Why I Am A Historian November 18, 2010

 Why I Am A Historian

We all face death. Some of us feel more intensely as we approach it. Others can render it an if. Youth dulled by the security of inexperience helps drape its immediacy. Yet it is an aged life that makes for a deeper grave, a place for safekeeping one’s wounds, one’s sorrows, one’s perhaps frequent elation delivered in jolts of endorphins, and jealously guarded memories. The closer you are to death seasoned in old age, the denser the text, and the greater the need to tuck oneself in a deeper than usual tapestry of sustainable warmth.

Today I have one year less to live. I was born 59 years ago, in a small village without electricity, running water, sewer, tarred roads, public transport, and without a local ice-cream parlor. The village hugged a marshy riverbank with croaking toads, fleshy fat crocodiles, and vapid iguanas always on the lookout for free-range chicken eggs. The nights were filled with un-seeable sounds. Toads would belch and croak, one louder than its distant cousins nearer the riverbank. You were in the middle of a Stockhausen symphony without a maestro. If you stopped your heartbeat and your lungs breathing you could hear the occasional rustle. A winding mamba, I was often told somewhat untruthfully, had brushed against the tall African grass.

 

These legless wonders gorged on the noisy toads. You could occasionally hear a toad descend into a muzzle – and then silence. A quiet would descend, brief mourning ensues, and the war for life and flesh-torn limb resume. The toads carried on as if at a frat party bent on scoring a catch. You also heard drumbeats which strangely enough appeared to come from the savage stars above as if players in a viper-filled symphony pit. You looked up and your ears turned skywards to catch the audible sachets. Some sounds waxed and waned depending on the winds that night. Behind the sounds you could hear laughter from men on a binge, killing the pain of want or worse, numbing the blows of forced labor which denied both, freedom and the right to ache.

 

Sometimes, you did hear whispers. You then knew the adults were talking about “things” that kept you safe and protected. My father’s humming tones were predictable, regular, and reassuringly consistent. My mother’s “hmm”, “hmmmmmm” and “Anh hanh” sounded to me, like a cupped hand nuzzling the inner palm of my father’s text. On those nights, neither the mambas nor the crocodiles would touch the night within. You and the house were safe – the world outside was a toady symphony, balanced and full of nurture and toxins. Those eternally secure nights undefined the cruelty of untimely death.

 

That night 59 years ago, no one was home but my mother. My father was at work. The night began with the usual symphony of the marshes. The pit of stringed marimbas and star-studded drums up above the sky belted its predictable tunes. Then around mid-night or so, the skies filled with cloudy pregnancy. And it poured. The zinc roof held off the pelts, allowing only the sounds of the torrent to hit the walls and the roofless veranda. Buckets, white enamel bowls, and our priceless Victorian washbasin dotted the house where the roof leaked. She waited into the night hoping for someone to arrive. She lay silent, still, and motionless. I was deep inside.

 

Then the stormy winds started. The tall spindly coconut tree in the yard twirled like a mad Mevlevi in a trance. Its thatched toupée of fronds and coconuts were desperate to hold on to the stem for dear life. Several fell with a thud, then a rapid rumble – and whoosh. The torrent in the yard was carrying the coconuts in a bopping vortex of water towards the gulch and the nearby marshes. Finally, the palm trees snapped. It came crashing down like a giant leek plucked by the roots.

 

My father was nowhere to be seen – neither was I for that matter. The symphony ended. The rains stopped. The palm tree lay lifeless, a victim unfit for an autopsy. It had crushed half of the tin-roofed house towards the back. The sun arose. It was morning; and the tall African grasses lacing the edge of the marshes across from my parents’ bedroom window yelped and danced, freshly bathed in the torrential rain.

 

The house kept still. It was not over yet. Then Zubeda, my mother woke up. She looked around to find herself alone. Nothing stirred the air in the bedroom. It was then that a new torrent unleashed itself. No one was there to fetch the bucket to hold this leak. Screams and yelps ensued. Mercifully, the windows to the veranda had been kept open, it appears. Just then the village storyteller happened to pass by. The cry for help mixed with fear of dying perhaps brought her nearer the window. A slap and a tickle, she said later to me, and I was here.

 

That is how I ostensibly arrived I am told – in a warm and nurturing bucket of Zen nothingness after a storm. 59 years later, I face a new reality, one less year to live. My mind increasingly turns to thoughts of living and the personal, and the importance of history to ensure a most purposeful exit. One thing is certain. I must empty the Zen bucket with which I was born and retain in it what is most essential and of eternal value. One such thing that truly connects me to my very inner core is history writing and writing. These days I find myself saying more and more this: “Life is finite and, this is the right time to weave lived experiences into a sustainable tapestry with which to drape oneself as one ascends into the ground below. There history and the knowledge of the personal will keep you warm, cozy, comfortable, painless, and in a state of Zen. Let the storms be. They will continue to rage above ground. Palm-trees will continue to twirl and sway. Toads will croak, and the skies will sparkle to the sounds of drums tinted with vocals and awash with endorphins. You, on the other hand, will be cozy below in the warmth of a deeper protected self.”