Tuesday, 27 June 2017

One Day At The Village Well

Arifa saw the cow as she was coming round the corner of Rahman Chacha’s shop. It was a large black cow, with short thick horns and an udder that dangled almost to the ground. It was rooting in the garbage pile that lay opposite the vegetable market, turning over polythene packets and broken wicker baskets with its snout.

Arifa was on the way to the well on the far side of the village. There was a tubewell near her house, but it had finally run dry yesterday.  Though Arifa had cranked the handle for almost half an hour this morning, she’d got no more than half a mug of water, and that had been brown with dissolved mud.

This was not a surprise, because there had been no rain in months and the tubewell had been yielding less and less water, but even yesterday she’d been able to coax enough out of it to manage. Not that it had made a difference to her mother.

“Go and get water,” Arifa’s mother had ordered. “Come back quickly, so I can cook breakfast.”

“I don’t want to go to the well,” Arifa had said mutinously. “Why can’t Ahmed go for once?”

“Your brother has to offer namaz and go to work,” her had mother replied sharply. “Stop wasting my time and get the water now.”

So Arifa had taken the two large plastic buckets, put on her sandals, and set off towards the well. It was still fairly early in the morning, and still fairly cool. Besides, the village hadn’t properly woken up yet, so she could look around and enjoy the fresh air. But of course she couldn’t say that to her mum. Her mum didn’t believe in allowing her to enjoy herself.

The cow paused in its rooting, looking up at Arifa. Though it was a very large cow, it was very thin, its black skin stretched tight over ribs like barrel staves. Its eyes glistening like black stones, it raised its snout and bellowed plaintively.

“Hungry, are you?” Arifa asked. She looked around. Opposite to Rahman Chacha’s shop there was a stone wall, with vines of some kind growing over it. She pulled off as much as she could, put it into the buckets, and walked towards the cow. “Here, eat this.”

The cow looked at her warily, and at the buckets. It seemed suspicious, and its short thick horns looked sharp, so Arifa emptied the buckets by the roadside and stepped back. “Eat,” she said to the cow. “Go ahead.”

“You,” someone shouted. “What are you doing?”

Arifa turned quickly. A fat man in a sleeveless vest and pyjama bottoms was pointing at her. “What are you doing to that cow?”

“Doing to the cow?” Arifa repeated, astonished. “Nothing. I was just feeding her.”

“Feeding her?” The answer seemed to enrage the fat man even further. “Why are you feeding the cow? When did you people ever feed cows?”

Other people came out of the houses all around. “What’s going on?”

“She says she’s feeding the cow!” the fat man said. His face had turned red. “Have you ever heard of a Muslim feeding a cow?”

“I’m not doing anything,” Arifa protested.

“Feeding? Poisoning the cow, more likely.” The people jostled closer to Arifa, making a wall of faces. Their voices rose to form another wall, of sound. She could only make a phrase out, here and there. “Maybe she means to fatten the cow up so she can eat it afterwards...” “...they hate cows because we Hindus take cows as our mother.” “Let’s teach her a lesson.” And, inevitably, “...Pakistani!”

The first hand had just reached out to snatch at Arifa’s dupatta when another voice came from the back of the crowd. “What’s going on here?”

The crowd parted. It was the old temple priest, Pandit Shivram. He looked at Arifa and round at the people. “What are you doing to this girl?”

“She’s poisoning the cow, Panditji,” a few voices said. “No,” others contradicted, “she’s fattening it up to eat.” “No,” a third set said, “she’s trying to lure it away for the butchers and cattle smugglers.”

Pandit Shivram frowned terribly. “She’s just a girl,” he said. “You all ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Besides, I know her family. They’re harmless.”

“I saw her feeding the cow, Panditji,” the first fat man said weakly.

“And? Would you have said something if it was a Hindu girl feeding it? And don’t you have better things to do anyway?”

Slowly, reluctantly, the crowd dispersed. The priest turned to Arifa, who was shaking.

“Are you all right, beti?” he asked.

“Yes, Panditji.” Arifa felt the tears start trickling from her eyes and wiped hard at them with her dupatta. “I was just feeding the cow.”

“Yes, I know.” Pandit Shivram turned. “Where is this cow?”

Frightened by the crowd and noise, the animal had disappeared. There was only the small pile of vines by the side of the street.


The well was very old, much older than the village. It was made of brick and stone, with steps cut round and round the inside, just broad enough for one person. The drought had affected it, too; the water had shrunk to a tiny circle at the bottom.

There was a small crowd of women at the top of the well, waiting for their turn. A couple of them were talking at the top of their voices. Arifa recognised them; the tailor’s wife, Shabnam Chachi, and Sheetal Mausi, the jeweller’s wife. They saw her and grinned.

“Arifa beti,” Sheetal Mausi said, “how nice to see you here. We don’t see you mixing with us common people much, do we?”

“Her family is so clean,” Shabnam Chachi said, her obese face framed by the black dusty hood of her burqa. “They wash everything five times over. Their tubewell doesn’t have enough water to suit them.”

Arifa looked down at the ground at her feet. She’d be damned if she’d grow up to be like that, fat and loud and dressed in a burqa. She just hoped she’d be able to get home before the incident with the cow became public knowledge. If either of these women got to know, she’d never hear the end of it.

Fortunately, they seemed to have got bored with her and went back to their discussion. “And I said to my man,” Sheetal Mausi bellowed, “that if you can’t even satisfy me in bed, what do you do with it? Or are you not a man at all?”

Shabnam Chachi tsk-tsked in mock sympathy. “I can’t imagine why he can’t, with a lovely woman like you. Maybe he has someone on the side?”

Arifa wished she could disappear. Fortunately, one by one the women went down the well and dispersed. At last it was her turn.

When she climbed back up the steps with the heavy buckets, her arms were aching. She paused a moment to catch her breath, and was at once jostled by another girl.

“Get out of the way,” the girl said. Arifa recalled her vaguely, Zeenat or something. She was tall and thin, her brown burqa like a sack draped over her limbs. She glared at Arifa. “Some of us have things to do even if you don’t.”

“I’m not in your way,” Arifa said. “You can just take one step to the side and get by me.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Zeenat, or whatever her name was, snapped. “Just because you think you’re better than everyone else, you think you can order us around.”

“When did I say I’m better than anyone else?” Arifa said. “I’m just taking a breath after pulling these buckets up all this way. Everyone does it.”

“You don't have to say it.” Zeenat bared her teeth like a vicious dog. “Look at you, dressed in a salwar and dupatta, not a burqa like a decent Muslim girl. Are you trying to be a Hindu or something? I’ll bet you hang around with Hindu boys as well.”

Arifa stared at her. “Are you totally insane?”

“Are you calling me mad?” the tall girl yelled. Arifa tensed, expecting Zeenat to slap her, but there were other women, shouting at them to get out of the way, everyone was waiting for water.

“I’ll see you later,” Zeenat said, and spat in one of Arifa’s water buckets. “Don’t think you’ll get away with this,” she shouted as she pushed past and started down the steps.

Arifa looked at the glob of saliva floating in the water. Then she carefully tilted the bucket just enough for it to slop out on the ground. The saliva and water spattered on her dusty toes.


The vegetable market had opened as Arifa passed by it on the way home. The black cow was back, and was trying to steal a cabbage from one of the stalls. The stall owner rushed out from behind his counter and started beating the animal viciously with a stick. The cow bellowed and galloped ponderously down the street.

Arifa averted her face and went quietly on her way.

It was going to be another unbearably hot day.

Copyright B Purkayastha 2017

Monday, 26 June 2017


My mother called me to the front room, where she was sewing something. “I heard they’re going to give out food,” she said.

I peered at her through the near darkness. Though it was late morning, almost no light leaked past the iron sheets we’d used to barricade the windows. I wondered how she could see to sew. “Where?”

“The KC Market,” she said.

“The KC Market? That’s on the other side of the city. How do we even get there?”

We don’t.” Her fingers went up and down, up and down, sewing, though I could feel her eyes on me. “I can’t walk that far. You know that.”

I didn’t have to look at the bulk of the white bandage wrapping her shin. My question had been idiotic. “By the time I get there they’ll have given it all out,” I objected.

“No,” she said. “I heard it’s only tomorrow that they’ll start the distribution. If you leave right now you’ll get there in plenty of time. Besides, it’s safer travelling at night.”

I stared at her. There was something wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. “How do you know this, anyway?” I asked. “Who told you about this?”

“Your Auntie Tub dropped in while you were out.” Tub was her friend from upstairs. “I don’t know where she heard it.”

“And who’s giving out this food? Who has food to give out?”

“Does it matter who it is as long as there’s food?”

This talk of food was making my stomach twist with hunger. “Does Auntie Tub plan to go as well?”

I felt rather than saw her look away. “No, she says she’ll keep me company while you go.”

My instincts were all screaming now. “Why don’t you tell me what this is really about?” I asked. "What's wrong?"

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong, except that we don’t have any food. But you know that well enough.”

“We still have some parched rice and flour. Besides, it’s not as though anyone else has any food either. Those who are left, I mean.”

“That’s why I’m telling you to go, so that you can get more before we run out.” My Mother put down her sewing and rubbed her face, the familiar gesture suddenly strange and awkward. “I wish you’d learnt how to sew,” she said inconsequentially. “It’s not really all that hard, but you were never interested.”

“You can teach me if you want. After all there’s not that much to do otherwise, anyway.”

She sighed. “All right, we’ll see when you get back. You’d better get ready to start off.”

I stared at her, puzzled. Unfortunately, the room was too dark to make out her expression. “Will you be all right?” I asked.

“Yes, didn’t I tell you that Tub will be here with me? Now get ready, and make sure to dress warm.”

I stood there for a minute longer, but she didn’t say anything more, so I went to my room.

I was pulling on my jacket when I heard the thump of her walking stick on the floor and she appeared. “Don’t forget your cap and balaclava,” she said.


“Do it. You know why as well as I do.”

“Mum,” I repeated. “Are you sending me away? Is that it?”

She didn’t answer for a while. Then she slowly walked over to me and touched my cheek. “Your face is growing so thin,” she said. “I can see the bones. You’re starving slowly, and do you think I want to see you like this?”

“You’re starving too. And we haven’t starved yet, have we? We’ve managed so far.”

“So far, yes, but for how much longer? If only I hadn’t hurt my leg, like a stupid idiot, we could have left. But now I’m stuck here.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” I glanced down at the bandage. The window of my room was tiny, didn’t look out on the street, and so we hadn’t had to barricade it, so the light was a little better, and I could see that the bandage was stained with blood. “You’re bleeding again,” I said.

“It’s nothing. It’s stopped already.”

“I’ll change the bandage,” I said, kneeling.

“No, Tub can help me do it. Go quickly now.”

I tried one last time. “Mum. You know these people, whoever they are – even if they’re giving out food, they may not want to do it for free. They may want something in trade. And we have nothing.”

“Yes, I thought of that. That’s another reason you should go now, so you can keep a lookout for anything you find on the way, something you can trade.”

I laughed. It sounded bitter and dry as old dust in my own ears. “You know the city has been picked clean. What could I possibly find to trade?”

“You’ll find something,” she said. “Don’t worry about it for now. And don’t forget this.”

I stared at the object she was holding out. “Mum?”

“Take it, I said. You know as well as I do it’s not safe out there.”

I took it. The gun was long and crude, little more than a pipe with a piece of curved metal for a trigger fixed to a wooden stock, with a rope for a sling. It felt astonishingly heavy. “Where did you get this?”

“I had it, from before. It was left with me by...someone. Before all this started.” Her eyes were black pools of pain. “He never came back for it, obviously.”

I didn’t want to look at her, so I examined the gun. With a little experimentation I managed to open the breech. The inside was perfectly clean and smelt vaguely of oil. “Do we have bullets? It’s no good without bullets.”

“Here.” I took the packet she held out and emptied it on the bed. The blunt-tipped dull brass objects spilled over the frayed sheet. “So many of them!”

“Yes, there are seventeen. I’m told that bullets are precious these days. Maybe you could trade a few. I don’t think you ought to, though. You may well need them.”

I counted. There were seventeen, as she’d said. “Mum,” I said thickly. “You think I won’t come back, don’t you?”

“Of course you will.” But she wouldn’t look at me. “Don’t forget your cap, and take some water and a bit of food for your journey.”

“I’ll come back,” I said. “I’ll come back to you.”

“Of course you will. Didn’t I just say so?” She was getting increasingly impatient and disturbed. Whatever it was that was worrying her, I was a part of it. “Go now, quickly.”

With one last look at her, which she wouldn’t meet, I went.


The war had passed this locality by, which is why we were still here, but nothing had escaped the gangs that came afterwards, or their looting and violence. The few vehicles still left were gutted wrecks which had long since been stripped for everything that could be used or bartered. Every window was blocked up with metal sheets or sandbags, but I knew most of the houses behind them were empty. Anyone who could leave had left already. If mum had been able to walk, we’d have gone.

And now I was going.

I shook my head, telling myself that I would be back, but kept remembering how she wouldn’t meet my eyes. The weight of the gun slung over my back, was a reminder, too, that she thought I wouldn’t be coming back. A gun shouldn’t be necessary on a trip through the town. Or should it?

We’d heard rumours, back when there were enough people left for rumours to go round, that strange and terrible things were happening in the world outside. The tales varied so much that we never knew what to believe, and mum called them all nonsense anyway. Things were strange and terrible enough already without having to invent things to worry about, she said.

Obviously she’d changed her mind about that.

At the far end of our street, I stopped long enough for a quick look back. A small, squat figure was standing outside, watching – Aunt Tub from upstairs, making sure I was going. She was still staring after me as I turned the corner, perhaps for the last time.

The sky was heavily overcast, the day freezing cold. I came into sight of my old school, which was now a ruin. Back when I used to spend every day squeezed into one of the back benches of its dingy classrooms, I often daydreamed of burning it down. Now it was a roofless, charred wreck, and I averted my eyes as I passed.

Just beyond the school was the river and the bridge. When I was a very young child, before all this started, it had glittered with golden light in the summer sunshine and been swollen and brown after the rains. Now it was a thread of stagnant grey water, from which the rusting wreck of an overturned lorry still protruded. The bridge itself was crumbling and littered with debris.

I’d just reached the near end of the bridge when I heard the noise of engines, coming closer.

These days, there is nothing good associated with engines. When the war was washing back and forth over the city, engines meant soldiers and fighting, and you hid when you heard them. After the war had moved elsewhere, engines meant gangs on the lookout for loot and women, and you also hid when you heard them. I had heard none for several weeks.

Scrambling under the bridge, I crouched down among the weeds.

The engine noises came closer, rumbling overhead, the bridge vibrating. Then they stopped abruptly. I heard voices.

“I tell you I saw something,” someone said.

“Well, there’s nobody here now, so you must have been mistaken. Let’s get on – we’re wasting time.”

“Maybe under the bridge?”

My heart seemed to stop. Looking frantically round, I saw a tiny niche behind one of the pillars. It seemed hardly big enough for a doll, but it was dark. I crushed myself into it.

I heard footsteps, and an elongated shadow fell across the weeds and cracked concrete. I tried to press myself further back, but there was something in there already. Fear was metallic in my mouth and throat.

The shadow wavered and receded. “Nobody there,” the first voice said.

“Told you. Let’s get on, before they all know we’re coming and...”

The engines started again and I didn’t hear the rest.

It was only when the engines had faded in the distance that I found the strength to crawl out of the niche. Something, dislodged by my movements, fell out too, and rolled to my feet.

Without any particular surprise, I saw that it was a human skull.

I thought about the words I’d heard, as I climbed back on the bridge – “before they know we’re coming and...”

And what? Hide? Run away?

I had to run away, before they saw me.

So, crouching like a hunchback, I ran.

On the other side of the bridge, the city was different. The buildings lunged towards the sky, the streets like canyons between cliffs. Anyone could be up there looking down, and I wasn’t certain if this area was still controlled by gangs.

Over the last years, we’d all learnt to avoid gangs.

The rain finally began falling, heavy drops that looked as grey as the sky and the concrete around. A flash of lightning, jagged and searing white, snaked across the sky. Hopefully, it would keep anyone watching indoors. Stooping to keep the worst of the downpour off my face, I trudged on.


Long before nightfall, it was so dark that I was seeing my way by the lightning, and I was so cold and wet that I could no longer feel my feet. And though I needed to keep moving, just in case there really was going to be a food distribution, I couldn’t go much further without collapsing. I needed rest.

A particularly lurid lightning flash showed me an open doorway, a broken steel shutter curled beside it like crumpled paper. The thunder that followed was so loud that I felt as though I’d gone deaf. Automatically, like a hunted animal seeking shelter, I entered the building.

It was so dark that I had to feel my way, and I couldn’t go too far for fear of falling over something and injuring myself. I found a spot in the corner of a bare room, from where I could just see the entrance, and sat down, the wall to my back, and set about trying to rub the warmth back into my arms and legs.

The next thing I knew was that the thunder and lightning had stopped, along with the sound of rain. I was very stiff, so much so that I could barely move. There was the indescribable sensation of it being the middle of the night. I must have been asleep for hours.

I was about to get up and move on when I heard voices from the next room.

“She’s just a girl,” someone said. “She won’t fetch much.”

“Even a girl can work,” the reply came. It was a woman. “And, in any case, we can’t afford not to sell her. After they come back from across the river the price will go down.”

I froze, certain they were talking about me. But there was a scratching noise and I saw the dim yellow glow of an oil lamp reflected from the far wall. Whoever it was didn’t know I was there. I waited, listening.

“When will they be back? Not before tomorrow, right? So what’s the hurry?”

“You think we’ll get this kind of offer again?” There was a contemptuous tone in the woman’s voice. “Everyone knows that they’ve gone, so there will be slaves on the market. So...”

Realisation burst on me like one of the lightning flashes from earlier. Those engines I’d heard earlier hadn’t been soldiers, or a gang.

It had been a slave raid.

We’d heard that slaves were currency, now; they were bought and sold like cattle, though worth rather less because they weren’t food. We’d heard it, but we’d never thought it would affect us. The only ones left in the city were those too decrepit to leave, and they’d never make slaves.

But those of their families who stayed back to look after them would.

I had to get away before I was found.

Moving as silently as I could, I began to edge towards the beckoning black square of the entrance. It seemed infinitely far away, and I’d have to pass the band of light thrown by the oil lamp. For all I knew whoever was in the next room was looking in my direction and would see me at once.

And two slaves would sell for more than one, even if both were girls.

Slowly, trying not to breathe, I eased the gun off my shoulders and fumbled a bullet out of the pouch at my belt. The breech of the weapon, which I’d opened so easily earlier, was absurdly stiff, and seemed far too small for the thick brass shell. But somehow or other my frozen fingers managed to cram it into place.

I must have made some noise while loading the gun, because as I looked up from it the oil lamp suddenly shone in my face.

“Here!” The man was a bulky silhouette behind the lamp. “What are you doing here?”

Suddenly the gun was no longer heavy. It was at my shoulder, and the end of the barrel pointing right at the silhouetted head over the light of the lamp. I could feel my lips peel back from my teeth like a snarling dog.

“Back,” I said. “Slowly, to the other room.”

“Don’t shoot,” he said. I could hear real fear in his voice, and it sent a thrill through me. This man was afraid of me! “Don’t shoot. I’ll do as you say.”

“Libog?” the woman called from the other room. “What’s wrong? Is there...” She broke off abruptly as I followed the man round the door, and she saw the gun in my hands.

“Look, girl,” the man began. “I don’t know who you are, but I don’t mean you any harm.”

“Shut up and sit down,” I said. I never could have managed this tone of authority without the gun in my hands. Far in the back of my mind a part of me was watching as though someone else altogether was doing all these things, some young woman whom I’d never seen before. The man sat.

The room was quite large, so the lamp only lit the middle, and threw misshapen shadows on the walls. There was a worn table and a few chairs, and a bed over against the wall. I could only see two people, the man and woman I’d heard talking.

“What do you want from us?” the woman asked, beginning to rise. I, or rather this girl whom I was watching from inside her head, swung the gun towards her.

“Sit down, Langgam,” the man said. The woman was shaking, whether with fear or anger I couldn’t tell. “Sit down,” he said again.

“That’s right,” I said. “Sit down.”

They were both quite old. The man, Libog, must have been large once, but he was now emaciated and stooped, with a straggling white beard. The woman was small, thin, and very dark.

“If you’re planning to rob us,” Langgam said, finally sitting, “we don’t have anything, so it’s a waste of your time.”

“I’m not planning to rob you,” I said. “All I want you to do is stay right here and not move a muscle while I leave. If you try to stop me, or follow me, I’ll shoot.”

Langgam’s eyes glittered like a reptile’s. “You have no right to order us around.”

“I have every right to protect myself.” I began backing towards the door. “Remember, don’t try to follow me.”

“Wait,” a soft voice said, from the shadows at the back of the room. “Don’t go. Take me with you.”

Both Libog and Langgam turned together towards the corner. “Quiet!” the woman hissed. “Stay where you are.”

“Who’s there?” I demanded. “Come here.”

There was a brief rustling, and a small figure came into the lamp’s flickering light. It was a girl, about fourteen or fifteen years old. Her hair hung round her face and her arms were like sticks poking out of her faded sleeveless sweater.

“She’s ours,” Langgam snapped. “You can’t take her.”

I ignored her. “Who are you?” I asked the girl.

“I’m called Miri.” The girl was trembling as hard as Langgam, but with cold. The skin of her fingers was blue. “I don’t want to stay here with them. Take me with you.”

I stared at her and felt something close in my head, like a door. Everything shouted at me go, leave, get out now. But I remembered what they’d planned to do to her, and what they’d been talking about doing while she was right there in the room with them. I swallowed hard, feeling something like a stone roll down my throat.

“All right,” I said. “Come.”

Langgam came halfway out of her chair, and only Libog’s hand on her arm restrained her. “You can’t do this!”

“Look, young lady.” Libog’s voice was weary. “We can’t stop you, but this girl is literally all we have. If we lose her, we’ll starve.”

“So you’ll trade her for food, is that it?” I snorted. “And when that food is gone, what will you do?” I jerked my head at the girl. “Come quickly.”

I thought Langgam was about to make a grab for the girl, but she sagged back in her chair, looking old and defeated. “What will you do with her, make her your slave now? Is that it?”

“None of your concern,” I told them. “Remember, don’t follow me or I’ll shoot.”


We made it out of the house before I started shaking. The reaction was so sudden and overwhelming that for a minute I could not walk. Doubled over, I bit down on my own fingers to stop my teeth from chattering. I felt as though I was about to collapse in a jerking, twitching mass on the street.

It was the girl, Miri, who got me going. I felt her hand on my arm, pulling. “Miss,” she said, “come on, miss, please. They’ll start chasing us in a minute.”

I let her lead me, along streets I had never been down before. Little by little, I stopped shaking, and finally regained control of myself enough to stop and turn to the girl. “Where are we going?”

She looked up at me. “As far as we can from them, so they can’t find us. They’re horrible, both of them.”

“They’re scared of my gun,” I said. We began to walk on again. The streets were narrower here, filled with debris, and the buildings half-ruined. It must have seen heavy fighting during the war. “Who are you, anyway? A relative of theirs?”

The girl shook her head. “I was lost, trying to find my parents. We were separated, during the fighting. I got sick, and didn’t have anything to eat. They found me and took care of me, at first.” She made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Then when I could walk again they told me that I had to work to pay for the food and medicine they’d spent on me. And that’s what I’ve been doing ever since...working.”

The mention of food reminded me that I hadn’t eaten all day, and suddenly I was very hungry. All I had was a small bag of parched rice, which suddenly seemed far too little for me, let alone for both of us. But Miri’s eyes glittered hungrily as I opened the pouch, and before I’d chewed my first mouthful, all I’d given her was gone.

“Is there any more?”she asked hopefully.

“We’ve got to keep it for later,” I said. “Try and chew slowly, to make it last.”

Once again I wondered why I’d brought her along, what had possessed me to do such an insane thing. But when I put away the remnants of the rice and reached for the bottle of water I’d filled from the rain barrel before leaving home, I found the girl’s thin shoulders shaking.

“Miri,” I asked. “Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

She hugged me, her face crushed against my chest. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I know I shouldn’t have asked you to bring me along. But I was scared.”

“You did the right thing,” I said, patting her inadequately. Her skin was freezing. I wish I had some clothes to give her, or that I’d taken some from  Libog and Langgam. I didn’t dare to go back, or to look in any of the buildings around. “They’d have caught me, too, if I hadn’t had the gun. Let’s keep going.”

The clouds overhead had finally parted, and a half-moon sent down a little light, which was lucky. The streets were so clogged with debris and wrecked vehicles we couldn’t have passed through otherwise. “Do you have any idea where we are?” I asked.

She giggled suddenly. “No. But isn’t it nice to be free?”

“Yes, well...” I glanced at her. “I was rather hoping to find food to take back home to my mum.”

“Your mother? Where were you planning to go for food?”

“There’s supposed to be a distribution at KC Market.” Saying it now, I realised how silly it sounded. Who had food to distribute? And how long would it last? “You know where that is?”

“No. They talked about this KC Market place, Libog and Langgam, I mean. I think it was quite far away.”

“Let’s go and find it. We might get something.” We’d better find something if I were to feed myself and Miri, not to speak of taking something back home as well for my mother.

“Do you remember what it was like before the war?” Miri asked as we walked on.

“Yes. Why, don’t you?” She must be old enough to remember a little at least. The war hadn’t been going on that long.

“Not much. There were four of us – my parents, and my brother. My mum was a teacher, my father worked at an office someplace, and I didn’t like my brother much.” She threw that last bit in almost defiantly.

“Go on,” I said.

She pushed her straggly hair back from her face. “The night the fighting started, where we lived, I mean, my father was telling us a story. It was a silly story about a fairy who had lost her way in the human world and was too stupid to find her way back. My brother wouldn’t settle down to listen. Suddenly there was a huge loud noise, the walls shook, and the lights went out. My mother came running in from the front room, snatched up both of us and crawled under the bed.”

“And?” I asked absently. The mention of lights brought memories of electricity, of lamps turning on at the flick of a switch. It felt like another universe. “What happened then?”

“I don’t remember too clearly, but it became hot and I couldn’t breathe. I heard my father shouting that the house had caught fire and we had to get out. There was a big crowd outside, and people running everywhere, and my mother dragged my brother and me by the hand through it. But somewhere along they lost me. Maybe my mother just let me go.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“She never came back to look for me,” she said. “I kept running, screaming for her, but she never came back. Maybe she thought they had a better chance with one baby, not two.”

“She might have come back for you,” I said gently, “and missed you because you’d run away looking for her.”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now anyway. At least I survived. If you call it surviving.”

I knew the rest, could picture it, the sick, starving girl stumbling through the gutted city. “I’ll take care of you,” I said, feeling stupid even as I said it. How could I take care of her? I couldn’t even take care of myself. But she merely nodded.

“You already did, saving me from them. I’ll...” She stopped abruptly. “What’s that?”

I looked up, and, for a moment, it was all I could do to fight down a scream.

I’d heard that it had happened a few times towards the end of the war – civilians who’d risen up against the soldiers, of which army it didn’t matter, and had taken summary revenge. I’d never believed it. How could even a determined and furious band of civilians take on trained soldiers armed with machine guns, and hope to win?

Once upon a time, before the war, this must have been a traffic signal post in the middle of a busy intersection. The lights were long gone, the signal a truncated metal tree growing out of a concrete stump set in the shattered ground. The soldier they’d crucified on it still had his uniform and helmet on, but he’d been dead so long that the cloth had fallen to rags and he was just bones and sinew, mummified flesh and teeth.

“Do you think he was still alive when they did that?” Miri asked. There was a strange note in her voice, almost like satisfaction. I wondered for a moment what else had happened during her wanderings, about which she wasn’t telling me.

“I don’t know and don’t care.” There was a banner of some kind hung from the skeleton, the letters faded almost to illegibility. I thought I could make out FUCK FREEDOM. “Let’s go.”

The next hours seemed to merge into each other. By the time the sky began lightening, I was so tired I was moving only because it was less exhausting to keep going than to stop. My eyes were blurry from tiredness, and though Miri was still stumbling on by my side, she’d already fallen a couple of times, and I didn’t think I’d have the strength to help her up if she fell again.

We’d managed to find our way out of the ruined section of town which we’d spent the night wandering, and had reached a main road I vaguely recognised. In the distance, rising like a broken tooth from a diseased gum, was the shattered cylindrical shape of the stadium. KC Market, or what was left of it, should be not far on the other side of that.

“Come on,” I urged her. “It’s not much further.”

She nodded. In the early morning light, she looked even thinner and weaker than before, and I thought she might be younger than I’d imagined, twelve or thirteen at most. Her clothes hung on her like rags from a scarecrow’s frame, bulging out at the waist where she’d tied an old rope in lieu of a belt.

“What will we do if there’s no food?” she asked.

“We still have a little bit of rice,” I said. “After that, I don’t know.”

The morning grew brighter. It was bitterly cold, but Miri didn’t seem to feel it so much anymore. Her grip on my arm was tighter than before, too. It was as though she’d found some inner source of strength and energy.

We were close enough to the stadium to see the shell holes in the cylindrical wall when she fumbled at the rope she used as a belt. “Wait, take this.”

I looked down at the thing she was holding out. “What’s in that packet?”

“Open it and see.”

I took a look. The packet was half full of small tablets, green and pink and blue. “Drugs?”

“Yes. It’s enough to buy food with. Maybe.”

“Where did you get drugs?”

“Where do you think? How do you suppose I endured those two people without drugs? They had lots, all kinds, once, but they mostly traded them away long ago. I’d hidden this one packet for myself.” She sighed. “I kept it under my clothes all the time. That was the only safe place, because I knew he wouldn’t touch me. She watched him like a hawk to make sure he didn’t.”

I opened my mouth but the words wouldn’t come.

“Not for my good, you understand,” she said. “It was only because she didn’t want him straying. Of course, if they’d sold me...I’d have taken them all together if you hadn’t brought me with you.”

“And that would have...” I suddenly realised why she’d seemed to have got stronger. “You took some this morning, didn’t you?”

“Just a couple of the green tablets. You can take one too. You need it.”

“No. But why are you giving me this?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Because you were good to me. Because we need food.”

I put the packet into my pocket. “Even if we can’t trade these for food, I’m not giving them back to you. You do realise that?”

She smiled. There was a cluster of cold sores at the corner of her lip. “Do as you want. They’re yours now.”

I nodded, and gave her the rest of the rice. “You can eat this instead.”

Quickly, as though I’d snatch the grain back from her hands, she did.


There was no food distribution at KC Market, exactly as I’d imagined.

Someone had been here recently, though. The rows of stalls were covered overhead with fresh plastic sheeting to keep off the weather, and the trash littering the ground hadn’t all rotted away. It looked as though it were only waiting for shopkeepers to set up their wares, and customers to arrive. We walked along the rows of stalls, searching for any food that someone might have left. Unsurprisingly, we found nothing.

I think we were both so engrossed in looking through the stalls that we must have missed the sound of engines. And so it was that we walked round a corner and almost into their arms.

There was a moment of total frozen shock as we stood staring at them and they back at us. There were three of them, clustered around a small lorry. All of them had guns at their belts or slung over their shoulders. One, in a black cap, was in the act of lowering the tailgate. He turned round, staring.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Just look at them,” the second one said. He was tall and had a wispy beard. “They’ll do.”

“Yes.” The young man in the black cap dropped the tailgate the rest of the way. “This might not be a total loss after all, then.”

The gun on my back was as far away as the moon, and against their weapons would have been no good anyway. I began to back slowly away. “Look, we don’t mean you any harm. Just let us go.”

“Let you go? I don’t think so.” The man in the black cap was younger than I’d thought at first, and bigger. “Things have been a total loss lately.”

“That’s right,” the tall bearded man nodded. He had a scar across his face. “There’s literally nothing but bedridden old men and senile women left. We thought we wouldn’t have a single thing to trade with.”

“We shouldn’t trade the older one though,” the black cap told him, pointing at me. “She’s old and pretty enough to have better uses.”

“As long as you don’t keep her to yourself.”

I let them talk. I’d been backing away all the while, and was almost at the turning. If we could get past it, and take off running through the stalls, they couldn’t follow in the lorry. They could chase us, but they were big and heavy, and we might be able to get away.

Of course, they could shoot at us, but if they did, they’d be risking spoiling their own merchandise, wouldn’t they?

Only another couple of steps, and I could run. But I couldn’t, because Miri hadn’t backed away with me. She was still standing right there, silent and staring.

“Miri,” I tried to whisper, as though it would do any good. “Come on, Miri.” But my whisper was stuck in my throat.

The man in the black cap reached out and took her arm. It was too late, I should run, but I couldn’t. My feet were suddenly too heavy to move.

“Wait.” It was the third man, who’d not spoken so far. He was only slightly older than me. The small flat black pistol in his hand was pointed in my general direction. “Take the older one, but let this one go.”

“What?” The black cap turned. “Why?”

“I mean it. We’ll take the older one, but we’ll let this one go.”

“No,” Miri said. “Both of us. We both go.”

There was a long silence, and then the youngest man nodded. “I see. All right then.”

“What’s going on?” the black cap said. He dropped Miri’s arm. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ll tell you later.” The youngest man gestured with his weapon at me. “Get out, both of you.”

We went.


We were back in the maze of the ruined city before I felt able to speak again. “Miri...”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it, all right?” She kicked at a piece of rubble. “It was bad enough when my parents abandoned me and took him with them. And now he’s...you saw what he is.”

“He let us go, Miri.”

“Yes. After I didn’t leave him a choice.”

“Did you want to go with him? Just for a moment?”

 “Why do you even need to ask that?” She turned to me. “Did I ask them to let you go and I’d stay with him? Did I?”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” The sky was clouding over. It would rain again soon. “We still don’t have any food.”

“We have the drugs,” she said. “They can do magic, drugs can, if you let them. Or we can sell them for food, if we can find anyone willing and able to buy.”

“There are plenty of unhappy people,” I said. “Plenty of desperate people. Plenty of people willing to sell all their food for a moment of happiness.”

“Yes, all we have to do is to find them.”

We passed the crucified soldier, and neither of us bothered to look up at him.

The rain began to fall.

Copyright B Purkayastha 2017

Tuesday, 20 June 2017

The Uses Of A Convenient Refugee Crisis

Refugees are big business these days, in more ways than one, as will readily become apparent. In fact, if you’re a self-respecting part of the corporate-political nexus, a Refugee Crisis is not convenient, it’s essential.

But refugees don’t appear out of thin air just like that. People have an inconsiderate habit of preferring to live in their own homes, in their own countries, among their own friends and relatives, and have to be forced out into a migration if you’re going to have the refugee crisis you need.

So how do you go about creating it?

There are some simple steps.

Stage 1: Create a socioeconomic breakdown or arrange a war.

A war is preferable to a mere socioeconomic breakdown, because the threat of being blown to pieces is a greater motivational force than reduced income and the possibility of being mugged in the streets. Also, wars involve the creation and consumption of weaponry, and the creators of those weapons obviously stand to make a handsome profit on them. Also, nations tend to have the distressing habit of throwing out governments responsible for socioeconomic crises and replacing them with more nationalistic rulers with far greater suspicions about foreign capital.

So, if at all possible, arrange a war. It should not be all that difficult. You have, at your disposal, funds enough to buy “activists” and arm and train mercenaries. You also have full control of the media, while pretending that it is free and independent. This will come in handy later, when you need to direct public opinion.

Begin by planting stories in said media that the “regime” you target is a brutal, vicious tyranny. These stories should call out for war in the name of saving people, because, you understand, you need to set the stage for a refugee crisis. You can’t do that if you demonise the entire population and demand they be exterminated.

Once those stories have taken hold, push them through reliable liberal puppets, especially celebrities with a large following. The average liberal has no such thing as a mind; all it wants is to feel good about itself, and to that end it will slavishly and mindlessly ape whatever its peer group says and does. If you can get that peer group to openly endorse and demand war, your job is half done.

Stage Two: Intensify the War.

Now your average war using modern weaponry is a fairly expensive thing, and one of its drawbacks is that it tends to send your own troops – poverty draftees though they may be – home in coffins or missing limbs. This is not good for public relations, and tends to cool off that selfsame liberal hankering for infliction of bloodshed you are trying your best to foster. Therefore, if the country you’re targeting is capable of shooting back at you, you’re far better off unleashing hordes of proxies – “rebels”, jihadis, Nazis, whatever fits the situation – on it. These vermin are expendable as far as you’re concerned, and, besides, they have one tremendous advantage. Unlike your troops, who may possibly be unenthusiastic about taking part in what is clearly a war of choice, these terrorists are often highly committed, and with the arms and training, money and diplomatic support you provide, can inflict massive and sustained damage.

Also, the liberals I talked about will embrace them as freedom fighters, while, if you send your troops off to some country they can’t find on a map on the other side of the planet, they may start having questions about your motives once the coffins start coming home.

Now look at all the other advantages of using, say, jihadi proxies. These are psychopaths you can readily recruit, manipulate, and send off to kill and die, which will, in the short term, reduce some of the dangers they might pose at home. A disaffected petty criminal or thug who in the normal course of events would be occupying a jail cell and eating food at taxpayers’ expense can instead be turned into a weapon and sent off to do your bidding, which he will in the belief that he’s actually obeying divine orders, and be far more effective at it.

Unless the target nation is truly incompetent, in which case your puppet “activists” should be enough to bring the government down in a stage managed “colour revolution”, it will react to the attacks by your proxies by cracking down, hard. This is the point at which you must double down on the media war. You must accuse the enemy of all kinds of atrocities, and arrange for your puppet jihadis to create appropriate atrocities to blame on them. The liberals will now not only support your arming and training these precious “freedom fighters”, they will go further and demand military intervention to “save the children”.


With more weapons and funds than ever before, your jihadis can then take the war into the civilian territory of cities. Unlike the classic guerrilla wars of the twentieth century, today’s guerrilla wars are fought largely in cities, and will continue to be so fought. Attacked from within the mazes of streets and warrens of residential buildings of the average modern city, the target government will have no option but to strike back, causing huge civilian casualties. This will kill two birds with one CIA-supplied bullet.


First, it will give you further propaganda ammunition for your media to use, and the demands for war “to save the children” coming from your brainwashed liberals will grow so shrill that – unless someone else, like say Russia, stops you – you will feel entitled and empowered to start said war. By this time the target nation will be fairly weakened, and you may be able to wage it without too many casualties, especially if you confine your activities to air strikes and (except for “advisers” and disguised special forces) allow your terrorists to do the fighting on the ground. Even if you do take casualties, you can pass them off as deaths and injuries suffered in the war against tyranny and despotism.

Secondly, it will create a tidal wave of refugees, who will swamp services in the territory the government still controls and spill over into neighbouring nations. These refugees, of course, are a resource, and we will now discuss how.

Stage Three: Using the Refugees.

In the course of this article, I have assumed, probably legitimately, that any country that intends to use this tactic will be a late-stage capitalist economy. Such an economy has some characteristic features.

First, the market is saturated. There are only so many cars, washing machines, television sets and other goodies each individual can own. The population is typically nearly static, and even if it is not actually falling, there is never quite enough demand to consume all that is manufactured.

As a consequence, competition becomes cut-throat. Richer, larger companies can afford to undercut smaller firms, which go out of business. But the end result is that the market is sliced up between a few competing enterprises, which are almost equally powerful. Unless they begin cooperating openly to fix prices, which in turn is likely to run afoul of monopoly laws, the result is smaller and smaller profit margins.

What do you do about this?

You take the step that leads to the third feature of a late-stage capitalist society. You try and maximise profit by any means possible. You fire your local workers and outsource all your production, if possible, to South East Asian sweatshops using de facto slave labour. But that also leaves you with a public relations problem (and in a late-stage capitalist economy, appearance and public relations are far more important than substance). So your other option is to replace your own workers with others.

Can you see one use of the refugees now?

First, they are desperate for work, and will do anything for a fraction of the pay you would be expected to give native workers.

Secondly, you can pose as a humanitarian benefactor, who is giving these poor people the chance nobody else is.

Third, not all the refugees are going to be semi-skilled car mechanics or masons. In fact, it is far more likely that the majority of them will be the educated middle class – doctors, teachers, media professionals. These can easily, with only a modicum of retraining or none at all, be integrated into your own hospitals and universities. They are people unused to hardship, who have left behind a lifetime of comfort, and will be desperate to work at something they know how to do, even at a fraction of their former salaries. And what do your own doctors, media professionals, and teachers do then?

Faced with competition from people who are willing to work at a tenth of what they themselves earn, what can they do but accept pay cuts themselves? What alternative do they have?

And, fourth, if your war keeps festering, these refugee camps serve as excellent recruitment pools of more angry, despairing young men to arm and train and send off to do your bidding for you.


So many birds killed with one more CIA-supplied bullet!

But, wait, I’m not through yet.

Stage Four: The Refugees’ Revenge.

It’s more than obvious to anyone who spends more than ten seconds thinking about it (that is, anyone who isn’t a liberal), that not all the refugees flooding your shores will be harmless civilians. A lot of them will, inevitably, be petty criminals, thugs, malcontents and sociopaths, who would be petty criminals, thugs, malcontents and sociopaths anywhere. They won’t stop being such only because you let them into your country. Soon enough, they will resume their criminal activities. At first these will be among their fellow refugees, but this can’t go far, because the other refugees will have nothing left to steal or extort. So, inevitably, these criminals will turn on their host societies...that is, on you.

And if your war goes sour, then what happens to those terrorists you armed and trained? Not all of them will be willing to give their lives in glorious last stands. A lot, if not a majority, will look for somewhere to run. One obvious place to run will be along with the refugee flood, where they have an extremely high chance of getting to safety by using the genuine refugees as camouflage. In a tide of fleeing humanity, where everyone is running for their lives, who will ever know who they are?

But, of course, just because they’ve been defeated and sent fleeing doesn’t mean they will necessarily accept their defeats and settle down. Far more likely, they will turn their anger on the same society around them (that is, on you, again).  The reasons are not difficult to understand.

Remember how you recruited them and indoctrinated them with religious fervour to give their lives for jihad? Well, to do that, you’d have had to convince them to hate every sign of female emancipation, personal freedom, and tolerance – the same features that are also hallmarks of your own society. You failed to get them to cram the women of the target country into niqabs and shut down nightclubs...and so, when they look around and see your nude beaches and your nightclubs, what do you think they’ll do?

Secondly, don’t think they’re just automatons. They’re human beings. They have the same resentments and urges to vengeance as the rest of us. You promised them a quick victory, and sent them off to get slaughtered. Now they’re back, having seen their friends get slaughtered, while you did nothing that could actually help them win. Do you think they’ll forgive and forget?

Thirdly, when you arranged for your proxy war, you couldn’t possibly have operated in a vacuum. You will have had to work in conjunction with someone; some outfit that provided an ideological framework and leadership for these people. This outfit might have many names – let us call it, here, al Jihada. You think al Jihada is your tool, to use when you want and discard when necessary.

What, precisely, makes you imagine al Jihada does not think of you in exactly the same way?

The high command of al Jihada is also as intelligent as you, and as amoral as you, and thinks of the average jihadi foot soldier in exactly the same way as you: a disposable pawn. However, its own image of the future is radically different from yours.

All you want is slave labour for your farms and your factories, and a captive market in the conquered and destroyed target country for your corporations to exploit. For al Jihada, that is a stepping stone, only. What does it want in the long term?

For an answer...just look around you.

Stage Five: The Backlash.

These, then, are the effects of the refugees on the host country:

First, rising unemployment among the natives as they are replaced with refugees. If they are not laid off they can expect a substantial fall in income.

Secondly, rising crime levels owing to the crooks among the refugees. Since these criminals are not known to the police and their modus operandi are unknown, they will at least at first enjoy a fair amount of success. And this success in turn will bring them into both conflict and cooperation with local gangs, which will in any case further increase the crime rate.

Thirdly, terrorist attacks from vengeful returned jihadis and from al Jihada sleeper cells among the refugees.

Quite naturally this will all lead to increased tensions among the locals, and will be exploited by right wing elements, who will cite demographic and cultural threats from the refugees, blaming them all for it. The refugees, and non-refugees of the same broad ethnicity, will come under increasing attack from right wing gangs and political parties, both verbally and physically.

Don’t panic! Never let a good crisis go to waste. This is only a further opportunity. All you have to do is use this to...

Stage Six: The Police State.

Citing the increased terrorist attacks (from both sides; you want to keep the liberals happy), you say the needs of security demands increased public and private surveillance. You put up CCTV cameras on every street corner, making sure they are able to fail mysteriously when you need to do something you don’t want on public record. You tap phone conversations, monitor emails, and in fact do everything to ensure no real threat rises against your rule and system, ever again.

Meanwhile, your war has ended in disaster, has it? Never mind. Public memory, aided by your slavish media, is so short as to be nonexistent.

Stage Seven: Pick a fresh target country. The new refugees will serve to undercut the old.


Rinse, lather, repeat.

You’re welcome.

Monday, 19 June 2017

The Family Across The Hall

There was a new family across the hall. That would be bad enough in any case. But this time it was the worst.

Gudi waited as long as she could that evening before breaking the news to her husband. “And they’re Wamai,” she finished.

Her husband, Tayra, had been sitting as usual, semi-somnolent before the television after dinner, but at her words his eyes snapped open and he came bolt upright in the chair. “What? What did you say?”

“They’re Wamai,” Gudi repeated. “The family across the hall.”

“How the hell?” Tayra yelled. “How can the Council let bugs move in here? This is a human town!”

“I don’t know, and please don’t shout at me. It’s not my fault.”

Tayra didn’t seem to hear. “Stinking damned bugs! How can this be allowed? I’m not going to stand for it!”

“They aren’t stinking,” Gudi ventured to protest. “I saw them moving in. There wasn’t really any smell at all.”

Tayra turned bloodshot eyes towards her. “Don’t be ridiculous, woman. Bugs are always stinking. I know.”

Gudi shrugged. “Well, what can we do about it anyway?”

“It was bad enough that we weren’t allotted that flat,” Tayra shouted, “but to have it handed over to bugs – that’s too damned much. I’ll have them thrown out. See if I don’t.”

“How? If they got the flat they have permission. And if they’ve got permission, there’s not much we can do.”

“We’ll see about that,” Tayra shouted. “First thing in the morning I’m going down to the Council office.”

And early in the morning he did go. Gudi stood at the window and watched him march down the street. His back was stiff with anger, and he hadn’t even had breakfast. Except for a murderous glare at the closed door across the hall, he hadn’t mentioned the new family at all.

Gudi sighed. This was a complication she hadn’t wanted. With the baby coming and all, peace and quiet, not to speak of a larger flat, would have been nice. But they hadn’t got the larger flat, and it seemed that peace and quiet wouldn’t be forthcoming, either.

Automatically, she reached out and ran her fingers down the window, as though to remind herself that the wall of glass was there. The morning sun was shining on the domes of the factory district, glittering with solar panels. Tayra’s shift started in an hour.

He was so angry, Gudi thought. So angry, and it would probably be so futile. But he wouldn’t stop, even when the Council turned him away. It wasn’t like him to ever give up.

All she’d wanted, Gudi thought, was to have some peace and quiet to have her baby. And that was just what she would be denied.

Her fingers rubbed, mechanically, up and down, up and down, the glass.


It was just the next day that Gudi met the Wamaina for the first time. They both happened to emerge from their respective flats at the exact same instant. If Gudi had looked at the security camera first she would’ve waited, but it was too late. She hesitated, poised on the verge of ducking back inside.

The Wamaina showed no such reaction. SheThey inclined HerTheir heavy black headshield over joined minor forelimbs in polite greeting. Gudi managed to stretch her features into a smile.

“Er, good morning,” she said. It was the first time she’d ever been so close to an alien of any kind, let alone a Wamaina. The huge creature seemed to fill all the available space. HerTheir spiny tail waved back and forth.  “I believe you’re our new neighbours.”

“That is correct,” the Wamaina said, in impeccable English. HerTheir voice was surprisingly musical, the enunciation perfect. Gudi had anticipated something like an insect’s buzzing. “IWe am very pleased to meet you.”

“Er,” Gudi replied, inadequately, “yes.” She introduced herself. “My husband’s called Tayra.”

“IWe am KaRaha.” The Wamaina’s heavy head shield was still politely down, and Gudi realised that the alien was probably being submissive. HerTheir enormous physical size – Gudi’s head barely reached the creature’s spiky shoulders – made this strictly a matter of interpretation. “Your husband is known to us. He’s been to the Council office to have us evicted.”

Gudi blushed instinctively. “I’m so sorry. He’s, well, he thinks, he thinks this is a human-only space, and...”

KaRaha waved a minor forelimb. “It does not matter, really. We have permission to be here. It is only that it would be more, ah, comfortable if he were better disposed towards us.”

“Well, you know.” Gudi shuffled her feet. “I really can’t...I can’t change how he behaves.”

“It does not matter,” KaRaha repeated, firmly. “IWe merely meant it would make it easier to serve you. You are, after all, our lords.”

Gudi winced. “I’ve got to go,” she mumbled. “Where do you work?”

She knew with a sinking feeling what the answer would be even before it came.


The damned things are in the factory,” Tayra shouted. His voice bounced off the walls and assaulted Gudi from all directions. His eyes were bloodshot and bulging with fury. “They’re on the factory floors!”

“Calm down,” Gudi begged, with no expectation of success. She wasn’t disappointed.

“Calm down?” Tayra screamed. He slammed his hand down hard enough on the dining table to make the vase jump. “Is this why I served in the war, and fought the bugs, so that I’d have to work in the same place as them?”

“Surely it isn’t that bad,” Gudi said. “I mean, they aren’t taking over your job, are they?” She decided not to point out the fact that Tayra had been a mechanic on a maintenance crew, and hadn’t come close to any actual combat.

“No, they’re down on the factory floor, servicing the robots and doing repair work. But so what? They’re here, and we didn’t fight them so they could come over to Earth. We fought them to take their planet, not give them ours.”

“It isn’t exactly giving them our planet if they’re doing bottom level work,” Gudi said mildly. Tayra glared at her for a moment, and then suddenly remembered something.

“Muna is supposed to give a speech tonight,” he said, turning on the television set. Gudi always kept it off when she was alone at home. She hated television. “Let’s see what he says about this.”

Muna was a politician whom Tayra admired intensely. He had been a senior officer in the war, and had resigned his commission in protest at the peace treaty which had ended the conflict short of the genocide of the Wamai. Tayra had voted for him in every election since then.

“He’ll be sure to suggest laws to put the bugs in their place,” Tayra said, as Muna appeared on the screen. His high cheekbones and deep-sunken eyes had always reminded Gudi of an animal barricading itself among a pile of rocks.

He’d already started his speech. “...and about the recent decision to import Wamai to serve in our mines and factories – ”

“This will be good,” Tayra said.

It wasn’t good. Gudi, watching her husband’s purpling face, soon realised that it wasn’t good. It was so far from good that she quietly took the remote control and switched off the television before the speech ended. Tayra sat staring at the blank screen for a moment before he exploded.

“The bastard.” He began quite softly, just above a whisper. “The bastard, he’s sold out.”

“Now, Tayra – ”

“What the hell do you mean, now, Tayra? Did you hear what he said? “We have to recognise that the war is over, and we need to work together for mutual benefit. Mutual benefit!” Tayra’s huge fists opened and closed. “Is it mutual benefit that we didn’t get the flat across the hall, though you need it with the baby coming? That’s mutual benefit, isn’t it, when the bugs are crawling over our factory floor?”

Gudi tuned out for a while. She realised with a start that Tayra had put on his shoes and was pulling on his jacket. “Where are you going?”

“I told you, didn’t I? I have to talk to someone about this.”

“Someone, who?”

“Someone who can help.” He didn’t say help in what way. “Don’t wait up, I’ll probably be late.”

The door slammed behind him. Gudi didn’t stand at the window to watch him go.


The morning came and Tayra was still not back. Gudi tried to call him and discovered that he’d left his phone at home. Feeling restless and worried, she put on her coat and decided to go looking for him. She’d probably not find him, but it was better than sitting at home waiting.

There was a Wamain coming up the stairs. HeThey moved aside quickly at the sight of the woman, and bent his little head shield almost to the floor. “Good morning, ma’am.”

Gudi smiled wanly. “And you are...?”

The Wamain’s nictitating plates flicked over HisTheir black eyes. “Ma’am? IWe do not understand.”

“HeThey doesn’t have a name,” KaRaha’s voice came from behind Gudi. “Wamains don’t, you know. They’re only an adjunct of Wamainas, really.”

Gudi glanced from HerThem to the Wamain. HeThey was diminutive compared to KaRaha, only slightly bigger than Gudi herself. “How many of you are there?” she asked.

It was KaRaha who answered. “Only four of us, in our flat. IWe and three Wamain.”

Half-remembered tales came to Gudi’s mind. “That’s not a large Wamai family unit, is it? I heard you usually have about ten or eleven.”

“That’s right, but...” KaRaha gestured, and the Wamain, pressing HimThemself deferentially to the wall, squeezed past Gudi and into the flat. “That’s right,” the Wamaina resumed. “But that’s only true for the top orders. And IWe are bottom level worker caste.”

“You are?” Gudi blinked. “I didn’t know that.”

“Why do you think IWe were sent here to your world to work for you? The top orders do not do such things, ever.” The Wamaina’s voice sounded faintly mocking to Gudi. “But are you going somewhere? Am IWe keeping you?”

“I was going out to look for Tayra. He...went out and, well, he should have been back earlier.”

“IWe hope you will find him soon,” the Wamaina said politely. HerTheir major forelimbs touched Gudi’s shoulders gently. “Come and visit whenever you want,” SheThey said.

“Yes, er...” A movement in the corner of Gudi’s eye caught her attention. It was down the stairs. Peering down past the railings, she saw Tayra coming up, the top of his head and his familiar jacket. “There he is,” she said, in relief. “I’d better get back inside quickly. If he saw me with you...” She caught herself quickly, but there was no need.

KaRaha had disappeared.

Tayra looked exhausted but triumphant. “We’ve made a start,” he said. “We’re organising.”

“Organising what?”

“Never you mind. You look after yourself and the baby, and let me worry about this.”

Gudi watched him move heavily about the flat. “Did you eat at all?”

“Yes, don’t worry about that.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll be late coming back this evening. There’s a meeting after work.”

“You’ll come back, though, right? You’re not going to leave me alone, again?”

“Of course I’ll come back. Now sit down, you’ll upset the baby. I’ve got to get to work.”

But it wasn’t Tayra who came that night, it was a black-clad squad of the Security Police. Gudi had just come out of the bath when they opened the door with their master key and entered, without attempting to knock. They could do that, of course. The Security Police didn’t need warrants for anything. She just had time to wrap a towel, however inadequately, round her expanded girth.

 “Where is he?” the squad chief demanded. From the voice it was a woman, though, of course, Gudi couldn’t see anyone’s face through the mirror visors of their helmets. “Where is your husband?”

“He must be at work,” Gudi said.

“Don’t play games with us, woman. You know as well as I do that he did not go to work today. If he had, we’d have picked him up there.”

Gudi stared at her, open-mouthed. “He didn’t go to work? But...”

The squad leader made a disgusted noise. “Search the place,” she told the others. “Strip it bare. And you, don’t you move.”

Gudi was trembling by the time they finished, and only a little was from the water crawling down her body. They didn’t find anything, of course. She’d no idea what they’d been looking for.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“You know quite well. Your husband is plotting to start a civil war.”

“Civil war?” Gudi yelped. “What on earth are you talking about? He...” she stopped abruptly.

“He, what?”

“Nothing. I don’t know anything about it.”

“No, you probably don’t,” the squad leader answered. “I don’t think your husband would be stupid enough to tell you. You’ll find out, though. You wouldn’t be human if you don’t, now.”

“And suppose I do?” Gudi felt reckless, the blood rushing to her head. “Do you suppose I’d tell you?”

“Oh, you would, if I decided to get it out of you. The only reason I’m not arresting you right away is that.” The squad leader pointed at the bulge of her belly. “Don’t push your luck.”

Gudi shivered, clutching the towel around her. The leader watched her crew leave one by one.

“We’ll be back,” she said over her shoulder. “We’ll be back, much sooner than you think.”

They didn’t even bother to close the door behind them.


Gudi didn’t bother to straighten up the place. There wasn’t any point; they’d probably be back in an hour or two and toss everything around again.

She dressed quickly. She needed to go out. The flat had suddenly become intolerable. The walls seemed to be closing in on her like a fist.

The streets were dark and empty already, and silent except for the familiar grinding and clattering of a police half-track. But the vehicle was several streets away, and she did not see it at all.

She didn’t know exactly where she was going. She’d never gone out with Tayra, and didn’t know who his friends were. But she had to look for him somewhere, however futile the exercise was.

Walking past the deserted local school, she had an idea. Once, she’d seen him with a man he’d introduced as Mit. She’d never really met Mit again, but she’d seen him several times, usually near the market that catered to the factory workers. She’d noted, almost by accident, where he probably lived.

It was one of the oldest buildings in the city, of dark yellow stone and green paint on the door. When she pressed on the bell, nothing happened for a long time, so she rang it again. Then the door slid open enough for an eye to look at her.

“Go away.” It was Mit. She couldn’t see more than the one eye, but his voice was terrified. “Go away, and don’t come back again.”

“Wait, I’m...”

“I know who you are. Please don’t create trouble for me. I’m not involved in this.”

“In this? What is this?” Gudi snapped. “My home was raided by the Security Police, my husband has vanished, and you won’t talk to me. How would I create any trouble when I don’t even know what this is about?”

Mit stared at her and then, reluctantly, opened the door a crack more. “I suppose you’d better come in.”

Gudi squeezed inside. It was a dimly lit room with too much furniture. Mit pointed to a chair and locked the door quickly. “I take it that he didn’t tell you anything?”

“About what? It’s not illegal to demonstrate against the Wamai, is it?”

“Demonstrate?” Mit blinked. “Where did you get the idea that he was going to demonstrate?”

There was a long silence.

“You poor woman,” Mit said at last. “So you really don’t know what this is about.”


Go out the back way,” Mit said. “They might be watching the front.”

Gudi was still feeling dizzy from what she’d just been told. She didn’t have to ask who they might be, though. “They don’t know I’m here,” she objected.

“You might have been followed. It’s not safe.”

“Nothing’s safe,” Gudi said bitterly, as she went through the tiny kitchen. The back door opened on to a tiny walled garden with a narrow lane beyond. Mit ducked back inside and shut the door without a word more.

The last thing she could do now was go home. She looked up and down the lane quickly, almost expecting hulking figures everywhere, but the shadows were dark and still. Was it too silent for this time of night?

“Stop it,” she muttered to herself, hurrying down the lane. “Don’t get paranoid, now.”

The lane opened on to a side street, lined on one side by the canal and on the other by a row of storage warehouses for the factories. Even in the daytime this was a fairly dismal place. At night, it was not a place anyone would want to be.

She was half way along the street when she saw the glow. It was only a flicker at first, among the factory buildings, a flash of yellow. A moment later, it erupted in a white-hot fireball rising over the domes like a blossoming flower. It was so bright that she cried out involuntarily, holding her forearm up over her face.

There were noises, a snap and crackle and a distant roar. When she could open her eyes again, the main factory was wreathed in red and yellow flames. The heat was intense enough to make her flinch.

Little figures were already rushing about in the distance, arcs of water rising up towards the fire from pumps set up beside the canal. She could hear shouts. Something exploded with a hollow bang, and another fireball shot up, even brighter than the first.

Burning debris began raining down. Something large bounced on the pavement beside her and disappeared into the canal with a hiss and puff of steam. It was only after that that she realised her own throat was hoarse with screaming.

Turning, she began to hurry back towards Mit’s house.

She saw them in the lane just in time, four or five in the uniforms and helmets. If it hadn’t been for the flames lighting up the sky behind her she wouldn’t have seen them at all. Mit was with them, looking tiny and scared. He pointed vaguely, in the wrong direction. The Security Police didn’t seem impressed.

Her heart thudding painfully, Gudi pressed herself into a slice of shadow thrown by a tree on the wall. Behind her, the fire was now a tower of light licking at the stars.

Something caught her by the shoulder and pulled. A hand clapped over her mouth, stifling her scream.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Tayra hissed in her ear.


They...they’re looking for you,” Gudi stammered. “Mit said you’re planning an armed rebellion.”

“Did he?” Tayra had dragged her to a warehouse set apart from the section that was burning. He’d pulled her to a room that was little bigger than a closet and thrust her down on a wooden bench. “What would he know about it?”

“What is this place?” Gudi asked. Neither Tayra nor the other two men in the room, neither of whom she had ever seen before, answered. One of them was peering into a large bag, doing something inside. The other one had earphones on and no expression on his face. “Tayra?”

“We’re the ones planning an armed rebellion?” Tayra shouted suddenly. He pointed towards the tiny skylight, through which the fire could be seen, still soaring skyward. “What do you call that?”

“But...” Gudi licked her lips. “Wasn’t it your group that set the fire, then?”

“Us? Why would we want to burn down the factories? We want it for ourselves, without the bugs. Does it make any sense that we’d set it?”

“Who did, then?”

“I have no idea. Whoever did, though, they’ve started something bigger than anyone can control.” Tayra grinned. “Maybe it’s your friends the bugs who began it. They’re certainly stupid enough, to set fire to something they were supposed to be given on a platter.”

“What if it’s...an accident?”

“Listen to that.” Tayra laughed harshly as an explosion sounded from the direction of the fire. “You think that started by itself? An armed rebellion, did you say? It’s going to be a lot bigger than any armed rebellion, now.”

Gudi changed tack. “Where have you been all day, then? Didn’t you care what I’d be going through?”

“You’d have been all right as long as you stayed at home. The police didn’t hurt you, did they?”

“No, but...” Gudi felt pulled in multiple directions. “How could you expect me to stay waiting without news?”

“Don’t you understand? There are more important things going on than you.”

There was an immense flash of light and something heavy crashed down outside. The man rummaging in the bag looked up calmly. “Fire’s spreading, Tayra. We’ve got to get out.”

“Come on, then.” Tayra pulled at Gudi’s arm, dragging her to the door. Outside it was bright as day, and so hot that she thought her hair and eyelashes might shrivel. The other two men were close behind.

“Where do we go now?” the third man, wearing his headphones around his neck, asked. His voice was soft and had the unmistakable accent of the farm country to the south. “Site B’s already been found and...”

The half-track erupted out of the flame and smoke like a shark parting the sea, its tyres smoking on the concrete. Sparks flew from debris as its churning tracks crushed them down. The gun mounts swivelled like fingers searching for something to point at.

For a moment everyone seemed frozen with shock, and then Tayra reacted. He thrust Gudi away so hard she went staggering. “Run,” he shouted, his voice almost lost in the noise of the fire and the half-track’s engine. “Get out of here!”

Gudi managed to stop herself falling and turned. The other two men had already disappeared. She caught a glimpse of Tayra, looking over his shoulder at her. He mouthed something at her and disappeared behind a pall of smoke.

Gudi straightened, her breath harsh in her throat. The half-track was hesitating, as though confused about which way to go. Its gun muzzles swivelled, aimlessly, and then, as though making up their minds, turned towards her as one.

There was no way she could run, with her belly, even if the air hadn’t been fire in her throat. She stood there and waited as they climbed out of the half-track and came to her.

“So you didn’t know where he was?” the Security Police officer said. “Just how much of a fool do you take me for?”


The inside of the half-track was cramped and smelt of oil, but the air conditioning kept the heat of the fire at bay. They’d pushed Gudi down to the floor, where she crouched between their boots. Over the noise of the half-track’s engine she could hear explosions. She had no idea what they were.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked once.

“Shut up.” A boot prodded her, not too kindly. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

Gudi subsided. The terror she’d held at bay all day now came over her in waves, threatening to overpower her. She’d heard tales of what happened to those taken by the Security Police. That she was pregnant might have postponed her arrest once, but it would not save her again.

“If only you hadn’t been wasting time,” she heard someone say bitterly over the noise of the engine, “we could have got them all. Instead, we just have the woman, and you could have got her anyway.”

“Shut up,” the squad leader snapped. “If you hadn’t lost the signal from the tracker, we’d never have had to...”

It was as though a buried giant had woken and smashed up a fist through the earth into the floor. It threw Gudi into the air. For a moment the half track spun around her, filled with screams and flying equipment. And then something slammed into her head and she was knocked out.

When she regained consciousness, she was outside. Someone had her under the armpits and was dragging her along the street. A short distance away, the half-track sagged, tilted over almost on its side, broken metal links scattered around a crater in the ground. The gun ports swivelled, muzzles flashing, firing aimlessly, their noise merging with that of the explosions and the fire.

“Can you walk?” a voice shouted in her ear. “We need to move quickly.”

“Yes,” she managed to gasp. She did not know who the man was. There was another one with him. They pushed her along, down an alley and into a narrow space between buildings which were still untouched by the fire.

“Please,” she managed to gasp. “I can’t go any further...my breath.”

“Well, you’ll have to.” The man’s fingers dug into her arm. “The commander asked us to get you, specifically. Why do you think we’ve been looking for you all night? Why do you suppose we hit that half-track, for fun?”

“The commander?” Gudi blinked in confusion. “But Tayra was with me just before . He told me to run.”

It was now the man’s turn to peer into her face. “Tayra? What are you on about? I’m talking about the commander. Muna.”

All of a sudden some things became clear to Gudi. “Oh, god. He’s the one who planned the rebellion. And he wants me to use as a hostage, against Tayra. Isn’t that so?”

“What does it matter why he wants you?” the man grunted. “Now are you going to walk, or should we carry you?”

 “Carry her,” the other man snapped. “We can’t dawdle like this.”

“No, I’ll walk.” She wouldn’t let them carry her, wouldn’t sacrifice that much of whatever little dignity was left. How many factions were there, and what was she to them except a tool? To the police she was a source of information about Tayra. To Muna she was a hostage to control Tayra. And to Tayra she was...what, exactly?

“Almost safe,” the man who’d wanted to carry her grunted. They’d come out into a small square. The buildings around were dark and silent. “They’ll never find us here.”

“Just a moment.” Gudi pulled at her captors’ sleeves. “Just one moment, let me breathe.”

The world exploded.

When Gudi could hear and see again she was lying on her back next to a wall. She caught a momentary glimpse of it then – the bat-winged shape of a drone overhead, just visible from the reflection of the fire. Smoke and dust from its missiles was still rising into the air in slow motion.

Dazedly, she sat up. There was no sign of the men. They’d probably run away and left her for dead. If it hadn’t been for her last minute plea for a rest the three of them would have been blown apart.

Gudi had stopped thinking. She no longer had much idea what she was doing. She let her legs carry her whichever way they wanted. No way was better than any other.

After some time she realised she was on familiar territory, the street but one behind her own building. Obediently, as though drawn by an invisible signal, she turned towards it.

Limbs strong as steel came out of the shadows behind her and picked her up like a child. She felt herself held close to an armour-plated chest.

“You aren’t looking very well, ma’am,” KaRaha’s familiar voice said. “IWe think you need help. Am IWe mistaken?”

“No,” Gudi whispered, and the word repeated itself like an endless echo. “Nonononono.”


Here,” the Wamaina said. SheThey eased Gudi onto the van’s padded bench, steadying her against the swaying and lurching of the speeding vehicle. “It’s lucky IWe saw you before we left.”

“Where are you going?” Gudi mumbled. The Wamaina filled the interior of the little vehicle almost to overflowing. One of the Wamain was in the front, behind the wheel. The other two were nowhere to be seen.

“Out of the city. It’s not healthy here, as you can see for yourself.” There might have been irony in the Wamaina’s voice. SheThey gestured with a minor forelimb at the fire climbing over the factories. “Now take off your clothes.”

“What?” Gudi asked.

“Take off your clothes,” the alien repeated patiently. “We – IWe and you – don’t want to be traced. You’ll see.”

They found one tracker in the seam of her jacket’s collar, clinging on with tiny mechanical legs. Another, like a little worm, was dug into the heel of her shoe. KaRaha pitched both out of the window. “Let them try and find you now,” SheThey said.

Mechanically, Gudi dressed again. “That’s how they knew where I was,” she muttered. “They must have seeded all my clothes with trackers while searching the flat.”

The Wamaina blanked the van’s windows. “Now we only have to get out of town before someone puts up roadblocks,” SheThey said. “We only need a little luck. Not that it matters, of course, in the long run.”

“How do you mean?” Gudi asked.

“There’s no way we Wamain can get back home. All Wamain here are trapped. Sooner or later, we’ll probably be hunted down. But not for now.”

“I’m sorry,” Gudi whispered.


“For everything. It’s not your fault you’re here, caught in our troubles.” Gudi winced as something very loud exploded not too far away. “It’s not your fault you’re here and can’t go home.” She had a thought. “Where are your other two Wamain? Are they in another vehicle?”

“They will not be joining us.” KaRaha’s nictitating plates slid back and forth over HerTheir eyes. “They have stayed behind to do what they have to.”

“What?” Gudi struggled to sit up, but the Wamaina easily and gently pushed her down again. “They’ll be killed!”

“Of course, but that does not matter. Wamain are not really independent thinking creatures. And in any case it is a sacrifice in a worthy cause. As will MyOurs be, when it comes. After all, I’m only a tiny part of the great Wamai Hive, a very small and expendable one.”

“Worthy cause? What worthy cause?”

There was no mistaking the satisfaction in the alien’s voice. “Our liberation,” SheThey said. “It starts tonight.”

Gudi lay back silently, waiting.

“You humans,” KaRaha went on, “wanted to enslave us, and thought you’d succeeded. And then you thought we would be paid off with petty little jobs in your factories and farms. But just because you thought it would be that way doesn’t necessarily mean anything to us. Do you understand?”

Gudi’s lips moved. “The factory fire...”

“One of MyOur Wamain set it. Very successfully, IWe might add.” KaRaha gestured with a minor forelimb. “We Wamai have been studying you, ever since the surrender. We’ve seen your internal splits and fissures, your tribal resentments and social divisions. All it takes is a hard blow in the right place to break it all apart. And it’s not just this one factory complex, of course. All over your world, mines and farms and factories, power stations and communications centres, everything Wamai have access to, everything is going up in flames right now.”

“Civil war,” Gudi said.

“As you say, civil war. It would have come sooner or later, but now is the time when it will cause the maximum chaos and destruction.” KaRaha’s head shield slid back and forth as another blast shook the van. “How many factions do you suppose are going to be at each other’s throats by this time next week?”

“And I?” Gudi cried out. “Why did you save me? Why did you bring me along?”

“This city will be destroyed, and more likely than not everyone in it.”  The Wamaina touched the woman’s face. “You deserve to have a chance at life elsewhere, you and your baby. After all, we don’t mean genocide. We aren’t monsters.”

There was a long silence, except for the van’s engine and distant explosions, before KaRaha spoke again.

“We’re just the family across the hall,” SheThey said. “And all we want is freedom.

“Is that so very wrong?”

Copyright B Purkayastha 2017