iamsaha

[iamsaha]

I Am Saha

Well. Here we are. My last post on this blog. Number 500.

Doesn’t mean I’m done writing though. I’m just done writing here. And damn what a journey here has been. I have learned so much about writing and about myself while posting on here. You can see most of that learning just by reading what’s on here.

I’ll be keeping this tumblr up because I’m too sentimental to delete it. Not just because I’m not moving everything over to the new website. If you still wish to see what I’m writing, join me at iamsaha.com.

Farewell, tumblr. 

-Saha

[iamsaha]

Beach Park Boulevard

“In there?” I asked the woman in the suit. There was a door to her left. Normal, forgettable door.

“Yes. You’ve got fifteen minutes.” 

“Will he know who I am?”

“No. He might figure it out if you talk too much and if he’s clever.” The woman said. “But he’s still young. It’s likely he won’t.”

“Okay.” I put my hand on the doorknob, gently tracing the sphere with the gold ring on my thumb. It made a slight scratching noise but nothing more. I twisted and the door didn’t budge.

“You need to use your key.”

“Oh. Right.” I took the key out of my pocket and unlocked the door. It opened this time without any trouble and I stepped into the apartment. It smelled clean, which wasn’t at all surprising considering who lived in it. I took my shoes off and looked around. There was a small dining area to my right and a kitchen beyond the wall the dining table was up against. Straight ahead of me was a wall. If I took a left at the wall, I could pick between going into the bedroom or into the bathroom. It was tempting to go and see the people sleeping in the bedroom. Instead I went right and into the living room to join the little boy that had been staring at me since I entered the apartment. 

He was peeking over the back of the couch. Expressionless. “Who are you?”

He still had a slight Indian accent. But that would go in time. I smiled at him and almost gave my name but I stopped myself in time. “I’m a friend of your parents.” I pretended to look around for them. “Where are they?”

“They’re sleeping in the bedroom.”

“It’s the middle of the day. Are they sick?” I asked. Yes. They were sick. 

“Yeah.”

“And you’re not?”

He solemnly shook his head. His dark eyes hadn’t left me for even a second. 

“Well I guess I came at a bad time.” I sighed. There was a line of toys placed against the wall to my left, starting from the tv set in the corner. A toy phone, a toy laptop, and a race car track were all arranged to look connected. “Whoa! Nice laboratory!”

The boy’s face brightened at someone recognizing his creation without being told what it was. “Thank you!”

“Do you have any other cool toys?” 

“Yeah! Back here!” He ducked behind the sofa and returned holding up a sky blue plane. “See?”

There was a line of toy boxes back in the space between the sofa and the wall. His own secret toy base. I sat down on the loveseat that was close to the kitchen counter instead of going into his base. “Can I see that?”

I noticed him hesitate, but the small boy came out from around the three-seater sofa, avoided bumping into the coffee table, and held out the plastic plane. “Here you go. It can’t really fly. But it has wheels so you can push it on the ground.”

“Would be cool if it could fly though, right?” I pretended to make the plane fly around his head.

He giggled. “Yeah!”

I returned the plane to him. “Don’t worry. I’m not like your dad. I won’t accidentally break your toys.”

He laughed at that and went to fetch another toy to show me. It was a green t-rex with a red button. Pushing on it made it give out a tinny roar. The boy took the dinosaur back and ran to his secret base, once again narrowly avoiding collision with the coffee table. There was a few minutes of clattering as he dug through his toy box. Eventually, he came back with a long toy eighteen-wheeler that he set on the ground.

“Watch!” He commanded as he sat down on the back of the truck. Then he put his hands on the front of it, covering the driver’s cabin windows, and began pushing himself around the living room. It was hard to perform turns while ‘riding’ it, so he would briefly get up to adjust the direction he wanted the truck to go before sitting back down and pushing. That wasn’t at all the intended way for the toy to be played with but it made both of us smile.

“How long have your parents been sick?”

“Few days.” 

“And you’ve just been playing by yourself?”

“Yeah.” He said simply. Not even the slightest hint of complaint. 

“They’ll get better soon.”

“Okay.” He got off the eighteen wheeler and returned it to the box with minimal clatter.

“Listen uh…” I cut myself off from saying his name. “I have to leave soon.”

“Oh.” His face fell. “Already?”

“Yeah.”

“What about my parents?”

“I’ll see them another time.” I said. I could barely breathe now. The lump in my throat was making it hard to swallow and I could feel an immense pressure building behind my eyes. “Can I give you a hug before I go?”

“Yeah!” He stretched his arms in front of me as wide as they could go and smiled at me like I wasn’t a complete stranger. I swear there were stars in his dark brown eyes. A universe of innocence. 

Look at how eager I was. I thought as I hugged the boy close. I put a hand on the back of his head as he rested his chin on my shoulder. He felt so small. So small that I could protect him from everything just by hugging him and never letting go. Please oh please just stay this way. I kissed the top of his head. I pulled slightly back and put a hand on his cheek. “Have a good day.”

He nodded and smiled.

I wanted to pick him up and take him away from all that was to come. But it wasn’t permitted. Another restriction I’d have to live with. 

I stood up carefully so I wouldn’t push the child over and returned to my shoes. He was right behind me, holding his hands behind his back just like his father. I stopped with my hand on the doorknob. “Keep going. No matter what. Keep going.” I put on a fake smile for the boy. “It gets better.”

Predictably, he stared at me in confusion.

“Later, thangam.” I said, calling him by what his mother called him. Then I left. 

The woman was still outside in the hall. She watched me for a minute as I refused to let go of the door. But I eventually did. And she spoke then. “You didn’t stay the full fifteen minutes.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Few people can.” She said. “Did you tell him your name?”

“No. He’ll find it on his own.”

-Saha

[iamsaha]

Old Enough To Understand

The light from the open door shined onto the narrow hall floored with perpetually creaky wood. Tiny motes of dust and hair floated between the peeling walls, shining in their temporary visibility. Down, down, down they drifted without any protest. Onto the floorboards where they’d get pushed to the side by passing feet. Or into the cracks between the wood where they could settle permanently.

Min’s shadow extended into the hall. At 10 years old, her shadow depended more on the placement of light to appear large. With the sun mostly directly behind her, Min’s shadow looked tall and lanky as she took her shoes off and rummaged in her backpack. The shadow’s movements were rigid, displaying none of the grace that joints provided. It reminded Min of the way spiders walked.

She shut the door and killed her shadow. 

Her home was dark again. And that was fine as she could find her way around it with her eyes shut. She turned left into the small, dim kitchen. A table, with two chairs tucked against it, was shoved into the corner of the room to her right. A single light was available in the middle of the ceiling and was waiting to be coaxed on by a flick of the switch. It would take roughly thirty seconds to turn on. Min could see just fine using the slivers of sun that were coming in through the shut blinds above the dripping sink. She placed her report card next to the covered plate on the table and went to shut the sink off. Twisting the handle tight slowed the rhythmic drip but didn’t stop it. The water continued to leak out of the faucet and plop into the sink with a moist thump. Min wished it was a little louder so that it could at least become background noise. Instead it was just barely loud enough to stop her from concentrating if she decided to do her homework in the kitchen.

Min uncovered the plate and saw a peanut butter sandwich made with white bread. One of the bread slices was the heel of the loaf. She poked at the sandwich with just enough pressure to see if it was spread with smooth or crunchy peanut butter. No peanuts poked back, so Min picked up the sandwich and took a bite. There was enough peanut butter for her to ignore the presence of the crust but that meant that each mouthful was extremely sticky. The peanut butter wrapped itself around her small teeth and coated her throat. She wormed her tongue against her molars but it was ineffective at freeing them.

She set her sandwich down. Min got a small glass from a cupboard and opened the fridge for some milk. The fridge door was lined with mostly empty condiment bottles. The small compartment meant for butter was instead stuffed with packets of soy sauce. The shelves had a carton of eggs that, when opened, revealed itself to be empty. Min shut the fridge door and threw away the empty carton. It landed on a crumpled up plastic bread bag and a jar that had been scraped clean. After putting the small glass back into the cupboard, Min ate the rest of her sandwich slowly so her own spit could have time to break away the peanut butter.

Min placed the empty plate directly under the dripping faucet, picked up her report card, and went down the dark, creaking hallway. The living room was empty but the T.V. was on. Min watched for a little while but wasn’t able to follow the quickly speaking reporters. Her teachers spoke slowly at school, repeating themselves until Min understood. It was like pulling teeth at times - a phrase that Min had overheard them say and only recently got - but the girl always got it in the end. She had the report card to prove it along with some encouraging comments that Min would have to translate. She turned the T.V. off when a commercial began playing and left the room.

The bathroom sink wasn’t leaking but the toilet’s water pipe was. Min tugged the ragged towel off its holder and jumped in surprise when the metal bar clattered to the ground. She left the towel on the floor while she struggled to put the bar back in place, eventually smiling with relief when she fixed it. Then Min turned the toilet’s water pipe off before wiping the floor dry, making sure there were no wet spots behind and around the toilet. The towel was returned to its holder, the light was turned off, and the door was shut. 

The light was on in the bedroom but it was still dark. Much less sunlight was able to stream in through the blinds on this side of the house. Min could still see well enough. She shivered despite the ceiling fan being off. Both of their twin beds, in their respective corners, were made. Min’s stuffed bear was waiting for her on her bed, leaning against the pillow with his arms spread wide. The bed on the right had nothing but a pillow with no pillow case and a faded blue blanket folded at the end of it.

The middle of the room had a circular red rug that scratched at Min’s feet whenever she walked on it. It was always drier than dry and her mother would joke that they had their own desert. Presently, though, the rug was wet. Min’s desk chair was laying on its side, two of its legs in the wet spot and the other two up in the air. The shadow on the wet spot was almost a perfect circle. It moved gently from side to side like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. Min watched the shadow, her report card laying forgotten at her feet. Then, when the shadow finally stopped rocking, Min turned off the light.

She could see just fine without it.

-Saha

[iamsaha]

Devaraj

I stood on the mosaic tile and faced the wall that surrounded my grandparents' house. It was gray and not at all entertaining to look at. The gate was to my left. I could stand in front of it instead if I wanted to see what was beyond the wall. Grip the metal and the red paint flaking off it. But that wasn't enough for me. If I stood in front of the gate, I would only be able to look straight through. I'd be out of luck if I wanted to look left or right on the street. I glanced at the gate. It had gaps in it that were enough for a hand to slip through and undo the lock. But not a head. Even a kid’s head like mine.

I spotted a pink step stool that was sitting in the shadow of a TVS-50 moped. I picked up the stool after making sure it wasn't supporting the moped in any way. Dust rubbed onto my fingers immediately. The gritty sensation lingered on my hands even after I clapped them on my shorts to clean them. Ah well. I can wash my hands later. I got on the step stool and gained just enough height for me to peak over the wall and onto the street.

A bicycle bell's chime drifted over from the left.

My head whipped in that direction and did not see the man I was hoping to see. Instead it was some other guy, ringing his bell to warn the two old ladies he was stuck behind. He easily maneuvered between them and went on his way. Behind him, the old lady that was nearly knocked into the ditch cursed him and his children. The man didn't seem to care. I guessed that he was going home. It was the evening, after all. Many people were heading home. The man I was waiting for was doing the same. Likely ringing his bicycle bell and raising the hopes of children waiting for their dad. Or, like in my case, their uncle. Eventually my uncle would get close enough home, ring his bell, and my hopes would be met.

He always brought snacks when my parents and I visited my grandparents. He'd bring my mom her favorites. My dad and I got whatever fried snacks or sweets that caught his eye when he dropped by the store. The favoritism didn't bother me. My mom always shared what she got and my uncle would smile when she did.

A bicycle bell's chime drifted over from the left.

I looked again. Straining this time, causing my cheek to brush against the wall. The chalk brushed onto my face and I absentmindedly rubbed at it while watching this new bicyclist that wasn't my uncle. This guy had some lady sitting in front of him on the bicycle's frame. His hands reached around her to grip the handlebars, making his arms form a barrier for the woman. It looked like the bars that came down on a rollercoaster I rode once. Except these bars were hairy and sweaty. And the seat the woman was sitting on was definitely extremely uncomfortable. It was just a metal bar. But her face gave no indication that she was sitting in discomfort. She spared me a glance when she passed so I smiled. She didn't.

My mom came out of the house and asked if my uncle had arrived despite him clearly being absent. I answered with a simple no, making the mistake of facing her when I did so. She tutted, put her slippers on, and came to wipe off the chalk that was still on my cheek. She also gave commentary on me being barefoot that I listened to silently until she went back into the house. I did not put on slippers. And I did not heed her invitation to join her and my cousins at a game of carrom.

My uncle's very good at carrom. He'd never lost a game, as far as I know. Which is probably not very far. I played with him whenever we visited and whenever I managed to score, he'd cheer and clap like he was my biggest fan. He'd also give me tips on where to place the large white striker, which pieces to aim for, and how to properly flick the striker so it would hit the pieces I wanted to hit. Essentially, he was playing for himself and for the opposing team. Maybe that's why he always won. The thought made me shake my head. My uncle wouldn't cheat like that. He won because he was good.

Stray dogs played in the empty field across the street. Playing or, possibly, looking for food. They were sniffing the ground a lot, crouched so low that only their dark brown tails appeared above the tall grass. Now and then a noise that only they could hear would cause their heads to pop up and look in a random direction. Maybe they were waiting for their uncle too.

A bicycle bell's chime drifted over from the left.

-Saha

[iamsaha]

Susurration

With eyes shut on a clear day, the sound of dry leaves rushing along the road can be momentarily confusing. The sun’s warmth alighting on skin. Light illuminating the darkness of closed eyelids. A hair teasing breeze. The tangible lack of water. But the ears would tell a different tale. The movement of leaves, with no moisture in their brown curls, sounds just like the beginning of rainfall: 

When the silence of a clear day is cast aside by the arrival of water. Peace one moment. A relative cacophony the next, each drop striking a chord and giving its part to the symphony. 

The rainfall slowly trickles to the background. It becomes a silence of its own that encompasses everything under it. The body is aware of the rain but is filtering it out, adding it to the rhythm of its functions and not needing conscious attention. Like breathing, like the beating of a heart, the rain becomes a guarantee.

Then it’s gone. The lack of raindrops becomes loud. A quiet so tangible it can almost be held in a tender embrace.

Slowly, surely, the new silence becomes its own beating heart. Easy to forget.

But quietly confident in its importance. 

-Saha

[iamsaha]

Shattered Sternum

I always give my all to the one I love. No question. The alternative is not an option to me. Their needs? Looked after. Their wants? Remembered. Their loves? Treasured. Their hates? Warded. Them. Them. THEM.

In the landslide of giving my all, I hold back a piece. Just one piece. I drive a stake through it and don't let it even get grazed by the landslide's ripples. I tell myself it's just one piece. It's not a big deal. It won't make a difference. I'm giving them so much. I won't give them this. I can't give them this.

Me. Always a wall. Always watching. And for every moment I hold on to me, the deeper the stake gets pushed.

I must be impaled by now. Don't look for my heart in the front. Look for it in my back, bleeding past splinters and onto my spine. Grating on vertebrae. Hot. Painful.

Safe.

-Saha

[iamsaha]

Lodestone

Author’s Note: In Malazan Book of the Fallen, there exists individuals known as Shield Anvils. I found that concept interesting and felt like writing a story based on it. While the original concept belongs to that author, I have changed aspects of it and the characters, events, and overall world you are about to read about are all mine. 

The setting sun was at Paari’s back. It warmed him with what light it had left, like a campfire on the verge of dying. The emerging dark before him, with its star dusted black tinged with the sun’s purple, brought him chill. He continued on, caught between light and dark, between warmth and cold. No clear border could be found between the two sides of the spectrum, yet Paari found himself there. 

Slowly, the light of the sun left Paari. The moon offered him the sun’s bastard reflection instead. Not enough sight could be gained from moonlight, not with his human eyes. Especially not when the moon was in its waning crescent phase. Two stars twinkled near the crescent, turning that sliver of the sky into a smiling face that offered no brightness and no warmth. 

Paari came upon a caravan that had come to a rest for the day. The four wagons had been maneuvered into a wide circle and the merchants had placed their very own sun in the middle of it all. A scruffy haired child tended to it with a self-satisfied grin. Paari noted it and exhaled, softly, through his nose while smiling knowingly. This caravan wasn’t his destination but he needed to stop for the night anyway. And people who could make a child feel important even when doing a simple chore would likely be good company.

“Ho, traveler.” A woman wearing a long shirt and khaki pants came over to him and his horse. With a thumb in her thick, leather belt, she greeted him with a nod of her blonde head. Her other hand gripped the hilt of a sword. She didn’t loosen it from its scabbard, but her grip was firm. 

“Good evening.” Paari spoke his first words in two days. He had drank plenty of water but his mouth felt dry anyway and the words felt wrong coming out of his lips like he was pronouncing them incorrectly. “I’ll be off before sunrise. I would like some company until then, if you and your companions are willing.” He patted his pack. “I have my own food and water.”

“I see no sword on you.” The woman said. 

“I have none.” Paari said. “Nor do I have hidden daggers.”

“You’re a fool to travel alone without protection.”

“I have my own protections, merchant.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Conjure up some company for yourself then, mage. Why seek it with us?”

“Ah. My protections are not in that realm either.” Paari shook his head. “But I will not press upon your hesitation, as you have a child to protect. Safe travels.”

The woman stopped him as he took his horse’s reins into his hands. “Wait. You’re old enough to be my father. I’ll think of you as him. Please.” She took her hand off her sword. “Join us. Eat our food and drink our wine, Da.”

Paari looked at his hands and saw that they were no longer supple with youth. Wrinkles had arrived and both his hands shook as they hadn’t before. The last town had been too much, evidently. Paying no further heed to this development, he led his horse to where the others had been tied before sitting down at the campfire. The scruffy haired child came running to him with a wooden goblet, splashing most of the wine to the ground. He offered it proudly to Paari. “Here you go.”

“Thank you, blessed one.”  Paari laughed as he took it. “Tell Oda your name.”

“Hamish!”

“Manners.” The woman smacked the back of Hamish’s head as she walked by. She set up a cast iron pot to be heated over the fire. 

Hamish rubbed at his head and obeyed. “My name is Hamish, Oda.”

“Hamish. Strong name, blessed one.” Paari said. “And your Ma and Da’s name?”

“Ma’s name is Ina.” Hamish sat down. “Da’s name is Aros.”

A large man climbed out of the back of the wagon closest to them, bringing a sack with him. He was his wife’s age, likely at least a year older if they followed tradition, and had thick arms and legs that looked to be enough to pull a wagon all on their own. He deposited the sack next to Ina, then came to greet Paari. “Evenin’, Da.”

“Evening.” Paari left out honorifics despite being younger than the man in front of him. If they all thought him to be old, he would be old. “Aros? Hamish has your eyes.”

“Aye, sir.” Aros sat down beside his son. Unlike the boy, who was captivated by a line of ants, he sat with his legs crossed and his back straight.

“Strong name. Very strong name. Like a sun to your wife’s moon.” Paari said. “Ease up. I don’t have the strength to bend the likes of you over my knees and spank ya for lack of respect. Nor would I, if I did.”

“Thank you, Da.” Aros relaxed, his back bending and tanned face showing how tired he actually was. He took his cap off to scratch his prematurely balding pate before telling Hamish to get him some wine. “And don’t water the grass with it like you did for Da. Slow and steady, son, slow and steady.”

“You can call me Paari.” He noted the hesitation shadow Aros’ eyes. “Or not. I leave it to you.”

Aros nodded. “Where are you headed all on your own, Da?”

“The city of Odos.” 

Ina turned at that and Aros frowned deeply, clefts forming on either side of his mouth. Ina spoke. “Why would you do that, Da? No place for decent folk such as yourself to go.”

“Aye.” Aros grunted. “The plague hit it hardest for a reason, Da. Punishment for their ways. Don’t think it’ll change’em. People like that don’t change for anything.”

Paari nodded slowly and sighed, long and slow like a bereaved man, then hung his head so his chin touched his shirt. “I’ve got children there, son. What’s a father to do?”

Ina glared at Aros and he silently took the chastisement for his extra commentary. Ina looked at Paari. “Forgive my husband, Da. He often speaks too much. ”

“No harm was done.” Paari waved the apology away. “You’ve got quite the small party.”

“It’s not just us, Da.” Aros said, taking a half full goblet from Hamish’s sticky hand. “My grandmother is resting. And my sister and her husband have gone off out of earshot.” He chuckled and added, “Newlyweds, you see.”

“I will give my congratulations to them when they return. And wish them a blessing to arrive precisely when it’s meant to.” Paari said. “By resting, do you mean to say your grandmother is asleep? I would like to go convey respect if she is awake.”

“Omma is probably awake.” Aros pointed to the wagon closest to the horses. “She likes listening to the beasts.”

“A soft heart, then.” Paari stood, grunting and sighing like a father of middle-aged children. “Without doubt, respect must be given.”

Paari left the man to be scolded, in rapid whispers, by his wife. An old woman was lying in the wagon with her head close to the wagon bed’s entrance. Her white hair was splayed out, some of it hanging off the wagon bed. “Are you awake, Ma?” Paari asked softly. It felt odd to not say Omma to a woman this old. 

The frail woman’s answer came in the form of a sigh and a whimper. Paari frowned and looked closely at the woman’s face. Even in the dim light, the grimace was obvious. He put the back of his hand on her forehead and found that she wasn’t hot or sweaty. A bad dream then. Extremely common among her generation. The charred bead bracelet on her right wrist confirmed his guess. 

He made a gesture to Aros that the woman was sleeping. The man nodded, motioning to Paari to leave her as is. Paari nodded, then went to his horse as if he was checking on the beast. He mindlessly rubbed Rashi’s muzzle and neck while reaching his heart out to the woman in the wagon. The woman’s memories crashed into him like storm waves onto a seawall.

Running through a meadow while the horses grazed. Laughing. Cheering. Tripping over a boy laying in a flower bed and giggling at his shocked face. Paari took sugar cubes out of his pack. A wedding. The boy was older now. Broad shouldered. Thinning hair that she liked for some reason. Bright red beads being tied on her left wrist. Paari fed Rashi a sugar cube, smiling at the horse. In a large, luxurious room. Pregnancy. The husband gone. Off to fight a war that wouldn’t end. His promise repeated in song to her swollen belly. Paari gave Rashi another sugar cube. Red beads being thrown into a fire. Charred beads retrieved from smoking embers and pushed onto a shaking wrist. The right one. Paari looked at the wagon the old woman was in while listening to the cries of her confused toddler son. They were just echoes but Paari felt their full force. Moving constantly. Unable to find work. Refusal to remarry. The war carries on. Paari fed Rashi the last sugar cube in his hand, then leaned his forehead against the horse’s neck. The horse did nothing. The war carries on. Crippled and forgotten homeless everywhere. No employment for women. Paari did not shudder. None of this was new. Different names given to the same story. But to the woman in the wagon, it was a tale she had lived. And for that, he mourned. Stories like hers were tragedies purely due to them being familiar. Employment found. Unplanned pregnancies. Unwanted abortions. The toddler son growing older and understanding what his mother did. The mother knowing that her son knew. Neither saying anything. Paari silently lived through her story, feeling every sob, every blow, every penetration, every hungry night, every laugh, every break, every... Everything. When it was done, when her tale came to present time, Paari did not return her wounds. 

Her memories were given back. Along with every lesson. But not the pain. Not the wounds that continued to reopen and flog the woman and bleed her dry. He kept those to himself deep within his iron heart among the rest. As he passed the wagon, he looked into it. The old woman was relaxed and breathing softly.

“Sleep well until your time comes, Ma Izbeth.” Paari said softly. “I pray that won’t be until, at least, Hamish finds a love of his own. You’ve more than earned the right to see that joy.”

“Must be a good horse, Da.” Ina said when Paari returned to the campfire. “For you to give her that much attention.”

“A very good horse.” Paari nodded. “Her name is Rashi.”

“Rashi.” Ina repeated with approval. “You look starving, Da. Don’t worry. Dinner will be ready soon.”

“I’ve had a long day.” Paari chuckled, patting his stomach. “You may regret offering to feed me.”

“Nonsense. There will be plenty for all.” Ina smiled.

Aros’ sister and brother-in-law returned in time for dinner. They welcomed Paari and smiled happily as he gave them his blessings and well wishes. He held back an awkward chuckle as they fell to his feet for more blessings and gave them like he had the standing to do so. The meal itself was a quiet affair as everyone was too hungry to fill their stomachs with words instead of food. A covered bowl was placed in Izbeth’s wagon for her to eat when she woke up. Aros commented that he had never seen his grandmother sleep so soundly.

“Where are you all headed?” Paari asked. 

“North to Waytory.” Aros’ sister, Lila, said. “Omma wanted to see her hometown again.”

“Beautiful town.” Paari said. “And its meadows were spared from the war. Hamish will have fun running amidst its flowers.”

“Have you been there, Da?” Aros asked.

“Yes. Not long ago.” Paari said. “And I’m headed East. What luck for our paths to intersect.”

“The best luck.” Aros raised his goblet to toast Paari. “Odos isn’t far, Da. Not even half a day on foot. You’ll make it in no time at all with a horse like Rashi.”

“You’ve an eye for horses, Aros?” 

“Somewhat.” Aros shrugged modestly. “I know enough to feel some envy at her not being one of mine. But knowing she belongs to a man such as yourself puts the envy at ease.”

“I will sleep very well with that compliment.” Paari laughed. 

Despite his hosts’ insistence, Paari slept outside beside the fire. Saying that he slept better with the stars above him convinced them, along with their need to show respect outweighing their need to be good hosts. They all said goodnight, and then goodbye since Paari reminded them he would be gone before they woke up. He added that he was eager to get to his children before they could insist that he at least stay for breakfast.

Paari arose two hours before sunset. He rolled up the bedroll he had been given and leaned it against the wheel of Aros and Ina’s wagon. Then he retrieved parchment and a charcoal pencil from one of his packs. To Aros and Ina for your generosity. Rashi likes sugar cubes but give her too much and she’ll be too spoiled to listen to you without them. She is good with children, so Hamish can learn to ride on her. From Da. Paari assumed that at least one of them could read. If they couldn’t, it was a wonder they were able to manage as merchants. He rolled the parchment up and carefully tied it to Rashi’s reins. 

“Goodbye, dear friend.” Paari whispered, kissing the horse on her nose. “I leave you in good hands. Treat them well.”

She nuzzled him.

Paari took a single coin from his coin purse, for passage, then set off east to Odos with all that he owned left with Rashi. Just as Aros said, Odos was just a few hours away even on foot. He refrained from jogging though he feared Aros or one of the others riding out to him to refuse his gift. Instead he chose to trust in their willingness to accept a gift from an elder. That thought made him laugh. Aros, my friend, Paari thought, if only you knew that I can’t be more than a younger brother to you. Despite that, my blessings were earnest.

Paari arrived outside Odos an hour before noon. The walled city was at the bottom of the valley, a wide road winding down from where Paari stood. He took in the sight of massive stone walls and buildings amidst verdant green trees before breaking off the road and into the forest. The city remained to his left as he walked, occasionally visible through breaks between the trees. Eventually he came to an overhang he could sit on while overlooking the city.

He placed the coin on his tongue and clenched his mouth shut. The sun was directly overhead now, shining with full force onto the plague ravaged city. The stench of torment was strong, staggering him before he even reached out with his heart. He steeled it in preparation, and began. 

If Izbeth’s memories were storm waves against a seawall, this was the full might of the ocean unleashed on a single point. Paari was battered into paralysis by the onslaught. Unlike flotsam lost at sea, that was tossed this way and that by roiling waves, Paari was still. With forces of equal power and fury pressing on him from all sides, Paari could only take it and not move. The pressure did not allow him to open his eyes or draw in breath. It did not allow him thought of his own. The only movement in Paari was the cascade of agony he took from every citizen of Odos. No discerning eye was cast upon the souls he was relieving. All hurt, sinner or victim, was taken deep into Paari’s heart.

Over 800,000 people lived in Odos. Paari learned every name and the story behind each one. He cried, with no tears to moisten the wrinkles on his face, at the sheer familiarity of it all. Nothing he felt was new. No betrayal, no impassioned murder, no rape, no desperate gamble, no revenge, no escapist alcoholism or drug addiction, no bloodthirst, no illness, no... Anything. Every tragedy dealt to humanity could be found in Odos and all of it had been seen before. All of it would be seen again. On and on until humanity was gone. This awareness hadn’t escaped Paari. It nearly beat him into apathy. But Paari held on because that wasn’t the point. It didn’t matter that it had happened before and that it would happen again. What mattered was that people in front of him had been tormented. And Paari could, at the very least, relieve these sorry few.

The cascade of souls stopped at midnight. The new moon gave nothing to the land below. Not even a barren sliver of a smile for the desiccated husk sitting in the cold, spine bent to its limit. Wind came from the south, sent to play through Odos and revive what it could find with its fresh breath. The husk was taken by the wind, pushed off the overhang along with the fallen leaves it was sitting on. It tumbled down the valley without surcease until the bole of a tree finally stopped it.

And there it lay, embraced by roots.

Unwitnessed.  

-Saha

[iamsaha]

Just A Mechanic

Do you know what a subarachnoid hemorrhage is? I do. I’d say I’m an expert on it. But when I first heard the word, I thought of spiders. My son was afraid of spiders. 

The subarachnoid space is the area between the brain and the skull. There’s fluid in that space, called cerebrospinal fluid, that acts as a cushion for your brain so it doesn’t go knocking up against your skull and get damaged. And since life is about balance, anything else getting into that space can be trouble. For example, blood.

I’ve always known what a hemorrhage is. That’s a medical word that’s made its way to normal people like me. But in case you don’t know, a hemorrhage is when a lot of blood explodes from a ruptured blood vessel. Either internally or externally.

So a subarachnoid hemorrhage is when a lot of blood finds its way in the space between the brain and the skull. The space where there’s only supposed to be cerebrospinal fluid, suddenly has a lot of blood. The blood then puts pressure on the brain and damages the parts getting pushed. And the other parts that the blood isn’t going to are now oxygen-deprived since blood carries oxygen to places. This oxygen-deprivation results in a stroke.

Subarachnoid hemorrhages have a few causes, one of them being an aneurysm. That’s when an artery bulges out, like a balloon, or just gets weak. Either way that tears or explodes a hole in the artery and the blood finds a new place to go. Like the subarachnoid space, as we’ve been talking about. 

Symptoms of this include:

A sudden, severe headache Nausea and vomiting A stiff neck Light sensitivity Blurred or double vision Seizures Loss of consciousness

As you can probably guess from all that, a subarachnoid hemorrhage can be lethal. 1 in 3 to give you a statistic.

Those that get a subarachnoid hemorrhage are often on the older end and they’ve likely smacked their head up against something. Not all though. There’s always an exception.

Again, I’m not a medical professional. Not even close. So you probably shouldn’t take my word for it. But as a former father I can say that I know damn well what a subarachnoid hemorrhage is.

-Saha

[iamsaha]

Hiraeth (The Book)

Hello, friends. I’ve written a book and it is now available as a paperback on Amazon. Here’s the link.

[iamsaha]

Dead Lungs

My chains failed me once. And I floated Adrift Free to go on If I so willed it

I floated unbound Unfeeling and so uncaring. Wondering what kept me close Twist cliff and sea Heart empty

Was it the hollow soul That drew me to salvation Resetting me to a purpose The only purpose To live

A revenant knows only one order For that It needs no beating heart No begging for succor No burden of choice

And so I am handed fresh strength Simply chanced upon. For this revenant Had not flung himself too far

-Saha

[iamsaha]

Shackles

Grief doesn’t die. Even with time. It fades to the background and leaves nothing but vestiges of itself. Sparse, flickering echoes in the forefront of the mind that go unnoticed but not forgotten.

It uses those beacons of sorrow as guides to surge back to the forefront at a moment’s notice. Either due to an external trigger or because the grief was growing burdened in its solitude and it needed to be held. Whatever the cause, grief comes back and it demands itself be felt.

Grief’s tar wraps the heart with the urgency of a flood and drowns it while breath is still drawn. It wrests control and becomes the tyrant of a body in mourning. Again.

All healing is forgotten. Buried memoires thrust hands out from their graves, as wrapped in flesh as the moment they were born but with none of their purity. The barbed remembrance that grief brings is always veiled in anguish. By its very nature grief cannot recall what is lost without tainting it as it is the cruel realization that what was, can no longer be. And what could have been, will never be.

Then, the tyrant dims. Its beacons are relit. And the soul finds itself with its health returned with a warning. Not to humble it or make it quiver with fear. But so that it knows that even the oldest grief can come back. Will come back.

And the soul must continue anyway.

-Saha

[iamsaha]

Him

I learned from the fists of men That true women had nothing Between their legs

I learned that when women bleed It was from life bearing wombs Not from slits on their thighs

I learned that the anger they gave me Was so I would not spread my sickness And force questions on others

I learned through swollen eyes And bruised ribs That I am a man like them

I learned.

-Saha

[iamsaha]

Touchstarved

The flip or dip (or both) the heart does when thinking about the person it has been given to is a feeling I can still feel. An echo of it that I can call upon when I need to write love scenes or just want to reminisce. I can feel its accompanying breathlessness, mild mental dysfunction, widening pupils, joyous smile, goosebumps, and urge to close the distance no matter how far. Again, it’s just an echo. Like sunlight through a window.

I’ve felt those feelings at their full force a few times in my life. Perhaps that’s why their traces remain in me, waiting to be resurrected. At the time of my writing this, it has been around two years since my heart pumped as a boyfriend. And I tell you with full honesty that I miss being one. I’ve felt this way for awhile now.

It’s more than just the physical urges my age gives. I miss being someone’s home. I miss being the first thought when good news is received or help is needed. I miss being, as short and unimposing as I am, a guardian. I miss being annoying. I miss nonsense inside jokes. I miss knowing from a single look or change in word choice that I was in trouble or I would be getting an incredibly long hug and kiss.

I miss each language that I built with every person that has called me theirs.

I think my next person is out there. I hope they’re my forever. I haven’t learned from all my mistakes so ideally they’re patient with me. And, if we’re talking ideally, they hurry up and meet me so I can open the window. 

I miss the sun.

-Saha

[iamsaha]

I’m Not Crazy

The walls are thin in the capsule apartments.

I sat in mine, crossed legged on the straw bedroll. My ankles throbbed from feeling the floor just underneath. The ache started from my buttocks and inched its way up as the hours passed. It claimed my lower back first. Then middle, the muscles contracting tight around my spine. Finally my shoulders. They dragged exhaustingly at my stubborn, rigid posture.

I listened and looked at the bottom left corner of the right wall.

My legs were asleep. They had announced it first. Sending pins and needles from my soles all the way to my hips. Little by little, the tingling left and numbness took its place. For awhile. Then the muscles in my calves and thighs writhed under the pallor of my skin as they began to cramp. It burned and stabbed.

I listened and looked at the bottom left corner of the right wall.

The air conditioning was turned off. The heat outside was quick to lay claim to the indoors. It pressed on me like an unwelcome and curious hand. My skin flushed a pale pink and sweat began beading. Little by little, with no pattern, it would drip from my nose and my eyebrows.

I listened and looked at the bottom left corner of the right wall.

The lights were turned off with the water. The faucet was quick to stop dripping its thick droplets into the sink. My eyes were still blind to the room and all it contained. I was in a void. I could hear my neighbors shuffle on their bedrolls. None of them snore. All of them are restless. At first. One by one, as my eyes began seeing in the dark, they stop moving. 

I listened and looked at the bottom left corner of the right wall.

There's a hole in that spot. I know that since I had once seen a red light flashing through it when I first moved in. Its steady pattern had lulled me into sleep. I had forgotten about it after. Lived my life for two months. Forgotten the little red light. And its pattern.

Until I began hearing the taps and scratches. Never when I tried to listen for them. Only when absolute quiet caught me by surprise. So I waited tonight. I waited for when it would be quiet enough to hear, and dark enough to see. 

The red light flashed. It coincided with the taps and scratches.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The walls are thin in the capsule apartments.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Tap. Tap. Tap.

S.O.S. S.O.S. S.O.S.

I laid down, stretched my stiff legs, and went to sleep.

-Saha

[iamsaha]

Search

I cancelled my Journey subscription since it hadn't delivered on the promise to bring me happiness. In the year I had them, they had given me exclusive deals to meditation retreats, taken me skydiving, submarine riding, spelunking, and so on. You name it and I've probably done it. Journey has given me many stories and lines to impress people (women). I said as much when I was filling out the 'Cancel Subscription' form. At the end of it they said they would be sending me one more package, free of any charge, as a thank you for being a loyal customer. It had made me chuckle. A year was enough to be called loyal?

It arrived a few days later and I opened it expecting an all expense paid trip to Thailand or something like that. But instead it was a phone. I turned it on while frowning, impatiently waiting for it to do so. When it finally did, I was greeted with the lock screen. It got me to smile, albeit with confusion, when I recognized the picture as the one I had taken of the Grand Canyon. I shrugged and unlocked it and saw that the home screen was my view from the top of Pike's Peak. While using Journey, I had been requested take pictures of the places I went to and the people I met and post them to my Journey account. Voluntarily, of course. So this phone was meant to be a time capsule since I didn't have my account any more? Pretty nice of them.

Curious to relive some memories, I opened the photos app. Journey had kindly organized the photos by date and location, starting with my first time riding a horse. I selected the album and laughed, hard, when I saw that the first picture was me being bucked from the horse. The trainer, Ashley, had even put me on the nicest horse they had and I had managed to irritate it enough to throw me. Luckily for me I had only gotten a little bruised.

I spent two hours looking through all the pictures and watching all the videos I had taken. At the end of it, I held the phone in a loose grip and smiled at the home screen. I had been riled up into a feeling of restlessness so I opted to fidget with the phone some more. See what else it had.

I was immediately disappointed when I saw that it only had the default apps you get when you first buy a phone. Settings, maps, etc. I sighed and idly clicked on the phone app. It opened to the contacts section and my eyebrows raised when I saw that it was already filled with names and numbers. I scanned the list quickly and realized all the contacts were people I had met during my trips and outings. Even the ones I hadn't thought to add on Instagram.

I put the phone down with it still unlocked and showing me the contact list. It'd be weird, right? To just call these people? Presumably they had agreed to let their information be shared. Either that or Journey was about to face some lawsuits. My eyes wandered around the room as I thought about what to do and eventually landed on the box the phone had come in. On the side, in shiny silver letters, was written:

Life's about the...

Ah. I picked up the phone and called the first number.

-Saha

[iamsaha]

A Promise To Love

From the day he was born, Kit has known only the sterile lights of the hospital. The sickly glow they cast on even the healthiest of people. He has known the rigidity of plastic tubes going in and out of a body too small to fight their apathy. He has known blankets sewn by a machine and not by love. 

He has also known the touch of warmth. Whenever the doctors felt it was safe for him, they would carefully take my son out of his box and put him into my shirtless embrace. I'd hold him closely and gently, my love for him fighting my need to squeeze him tight and never let go. I'd brush my lips against his bald head and smell him. I'd rock back and forth in the chair, humming the lullaby Autumn had written for him.

He knows the rhythm of my heart, its roar from under my chest as muted and powerful as distant thunder on grassy plains. If we were left alone, if a father was allowed solitude with his son, I could feel Kit’s heart. As weak as it was, I needed silence to feel him beat. To know, with certainty, that what I held was living since my son never whimpered. Otherwise I would have to rely on his occasional shivers and that was not enough for me. I had learned from Autumn, on the day of Kit’s birth, that movement did not mean life.

They'd take my son away after a few minutes. Put him back in his prison. Make him remember apathy. I'd cry and they'd frown in sympathy. But they'd still do it. They had to.

I don't envy them.

The NICU did not have private rooms, just curtains. They would be drawn shut when a doctor or nurse needed to talk privately with one of the other parents. They would talk in low voices and I could see their silhouettes. Hands would reach out and touch shoulders. Heads would nod. Occasionally a hug would happen if the parent was open to one. Then the professional would leave the partition and sometimes come to me. Curtains would be drawn. Hands would touch my shoulder. Heads would nod. Their care toned down to sterile levels for the sake of professionalism annoyed me the first week. Until I caught on to their act of self-preservation. Then I began accepting their hugs.

I was in the hospital whenever I wasn’t at work and my home only functioned as a shower. My meals were all from the hospital cafeteria and they were all swallowed in a hurry so I could get back to Kit. I couldn’t tell you what I was eating even as I was eating it. I just wanted to get back to my boy and the heartless box he was in. My boy and the medical team who cared but couldn’t afford to care as much as I did.

Eventually, they let me take Kit home. They gave me instructions that they put in a folder in my bag. A nurse gave me a card saying goodbye and wishing both of us good health. They suggested I put Kit in a stroller but I refused. I'd carry my boy out of the hospital. With both arms, even though I only needed one. He was still very small.

When we stepped outside, the sun came out from behind the clouds and taught my son what life meant. Kit mewled and shifted in my arms. He also opened his mouth. I understood after a second that he had smiled. I had never seen that before.

I stood there, on the cool and wet concrete, for a few minutes. Letting Kit forget fluorescence. Letting Kit learn what life other than his dad felt and smelled like. Letting Kit see what I looked like with the sun on my face. 

But we did have to go home. So I began walking to my car. Slowly so Kit could have his fun. And as we walked, a breeze came from behind us and swirled around us. She lifted my hair and made me stop as she continued to play with me and our smiling son. Then, as quickly as she had come, she left.

I put Kit in his car seat, wiped my tears, and drove us home.

-Saha

[iamsaha]

Love

The son took a blade Meant for the father Now two are dead Only one met the slaughter

-Saha