Tuesday, August 30, 2011

An Indescribable Memento


While traveling around India for two months I tried to capture my travels through writing.  In some places I kept a diary.  Other times I would record events in the form of short stories.  While some days with little time to spare I would just create various lists.  The following is the first short story I have taken from rough draft to something somewhat polished.  I usually don't do much with dialogue in my writing, so I've began to fool around with that.  Enjoy.



An Indescribable Memento

Of all the places to stumble upon a memory, why here?  The mind has the ability to store away the darkest of memories in the deepest of places.  Yet in an instant they can be recalled from this chasm, unconsciously brought to the surface.  As much as I try to hide my fears, my thoughts, my wrongdoings and tribulations- they are triggered from all around me.  A long lost smell, a friendly smile; even an otherwise unfamiliar environment brings feelings of déjà vu rushing back.  Chillingly withdrawing those memories from there resting place.  Feeling as if just yesterday I had experienced them for the first time.  Our mind forces us to relive things, time and time again.  A soft touch or gentle voice from the past, thoughts I want to take shelter in.  Violence and destruction, times I try to forget, yet they rest right alongside one another.  The good lurking with the bad.

It started as just another tout trip for “KP”, our driver.  Take the Americans to one more shop, flaunt them about, then fool them into thinking this was some handicraft specific to only that place.  Marble in Agra.  Textiles in Jodhpur.  Trinkets in Old Delhi.  Silver in Jaislmer.  Silk in Bikaner.  And gems in Jaipur.  So when we stopped at a jeweler near the Amber Fort, I figured it was one more round of Olympic haggling from another pushy salesman.  He started by showing us four young adolescent males squatting around six grinding wheels.  As usual there were twice as many men standing around watching as working.  The men carefully worked, grinding and shaping the ugliest rocks into precious gems.  Only briefly glancing up to look upon another set of tourists looking down at them.  I briefly wondered if they had families.  I wondered how many hours a day they worked, and what they got paid.  Was this their place in life?  Or would the new world order of India allow them to someday have a jewelry shop, looking down upon their own employees, hunched over grinders.

The merchant, a scrawny middle-aged man with a hunched back (probably from himself squatting beside those same grinding wheels for many years), began showing us around the workshop.  His rough hands and deep-set eyes giving some indication to the number of years he had labored here.  Taking us step by step along the workbench.  The process began with a rough ugly rock.  Affixed to a grinding stick, and worked through various levels of an abrasive wheel.  The rock slowly turned into a gem by the time it reached the last man.  Carefully shaped for a specific purpose, to adorn a particular trinket, and display the beauty that came from within.  Patiently the merchant asked us if we had any questions before going into the showroom.  Gretchen and I nodded approvingly, trying to move along this charade.  We left the workshop and made our way up a set of steps, past the storefront, and into the showroom.

The tour was over; the peddling was about to begin.  First we went through the usual formalities.

“Would you like any tea or water?”

 “But you must have some tea, it’s a custom.”
“What is your name?”

“Where are you from?”

 “America, oh I love American, USA!” 

And finally the real important question. “What is your qualification?”  Meaning, what do you do for a living, and subsequently how much money have you brought with you because of this profession.  As all Americans wallets come hefty with rupees, and suitcases empty in order to fill with the plunders of the subcontinent. 

So we browsed, ignoring the onslaught of trite salesmanship.  Necklaces, medallions, rings, and bracelets all tactfully adorned with gems of various shape, size, and color.  Making our way around the room.  Browsing the countless display cases but really just favoring the cool air conditioning.  Visiting such shops was an escape from the hot humid monsoon air filling Jaipur.  I briefly hesitated at several boxes of large plain semiprecious stones.  For some reason this collection perked my interest.  Was it the unfinished nature of a chunk of polished stone?  Or was there something else.  Unfortunately I had broken the first rule of avoiding sale, do not linger on any one item, for that will bring an onslaught of persistent vending.  Yet something there was beginning to speak to me.  I continued fingering through a couple boxes of stones.   The merchant immediately seized the opportunity, grabbing several more boxes and bags of stone, spreading them across the counter.  I began more carefully gazing upon the gems.  There were large ones and small ones.  Some were shaped into various geometric configurations, while others were just left to appear as a natural stone shape.  They came as deep purples and blues, in bright reds and vivid greens.  The colors enticed me to continue exploring his stock.  Then a shoebox size container was opened containing several more baggies.  He carefully removed and spread more gems upon the counter.  Suddenly, I saw His name written on one of the ziploc bags.  Instantly I was taken to another place.  I froze, not in bewilderment, but in remorse and confusion.  Thinking about what I had just thought, from another time, another place.  Slowly I raised my hand and grabbed the bag full of white and ivory colored stones.  I hesitated, my thoughts no longer in India.  The bag was labeled Jasper.  Suddenly one more meaningless stop at another craft shop was worth my time.  I fumbled through the bag of twenty some stones, selecting a round one, about the size of a silver dollar. 

“How much is this one”, I asked? 

“Lets weigh it… uh… it’s 71 grams, times 5 rupees per gram… that’s 395 rupees”, said the clerk behind the counter. 

“I’ll take it”, I said. 

“This one”, the salesman asked curiously? 

He instantly began digging through other baggies looking for gems deemed in his mind as much prettier.  More luster.  Multiple facets.  More expensive.  Those deep blues and bright reds that grab most customers’ attention.  But I wasn’t looking for something fancy.  I had found something greater then that.  I reached for my stone and began shuffling towards the door.  Hoping this would give the international body language for I’m ready to pay and check out.  His further attempts at another sale were useless, and he knew it. 

I handed four hundred rupees across the counter as the lights began the flicker.  Upon being handed my five rupees in change, I was again bombarded with more dull salesmanship.

“Are you sure you don’t want a pendant or lanyard for that stone”, said the merchant?

“Maybe another stone for the lady, Ma’am, don’t you want a souvenir also”, said his son?

We kindly thanked them for their time, quickly look around for KP, and stepped out into the hot humid bustling city of Jaipur.  KP looked a bit confused, not saying anything, but you could tell by his eyes he was curious.  He escorted us to his parked Tata sedan and opened the door for Gretchen.  Once inside the vehicle I removed the memento from my pocket and securely zipped it into my backpack.  Gretchen looked at me and smiled as we drove out of the alleys of the Pink City, back towards our hotel.  I was thinking about Him.  Thinking about the transformation that had just occurred from a thought, a memory, what felt like an old bad dream, into an item?  This keepsake would become a symbol.  The circular shape a reminder not of death, not of the bond between pet and owner, but of the disconnected moments in life that become quickly reconnected.  That our past can always become our future, that it shapes who we are in the present.  Overcoming insurmountable odds isn’t about putting those challenges behind you in a linear life, but about-facing them again and again.  Coming full circle shouldn’t be an idiom or cliché about coming back to where you started, but an idea that we never really put things behind us.  The human brain is a trap for these thoughts, feelings, and memories.  The Jasper stone is a reminder to cherish these memories, both good and bad.  Because through the moments of horrid violence come thoughts of growth, symbols of affection, and most importantly ideas of purpose.

_________________________
This short story is in reference to an event that occurred my second day in Arctic Village.  More information on the travesty can be found at Lost in Alaska.

Monday, August 1, 2011

Never Settle For Routine

Never settle for routine.  Cherish new found inspirations and expound upon them.  After spending two weeks in Homer for the Alaska State Writers Consortium I'm inspired to dig into my soul and write.  This blog was originally meant as my portfolio project for the Summer Open, but now will serve as a place to publish my work as I grow as a writer.