Orphans of the Sapphire

Off the coast of Kerela, partially hidden in the great mist of the morning sea crashing onto its many sloping shores and the shadows of lush green trees standing tall in a perimeter around it, lay a small but beautiful village; a place I have called home for all my life. All of us live with our past. All of us allow it to shape our future. But some of us know how to shrug our past. I think that is who I am…Perhaps it is easy for some – people born to families and riches have nothing to fear from the past. Others are more unfortunate. Others like the orphans like me and Nevin.

I still remember, quite starkly, waking up to loud noises outside my dorm room. I was fourteen then, a little girl who kept her hair tied in braids, as was the custom in the facility we all lived in then – a church which sheltered orphaned kids, built so close to the sea you could hear loud crashing noises from morn till dusk. I got down from my bunk bed, as lightly as I could, so as to not wake the other girls in the hall. Most were up though, and I made my way towards the noises of a crowd now rapidly forming in front of the doorway.

I had to push past a couple of elder girls, all staring down the corridor, until I could finally see the cause for the commotion outside. Two boys were at it, throwing punches and kicks and what not. The girls around me kept murmuring, and accompanied by the shouts and vulgarities of the two boys and the ever increasing buzzing noise coming from the group of girls still looking on from the doorway, it wasn’t particularly astounding to find that the ruckus had finally woken the sister up, as the nun hurried from the other end of the corridor.

The ends of her skirt swayed angrily as the nun, with one fell swoop, caught the ear of one of the boys, who immediately stopped fighting. The other boy was now on the floor, coughing up blood.

“Nevin John! This has gone too far!”

The Nun’s shout was hoarse and full of spite. She turned around to face us.

“And what are you girls staring at? Go to your beds. Now!”

All the other girls seemingly ran inside, but I stayed on. The boy, Nevin, just stood there, back resting against the wall, hands in his pocket, a semblance of such indolence it would seem he hardly cared what the Sister would do. There was something about the boy that had captured my imagination; the frizzy long black hair hanging down his face, covering most of his eyes or the blood trail left where his thin lips had broken, I knew not, but something about him left me wondering. It was then his eyes that registered, as he noticed me. They were a shade of gravelly charcoal and I found myself wondering what made him so melancholy.

“Smriti, have I not made myself clear?”

The nun’s eyes were livid, and finding myself to be the last one remaining at the doorway, I too ran inside.

***

I completed the remainder of my sleep with great dissatisfaction. The weather outside had grown steadily worse, and by the time I was done with my morning choirs, the wind had started howling with thunderous speed, whistling past my ears in a haunting note. I was now enjoying my personal free time, away from my friends, sitting atop the asymmetrical rocks overlooking the sea and sketching the horizon of the ocean in my little black book. The wind kept billowing past me, blowing up freezing saltwater along with it, and in sometime I gave in; sketching in such harsh winds was futile. I was just about to leave, when I saw the Father and nun walking down below, in rapid conversation, and upon hearing the name of one Nevin John, decided to eavesdrop instead. I had to crane my neck for the wind made it hard to overhear, but I could hear parts of what was being said.

“ – that boy is shameless, and a problem for every other child – “, the nun was saying.

“and what do you want me to do in this matter? I will talk to him – “

“I have made my opinions very clear.”

“No. I am not ready to give up on him just yet, sister.”

“He doesn’t belong here. Send him off to his father, you know he is alive.”

There was a pause in which, the Father suddenly turned, facing the nun without the smile I was used to seeing in his face.

“God help me, no. He is incapable of taking care of – “

“Nevin’s father is a madman, and Nevin might be too. Incessantly keeps causing trouble. These things are hereditary, you know?”

The Father sighed.

“I will talk to Nevin.”

I stayed perched on the rock as the nun stormed off, followed by a dejected reverend.

I didn’t quite know what to make of all that I had heard. On one hand, knowing that Nevin had a father made me dislike him with ferocious envy; how can he and I be the same, ranked as orphans, when he had his father still very much alive? Yet, on the other hand, could I ever understand the pain that comes with knowing that you were truly unwanted? For most of the orphaned kids, myself included, the only consolation we had was the fact that ‘if’ our parents had been alive, we would have been loved and happy, but for Nevin even that tiny comfort had been denied. The circumstance of Nevin’s father, I did not know, or could comprehend at that point.

The rock was wet, and the shore windy – the deep blue of the sea sparkled and shone like sapphires – and amidst my trail of thoughts, I lost my footing on the slippery rock and started to fall, scraping my side against it. For a second I was stuck, knowing full well the fall would hurt and I could do nothing to impede it, but then a hand came out of nowhere. It grabbed my grey dress, and I was suddenly standing on the rock again, very shaken but unharmed.

“Smriti, right?”

Nevin was staring down at me. He was tall, and right now he seemed to be looming over me. His frizzy black hair curled around his black eyes, and again I was forced to wonder how alone he must feel. His own father had turned him down – a madman who couldn’t bring him up.

“I guess you heard them talk? Yeah, I don’t think I am too popular around here.”

He was being jovial enough, but I could only wonder. What would he do if he was sent out of the orphanage? Where would he go? There must be a plan, surely.

“Nevin, I didn’t know.”

What else was I supposed to say?

“ah, I was planning to leave anyway.”

This was a shock to me, and Nevin saw that in my face, perhaps, for he hurried on to say,

“Don’t worry. I will be fine. There is more to it in this world than this place, you know?”

For a minute, we just stood there, looking at the sea stretching on and meeting the endless sky. He talked about hating the sister, and how Father was the only decent one among the lot, and I heard all this, sometimes furrowing my eyebrows to his comments, other times lifting them with surprise, but always with interest. We waited there long enough to tire ourselves from standing and had to find a place to sit amongst the rocks. He went through my sketches, telling me “you’re of a dying breed of talented people” and other things. It was these types of things that he said that made me listen to him – he always had a way of saying odd things that one wouldn’t usually say. As he flipped another page in my book, I tested the tenacity of our newfound friendship.

“so… what are you going to do?”

He didn’t immediately respond. He flipped another page, looked at it for a time, then closed the book entirely as he looked at me.

“for now? Meet my father. He stays at the other side of the village, on a shore in a hut.”

“why?”, I asked.

The ocean glistened off his eyes as he turned them downwards and said,

“I need to know. I want some answers.”

I didn’t say anything for some time, and neither did he.

“how do you plan to go there?” I asked. The waves kept crashing loudly in the distance, but his speech was clear over it.

“I know a way out.”

Of course, he did. At this point, I was very invested in him. I liked the way he spoke – softly, in a low pitch – and I liked what he spoke – always in those beautiful, but otherwise morose intelligent statements. Yes, I was invested. I wanted to know what was next for him (perhaps, in that process, I wanted to know what was next for me; I had never wondered of a life outside the orphanage and it excited me to know that Nevin was brave enough to try). Even so, it was surprising when Nevin asked, “I’m leaving now. You can come too, if you want. You will be back here before evening and no one will ever know. What say?” and in response I just nodded.

Presently, we found the exit that Nevin was telling me about. It was a small opening in the brick wall far off at the corner of the facility, doubtless the work of weeds and branches growing around it, shrouded under the shade of trees. It was perfect, and as Nevin and I squeezed our way through towards freedom, I realized this was the first time I had been outside the orphanage, save the few trips to the village we took with Father.

We didn’t talk much after coming out. I couldn’t believe, after just twenty minutes of walking we had reached what seemed to me like a different world altogether. We were walking through a fish market, bustling with morning crowd, the stench of fish pungent everywhere – it was different from what I was used to seeing and all of it was very overwhelming, and yet there was this great sense of adventure and independency. I had done this, I had escaped out. I watched everything with keen interest.

Nevin, though, was preoccupied with other thoughts in his head. How he would interact with his father? Will he be angry? Saddened? Crying? I didn’t know, but surely he wasn’t feeling the same sense of relief I was feeling. Yet, he offered to show me around the entire village and I had to agree, taken by my sense of exploration.

It was evening by the time we finally found that one beach we were looking for. The hut was at the far corner, and there was a boat fastened next to it. The wind had finally calmed down to a complete silence, as if emphasizing the foreboding feeling that I felt. The seawater was silent and still; it was eerie to not hear the splashing noises.

Nevin had eyes only for the hut. He looked at me presently, and smiled, black eyes crinkling.

“are you sure you wanna come inside?” he asked.

I felt he shouldn’t be asking this question at this point. But I understood that he was only procrastinating. Perhaps, the sole reason he had even asked me to come along was to procrastinate, or maybe, because he felt alone and needed someone for support.

“Yes.”, I replied with my eyes level, “let’s go.”

The hut was entirely made of wood, the roof with banana leaves and bamboo. Nevin didn’t think of knocking, seeing that the door was ajar. He stepped inside into the darkness, and I followed.

It took some time for my eyes to adjust, but when they did, I saw perhaps the untidiest room I had ever seen. Books were lain about on the floor, as if thrown. There were some dirty jars in the corner, smelling repugnant. And on the wooden chair in the corner sat Mr. John himself. His hair was long and dirty – what had once been black hair had now become grey and beige and I could see sea weed stuck to it. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and there was mud on his abdomen, as if he had been rolling about on the beach. He hadn’t shaved in years, I could see, and his cheeks were gaunt. He had the same eyes as Nevin’s but they were lost and out of focus, and had not moved even to register the presence of his own son.

Nevin looked at his father in disgust. I offered to look around the house, to see if there was anything – pictures, diaries, anything. Nevin nodded, still rooted at his spot looking at his sorry mishap of a father.

Mr. John had started ranting. He still didn’t seem to have acknowledged our presence, but kept talking about the sea, the wonders of it. He was speaking as if there was someone else in the room. He seemed oblivious to the fact that his own son was in fact present in the room.

“oh, Sam, it’s so beautiful, it really is.”, he was saying.

The clouds rumbled outside with a massive noise, and the wind seemed to have come back, rolling over the hut until it creaked. I looked out momentarily, before going towards the shelf. Surely, some clue as to who Nevin’s father had been should be here.

I looked around and almost immediately found a photograph of who I presumed to be Mr. John, in a navy uniform. So he was in the Navy? I passed the photograph to Nevin, who looked at it in wonder, as if he had found some lost treasure.

I went through a book, and flipping it, another photograph fell out. It was of a beautiful foreign woman with Mr. John, holding a baby, this very beach extending behind them. She was fair, the same way Nevin was, and had clear blue eyes. I flipped the picture and found someone had written something with bold black letters,

“Can’t wait for little Nevin to grow up. He misses you, come back home fast. Love, Sam.”

The clouds outside thundered and rumbled even louder, each clap shaking the very ground. The sky had finally given way, turned black, and had now broken to let a storm of rainfall. I passed this picture to Nevin, as well.

His reaction was not what I had expected. I expected tears, maybe a smile. Not anger. Nevin shouted and screamed at his father, louder than the thunder outside, and for a moment I was stuck there. But before Nevin could grab his father’s shoulders, I came in between, hugging him away from his father. But he wouldn’t stop. He shouted and hissed at his father, called him with vulgar names that I cannot repeat here.

“DO YOU NOT REMEMBER YOUR OWN SON? I AM NEVIN, LOOK AT ME! WHAT HAPPENED TO MOTHER?! WHAT HAPPENED TO SAM?”

I had to use my entire body now to restrain him from reaching Mr. John.

“… Samantha ….?”

Nevin stood still – had Mr. John answered us or was this his usual rants? Only the relentless thunder was heard and the door smashing onto its frame over and over.

“…Nevin…?”

“Yes, Nevin. It’s me.”

But, alas, Mr. John’s eyes hadn’t really focused on anything for years, so when he answered, he answered to himself.

“…lost… at sea…”

And the man’s face crumpled and he started to weep, delirious to the point of pain and hurt. Nevin broke into fury once again.

“WHAT HAPPENED TO SAMANTHA?! WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU, YOU SORRY PIECE OF – “

“I LOVE SAMANTHA!”

Mr. John had looked up with fury of his own, as he shouted,

“I LOVE SAMANTHA. I love Samantha. I love her. I love her.”

“What happened, Mr. John?”, I tried asking.

“she was taken from me. My ship…turned….she and Nevin….lost…I ... “

And he broke down again.

The night had become even darker, the rain even more tyrannical, the sea looked like a fluid monster breathing blue-white fire upwards (the thunder was unyielding).

“But I am alive. I wasn’t ‘lost’.” Nevin whispered.

“Maybe you were washed ashore? Maybe someone in the ship rescued you? Your father couldn’t have known.”

“But…”

“Nevin,” I spoke now, his face sunken down millimeters away from mine, as I hugged him tight.

“Can’t you see? This is what drove him mad. He loved your mother and you. He couldn’t comprehend the loss of his wife and his son. Look at him, living here next to the sea, forever waiting for you to come back. And now, it’s too late.”

Nevin looked at me, his eyes still steely.

“Let go, Nevin. Let go. Your father couldn’t but… please, let go.”

His black eyes slowly melted away the rage, as they widened and I could see clearly how the tears formed at the corners of his eyes.

Sitting on the floor of a wooden hut, hugging a crying boy close, overlooked by a deranged man, who now had started talking to himself again, I could only look at Mr. John and wonder. Did he remember them? Did he remember how blue the sea had been? Like sapphires? Or did he see the sea in colors of black and red, a constant reminder of what he had lost? All of us live with our pasts. All of us allow it to shape our futures. But sometimes, all you can do is accept your past, and let go. Nevin’s tears raged worse than the great sea’s tempest, but as he cried into my shoulders, I knew he would be fine. We all would be.