Smuggling Stones for a Story

To describe the setting for a story that will take place in a shanty town where greed is so significant that its role is no less than that of one of the central characters

 

Imphal: The sun had got tired of the crimson sky for the day and had gone down the nongchup mountains—getting ready for the next day—with new ways to make fun of the people and the land. I felt the sedation of my environment so soon that some remnant of the sunshine might have seen me experiencing the sensation. I live in a land far away from cacophonic holes of humanity called the metros; ours is a decadent place where darkness after sunset is more tranquilizing than the most powerful psychotropic substance. 

I was sitting in one corner near the yumjao-thong, fagging and drawing a map of El Dorado. In these days of stiff competition, I have to pile up material goods, for I believe the better a life is when there is more accumulation, and have chalked out my path to glory. Robbing was too illegal a thing and the petty human part in me refused me to join the bandwagon of trendy people in town who are plundering the public resources; neither I want to resort to the easy scheme of things, like working in a government office to earn a livelihood. The road to further grandeur was not so hard, anyway; the guns I always hid inside my instrument box had taught me—and the direction, I remember each step seeing the map many times on the signboards, near the chief minister’s house. I guess every flea saw them too.

Now if there is anything I would share with my folks on how to be prosperous at free of cost, oh well it would be to discuss the eternal knowledge of leading from the front, investing in false promises to the people and driving around the leirak-khullak on vehicles filled with blood (Petrol is too costly and scarce these days). For special consideration and provided you are daring, you can go and buy that interesting book: ‘How to aim your gun and how to aim it high’. Do remember as well, if you are really an adventurous type of person, to buy the Chinese-made handgun and cartridges from the Moreh dukan.

In this darkness, I worry no more having excelled in the fine art of piling-as-much-as-we-can. Like CS Lewis trusted his religion, I believe in life as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else. People have never seen such wealth in galore that I buried in my safe—more secretly than the sun had hidden itself in the cloak of the night. And in our land, the landscape is of destitution that there is no one to promise about utopia but the implementation of the Yojana and Rozgaar of Some Fucked-up Abbreviation—and the people, they dare not go to the Moreh dukan. In fact, an allergic parlance called the fear psychosis prevails throughout.

If I have to tell you about my occupation, there should be a compromise between you and me: Don’t disclose anything what I have to tell you, I mean please. See, the people misinterpret so often and I’m grateful to live a low-profile life. I should tell you that I’m not evil as you might be assuming. In my heart, I’m just a normal guy but I desperately wanted a story in my life that I took to this import and export business. I’m solid my life will be written in gold; and as a matter of fact, my safe is gilded enough that I can afford to cast my life in fine prints.

Don’t tell me I had not mentioned about my expertise when I shared the free-of-cost learning skill. I have come a long way from those days I first saw the precious stones. Upon getting the objects of desire, a very long road I had to take to get the things to the brokers and dealers. At this time I own a mine but let me swear in the name of this night, I don’t want you to follow the path. It will be tough for you. So it’s better for you to go the trampled way, just like what your neighbours had walked upon.

Even if Myanmar is only three hours away from here, it is not recommended to go there for smuggling, my dear friend. And even if you persist and follow me, imagine the people—every one of them joining the ride. Who will mislead the people if all the ministers are ever busy negotiating for the rubies in some unknown border areas, and who will extort the money if the motherland lovers suddenly change their already altered course to making contract in transporting the emerald—seeing that it is more profitable than dealing in the land—and who will hurl the grenades, and who will kill the people if all the commandos are sent to fetch their masters’ booty from the mountains? For fuck’s sake, who will we backbite about and pull down the clever entrepreneurs from their ladder of success; and, who will be coming out for the sit-in protests and demonstrations and rallies and the destruction? So be it.

We have seen the sun going down, yet we will see it again tomorrow. Yet our lives are getting murky—the shade getting more shadowy with each passing night. Nonetheless I have got the material gains, and even more I would trade them with my possessions. Are you satisfied just letting this night pass away outside your thatched hut? I can build a glass house for you but you know the people outside, standing in lines to throw the bricks at you. What more fun can they enjoy in than drink some ale, fix some heroin, pop some pills and smoke some joints in these moonless hours when there is load-shedding for two times a night? When I am also high, I want to destroy… destroy this sheer injustice and misery and every thing but please let me spare my wealth.

I am done for the night though I still have my untold story buried under my wealth.