Severe Jam Damage

From the east the wind blows warm and strong. Jasmine dances on the breeze. The sweet spice of sandalwood fills my mouth, invades my lungs. I squat in the hut, patient, as the old man inspects me. He places his right hand on my temples, rubbing sweet oils into my hair. His skin is rough and chapped, his hands are deep saffron, the ridges of his knuckles and creases of his palm lined a deep black-brown. The muscles of my thighs tear and strain, I rock forward on the balls of my feet. My knees fizz as lactic acid rushes into the joints. The old man stops his ministrations and glares.

I bow my head in supplication, my calves burn and sweat rolls down my face. The unguents he has applied mix with my sweat stinging and blinding me.
‘This is ridiculous’ a voice cuts through the silence and the old man sighs.
‘Shut up’ I grimace through clenched teeth.
‘Are you going to squat there for the whole day?’ John is behind me, but I can tell he’s watching this all with that bemused look on his face. The one he uses when he’s humouring me. The one that’s a degree or two away from his temper.
‘You could wait outside’ I mutter, ‘As a matter of fact I’d prefer it if you did.’
John snorts and I hear the stomp of his boots on the clay.
‘I’ll wait here then shall I?’ There is a brief imprint of light and shadow as he opens the flap and I see the old man’s eyes glow in the sunlight. Then we are back in darkness, the old man, the scented oils and me. It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust again to the the dim firelight.

We arrived out here two days ago, John complaining the whole time. First he wasn’t happy with his seat, the view wasn’t great and he kept bumping his head off the roof when we hit a pothole. Then he wasn’t happy with the jeep, for a few rupees more we could have had air conditioning. He wanted to be back at the hotel, lying by the pool and working on his tan. I’ve always hated that type of holiday. So this was a compromise. He would come out to the edge of the world with me and I promised we’d be back in time for the ‘Arabian Night Buffet and Fashion Show’ at the hotel. This holiday was meant to be a last ditch effort at saving what was left of us.

The old man turns away from me. He chews on some leaves for a moment, then spits them in a bowl. The hut fills with the scent of bitter roses. He motions to my shoulders and I undo the buttons of my shirt. His hand is quick, business like. The ointment is cold on my breasts. He stands in front of me and rests his hand on the crown of my head. I realise how short he is, no taller than a child of ten. He mutters to himself. I don’t pretend to know what language he speaks, a variant of Marathi or Konkani or perhaps something older again.
I hear John’s voice outside, complaining again. I shut it out, concentrate on the old man, the smells of the hut. Fire and sweat, animal and sweet herbs and spices.

John became more irritable the further we drove. He was missing civilisation. I stared out the window at the iron rich soil which burned red as blood in the sun.
‘Pointless waste of time’ he muttered, but I ignored him. This trip was something for me, I was only sorry that John had decided to come along.

I don’t know his name, this old man who places hands on me. The locals refer to him as ‘Hamko’ which I’ve learned means ‘To us’ in Hindi. His true name is secret and not for the likes of me to know. I see the flash of white in the firelight and realise he’s smiling at me. I button my shirt, slowly stand and stretch out muscles and joints that pop and crack.

Outside, Johns’ voice drones on and on.

———————
Excerpt from untitled short story written for Flickr Fiction. Inspired by ‘Country Road‘ taken by Flickr user Ozyman. Also taking part this week: The Gurrier, Teaandcakes, aquafortis and Chris.