Part 40

A solitary goat herder and his flock and near-perfect views of the sweeping hillscape and the Dead Sea: we were climbing up to the ruins of the fortress of Machaerus — ancient, biblical, deserted, sixty-something kms from Amman — the midday heat offended by the interruption. 2012. A year like a semi-colon. Breathless. Living. Waiting.

At a disability non-profit in Bangalore, I meet her: the driver helps her transfer from car to wheelchair. She is telling me about herself — switching between Tamil, Kannada and English. Sometimes I take notes. Sometimes we giggle. Sometimes we cry together. I am writing her story. An extraordinary story. A story like an exclamation mark. Defying life. Despite life.

In Wadi Rum, sunset changed the colours of sand and stone as we watched a phosphate train chug past, counting carriages like school children. The next day, trapped in a sandstorm, sitting by a fire, drinking a strange, nameless tea, sand in my mouth and hair and fear, I wondered if there was a right place to die, a right way to die? Death like an ellipsis, leaving something unsaid. Leaving everything unsaid. A sand grain tumbling through a continuum.

She is talking of love. And heartbreak. Everything has a reason. Even polio. Even what life became. Even what life did not become. She talks easily. As if sitting under the old chikoo tree, discussing accessible toilets and inclusive schools and love letters in braille was meant to be. A time forever in parentheses. Like a secret. Like a promise.

We rode camels out into the desert to catch the sunrise. At first light, the camel herder from Khartoum prayed, then made tea in a blackened tin kettle on a woodfire. The sky became the colour of tangerines and blood, the camels quicker heading back to camp. Every creature knows when something is over. Done. When it’s time to go home. Where home is. Home like a full-stop. No matter where it begins. Home. Where it ends.

Can I tell Him I want to be a gardener in my next birth, she says, meaning every word. I type quietly, refusing to look up at her. That is not a real question. The sky becomes the colour of ashes and unexpected rain.  That April, in Jordan, there were yellow wildflowers everywhere. On the desert road to Karak, we could see the black irises smiling. When she left, four years later, maybe somewhere her favourite bird-of-paradise bloomed. Maybe she went home. Where it ends. Life like a comma. Between things. Between stories. Between friends. Like death.

(Amman/Wadi Rum, Jordan)
(For the one who is with the flowers)