As we eat, a man walking past catches my attention—he is carrying a stack of brightly colored books, though it’s not just his books that give me pause. He sets them down near an adjacent garbage can with the spines toward me, and then he proceeds to clean out his pockets, throwing scattered items away. Naturally I long to read the titles, to learn what the books are about, to thumb through their pages and attempt to read them myself. However, as these thoughts roil through my head, I also have the odd desire to tear open the bag of garbage and see if he’s throwing anything worthwhile away.
It’s such a striking display of the emotion that now clashes in my heart and head that I’m certain it’s more than a coincidence—and I know who is to blame. I speak heavenward. “
Funny, Grandfather—very funny, indeed.
”
*****
Our bus is a rickety old thing that bears the scars of boisterous children who long ago grew to adulthood. The still visible names carved into the seat backs are foreign. Before its happy retirement to Cambodia, it appears our bus served time in Thailand. It coughs grey smoke that wafts up on both sides rather than in back where a working exhaust would be located. The fumes dissipate as we pull out of the station and creep north through the traffic away from the city. The passengers seated around us are also hot, impatient, and grateful to finally be moving. In the seat to my right, a younger woman cuddles a sleeping baby—a little girl, I think. It would be quite a touching scene, except Nisay has just begun to cry and the mother keeps throwing glances toward us, as if wondering why I can’t keep my baby content like hers.
Two rows forward and across the aisle, a businessman sits alone with an array of papers spread out on his seat that dare anyone to try to sit beside him. Since the bus is not full—and perhaps even if it were—he looks capable of defending his territory. He is ranting to the man seated in front, complaining about the bus having no air conditioning. It makes me consider our home at Stung Meanchey, not only without air conditioning but without electricity and with only a tarp for a door. I am just grateful for the wind now blowing through the windows as we clear the city and pick up speed.
Seated directly in front are two old women with similar features, perhaps sisters, who take turns pointing out scenes on the street as if it’s their first time in the city and they’ve booked a low-budget tour.
As I study the travelers who surround me, I wonder about their stories. Sopeap taught me that stories are all around us, that we are swimming in literature, even at Stung Meanchey. If literature is about
us
—our hopes and dreams, our trials and struggles—could she have been talking about people: friends, neighbors, strangers, enemies? At first I dismiss the thought, since most people’s stories feel so mundane compared to the exciting tales of dragons and maidens, old men and boats, young love, and valiant war. I suppose that outwardly that may be true, but she also taught that life’s most difficult battles are those fought within—and that would include everyone.
The longer we drive, the harder Nisay wriggles and the louder he cries. I had hoped that the bus’s vibrations would soothe his fussing and settle him down, but they’re doing just the opposite. I rock him back and forth and begin to hum. I want to think that my actions are to ease his discomfort, but I fear I’m just trying to deflect the piercing glares from my fellow riders. Their expressions speak louder than words:
Terrific. No air conditioning, uncomfortable seats, stifling heat, and now a screaming child!
Ki offers to take Nisay, but instead I stand up in the aisle and hold him over my shoulder, bouncing him softly and pleading with him to close his eyes and sleep. Even I am losing patience with the child, though I shouldn’t, because my heart also aches for him to feel better. Like most on the bus, I am sweaty, tired, and irritated. What nobody else can understand is that, in addition to worries about my son, anxiety over Sopeap also rakes me with concern.
Then Ki motions me over and offers a second time. “Sang Ly, let me hold Nisay and you read him a story. See if that will settle him down.” At first I shake my head, thinking that it will disturb our fellow riders even more—and then I glance around. At this point,
nothing
is going to make matters worse.
I pass Nisay to Ki and pull the book that Sopeap has sent from my bag. I can see from the cover that it’s a volume of short stories from India and Southeast Asia. Too bad; long stories would have been much better, as we have a lengthy trip ahead of us. Nonetheless, I thumb through and stop at a chapter with a picture of a tiger on its opening page. Surely Nisay will enjoy a story about tigers. Below the picture is a paragraph about the author. His name is Rajam Banerjee. It says he was born near Sawai Madhopur, in Northern India, and that he wrote this story over a hundred years ago, a fact I find stunning. While almost everything that surrounds us in life gets old and wears out, stories, like our very souls, don’t age. It was translated into Khmer in 1963. I also read that Mr. Banerjee wrote adventure stories and—
Ki touches my shoulder to encourage me—no, to
beg
me—to quit reading silently and begin.
“Tiger Road,” I announce, as I let my finger underline the words as I read, “by Rajam Banerjee.”
I find that it’s a story about a man traveling across India in search of riches. He describes the conflicting beauty and sometimes harshness of the country with such vivid words that pictures of the place come rolling into my mind as I read.
The man works his way deep into the heart of the country in search of ivory, near an area called Ranthambore. He narrowly escapes with his life after a large tiger kills his only horse while the man watches helpless nearby.
The description of the tiger killing the animal is so gruesome that I quit reading and glance over at Ki.
“Should I keep going?” I ask. “Do we really want to read our son a story about killing?”
Nisay is still crying, not paying attention. Ki looks down at the fussing child, rolls his eyes, and then slings a glance of disbelief toward me, as if to ask, “
Seriously?
”
I keep reading.
Without a horse to pull his small wagon, the man appears to be stranded deep in the Aravali Range. Rather than try to walk out and save his life, he becomes so angry at the tiger that he grabs his gun and sets out in the moonlight to track the animal down and kill it himself—unless it kills him first.
After several more chapters, Nisay is still whimpering and I find myself reading loudly to get him to pay attention. When I realize that I must be making those around me absolutely crazy, I prepare to deliver my sincerest apologies. Except the sight that greets me is most unexpected. The woman across the way, who was sitting against the window, has shifted toward the aisle to be closer. The businessman, who not long after we began the journey buried his face into his work, has put down his papers and is watching me. Most surprising are the two old women in front. One has turned sideways, with her legs in the aisle, so that she can point her ear in a better direction to hear. To my disbelief, her companion has pulled her legs up into squatting position on the bench and twisted herself completely around in the seat to face me directly. It looks most uncomfortable, but her tip of the head lets me know that she is just fine—and then she speaks. “Please, dear, keep going.”
The mother across the way chimes in to agree, and so I point my finger back to the spot where I left off and I continue.
With anger filling the man’s heart, he tracks the tiger throughout the night, finally realizing the animal has taken refuge in a tract of dry reeds. Knowing it would be suicide to enter the reeds alone, where the tiger could see him but he couldn’t see the tiger, he waits until morning’s first light. Then, with a strike of a match, he sets the reeds ablaze.
After reading in such a loud voice for such a long period of time, my mouth is getting dry—and then it hits me. Not only is Nisay no longer crying, but other than the vibrations of the bus as it travels across the uneven road, it is quiet. Everyone surrounding us is silent and attentive. The bus is only about half full, but I can see that several of those who were sitting in the front of the bus have moved back to take open seats closer to where I sit. Though I’m not a fast reader, nobody seems to mind. When the businessman sees that I’m licking at my lips, he passes a bottle of water to the old woman on the aisle and gestures to her to pass it along to me. I nod my thanks to both. For a trip that started out so uncomfortably, I instantly feel as though I’m surrounded by friends. I open the bottle and take a long drink. Then, with all ears still focused in my direction, I pass the bottle to Ki and continue our Indian adventure.
The fire burning toward the tiger is so hot that it sends spouts of fire twenty feet into the air, filling the sky with smoke and ash. Still the man waits patiently with his rifle poised, ready to shoot the moment the animal emerges.
When the tiger finally bolts, he’s followed by a smaller female and two adolescent cubs. The man takes careful aim, but just as he’s about to squeeze the trigger, a bit of burning ash drifts into his right eye. He dances in pain and rubs his eye vigorously, clearing it out just in time to see the tail of the last tiger disappear into the surrounding brush.
If ever there was an angry man, it was he. He should have given up at that moment and turned around toward home to escape with his life—but he doesn’t.
I am about to start the next chapter when Ki leans over and whispers, “How much is left? We’re not that far away from where we get off.”
When the old woman in front hears his question, a look of panic fills her eyes. “Please,” she pleads, “read faster. You must finish.”
Ki continues, “I’ll walk up and show the driver where to pull over. You keep reading. You can finish it for me later.”
He scoots past me to the aisle with Nisay and heads to the front of the bus. I press on.
I continue to read pages that describe the man chasing the tigers through a ravine.
Then, when the brush thins, he catches a glimpse of brown stripes, raises his gun, and shoots the first of the four beasts—one of the young cubs.
However, when he opens his gun to insert another cartridge, it jams, leaving him helpless as a tigress creeps toward him on her belly. He steps back cautiously, all the while banging at the jammed cartridge with his hand until his palm begins to bleed. He is certain that death is imminent, but then realizes the tigress is approaching because he’s backing right toward the other cub.
After finally dislodging the stuck cartridge with his knife and taking up a new position, he raises his site, squeezes the trigger, and drops the second cub. Instead of fleeing, the tigress turns directly toward him. In a matter of moments either he will kill the tigress or she will kill him. The animal stops to growl with such an expression of diabolical fury that he hesitates. Then, finally, he fires, killing the creature barely in time.
With a single tiger left, he should count his revenge sufficient. Instead, he follows the final ferocious beast to a rise of boulders where the animal waits, lashing its tail. Before the man can raise his gun, the tiger springs from the cliff in one mighty bound.
As I turn the page, I realize the bus has slowed, and with a tiger hurtling through the air—I stop. I don’t know what to do because we are at our destination. “I’m sorry,” I say, “we get off here.”
“No, you can’t,” the old woman nearest the window insists. “You must finish.”
“How much is left?” the businessman hollers.
I flip the page over and see that there are not quite two pages.
“Just a page or two,” I say. “But I’m reading as fast as I can.”
And then the businessman, a stranger to everyone on the bus, offers an act of kindness and sacrifice that I find admirable and moving. “I’m going to go and have a talk with the driver. I’ll stall him while she finishes.” And then he pats his wallet. “Trust me, I’m persuasive.”
He turns to the old women. “You two listen very carefully and then tell me how it ends.” Then, without hesitation, he strides away toward the front of the bus.
Sopeap said that literature has the power to change lives, minds, and hearts. Until this moment, reading to others on this rickety old bus about tigers in India, I had not fully understood what she meant.
“Don’t worry,” I announce to everyone. “I will finish.”
High into the air the massive creature flies, leaping in one great arch. Just as he reaches the highest point of his spring, the man pulls the gun to his shoulder and fires. The bullet hits its mark, but it is too late. The tiger falls upon the man and sinks his great white teeth into the man’s thigh. The man screams in agony as the tiger’s teeth grate against his bone. He counts himself as dead—but then the tiger’s grip loosens.
The animal stands and roars with a sound that shakes the very rocks before swaying to and fro and then falling over dead. The man ties a handkerchief around his wound to stop the flow of blood. Then, with the aid of local villagers, he makes it out of India alive—though he remains a cripple for the rest of his natural life.
I close the story’s last page and glance about at pensive faces and pondering thoughts, mingled with splashes of satisfaction. Old woman number two, as I have named her in my head, is the first to speak. “He was crippled,” she says, nodding her belief that the ending was just. Then she adds, “But he shouldn’t have shot the tigers.”
The woman across the aisle leans my direction. “You are a very good storyteller. We enjoyed it very much.”
Others agree, and I’m not sure what to say until satisfaction trumps embarrassment. “Thank you,” I finally mutter as I step toward the front of the bus.