Bhindu Mali

An excerpt from a piece of fiction I'm working on. Any and all comments or suggestions warmly appreciated - d

Bhindu Mali was a thief, and it was attention that she stole. A precocious 8 year-old, Bhindu knew how to bring laughter and agony to the most stout-hearted soul. With a dark, native complexion and silky, coal-black hair, her piercing brown eyes gazed into the soul, and one would never be the same. She had a glamorous, natural beauty, a look inherited from her mother, and so much did she remind her father of his loving wife, herself a woman of slender, statuesque perfection, that Pakesh Mali worshipped his daughter as he had worshipped his beloved Parishna, now nothing more than a distant memory.

Though Bhindu was too young to remember, Pakesh Mali could never forget his wife, and made certain the legacy was kept safe within his little girl. His marriage to Parishna had been arranged long before, in accordance to time-honored custom, and yet, somehow, even though a wedding of tradition, she’d captivated his heart from the moment their eyes first met. She was beautiful, noble, demure, and carried herself with elegant grace. At every chance, he told her how fortunate he was to be the one so honored in her presence, and confessed to her that she was the light of his life. How he had worshipped the love she gave to him.

To him, their short union was a wonderful stroll through life. She had patiently waited while he studied for his Doctorate in Engineering in the States. When, finally, he graduated, he returned to shower her as only royalty might, and escorted her proudly through the social strata. For Pakesh, their time together seemed a waking dream, and, when she was gone, it was a dream turned suddenly into a living nightmare. So soon was she taken, and yet, in all his grief, he knew that his story was merely another of the countless tragedies of so many who had been touched by this, what was it called? ...ah yes, “Event.” She had been, and even in death would always remain, the love of his life. Though their time together was far too short, they had managed quite well, and had lived to the fullest.

From out of their bond had sprung the physical manifestation of love, a tiny baby they chose to name Bhindu. Such a sweet girl, filled with innocence, but one sly and crafty all the same. No matter what Bhindu happened to cause, no matter what calamity she created, she had learned at a very young age that the pearly smile of an angel was enough to soothe the savage beast of impatience, tame the wrath of even the most exasperated onlooker. Oh yes, on impulse she could look at you with those big-brown, puppy-dog eyes and emote an expression of sincere innocence that could melt the heart. The worst part was that she knew it.

Bhindu was too young to understand why Parishna went away. She only knew that her mother was now nothing more than a dream, as though she was merely the faded photograph in the elegant frame on her father’s night stand. Parishna had died when Bhindu was only two, victim of a devastating outbreak six years earlier. In the sterile nomenclature of the day, the World Health Organization had simply called it “The Event,” an empty, unworthy name for the atrocity that had moved so swiftly and uncontrollably. In its short span, it claimed more that two and a half million lives. Passing through remote hamlet and sprawling city without distinction, the sickness was like an invisible monster with a nasty disposition and a vengeance unmatched by anything in modern medical history. While its cause remained undetermined, best estimates, which were in fact nothing more than educated guesses, placed the source of the outbreak near the coastal Indian village of Diu. There were those who suggested that perhaps it had been a viral infestation from an undiscovered bacterium whose nursery lay deep within the waters of the Arabian Sea. Or maybe it had arisen as a result of the natural decay of local crops. Some said it might even have come at the hand of man as in the horrendous nightmare that the world remembered as Bhopal. No one knew for sure and, to this day, it seems likely no one ever will, but it had come and gone and, in its indiscriminate fury, took young and old alike.

Sweeping across India like an all-drenching monsoon of disease, it began its devastating run completely free and unchecked, racing far north to the mountains of Quetta, Pakistan, before veering east across Delhi and Kanpur, Nagpur and Calcutta. When it turned to the south, to Vishakhapatnam, it was only then that, as if halted by the sea, it simply ceased to exist, and, suddenly, in a mere whisper of time, it was completely gone. Two weeks was all it required. To everyone it touched, it seemed the sickness had come with a purpose, and, when that purpose was met, it had simply eradicated itself for all time. In two weeks the outbreak had come and gone, the dying had begun and then stopped, and in its wake of carnage the monster had left absolutely no trace: no microbes to be analyzed, no symptoms to be studied, not a single trail to be followed. Two weeks. The only things left behind were the living, and the only thing they had left were memories of those who had been taken so viciously from them.

Losing her seemed to instill a purpose in Pakesh, and he buried himself in his work. As Chief Engineer for Arendal Superstructures, his passion became tireless, with attention to even the most mundane detail that earned the respect of peers and associates throughout the industry. It was during this time that his job took him and young Bhindu far from their beloved India for months at a time to the arctic Norwegian home of the shipyard. Though established only a few years earlier, Arendal was already the giant of the industry, and set technological design and development standards of more viable, environmentally stable supertankers. EPTER, the Economic Progress through Ecological Responsibility, was their motto, and they boldly proclaimed that Arendal’s innovative processes virtually eliminated any chance of disaster. Never again would the world suffer the kind of horrendous events that had come to be known as the “Exxon Valdez”, the “Erika”, or the “Prestige”. In reality it was a tenuous claim that only fueled debate, because, to date, Arendal’s safety record spared them public scrutiny and legal liability of an accident. Greenpeace and GEPA, the Global Environmental Protection Agency, the international watchdog recently established through unanimous mandate by the members of the United Nations, kept a close eye on the industry, and on new developments which happened to be on the drawing boards. Pakesh was recognized as the best in his field, innovative and bold, meticulous and superbly competent, recognition that served him well, especially as Arendal neared christening of the newest and most impressive accomplishment to date. His brainchild, his grandest achievement, was an awe-inspiring engineering marvel that would soon claim title to the most massive vehicle ever created by the hand, or conceived in the mind, of man.

The numbers were staggering. She was an unimaginable two-thousand, five-hundred feet in length, longer than the world’s tallest skyscraper was high, and with a beam of three-hundred and seventy feet, wider than the length of a football field. She would be a Goliath ship, so large that the biggest, currently floating vessel would fit snugly inside her cavernous hold. With a capacity of over six million, eight-hundred thousand barrels, she would weigh in at an incomprehensible summer displacement of one-million, eighty thousand metric tons! A giant of her time, indeed a titan for all time, when finished she would rival the seven wonders of the ancient world with her impact on the face of civilization, and through the bold implication that there was nothing humankind could not accomplish. The petroleum and energy consortiums of the world hailed the floating marvel as a behemoth. Pakesh had enjoyed telling those closest to him, his inner circle of friends, that he was only working on his little dingy.

The industry at large, suffering from shrinking supply and ever increasing operating costs, applauded the bold dream by bestowing upon Pakesh accolades and recognition rightly deserved, but the attention drove him into seclusion. He was comfortable in the elements he knew best; engineer, husband, father. No one would ever forget the cover photo of Time magazine. Not necessarily because the subject was him. People remembered that one portrait, the cover shot of Pakesh, and sitting on his lap was the world’s introduction to Bhindu. Her twinkling eyes and captivating smile were something Pakesh would be forever proud of.

Following Arendal’s announcement of the project, but before laying the keel, there was the tentative decision to name the vessel. It had been agreed through proxy ballot and teleconferencing that the honor would fall to Pakesh; after all, construction would not have been possible without his design. Arendal CEO, Bartlett Tomms, had personally informed Pakesh of the decision, and the unanimous vote decreed whatever name chose, to be proudly emblazoned on the hull for the world to see. The only directive Tomms gave was that Pakesh take as much time as needed to select something appropriate, something that would do justice to their investment. In the interim the construction announcement was to be made with a generic moniker, Arendal Global 1, a title only for the means of timelines and budgets, and only because people wanted to know what in the world this thing was. Pakesh accepted the responsibility reluctantly, yet graciously, and said he would do them honor.

Several months later, while vacationing on a secluded beach at Cabo San Lucas, he made a decision under a star-filled sky. Pakesh and Parishna had spent the day chasing Bhindu along the sugar sand lining the shore. All day she traipsed, waddled, and playfully waded into the endless precipice of salty breakers, and, when done, had fallen fast asleep; on her face a sweet expression of satisfaction for having feasted at the grand table of adventure. It had been a wondrous day, and for Pakesh and Parishna, the night was now theirs. They tucked their daughter to bed, and followed the sound of the sea that seemed to be calling to them. When they reached waters edge, they spread a blanket, and sat with their backs leaning into one another, tired, yet grateful for the splendor of weariness; joy lay in the satisfaction of their mutual love for the child, and the appreciation of a life together. Reveling in the moment of intimacy, neither spoke a word, but rather chose quiet reflection next to the glass-like surface beneath a dark canopy of stars.

The waves made a gentle, rhythmic lapping sound, hypnotic, like soft music, and it shifted, and blended with another sound; something that seemed to come from far away. Rolling across the water, diffused by salty air, a lonely call, hollow and empty, and it began low, like a bellow filled with clicks and rumbles. As they listened, it rose to a mournful squeal, before trailing off into the night. It was unreal, alien, and Pakesh wasn’t certain he heard anything, or if it was only his imagination. He heard it again; faint, distinct, and it filled the air around them, soft, like effervescent foam on the shore, subdued, like the passionate moan of a lover in the darkness. Again and again it floated across the water, a haunting specter-voice from the sea. Pakesh turned to Parishna, who was staring out to the horizon.

“California Grays,” she whispered. “Listen to them. The whales are making their run into the bay.”

They turned to smile at one another, and she gazed deeply into his eyes, kissed him softly on the lips, then turned back to face the open water. As if the whales were granting silence, the moaning from the ocean had stopped. “What will you call her?” Parishna asked, to which Pakesh just shook his head. She leaned close and said, “I know,” and whispered in his ear. A singular moment in which the decision was made, a moment that now seemed to Pakesh eternity had passed, a moment now faded like an old photograph.

For a vessel, christening is the transition of life, a particular point, frozen in time, when the mechanical thing is transformed into a living, breathing entity. An event filled with splendor, steeped in the tradition of emotions of those who have laid their hands on the barest material during creation, and the rite itself is mandated with the hearts of those who would have the fruits of their toil well serve the imaginings of others. The bestowing honor is granted by virtue of intimacy with the chosen: the spouse or heir, holder of the crown of their realm. Because of his vision and persuasive confidence that it could actually be accomplished, and because of his inspiration to those who thought the whole thing insanely impossible, Pakesh had rightly been the chosen one.

Christening of Arendal Global 1 had been scheduled well before completion of the hull, and would take place four weeks to the day following the last dab of paint. Pakesh’s task was now finished, and he was exhausted, due for a much needed vacation. Little Bhindu’s imagination had recently been fueled by tales of the old West, and her constantly changing interests were now captured by cowboys and wagon trains, horses and longhorns, teepees and peace pipes. Oh, yes, and Wyatt Earp. Bhindu’s dream was to see with her own eyes the place that said everything there was to say about rugged justice and brazen gunslingers and tales of a bygone era: the O.K. Corral. Pakesh had long ago planned to take his family to the States once the job was done, and, though Parishna was no longer with them, he meant to honor his promise. Bhindu would finally get to venture into the world of youthful imagination. And so it was on that trip to Tombstone Arizona, on a sunny day in the Dragon Mountains, that Pakesh had allowed his young daughter to dwell in the moment of her fantasy. It was in those mountains, under a white-hot sun and the curious gaze of a spindly road runner, that little Bhindu Mali met her fate.

Father and daughter walked hand in hand for several miles along a dusty trail lined with haunting, statuesque Saguaro. She skipped ahead to investigate the sparkle that caught her eye, and curiosity got the best of her. “Stay on the path!” he shouted, but she pressed on, and stepped into the brush and reached for the stone. The diamondback struck in a flash, its fangs plunged deep into the soft calf flesh. Pakesh heard the scream, and watched in horror as she stumbled from sight. He ran to her, and she was crying, and he pressed his hand against the trickles of blood from tiny pinpricks. He picked her up and his heart raced. In his confused state they were lost, it was the wrong turn, and he spun madly on his heels and all the while all he could hear was his daughter’s whimpering plea for Daddy to please make it stop hurting. He retraced his steps frantically before finding the right way back, just as he felt the little body in his arms begin to convulse, the soft voice change from frightening whimper into horrifying, gurgling moan. He shot up slope and down trail and around completely unfamiliar bends and felt like he could run no more because his lungs were about to burst and his legs were about to collapse and the nausea from the combined heat of the scorching sun and the insanity of the moment. When he finally reached the car, she was slipping into dreamy unconsciousness, and he put her on the seat and sped off in a choking cloud of flying dust and sand and gravel and he could hear nothing else but the labored sound of raspy breathing. He ignored the flashing lights, the screaming siren and had no idea how to convey the urgency to the officer speeding alongside without stopping the car. They screeched to a halt at the emergency entrance, and were met by orderlies in white robes pushing a gurney on which they laid his now motionless daughter, ran alongside while they raced the stretcher in, holding the tiny hand that had become confusingly cold and he told himself this just COULD NOT BE HAPPENING! His body shook as much as his head, mindless thoughts raced, speechless mouth hanging wide open in gaping maw that wouldn’t seem to close no matter how hard he tried. His heart screamed, his ears buzzed like a thousand angry hornets with some far-off echo about “doing everything we could have done for her.”

Just like his loving wife, Pakesh’s daughter was gone, taken in an insufferable moment.

Two weeks later, Pakesh forced the thoughts away, choosing to not remember the horror of that day. He stood at the lectern facing a multitude standing in attendance. Clearing his throat, he began to speak of platitudes and gratitude, and, yet, even as the well-scripted words celebrating a gargantuan achievement rolled from his tongue, he was in other places, and other times. On a cold Norwegian day, with the icy waters of the Skagerrak Channel ready to receive a true wonder of humanity, Pakesh Mali was thinking of two people he missed so much. It was a moment of conflicting irony, and many of those in attendance were well aware of the emotions wrestling inside this giant of a little man. Beneath festive banners of proclamation, amid cacophonous revelry of accomplishment, here among self-congratulatory feelings of achievement, was a collective understanding and compassion for Pakesh Mali.

For several minutes he spoke words of praise for those who labored, and, with each pause, the crowd reacted with polite appreciation. Then, completely without warning, he paused in mid-sentence and raised his gaze from the dais. All eyes were on him, and there was a feeling that what he was about to say would come not from a script, but from his heart. His voice quivered when he spoke of love for wife and daughter, and how he wished for them now. He faltered, then regained his composure to thank his staff, his team, and the shipbuilder. Finally, he stunned everyone with the unexpected announcement of retirement. No one saw it coming, no one had an inkling that he was done. He knew that, and it didn’t matter. He stepped back, and accepted the bottle of Dom Perignon from his aide, paused for a moment with the cold bottle in trembling hands. His head drooped, and he thought back to that which was now like nothing more than a dream. He remembered what it was like to tell them he loved them more than life itself. It was a romantic night long ago, a moonlit beach at the southernmost the tip of the Baja Peninsula, and he was with them both. He closed his eyes and believed for a moment that he could still hear the whales. He remembered what she whispered, nodded his head and whispered back to her.

“Yes, my sweet Parishna. It is truly a beautiful name for such a beautiful thing.”

Striding to the immense bow of the vessel, he looked in satisfied wonder at the sleek perfection of the hull, reached out his hand, and touched the cold surface. He smiled, raised the bottle, and photographers stood at the ready. Microphones were held close to his face, and when he was done, the crowd erupted in thunderous ovation at the now famous words he uttered with all the passion of his being.

“I christen you, Bhindu Mali!”