Here for a Little While

By E. D. Brandt

Fleeting encounters with unfamiliar lives in a tumultuous world lead an unintentional listener to contemplate the significance of transient memories and relationships.

Writing is a medium to ensnare ephemerality, a rebellion against time and space, the two entities that create permanent separation.

What has given us the courage to wield this po

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. D. Brandt
• Release date: Apr 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739749415

Book preview

Prologue

Significant things:

Cracks, fissures, voids

The gravitation of objects and souls

Insignificant things:

Space, time, opinion

CHAPTER 1

The brick factories spew steady streams of black smoke, like gases from an undersea vent. They populate the countryside, their stacked chimneys rising up amongst the fields of newly planted wheat. Women in colourful saris stroll along the dirt paths criss-crossing this patchwork of greens, oranges and yellows, harkening back to a time of serenity, when the money in their pockets was not a measure of the happiness in their hearts. This is the view I have driving through rural India: one devoid of spirit yet filled with melancholy character.

This hazy dream is shattered as my driver pulls over into a grubby looking petrol station, despite having fuelled the car at the start of our journey, 200 km behind us.

‘Stop here, ma’am,’ he says in response to my aggravated stare, ‘Coffee and tea.’ I’ve been on the road for the past ten hours and all I want is a steamy shower and the crunchy sheets of my hotel bed. Nevertheless, feeling powerless and surrounded by unfamiliar customs, I conquer my frustration as I move to crank open the door. The rusty metal is unyielding, and I try again with greater force but to no avail. Realising the door is locked, I glance at my driver in the rear-view mirror, who responds with a grin.

‘No worries, ma’am. For your own safety,’ he offers and unlocks my door with a reassuring click.

I step out into musty air, perfumed with petrol, curiously inspecting my surroundings. To my left, the motorway stretches until the horizon, a tantalising link to the safety of civilisation. To my right, beyond the petrol station, green fields provide a backdrop to the orange hew of a clay road. With a glance at my driver, who has meanwhile wandered to a coffee shop adjoining the station, I ascertain that our stopover will take more than a couple of minutes.

I walk to the edge of the clay track and glance along in both directions. It runs parallel to the motorway before taking a sharp right turn and continuing towards a cluster of orange-brown buildings in the distance, presumably made of the same clay as the track. Through the undulating waves of humid air, I can just about discern a small herd of donkeys grazing beside the buildings. Looking more closely, I notice a figure clad in deep purple moving along the track, towards the group of buildings. Judging the figure to be no more than a couple hundred metres away, I return to my driver, who, to my surprise, is more than happy to wait one or two hours, confirming the area is safe and we are not too far from our destination. I set out along the track, bordered by sheaves of rustling young wheat, following the splash of purple travelling ahead.

The rural India enfolding around me is worlds apart from the eternal rush-hour of its cities. The rumble of the motorway fades with every step, heralding a transition into a slower way of life where daily joys and struggles are directed by the lack of the human race, rather than its abundance. Car exhaust, mingled with spicy aromas, no longer lingers in the air, replaced by an earthy scent and a sharp odour that I cannot quite place but eventually attribute to the smoking brick factories. Up ahead, the figure in purple disappears amongst the huddle of cottages. Having lost my guide, I quicken my pace, responding to an unfamiliar sense of loneliness.

No longer feeling quite so adventurous, I stand at the edge of the small settlement, really nothing more than two houses and a couple of outbuildings, unable to formulate a plan of action. Cautiously moving a few steps closer, I notice soft, pensive singing, accompanied by the merry sound of a boiling kettle emanating from the open window of the house closest to the track. Its door, too, is slightly ajar, which I take as a sure sign of invitation. Before I can fully register my next move, I feel the rough texture of aging wood beneath my palm and my feet have crossed the threshold.

Inside, undulating earthen shapes emerge from a shadowy mustiness, a hidden world illuminated only by dampened sunlight. My gaze is drawn to three spots of brightness – a thin streak of silver and two marbled beads – quivering against the dim backdrop. As my vision adjusts, the beads become a pair of amber eyes and the silver streak a kitchen knife lying on a clay counter. A slightly trembling