking down the picture of Anil Singh that was held there by two yellow happy face magnets.

Looking at Singh’s picture every morning is not going to bring you success, Ravi, said Jesse, picking up the picture from the floor and sticking it back on the fridge. I’m surprised that you don’t mumble chants and burn incense in front of it like your mother does every morning in front of her gods. Jesse poured herself a glass of raspberry juice and took another puff of her cigarette.

I can’t concentrate on my writing when the fucken TV is blaring and with all your mumbling…

Ravi, Jesse came back to the living room, puffing her cigarette and taking sips of her drink. She pursed her lips, crinkled her nose. You can’t concentrate on your writing, period. Don’t blame the TV, and don’t you ever blame me. Jesse threw the ashtray on the flimsy TV table beside the sofa. She sat back down, crossing her legs and pulling the knitted blanket over them. She reached for the control and pressed the volume button, turning the TV up a notch.

Sali Kutiya, said Ravi.

You know, one day I’ll ask your mom what that means. And I’ll tell her that you say that to me all the time.

Jesse turned to Channel Four. Dr. Phil was coming on any second.

Ravi stared at the computer screen.

The lights, glamour, and the music came on. The audience cheered. Dr. Phil, clutching his wife’s hand, trotted on to the stage. I want YOU to get excited about your life. This is going to change YOUR life. Bring it on, Dr. Phil. Let’s do it! The show began.

Today’s show is about unemployed bums chasing their dreams, said Dr. Phil. People clapped.

I want you to meet Rick, Terry, and Jason. They are three unemployed men who believe they are creative geniuses who will make it big one day. Dr. Phil looked back at the three men sitting on his stage. They are young and intelligent men, very capable of working full time. But they would rather have their spouses, family members, or friends support them. Later on during the show we will also meet those people that pay these adult men’s way in life.

The audience remained quiet and listened intently to Dr. Phil’s every word.

Meet Rick.

Rick, solemn-faced, nodded his head at the audience. The lights reflected off Dr. Phil’s bald head. Rick is an intelligent man who says he feels diminished as a person working for minimum wage. Dr. Phil focused his attention on Rick. So how long has it been now since you last had a job, Rick?

Rick said that he had never worked a day in his life. Dr. Phil stared at Rick, his mouth half open. You have never worked a day in your life? Rick firmly stated ‘No’ and then looked out to the smirking audience.

So how do you manage to live? was Dr. Phil’s next question. Rick said that when he was younger, his mother had worked as a chambermaid to support him, and now that he was married, his wife supported him. Dr. Phil’s eyes opened wide and he stared at Rick with his ‘you gotta be kidding look’.

You mean to tell me that somebody actually married you when you did not have a job? Dr. Phil shook his head and leaned back in his chair as he studied Rick. You must be one charming man. The audience laughed.

Rick injected that he was a talented musician and that working for a $5.90 an hour job would be an insult to him. Dr. Phil leaned toward Rick and scratched his chin. Let me ask you something, Rick, he said. Isn’t it more diminishing to be living off your spouse than to support your own way in life, even if that means holding down a $5.90 an hour job?

Dr. Phil’s audience cheered and clapped. Rick rolled his eyes and looked the other way. Dr. Phil breaked for commercial.

Oh, turn the god damn TV off, said Ravi.

Why, Ravi? Is it because they’re talking about you? It hits home, doesn’t it?

No, it’s because I don’t like Dr. Phil. He is too opinionated.

Maybe if you watch this show, you’ll learn something like how to get up and get a job. Jesse snickered. Unemployed bums living off their spouses.

Ravi turned around to face Jesse. Anil Singh’s wife believed in him. That’s why he’s successful, Jess.

Maybe there was something there for her to believe in.

Ravi sunk in his seat. Yes, there still was a connection between him and his computer. It was a hazy, distant feeling that made his surroundings disappear into a blur. What existed was a sense of unity between him and the monitor, his medium. All else did not matter. He still clung to the belief that he was a writer. And one day he would sell a million copies of his book and show Jesse just that.

My mother, the wise woman that she was, warned me never to marry a chili-mouthed redhead.

Mine told me to stay away from men that can’t hold down a job. ‘If you marry a man like that, Jess,’ she would say, ‘you will spend your life living in a shit-hole.’ I should have listened to her.

Dr. Phil came back on TV.

Ravi clicked on the mouse, dragged the cursor over the opening line of Chapter One, and pressed delete.

  2

Thou shall not have other Gods before me; Thou shall not commit idolatry; Thou shall not take the Lord’s name in vain; Thou shall not kill; Thou shall not commit adultery; Thou shall not steal; Thou shall not give false testimony against thy neighbor; Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s wife; Observe the Sabbath; and Honor thy father and thy mother. Nowhere in the Ten Commandments did God say that Thou shall not