|
Place your ad here for only $15.00! Reach thousands of writers and visitors! CLICK HERE
|
|
|
NAME:Mansa Daby
LANGUAGES: English, French
PROFESSION: Secondary School Teacher (English Language & Literature) & Part-time Lecturer at University.
RESEARCH INTERESTS: Psychoanalysis, Child Literature, Animation, Cognitive Psychology, Mediaeval Literature.
|
|
MY ACCOMPLISHMENTS:
- National Project Writing Contests
1996 - From Smoke Signals to Mobile Cellular Technology - 1st prize awarded.
1997- Republican Values: Necessity to Define & Transmit Core Values on the Threshold of the 3rd Millennium - Jury’s Special Mention.
1996 - Slavery in the 18th Century - 2nd prize awarded.
Ansett 1996 Project Competition to promote tourism in Australia - 3rd prize awarded.
1998 - Relevance of Social Service in the present society - 1st prize awarded.
2007 - Cultural Diversity for Itercultural Dialogue and Cultural Development, in the context of Internatinal Day for Cultural Dialogue and Development - 1st Prize. - Alliance Française of Mauritius, 2005 Cartoon Strip contest - wrote scenario for winning entry.
- 2006 - QANTM Talent Hunt Game Concept contest - wrote scenario for "Avatara" game, concept shortlisted among 5 best.
|
|
MY NEWS:
New Publications:
My new short story 'I, Bridesmaid' appears in Anthology entitled "Celebrations", published by July Literary Press, NY, 2006.
My new short story 'D'Epinay Code' appears in Anthology entitled "Incredible Short Stories", published by Immedia, 2007.
|
|
|
MY FAVORITE LINKS:
|
|
BOOKS PUBLISHED:
 The Closet
That same old street that had been so eventful in the morning was now so desperately deserted, drab and sullied. As I walked heavily from the heart of Port Louis towards its edge, I wondered what I was going to do next.
It was the same feeling again … the one of having cold sweat run down your spine while your eyes burn and your skin itches. But from finding myself in situations of that sort so many times, I had become used to this sensation. I’d say I had even become immune to it. And I knew it was useless feeling that way. Sooner or later I would find a way out. I was bound to! I couldn’t say for sure what had channeled my moves so far but the one thing I was certain of was that there definitely was some kind of strength that guided me all the time. Whatever it was, I knew it would intervene again. And I knew it was so powerful that it would be able to set things right in the end. Yet I couldn’t stop myself from experiencing those symptoms. I tried to reason it out but failed. I tried to put a name to it. Was it fear? Was it anxiety? In the silence of the evening, I could hear the fast and loud beats of my heart.
I kept on walking mechanically. My feet led the way. A faint and distant voice told me that I should walk faster. I was going to be late. The children would be worried. They were certainly hungry. But my mind wandered away. I felt it run down a dark tunnel. I felt suffocated. Even though I was walking at a much slower pace than I normally do, my breath became heavy and short. It happened every time things went wrong. Or I’d rather say whenever things were terribly wrong, for I’m unable to think up of a time when things seemed right for me.
Whenever things went terribly wrong, my mind drifted away into that dark tunnel.
And at the end of it I saw my mother gasping for air on her deathbed. I saw myself watching the door in the middle of the night, waiting for my father to turn up. I saw the door open and as he tries to get in, he loses his balance and falls flat on his face. I felt the weight of his body as I had to drag it, lift it up, then lay it down on the bed. Then suddenly it wasn’t my father anymore. It was my husband’s flecked face that I could see … his ever stinking half-open mouth … his chapped lips … his frowning brows … his bloodshot eyes … his thick trembling hands … his sweaty body ... the weight was of course much less than that of my father’s body when I had to drag it to bed; but when that same body lay on me, the weight was just unbearable.
I had asked myself this question so many times I couldn’t understand why it came back to my mind over and over again. Why did I have to leave? That was my home after all. It was theirs too. I was still not sure whether I had taken the right decision for the kids. But then, the other question came along. What made me stay for so long?
Fifteen years!
Fifteen years is a long time for anyone to tolerate being treated like a kicking ball. Why did I stay for so long? It wasn’t for the kids, was it? It had never been a question of feelings neither. And definitely not for security! I wasn’t any more secure in there than in the street! Nor were my kids. Not that I feared what people would say either. I mean who does bother about whatever happened to nobodies like me? I know even my passing won’t be the talk of the day in Tranquebar.
I guess I stayed because I considered it as my home. And in spite of everything, he was the father of my kids.
But the day he brought that bitch into the house, I left with my kids.
Not that I was hurt because there was another woman in his life; I didn’t give a damn about that. I just couldn’t compromise on sharing my home and my position with someone else. Nothing else mattered.
And part of me understood this very well and totally approved of it. I felt like I wouldn’t be who I am had I not done this. And I was proud that I was finally able to decide what to do with my life. Yet part of me condemned it. It was the mother in me who didn’t approve of that decision of mine because she couldn’t see her daughters suffer.
I went through the narrow corridor and entered the dim room. The children were sitting on the floor. As I watched their cheerless faces, the confusion in my mind grew so strong I could almost feel it physically as if it were a terrible migraine. I told myself it was high time I settled on one line of thought. I couldn’t bear feeling like I was split into two different beings anymore. I could hear my own voice telling me,
‘Get this straight Ouma … You are Ouma. And Ouma is what she is. Ouma is a mother of three, that is true. But she was Ouma the girl, and then became Ouma the woman before she became a mother. The mother of these three kids and Ouma are not two but one and the same person. They cannot exist without each other. They do not conflict with but rather complement each other. You are the kind of mother that you are because you are the woman that you are.’
This all was too much for me. I preferred to stop thinking and looked at the girls again. Pretty’s nose was running again. She didn’t look up. I had almost forgotten that she wouldn’t have seen me anyway. Sweety scratched the lice out of her head and smiled naively at me. I tried to but failed to smile back. Lovely spoke up.
“Mama Mr. Pierre came a short while back. He asked me to tell you that the offer still holds if ever you make up your mind.”
I felt like dropping on the floor right where I was standing but I refused to do so. I moved towards the stove. I pulled the lids of a few tins and then quickly put them back again. That was one of those things I would do just to fool myself. I very well knew that I wouldn’t find anything in those tins. I lifted up the lid of the small deksi and smelled the rice inside. It did have a slightly stale smell but the kids wouldn’t notice. Thank God it was winter or that rice would’ve been good enough to be thrown away by then.
I managed to scrape out two spoons of milk and about the same amount of sugar from the containers in which they had been kept and stirred them in the water that was left in the jug. When I had poured that into the rice and placed the deksi on the stove, I gave the jug to Lovely and told her to get some water from the tap in the temple yard. She left.
I realised that all this while I had been feeling very ill at ease in her presence; as if I was standing naked before her. Perhaps I was scared she might ask me what was the ‘offer’ that the landlord had mentioned. Lovely would soon turn fourteen; she wasn’t a kid anymore. Maybe I was underestimating her. Maybe she already knew what Pierre was talking about. I felt much saddened by the thought that today again she hadn’t been to school because I didn’t have money for the bus fare.
I didn’t have money for the rent either. I’d been coming up with all kinds of excuses for the past three months. No wonder such thoughts would come into the mind of a man whose wife had just left him to settle down with the next-door neighbour. I would never have even given this kind of proposal a second thought. But today, after I had visited all those I knew in town, disappointment overshadowed my hopes. No one was ready to lend me some money. I couldn’t blame them anyway. They knew as well as I did that I would hardly be able to pay it back. So I told myself that perhaps I should put aside my whims for once and do as he said. After all, I had nothing to lose. I was never able to enjoy it anyway.
Images of my drunken husband crouching over me flashed into my mind out of the blue and I shuddered. Some of them were so hazy I could barely believe such things had ever happened to me; and some were so vivid I could hardly bear them. I told myself being with Pierre couldn’t be worse. It couldn’t get worse than one of those nightmares that stay in your mind for a few days and then gradually fade away. If I was able to tolerate it for so many years, I should be able to do so a few more times.
‘Just a few more! … How much more? … For how long? … Till when? … And what next? … What else? … What more?’
I remembered Pierre’s gaze the last time he came to collect the rent. I remembered that wicked grin of his. I recalled the tone of his voice as he leant forward and whispered. The words echoed in my head like drumbeats.
“Maybe we could settle this some other way … I mean you may not have money but you do have a lot to offer … Oh I’m sure you know what I mean! Think about it dear. I’ll be back very soon!”
I couldn’t bear the thought any longer. I couldn’t convince myself to accept Pierre’s conditions. The very idea of going through all this again felt as if I was looking at my reflection in the mirror and all I could see was a puny, filthy, deformed body on which thousands of worms crept and tried to penetrate … that filthy breath … those humiliating words he found so exciting … that brutal touch, or grip, whatever it was …
‘Oh Ouma, you’ll never change, will you? … The only good you can do to your children and to yourself is to make your lives ever so miserable! … How can you be so difficult Ouma? … How can you be so fussy? … YOU ARE SUCH A SELFISH MOTHER!’
That agonising split had started again. At once I gathered myself up and focused on one single thought. Come what may, I was resolved never to let it happen to me again. I began to wrack my brains to find out from whom I could make a small borrowing. If only madame had not gone abroad! But she wouldn’t be back before next month! What if I …
Lovely came in. As the girls ate the sweet rice, I sat sipping a glass of water and trying to imagine how I would go about with it the very next day. I sunk down and lay on the bare floor but all night I stared at absolute darkness. I could feel the serenity in the girls’ sleep. The first decision I had ever taken on my own … can’t allow things to turn any more wrong! I had no choice!
Daylight began to filter into the room, shyly, as if it felt out of place. The day seemed gloomier than ever. I had expected it to be a brighter one because I had found a bit of hope. I blocked out of my mind any doubts about the nature of what I was going to do. I didn’t care whether it was right or wrong. What is right and what is wrong anyway? What seems right to me may seem wrong to you. I didn’t feel scared at all; I felt rather confident. The kids were still fast asleep. I slipped out of the room holding madame’s house keys firmly in my hand.
As usual I went in. I dusted the furniture. I mopped the floor. I watered the plants. I was relieved to find myself so calm and composed. Then I went into madame’s bedroom and stood in front of the closet. I took the bunch of keys out of the pocket in my apron. I found it heavier than usual. Or was it that my hands were numb? They were damp, for sure. And they shook.
I held the closet key between my fingers. It slipped through them. Out of the whole bunch, this was the only key I had never used before. I compelled myself to thrust it into the keyhole but I couldn’t turn it. I felt a sudden faintness overwhelm my whole body. I felt weak.
The strength … what about that strength I had always felt inside me? It felt like it was forsaking me just when I needed it so badly. Why? I thought it would be easy! … It should have been easy! … It was easy! … She had handed her house keys to me with so much trust; that seemed so easy for her to do! I had taken them from her with such honesty; that was an easy thing for me to do as well! But to break that trust? That was no easy!
My mind began to drift back into that dark tunnel; it felt more like a whirlpool sucking me in. I saw Pretty’s lifeless eyes staring into nothingness. I saw Sweety sitting beside her, watching over her like an eleven-year-old mother. I saw the mask of untimely adulthood over Lovely’s youthful face. Then I saw a fading glow at the end of the obscure tunnel; and there I saw madame’s fearless smile accentuated by the deep wrinkles around her crinkled lips as she placed the keys in my hands.
‘I shouldn’t let that glow fade,’ I thought. ‘It could lighten up the whole tunnel.’
I felt that unnamed, indescribable, mysterious, and yet so familiar force coming back to me. It invigorated my body and my mind. I decided not to do it. I was trying to save myself from stooping low; and yet that was precisely what was about to happen to me. I turned around and moved away from the closet.
As I walked home, I wondered what I was going to do next. The same old feeling of vagueness and uncertainty troubled me again. But I knew it wouldn’t last long. I was more confident than ever that I would find another way out.
|
 Memories from a “Demented” Mind
indriyānām hi caratām
yan mano nuvidhīyate
tad asya harati prajnām
vāyur nāvam ivāmbhasi
‘As a boat on the water is swept away by a strong wind, even one of the senses on which the mind focuses can carry the mind away.’
(Bhagavad-gitā 2.67)
Earliest Memories
It used to be just me and Her. Half of the time at least. The other half He used to be there but it didn’t really matter then. I recall (though I’m not sure whether I really remember all this or have I just imagined it all) it used to be the same sensation and the same stance all the time. Me lying inside beside Her so close there was no room for anybody else.
She lay by my side and hummed. Her voice tickled my ears. Her breath caressed my skin. Her belly touched mine. They swelled and shrunk along. My head dug in between Her breasts and my eyes shut slowly. They didn’t see dark. They saw bright light. My lips parted. Hers twitched. My fingers found their way under Her white nightdress and teased Her erect nipple. Her hands caressed my back as it arched. Her other nipple entered my mouth and I sucked. My legs wiggled.
The crib lay aside empty. Sometimes He lay beside us too. But She always managed, somehow, (God knows how) to keep Him at a distance. When He used to be there I could only feel his presence like you feel the presence of someone standing behind you watching from a distance. His presence was encumbering complementing, unsettling comforting. Something like the sweet-and-sour taste that used to be in my mouth, throat and nostrils. At first it used to be in my mouth and on my skin and all around me. In my nostrils too. Then only a faint odour remained trapped in my nostrils.
Then one day the odour grew very strong. It wasn’t exactly the same one but a very similar one. It had the taste of lentils. A veil came down through my nostrils into my mouth and got trapped in my throat. My neck stiffened. My eyes opened wide and glanced around. They watched the fluffy brown bonnets of sugar canes. Mine was blue and itchy. My hand went right over my head and snatched the bonnet off. She grabbed it and put it back. We were not in the pink-walled bedroom. We were not even in a room but outside in the open. I have no idea how we got there. I must have been sleeping. On both sides of the alley sugar canes stood upright in rows like soldiers and flapped their leaves like cutting swords. Her white skirt flapped too. My eyes looked up. The roof was far away. It wasn’t even white. It was blue stained with white patches. My skin itched. The light was too bright and the air too cold.
Don’t just look at me! It’s paining awfully, damn it! Walk down the road, find a payphone and call up 114, will you?!’
My eyes looked down. Red water gushed out of His foot and splashed around. A thin stream flowed on the ground. The familiar odour was that of His blood mixed with the scent of Her sweat. Water dripped all over Her face too. It wasn’t red. It had no colour but it glowed. It was on Her forehead on Her chin on Her nose between Her nose and Her lips and it ran down from Her eyes onto Her cheeks and neck. Her eyes were red too. My hand went over an eye and tried to stop the water from flowing out of it. She brushed my hand off. It became blurry all around then water flowed out of my eyes too. She held me tight between her breasts. My legs clung to Her hip. I saw Her shadow on the ground. Mine was inside Hers. My mouth tried to find Her nipples but they hid under Her red top. So my thumb found its way into my mouth and my mouth sucked. She grimaced. He grimaced. He sat on the ground moaning. Then He stood up and groaned louder. Red water still poured out of His foot. My head rested back onto Her warm shoulder. Her soft hair swept against my lips. My eyelids dropped again.
Then the walls were no longer pink. They were white. The roof was white too. So was the floor. And so were the bed sheets. I lay down staring at the walls and at the roof, waiting for Her to come around but She didn’t. Two other people sometimes lay beside me. They had weird faces and odours. Their faces looked like the bedclothes after I had slept in them. But they were not white. They were dark. On their head white hair peeked out in between the black ones. He smelled of the same odour that would make its way into my nostrils when the bedclothes and nappy felt damp. Whenever he would enter the room, his bloated belly and his sour odour came through the door first. And then he followed. And he coughed and laughed loudly. She wore no dress. She draped herself up in bed sheets and stuck a round red mole on her forehead and drew a red streak from the middle of her forehead to the middle of her head. Sometimes I would snatch the red mole from her forehead and stick it on my nose or cheek. Then her teeth would show themselves up. They were not white. They were yellowish.
Dadi and Dada stayed for a long while. Not that their presence disturbed me in any way. But what I had always feared at last came true. She had finally allowed Him to come between me and Her. And I kept on waiting in vain. I kept on waiting but She never lay by my side anymore. The two other people fed me and bathed me. If ever She did feed me or bathe me it was as if She no longer found any pleasure in it. Her hands moved quickly and mechanically. Her eyes kept looking away. Her grasp was tough. The gentle touch had disappeared. She seemed always in a hurry. Her lips moved fast and still remained two flat lines. They no longer formed that round shape. They no longer touched my cheek or forehead or foot or nose or belly. Even Her voice had changed. The soft whispers and gentle humming that used to tickle my ears had given way to wry rumbles. It wasn’t long since my meals and baths ceased to be moments of gratification.
Now He lay between the pink walls and the pink sheets holding Her tight while I lay between the white walls and the white sheets staring at the white roof and waiting to have a glimpse of Her. There were times when the walls and the roof would close down upon me as my eyes watched. At times the roof sank lower and lower and the walls came closer and closer until I yelled. But nobody came. So my eyes closed and watched the walls become pink. The sheets became pink too. And I saw Her and smelled Her beside me holding me tight. I smelled the odour of Her neck and that of Her underarms and that of Her breasts and that of Her lap. I saw Her lips moulding themselves into that round shape and touching my skin and my own lips sealing around Her nipple and sucking. The taste of Her breasts filled my mouth. Sometimes He was there with us too. Sometimes I was alone with Her. Sometimes I was Him. Sometimes He was me. Sometimes we were two. Sometimes we were but one.
I could now walk all by myself. Yet I couldn’t up to the pink-walled bedroom. My legs would just not move. So I sat waiting. My ears listened but heard nothing. Then at last my legs did move. They moved heavily across the dark corridor. At its end I heard Him moan. She moaned along. The roof and walls of the corridor frowned down upon me. I stood in front of the pink-walled room and my hand pushed the door half-open. My shadow crept on the wall behind me. He lay naked on top of Her and breathed heavily. She lay naked underneath Him and groaned. He pressed. I tried to tell Him to stop hurting Her but my lips wouldn’t part. I tried to step into the room but my legs wouldn’t move. I tried to step back and run to the white-walled room but my legs wouldn’t budge. My shadow stood alone on the wall and watched. I watched too. He pressed harder. It didn’t hurt. She giggled. He panted. I puked.
My eyes closed and saw myself making my way back through that obscure corridor and standing in front of the pink-walled room again and again. They watched Him slouch over Her as I stood alone watching. At times they watched me lying beside Him and Her between the pink sheets. Now and again Her lips writhed at me as He pressed. Mine writhed back at Her. Sometimes His eyes stared at me. My eyes looked into His and found myself inside them. My hands tried hard to part Him and Her but they remained glued to each other. Then He pushed me and I fell back. I puked. And the white bedclothes became yellowish and damp. So my eyes closed again and wiped Him off. They watched me lying in on Her naked belly as it swayed like soft tides.
He must have lain over Her all the time. For Her belly had begun to swell. And then He started to be there one night and away the next just like in the old times. She hadn’t thought that sooner or later He would go back to His old routine. She had been too naïve. Now She had to wait too. Yet the nights when He was away She preferred to be alone in the pink-walled room. She had forgotten me. She didn’t need me anymore. Not once did She think that He might be away but I was still there. But maybe She didn’t need Him either now that It was inside Her.
I lay between the white sheets still staring at the white walls and the white roof waiting for Her. But She hardly ever came to me. My eyes ached. My mouth searched for my thumb. My belly and groins tickled. The white bed cloth was stained with a damp yellowish patch again.
(To be continued …)
|
|
|
|
