Inspired by
Assam, 1914
I watched my mother grinding the fresh herbs she had picked up in the morning. As she pressed and rotated the pestle to make a paste out of them, two strands of hair came undone from her bun and settled on her face. She was a picture of hard work and sincerity, I sighed in appreciation. My mother was born Martha Wagner, in a wealthy town on the outskirts of Berlin, Germany. When she was training to become a nurse, she met my father who is the son of an Assam tea plantation owner. He made her his bride and brought her home to Assam. Although her love had brought her to a strange new land she did not let her passion for plants and healing fade.
“Der Schatz, today I found a rare Assamese herb, the locals call it Mukuta-manjari and I’m confident this will help me treat Digharam’s headache. The poor man hasn’t been able to get on his feet for so long” mother said gently, her love for the plantation’s workers and passion for healing glittering in her eyes. She always made sure her little apothecary smelt of happiness with her special mixture of jasmine, mint and lime scents.
“I will cook your father’s favorite dish today! Bienenstich, infused with Assam tea!” “Mother, the chef bai always pulls faces when you are in the kitchen but still you talk to her so nicely! Why do you want to go there again?”
“My child, the chef, is merely looking out for herself. Her tribe has some strong superstitions about bad luck befalling them if they come near new and foreign objects or people. She even thought my arrival as a bride would result in everyone’s eventual death.”
“What is a superstition?”
“It means a delusional belief. Sadly, when there’s no education there are many of them.”
I was playing with Manu, the chef’s son. I did not like his mother but he was good company. Manu was ‘autistic’ - people said something was wrong with him. I never found anything wrong, instead I used to love it when he sang songs to calm himself down when he had one of his odd episodes. We used to play royal games discreetly in the factory shed. I would bring paper crowns for us to wear and he would choose sturdy sticks he found in the garden to substitute for scepters.
Later when my mother came to tell us a story after our playtime, Manu started crying inconsolably. After lots of tears and snot he confided in us that his father was unwell and since his mother considered Martha to be bad luck, she refused to seek treatment from her.
Without wasting a second, mother told Manu, “take me to your quarters.” The child was torn between helping his father and doing something his mother would hate. Sweat beaded out on his forehead and he mumbled unintelligibly. Getting no response, mother shook his shoulder. The boy whimpered and agreed to take her. We three rushed to the servant’s quarters, “I will save your father’s life, little Manu. Even if it’s the last thing I do.” #
Manu’s father was lying on the floor on rags. His body was burning and his feet had a rash with small red dots. Mother quickly recognized the signs of typhoid fever. She started working on him. I comforted Manu and tried to distract him from the gory scene of suffering. Mother worked on him for hours while the two of us fell asleep. We were awakened only when the chef bai returned and started shouting at my mother. She pushed her away and started crying over her husband. I rushed to my mother’s side and held her skirt with fear, she whispered “let’s go home.” “Is Manu’s father alright now, mother?” I asked her. “No child, he’s not with us anymore. We arrived too late. I couldn’t do anything.” She whispered. As we went out of the quarters towards our house, Chef bai’s screams of Witch followed us till our front door. The screams haunted my dreams for many years to come.
I had troubled-sleep that night. It was almost midnight when I heard the crackling of fire just outside my window. My mother was waiting near the front door, “listen der Schatz, the chef’s tribe is waiting near our front door and they have asked me to come out otherwise they are threatening to burn the house down. Stay here. I will be back soon.” Saying this she tightened her shawl around her body and stepped out, closing the door behind her.
We waited in silent apprehension. I trusted my mother’s gentle ways and convincing skills; everything was going to be alright.
Suddenly, a shrill scream took my breath away. I rushed to the porch but my caretaker took hold of me and I could go no further. I saw a big ball of fire which I realized with dripping shock a while later, was my mother. In between my fight for freedom and screams I saw my mother burning away, her scared and sad eyes searching for an escape, her hands trying to prevent the flames from spreading and her feet running away from the monsters with torches that surrounded her. I felt Manu’s tiny hands grip my shoulder, he was singing again.
“Now I see fire
Inside the mountain
And I see fire
Burning the trees
And I see fire
Hollowing souls
And I see fire
Blood in the breeze
And I hope that you remember me”
London, 1950
My daughter flicked through the family album, showing her new husband the family’s history. The faces held ghostly memories of the past- some smiling, some somber. Her husband enquired about the hand painted picture of a fair lady who was wearing nurse’s gear. She smiled and told him that it was her grandmother, Martha Wagner, a healer who was killed by villagers who thought she was a witch. “But such things aren’t real!” her husband exclaimed.
“No son, they are not real but monsters are real. The creatures who killed my mother were monsters driven by ignorance. She was the only human amongst them.” I sadly replied. My mother’s portrait flashed a ghostly smile; my daughter flipped the pages of the album humming something familiar – “…. And I see fire burn on and on the mountain side”.
Author’s Note: This Sing-nificant Story has been something that I thought of while listening to Ed Sheeran’s song “I See Fire”. My mother used to tell me about how she had seen a person being burnt alive because she was thought to be a witch and that narration has always stuck with me. I have tried to express the things I felt, listening to my mother's narration and Sheeran’s song through this short story.
Written by Shreya Borthakur
Tezpur University
Assam
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