Sent: 8/5/08
To whom it may concern:
I am sure you go through many submissions, so I will keep this coverletter short. This is the first piece of work I have ever considered publishing. It is unlike anything I have read. McSweeny's seems to be the only outfit capable of seeing some value in the pure absurdity of this story. I am a lover of words and a lover of the unfamiliar. If you feel that someone else can enjoy this work, pass it on to the readers. If not, the satisfaction I have gained from writing this piece it is recognition enough.
-JR
Received: 7/14/09
Hi Jordan--thanks for sending this in, and sorry it’s taken us so long—way too long--to respond. We rely on stories like yours, since a good portion of what we publish comes to us unsolicited. Unfortunately, we can't find a place for this piece in our next few issues. But please feel free to submit more work in the future--our tastes change, and we're always looking.
Thanks again for your efforts and for letting us see your work,
Jordan
7/14/09
8/5/08
Act II - The Story of Benny Lava
Benny Lava
Sitting in bed, the smell of naphtha in the air, Benny Lava closed his book and closed his eyes. They did not reopen. His years had worn away at his resolution to continue to be.
--
I awoke to sobs. My new wife and mother in law wailed: one unyielding siren, undulating with the weight of tears on their chins.
My white linen pants and ironic tee (Cyrillic nonsense printed on worn cotton) did nothing to shield me from the sight before me. In the post-wedding mess of decoration, there lay a body.
The end of any story is unimportant without the context of history, not with a capital "H", but the kinder more human history. I did not know Benny well. He did not speak much English, and I did not speak much Hindi. Our relationship consisted of a week of walks out by the river; The week ended with him washing my feet and asking me, in Hindi, to marry his daughter.
--
Awkwardly, I sat transfixed at the body. I am so used to the disposal culture of America. Paper plates, plastic forks, and family members are garbage when used up. They are not to be examined, or revered. It is too uncomfortable. Let's bury them. Hope they go away.
Here, a dead body is being washed by family. Cut flowers adorn him. Incense hangs in the air. Young children, holding small sticks of burning sandalwood, encircle the body, singing hymns. The women walk around the body and offer puffed rice into Benny's mouth, nourishment for the journey ahead. Cartoon arms of smoke hug the body. Details of the day mixed with smoke in the air, gathering dust and falling out of memory.
I can remember laying in bed with my despondent wife, in a foreign land. I opened my mouth:
"Gitanjali, tell me about your father."
We sat up in the night, I was rapt in her words. I'll do my best to retell the story.
--
Benny was not born rich, He was not even born in India. He was a foreigner among his own people. His father was A British-born French baker, His mother an Indian orphan of the slums. Benny never talked much about his parents, he did not know them that well. I was told that he moved to India when he was 5.
Benny from a young age was expected to help his father work the bakery in Jagdalpur. At 5 he was measuring flour. At 7 he was operating the brick oven. At 10 he began working with the Bun Engine. It was not a large bun engine, but his father had bought it and had it shipped from Japan.
It was imposing for a 10 year old. Benny's father, Francis, got a step stool so that Benny could reach the ingredient hopper. He looked inside and saw the whirring mechanism. he poured salt, yeast, sugar, and flour into the hopper. He turned the handle for the warm water, counted to eight and cut off the water. The machine kneaded the dough. Francis came over, peered in and said, "That's good"... Benny flipped a black lever on the front and saw an egg sized ball of dough drop into the oven.
I can imagine an infinite reflection from Benny's eyes into the polished stainless steel of the machine and back.
Life changes suddenly. He awoke one day to the smell of the city, not of fresh bread. His father and mother were gone, leaving Benny and his 8 year old brother Ed alone. Benny had no parents, no uncles, no aunts, no cousins, no friends, but he did have a brother, and he did have a bakery and he knew how to run the bun engine.
Benny didn't think about it. He just took on his father's role. He made a sign: ink on wood. It read "anybody need this?" and showed a picture of a bun. It was signed, "Benny Lava." Customers would remark how crazy the machine, upon which Benny climbed, was. But these loony buns became the hit of the city. They were cheap and filling. Children would stand outside in line after school. They would yell "we need a bun to bite, Benny Lava". The bun engine saved Benny. You could say that the bun engine MADE Benny lava.
After a month or so with no sign of his parents, Benny and Ed burned all of their parents clothing in a big pile behind the bakery. They were releasing the memory of their parents. They then walked to the river and threw the pictures their parents had amassed into the swift current. Some photos swirled about on the surface. Others sank. Benny and Ed watched the flotsam dance away.
Shortly after the Lava boys forged their independence in the fire of their parents possessions, missionaries came to Jagdalpur from Germany to indoctrinate the poor. In exchange the nuns fed the indoctrinated. The nunnery began buying bread from Benny regularly, and in quantity. The Lava boys were now doing well. Benny taught Ed to make the bread so that he could tend to the customers and vendors. He learned how to make change, haggle for better deals on ingredients. Poverty can be fertile soil for growth. He and Ed did not bother with school, they stayed at home and played games and danced to the radio.
Those early years of his and Ed's were rough on him, but rewarding. Benny grew into a man. He only knew he was a man because he looked like one when he caught his reflection accidentally. He startled himself.
He bought a TV and now images of a home he never knew were being reflected back and forth between the screen and his eyes. He saw western music videos illustrating some interaction between men and women that he had never understood, or possibly had ever given any thought.
This dance kicked up dust inside his head. The swirling dust converged to create a fleeting image of a nun. This nun had been recently picking up the orders of Loony Buns. She could not have been any older than he was. Now as his thoughts dwelled on this nun, her image was no longer fleeting, it was solid and it occupied his imagination.
The nun had skin the color of a perfectly cooked bun, and just as smooth. In fact, he imagined her as an anthropomorphic batch of loony buns. He felt it odd, but every time he ate one of his buns, he wished that his lips approached this bun buying nun, and not the warm roll he clutched.
The next morning she arrived with a sack of coins, he managed to eek out a greeting, and he noticed her eyes open and glow with the heat of an oven. They smiled at each other. She loaded the heavy brown bag of buns onto her bike and left.
That night Benny lava had a strange dream. Gitan was never told what was in her father's head that night, but let's pretend that her father remembered it in detail and repeated it over and over to her as a bedtime story.
His nun was lined up reflected in an array of red habits. They were all dancing in lockstep. The song was one Benny had heard somewhere before. He couldn't quite place the melody.
The nuns danced and smoked from pipes, they then began amorously kissing their clones and pawing at their clothing. They then began to urinate on each other. They then all stopped their odd sexual display, turned to Benny and said "I'd love to see you pee on us tonight!" it was terrifying.
Benny bolted awake.
He could not sleep. He dreaded seeing her beautiful face the next day. Nevertheless, he had business to do. He saw a woman in a habit come through his door. She lifted her head, and it was not his nun. Benny managed a smile. He was confused, he didn't want to see her, but now he was disappointed that she didn't show up.
My bride made an letter appear out of thin air.
"I want to read this to you. My mother wrote this before she and my dad knew that they both had feelings for each other. A slow and deliberate translation ensued:
Last night I dreamt about the baker boy: It has been so long since I can remember dreaming. I can't tell my sisters, I feel guilty about my dream. I was walking through a market and the boy was selling his loony buns. it was his store, but out in the open. I saw myself throw a rock at his chest, the rock sailed slowly through the thick oppressive air. the rock hit his chest with a crack and he fell. I ran to help him. He whispered, out of breath, "you filled me up with doom." I kicked dirt in his face and said, "quit looking up at me!" I ran away crying, but was slowed by a hand on my right shoulder. I slowed and turned, and the market was empty. the baker was carrying a small dog in his hands. He asked me, "you got a minute, girl?" I responded, "the puppy had a fee."
You can see now why This paper can be my only confidant. I wouldn't want the sisters thinking that he had more of an effect on me than God. I also don't want them to think that I have evil in my heart.
My wife rolled the tears out of her eyes. With a wipe, a sniffle and a deep breath, she composed herself. A rose hue around hazel eyes were the only indication of past tears.
"Honey, Let's go for a walk tomorrow evening. I will tell you more then."
I held her tight until I felt her breathing slow. I began to achieve the false clarity that happens when we move to dream. There was a crystalline nature to the low-lit room. All of the shutters and decoration, the trappings of a life, seemed cut out of stone, edges sharp and inviolable.
We awoke the next morning to give Benny Lava back to Yama.
We picked up his body: a cold, stiff, mass of flesh adorned with all manner of decoration. Garlands of flowers snaked along the crimson tinted cloth, only the folds hinting at the body within. We walked him to a pyre and set him atop it. The pyre was attended to by an untouchable caste called Doms. Having no son, save me, I became the chief mourner. There is a first time for everything. I took a bouquet of flame, kusha grass, from the Doms, and reverently placed them atop the pyre. I was sweating from the heat of so many eyes upon me. I walked around the pyre counter clockwise, as had been my instructions. I switched my thread from left to right. A graduation from mourning. Benny was almost at peace. I had one more task though. I had been instructed to preform kapälakriyä.
I grabbed a length of bamboo as tall as a man, that a cousin had brought. With a force saved for chopping wood and cracking whips, I brought the whistling tip down on my dead father in law's head. The skull cracked, punctuating the chorded percussion of dying embers. His soul was then free to leave his body. Our procession turned our backs on the pyre and walked a way, no looking back. We would be back later to take the ashes to the river.
--
I did not walk with Gitan that evening; I sat alone. I saw the sun dim as it drowned itself in blood. The gentle hush from the river seemed to lull every living creature to sleep. Benny had sat in the same chair, had heard the same hush, had felt the sun struggle for more time, the night finally relenting. I wonder if Benny was saddened by the new-found resolve of his night. No impassioned speech now would allow the darkness to relent.
--
Gitan called her mother onto the porch as she and I sat, as husband and wife, to watch our sun rise. Their conversation sounded like the twitter of birds. Gitan began to speak for her mother as her mother whispered:
One day, Benny came to the convent. He called upon me. I never in all my life, in all of the years we shared, asked him why.
- Gitan sniffled
I was 20, he was 22. I had seen him grow, as he had seen me. I never thought about him though. Not in that way. He was now a man, but I was a nun. I had long learned to think of men as enemies of my devotion to God. The funny thing is, I now know that God was in Benny's devotion to me.
He was wealthier now, and could afford to hire another shopkeeper. He used his free time to deliver our loony buns personally. Back then, when I felt my heart lift at his sight, I thought it was the devil, grabbing me. When I got dizzy around him, I thought that the devil was drugging me.
Then one day I knew the true face of the devil. Her name was Vajra.
One day when Benny was delivering the buns, Vajra began to touch me.
--
Twittering restarted.
Gitan looked at her mother: surprise, disbelief, and dread dripped from her agape mouth. Ketaki sternly chirped back, then relaxed her face. Gitan's cheeks were dry, and the red streaks of fight that I knew so well, shone on her cheeks. Nevertheless, Gitan "re-began".
--
Vajra began to touch me. It was not something that had happened before. Vajra was older than any other nun. She must have been 50. She placed the money in my hand, to pay Benny, then ran her hand up my arm to my neck. My eyes closed. When they opened. My Benny was gone, and I felt dirty.
He did not return the next day. I was sent to determine what had stopped the deliveries of bread.
Benny was not at the bakery. I knew that the encounter had made him uncomfortable. It was then that the frame came into focus. Benny loved me. I had not known what that meant, but I felt it back. I walked down the block to Benny's house. Ed had told me where it was. Benny was out front, laying on the stone, back to the sun.
He felt my presence, and rolled over.
-What can I do for you sister?
I blurted,
-I am sorry, Don't think I do love her.
-What?
I watched Ketaki act both parts out, eyes closed.
-I do not want to be a nun.
-(silence)
-I am Ketaki.
-Benny.
We shook hands.
The next day, I left the convent. I packed my bag and left, my sisters were sad. Some were furious. I had known that both Benny and I were orphans; were in need of each other. I did not let the conventions of the times stop me. I walked to Benny's and asked if I could live in his house. He agreed on one condition: that I take his hand in marriage.
--
Ketaki kept talking, but Gitan reddened. She barked, "No!" at her mother. Ketaki barked back, louder. Gitan stormed away. I thanked Ketaki and chased Gitan. I found Gitan on the couch.
She said,
-You didn't need to hear that.
-Hear what?
-Nothing.
-Babe, its not nothing. Do I have to beg?
-Begging is not very becoming.
I began to kiss her arm, she relaxed.
-Now tell me..
-No.
I kissed her shoulder to her neck
-Now?
-No.
-I'm pressing my luck, Huh?
-Yup.
-Let's go to bed
What I would have heard, had my beautiful bride not felt awkward telling it, was the story of that first night. Two sexually undeft orphans in a large bed.
-OOOOOO DADDY! JUST SAY IT! You know the hole to put it!
Benny was unsure if he did know the hole to put it... nature knows though.
-Just sing it! You love it! Your pundit got armor!
Ketaki had never heard her crotch referred to as a pundit, she was a bit offended
-You send me… offended… You know the hole to put it!
-Just sing it! You love it! Your pundit got armor!
As soon as it started, it was over, and Gitanjali Lava's seed was sown.
They awoke, awkward yet refreshed and went to the patio. Ketaki wished to swim in his pool.
They stripped naked and began to swim in it. She liked to swim in it.
and when they were done, she saw how attracted he was to her. She felt the need to do something about it. Little did she know, her action had a name:
Beeeeeejaaaaaaaay!
--
The elaborate dance inspired in Benny a new calling. He would celebrate his love through dance. He founded, with the help of Ketaki, a dance troupe. He gave control of the bakery to Ed. The children of the city flocked to see Benny teach others dance. He had an energy and a sensuality that had never been seen in dance. He always kept it PG though. Benny lived to make people smile. Children were a particular prize. Their carefree giggles were the reward for his work.
Ed passed before his big brother. Benny loved him inside his heart. Benny's chest was not heavy, it was light. His brother was a simple man. Ed loved watching the dancing after work. Benny knew that Ed was happy in death. He took solace in knowing that somehow, he would see his brother again.
Gitan grew into the woman I know and love today surrounded by smiles and warmth. I sometimes catch her at home, iPod in ear, dancing. I watch her as long as I can.
She is her father's daughter. And I know that even though I never knew Benny. I know him better now than I ever could.
Every time I sit with Gitan and watch the sun succumb to the advances of the night, I think of Benny.
--
I have a fascination with obituaries. This is a translation from the Hindsat, the Jagdalpur Daily Newspaper.
Benny Lava, 55, of Jagdalpur, Chhatisgarh died Wednesday, April 2, 2008. He is survived by his Wife of 35 years, Ketaki Lava; and Daughter, Gitanjali. An orphan, Benny and his brother baked their famous Loony Buns for Jagdalpur. He was renowned for his colorful choreography of local dance troupes, one of which spawned singing sensation, Pravu Deva. His warm smile will forever be missed.
Sitting in bed, the smell of naphtha in the air, Benny Lava closed his book and closed his eyes. They did not reopen. His years had worn away at his resolution to continue to be.
--
I awoke to sobs. My new wife and mother in law wailed: one unyielding siren, undulating with the weight of tears on their chins.
My white linen pants and ironic tee (Cyrillic nonsense printed on worn cotton) did nothing to shield me from the sight before me. In the post-wedding mess of decoration, there lay a body.
The end of any story is unimportant without the context of history, not with a capital "H", but the kinder more human history. I did not know Benny well. He did not speak much English, and I did not speak much Hindi. Our relationship consisted of a week of walks out by the river; The week ended with him washing my feet and asking me, in Hindi, to marry his daughter.
--
Awkwardly, I sat transfixed at the body. I am so used to the disposal culture of America. Paper plates, plastic forks, and family members are garbage when used up. They are not to be examined, or revered. It is too uncomfortable. Let's bury them. Hope they go away.
Here, a dead body is being washed by family. Cut flowers adorn him. Incense hangs in the air. Young children, holding small sticks of burning sandalwood, encircle the body, singing hymns. The women walk around the body and offer puffed rice into Benny's mouth, nourishment for the journey ahead. Cartoon arms of smoke hug the body. Details of the day mixed with smoke in the air, gathering dust and falling out of memory.
I can remember laying in bed with my despondent wife, in a foreign land. I opened my mouth:
"Gitanjali, tell me about your father."
We sat up in the night, I was rapt in her words. I'll do my best to retell the story.
--
Benny was not born rich, He was not even born in India. He was a foreigner among his own people. His father was A British-born French baker, His mother an Indian orphan of the slums. Benny never talked much about his parents, he did not know them that well. I was told that he moved to India when he was 5.
Benny from a young age was expected to help his father work the bakery in Jagdalpur. At 5 he was measuring flour. At 7 he was operating the brick oven. At 10 he began working with the Bun Engine. It was not a large bun engine, but his father had bought it and had it shipped from Japan.
It was imposing for a 10 year old. Benny's father, Francis, got a step stool so that Benny could reach the ingredient hopper. He looked inside and saw the whirring mechanism. he poured salt, yeast, sugar, and flour into the hopper. He turned the handle for the warm water, counted to eight and cut off the water. The machine kneaded the dough. Francis came over, peered in and said, "That's good"... Benny flipped a black lever on the front and saw an egg sized ball of dough drop into the oven.
I can imagine an infinite reflection from Benny's eyes into the polished stainless steel of the machine and back.
Life changes suddenly. He awoke one day to the smell of the city, not of fresh bread. His father and mother were gone, leaving Benny and his 8 year old brother Ed alone. Benny had no parents, no uncles, no aunts, no cousins, no friends, but he did have a brother, and he did have a bakery and he knew how to run the bun engine.
Benny didn't think about it. He just took on his father's role. He made a sign: ink on wood. It read "anybody need this?" and showed a picture of a bun. It was signed, "Benny Lava." Customers would remark how crazy the machine, upon which Benny climbed, was. But these loony buns became the hit of the city. They were cheap and filling. Children would stand outside in line after school. They would yell "we need a bun to bite, Benny Lava". The bun engine saved Benny. You could say that the bun engine MADE Benny lava.
After a month or so with no sign of his parents, Benny and Ed burned all of their parents clothing in a big pile behind the bakery. They were releasing the memory of their parents. They then walked to the river and threw the pictures their parents had amassed into the swift current. Some photos swirled about on the surface. Others sank. Benny and Ed watched the flotsam dance away.
Shortly after the Lava boys forged their independence in the fire of their parents possessions, missionaries came to Jagdalpur from Germany to indoctrinate the poor. In exchange the nuns fed the indoctrinated. The nunnery began buying bread from Benny regularly, and in quantity. The Lava boys were now doing well. Benny taught Ed to make the bread so that he could tend to the customers and vendors. He learned how to make change, haggle for better deals on ingredients. Poverty can be fertile soil for growth. He and Ed did not bother with school, they stayed at home and played games and danced to the radio.
Those early years of his and Ed's were rough on him, but rewarding. Benny grew into a man. He only knew he was a man because he looked like one when he caught his reflection accidentally. He startled himself.
He bought a TV and now images of a home he never knew were being reflected back and forth between the screen and his eyes. He saw western music videos illustrating some interaction between men and women that he had never understood, or possibly had ever given any thought.
This dance kicked up dust inside his head. The swirling dust converged to create a fleeting image of a nun. This nun had been recently picking up the orders of Loony Buns. She could not have been any older than he was. Now as his thoughts dwelled on this nun, her image was no longer fleeting, it was solid and it occupied his imagination.
The nun had skin the color of a perfectly cooked bun, and just as smooth. In fact, he imagined her as an anthropomorphic batch of loony buns. He felt it odd, but every time he ate one of his buns, he wished that his lips approached this bun buying nun, and not the warm roll he clutched.
The next morning she arrived with a sack of coins, he managed to eek out a greeting, and he noticed her eyes open and glow with the heat of an oven. They smiled at each other. She loaded the heavy brown bag of buns onto her bike and left.
That night Benny lava had a strange dream. Gitan was never told what was in her father's head that night, but let's pretend that her father remembered it in detail and repeated it over and over to her as a bedtime story.
His nun was lined up reflected in an array of red habits. They were all dancing in lockstep. The song was one Benny had heard somewhere before. He couldn't quite place the melody.
The nuns danced and smoked from pipes, they then began amorously kissing their clones and pawing at their clothing. They then began to urinate on each other. They then all stopped their odd sexual display, turned to Benny and said "I'd love to see you pee on us tonight!" it was terrifying.
Benny bolted awake.
He could not sleep. He dreaded seeing her beautiful face the next day. Nevertheless, he had business to do. He saw a woman in a habit come through his door. She lifted her head, and it was not his nun. Benny managed a smile. He was confused, he didn't want to see her, but now he was disappointed that she didn't show up.
My bride made an letter appear out of thin air.
"I want to read this to you. My mother wrote this before she and my dad knew that they both had feelings for each other. A slow and deliberate translation ensued:
Last night I dreamt about the baker boy: It has been so long since I can remember dreaming. I can't tell my sisters, I feel guilty about my dream. I was walking through a market and the boy was selling his loony buns. it was his store, but out in the open. I saw myself throw a rock at his chest, the rock sailed slowly through the thick oppressive air. the rock hit his chest with a crack and he fell. I ran to help him. He whispered, out of breath, "you filled me up with doom." I kicked dirt in his face and said, "quit looking up at me!" I ran away crying, but was slowed by a hand on my right shoulder. I slowed and turned, and the market was empty. the baker was carrying a small dog in his hands. He asked me, "you got a minute, girl?" I responded, "the puppy had a fee."
You can see now why This paper can be my only confidant. I wouldn't want the sisters thinking that he had more of an effect on me than God. I also don't want them to think that I have evil in my heart.
My wife rolled the tears out of her eyes. With a wipe, a sniffle and a deep breath, she composed herself. A rose hue around hazel eyes were the only indication of past tears.
"Honey, Let's go for a walk tomorrow evening. I will tell you more then."
I held her tight until I felt her breathing slow. I began to achieve the false clarity that happens when we move to dream. There was a crystalline nature to the low-lit room. All of the shutters and decoration, the trappings of a life, seemed cut out of stone, edges sharp and inviolable.
We awoke the next morning to give Benny Lava back to Yama.
We picked up his body: a cold, stiff, mass of flesh adorned with all manner of decoration. Garlands of flowers snaked along the crimson tinted cloth, only the folds hinting at the body within. We walked him to a pyre and set him atop it. The pyre was attended to by an untouchable caste called Doms. Having no son, save me, I became the chief mourner. There is a first time for everything. I took a bouquet of flame, kusha grass, from the Doms, and reverently placed them atop the pyre. I was sweating from the heat of so many eyes upon me. I walked around the pyre counter clockwise, as had been my instructions. I switched my thread from left to right. A graduation from mourning. Benny was almost at peace. I had one more task though. I had been instructed to preform kapälakriyä.
I grabbed a length of bamboo as tall as a man, that a cousin had brought. With a force saved for chopping wood and cracking whips, I brought the whistling tip down on my dead father in law's head. The skull cracked, punctuating the chorded percussion of dying embers. His soul was then free to leave his body. Our procession turned our backs on the pyre and walked a way, no looking back. We would be back later to take the ashes to the river.
--
I did not walk with Gitan that evening; I sat alone. I saw the sun dim as it drowned itself in blood. The gentle hush from the river seemed to lull every living creature to sleep. Benny had sat in the same chair, had heard the same hush, had felt the sun struggle for more time, the night finally relenting. I wonder if Benny was saddened by the new-found resolve of his night. No impassioned speech now would allow the darkness to relent.
--
Gitan called her mother onto the porch as she and I sat, as husband and wife, to watch our sun rise. Their conversation sounded like the twitter of birds. Gitan began to speak for her mother as her mother whispered:
One day, Benny came to the convent. He called upon me. I never in all my life, in all of the years we shared, asked him why.
- Gitan sniffled
I was 20, he was 22. I had seen him grow, as he had seen me. I never thought about him though. Not in that way. He was now a man, but I was a nun. I had long learned to think of men as enemies of my devotion to God. The funny thing is, I now know that God was in Benny's devotion to me.
He was wealthier now, and could afford to hire another shopkeeper. He used his free time to deliver our loony buns personally. Back then, when I felt my heart lift at his sight, I thought it was the devil, grabbing me. When I got dizzy around him, I thought that the devil was drugging me.
Then one day I knew the true face of the devil. Her name was Vajra.
One day when Benny was delivering the buns, Vajra began to touch me.
--
Twittering restarted.
Gitan looked at her mother: surprise, disbelief, and dread dripped from her agape mouth. Ketaki sternly chirped back, then relaxed her face. Gitan's cheeks were dry, and the red streaks of fight that I knew so well, shone on her cheeks. Nevertheless, Gitan "re-began".
--
Vajra began to touch me. It was not something that had happened before. Vajra was older than any other nun. She must have been 50. She placed the money in my hand, to pay Benny, then ran her hand up my arm to my neck. My eyes closed. When they opened. My Benny was gone, and I felt dirty.
He did not return the next day. I was sent to determine what had stopped the deliveries of bread.
Benny was not at the bakery. I knew that the encounter had made him uncomfortable. It was then that the frame came into focus. Benny loved me. I had not known what that meant, but I felt it back. I walked down the block to Benny's house. Ed had told me where it was. Benny was out front, laying on the stone, back to the sun.
He felt my presence, and rolled over.
-What can I do for you sister?
I blurted,
-I am sorry, Don't think I do love her.
-What?
I watched Ketaki act both parts out, eyes closed.
-I do not want to be a nun.
-(silence)
-I am Ketaki.
-Benny.
We shook hands.
The next day, I left the convent. I packed my bag and left, my sisters were sad. Some were furious. I had known that both Benny and I were orphans; were in need of each other. I did not let the conventions of the times stop me. I walked to Benny's and asked if I could live in his house. He agreed on one condition: that I take his hand in marriage.
--
Ketaki kept talking, but Gitan reddened. She barked, "No!" at her mother. Ketaki barked back, louder. Gitan stormed away. I thanked Ketaki and chased Gitan. I found Gitan on the couch.
She said,
-You didn't need to hear that.
-Hear what?
-Nothing.
-Babe, its not nothing. Do I have to beg?
-Begging is not very becoming.
I began to kiss her arm, she relaxed.
-Now tell me..
-No.
I kissed her shoulder to her neck
-Now?
-No.
-I'm pressing my luck, Huh?
-Yup.
-Let's go to bed
What I would have heard, had my beautiful bride not felt awkward telling it, was the story of that first night. Two sexually undeft orphans in a large bed.
-OOOOOO DADDY! JUST SAY IT! You know the hole to put it!
Benny was unsure if he did know the hole to put it... nature knows though.
-Just sing it! You love it! Your pundit got armor!
Ketaki had never heard her crotch referred to as a pundit, she was a bit offended
-You send me… offended… You know the hole to put it!
-Just sing it! You love it! Your pundit got armor!
As soon as it started, it was over, and Gitanjali Lava's seed was sown.
They awoke, awkward yet refreshed and went to the patio. Ketaki wished to swim in his pool.
They stripped naked and began to swim in it. She liked to swim in it.
and when they were done, she saw how attracted he was to her. She felt the need to do something about it. Little did she know, her action had a name:
Beeeeeejaaaaaaaay!
--
The elaborate dance inspired in Benny a new calling. He would celebrate his love through dance. He founded, with the help of Ketaki, a dance troupe. He gave control of the bakery to Ed. The children of the city flocked to see Benny teach others dance. He had an energy and a sensuality that had never been seen in dance. He always kept it PG though. Benny lived to make people smile. Children were a particular prize. Their carefree giggles were the reward for his work.
Ed passed before his big brother. Benny loved him inside his heart. Benny's chest was not heavy, it was light. His brother was a simple man. Ed loved watching the dancing after work. Benny knew that Ed was happy in death. He took solace in knowing that somehow, he would see his brother again.
Gitan grew into the woman I know and love today surrounded by smiles and warmth. I sometimes catch her at home, iPod in ear, dancing. I watch her as long as I can.
She is her father's daughter. And I know that even though I never knew Benny. I know him better now than I ever could.
Every time I sit with Gitan and watch the sun succumb to the advances of the night, I think of Benny.
--
I have a fascination with obituaries. This is a translation from the Hindsat, the Jagdalpur Daily Newspaper.
Benny Lava, 55, of Jagdalpur, Chhatisgarh died Wednesday, April 2, 2008. He is survived by his Wife of 35 years, Ketaki Lava; and Daughter, Gitanjali. An orphan, Benny and his brother baked their famous Loony Buns for Jagdalpur. He was renowned for his colorful choreography of local dance troupes, one of which spawned singing sensation, Pravu Deva. His warm smile will forever be missed.
8/18/07
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