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Neena MaiyaARJUN (PART ONE)The first time I lay eyes on he was a few weeks back. He stumble out o’ Cousin Yasmeen shop while me and me mother strolling in. He look like something a vagrant dawg drag out from a rubbish barrel…dark and greasy and bruise up. Auntie M. who been at the front o’ the shop smile she wicked smile and say in mock admiration, “Mm! Y’all look at Arjun Rampal!” We all look at Arjun the misnomer, nothing like the Bollywood hunk.  He short, he whingee…small...fella in he late 20's…that day he been walking like if yesterday rum still vibrating in he veins. Even he jet black hair look like it suffering from hangover, shine with grease, straight here, wavy there, lolling down he forehead.“What happen to youuu?” Auntie M. ask. “Look how you bruise up.” He focus on the ground, take careful steps, and answer Auntie M. in a matter of fact way. “Me been drunk. Me been walking on the road, something been in me way. And me fall down.” He shove out he hands in front o’ he to demonstrate the sudden fall. Everybody laugh. He laugh too like he feel good he give we a joke. The next time me and me mother go to the shop, he offer to help put we grocery bags in the car and we give he a small cash. Next time, same thing, same offer, but I been feeling like a grouch that day and I tell he, nah nah, go ‘long you way, I don’t need no help. And he leave, muttering, he always willing to help, he don’t mean nothing, mutter mutter. ...He’s not a bad chap at all. He’s lost, just lost... This Saturday gone Uncle J. been manning the shop. We star boy step in. He pass a li’l bit o’ money across the counter, buy one tennis roll… sweet, heavy bread roll…ask for a cig’rit. He say he a bit short o’ cash, Uncle J. say that is okay and give he the cig’rit, he ask for a light.“Aiye, don’t light up in here,” I demand. “You gon start up me asthma.” “Nah, nah, I ain’t gon do that,” he say. “Don’t take worries.” He talk in this meek-y way he got, hang down he shoulders, look humble. Uncle Jay ask in a polite, conversation-making tone, “Where were you last night? At Super B’s?” Super B’s is another grocery shop some ways away, it does transform into rum bar on weekend nights. “Mm-hm, yeah, that where me been whole night,” we hero say. He light up outside, pass back the pack o’ matches, gone he way. “Drinking he life away, eh?” I say to Uncle J. “He’s not a bad chap, you know,” Uncle J. say. “He’s not a bad chap at all. He’s lost, just lost. He comes from a good family too, but he has no one really now. He lives in abandoned houses all over the place…” “How he does bathe?” I want to know. Uncle J. shrug. “I don’t know, wherever he is, I guess. He does odd jobs for people around the place. When the van comes to deliver goods here and he’s around, he helps to unload, and I pay him. That’s how he earns a few dollars here and there.” Eek, I feel a li’l shame slide down all over me, remembering the day I send he off, telling he I ain’t need no help, go ‘long you way, and I wonder if Uncle J. did witness me meanness that day. Uncle J. say, “If he’s short of cash when he buys here, I let it go. And do you know, sometimes he’d come in, pass some cash to me and he’d say, I owe you for four cigarettes, I’m sure I owe you for four, so here’s the money.” That one stop me! I never hear about no vagrant type doing that. “Sometimes your auntie gives him food, he loves cook-up,” Uncle J. say. “If she’s cooking that and she sees him passing, she’d call him. Or he would stop and call, ask her if she’s cooking it.” Hm, I bet he does smell it, I think…rice with coconut milk and bhagee…pak choy…green plaintain and meat and bora…snake beans and black eye peas and just thinkin’ about it make me smell it too. “He and I talk, you know,” Uncle J. say. “He’d come in when I’m here and we talk. He tells me about his dreams. He says sometimes he has dreams that make him so happy, so very happy, in a way he never feels when he’s awake. He dreams he’s in a house, a big house, and he’s eating and drinking and laughing. Sometimes he dreams of the stars, he’s never read about them, but he dreams of them.” At the back of me mind I thinking, damn rum musta get he really flying. All the same, I go away with a new view of this dark, greasy soul. But y’know, as they say, every story got two sides… Story-teller Neena Maiya - "Guyana Gal" - prefaces her blog Guyana with the folllowing statement: "I gon tell you stories, true, true stories. Like me gran'pa and me nanee and cha cha used to do, and they ancestors too. Take half, leave half, cry or laff. Enjoy the gyaff, what you learn is up to you." The second part of this story will appear on Un-Made-Up in a few days. The photograph of Water Street, Georgetown was taken by Taran Rampersad who also keeps a great blog at KnowProSE.com. Back in the saddle finally... A few more fine stories waiting patiently in line, too... 1:04 PM - 7/9/2006 - post comment
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