Chaos By Bissme S
The first time I saw him was at
the cafe that my parents run. It was raining like cats and dog. He was cold,
hungry and was looking some warm food to eat. He was a photographer from the
big city. He wanted to shoot our small
beautiful village. He wanted to feature these photos in some travel magazine.
“Can I find a hotel here?” he
asked.
There was no hotel in our
village. Out of kindness, my parents offered our guest room to the stranger. But
my parents soon learned a bitter lesson that kindness is not always rewarded
with kindness.
*****
Four days later, the stranger
had disappeared into the air. The stranger did not leave our house, alone. The
stranger had abducted me. My mother
screamed her head off when she learned what had taken place. The doctor had given
her a sedative to calm her. My mother
spent her days in bed, feeling dizzy and depressed. My father had a high hopes my
tragedy would have a happy ending - I would be found and he would be hugging
me.
But my father had forgotten
that sometimes God loves sad endings. My kidnapper was nowhere to be found and
I was no longer breathing. The police found my body, brutally raped and badly
burned.
*****
I was only
thirteen when my life ended tragically. I have become a ghost, wondering in the
house that I grew up in and hanging around my parents who love me with all
their hearts.
My parents
could not see me. My parents could not hear me. But I could see their agony. I
could hear their cries of miseries. I could feel their unspoken sadness.
“It is a
norm for a child to bury his parents,” my mother said.
“But when
the situation is reversed – when parents have to bury their child – the pain
can be unbearable.”
My mother had lost faith in
God. My mother had stopped going to church. Our regular priest, Father Danny
Fratine, visited our home. He wanted to convince my mother to return to church.
“I cannot pray to a God who had taken away my
only child,” my mother shouted.
“There is no place for God in
my heart any more. I wish God will be burned in hell.”
My mother took the broom and
literarily chased away Father Danny Fratine from our house.
“God is my enemy,” my mother shouted
“If you love God, then you
are my enemy, too. And my enemies are not
welcome in my house. ”
My mother had become a bitter
old woman who constantly cursed God and anyone who love God. My father was in
far worse condition than my mother.
“The police had made a
mistake” my father said.
“The dead body they found is
not my daughter. They just want to close the case as soon as possible. They don’t
care about justice.
“I have
done my research. Most paedophiles are not killers. He raped my daughter and most
probably, sold her to some brothels. He is not that heartless to kill my sweet Sophia.”
One morning, my mother and I
could not find my father anywhere in the house. There was a letter from him
waiting for my mother on our dinner table.
My father had gone to the big city to find me, the daughter he loved and
adored.
“I will only come back after I find our
daughter,” my father wrote.
*****
Nine months passed. There was
no sign of my father. I had lost any hope that I would see my father, again.
Then, one evening, my father was in my living room.
“I am so glad you have
returned home,” my mother said while hugging my dad.
I thought my father would
have realized that his idea of finding me in some brothel home was a crazy one
and would finally accept the bitter truth that I was no longer alive. But I was
wrong.
“I found
Sophia,” my father said.
“Our
daughter is not dead.”
I was shocked
listening to what my father had uttered. There was no way I could be alive.
“I went from
one brothel home to another to find my daughter,” my father said.
“I could not find her. I felt
helpless. I felt defeated. I wanted to kill myself. But killing yourself is not
easy. I was sitting on the road, crying my heart out. Then, God had shown me his
mercy. God had shown me his greatness. I
saw my daughter on the opposite road, begging. I rushed towards her. I hugged
her. I whispered in her ears: I will not let you go.”
Looking at my mother’s
expression, my father said: “I know you don’t believe me. Let me prove to you
that our daughter Sophia is alive.”
My father called out my name.
A girl appeared in front of my mother. She looked like me. She dressed like me. But she was not me. My
mother slowly walked towards her. My mother hugged her. There were tears in my mother’s eyes
“Your father is hero,” she
said to the girl.
“Your father has found you. My
daughter is alive... My daughter is alive....”
*****
The girl was willing to adopt
my name. The girl was willing to wear the clothes I wore. The girl was willing
to tie her hair just like my hair. The
girl was playing me. The girl did not care
that she did not have an identity of her own.
I suspected that her life on
street was a hell. In my house, the girl has food to eat, clothes to wear, a
bed to sleep in and the love of my parents.
My house was like a heaven for her. And most people always choose heaven
over hell.
*****
My mother wants to embrace
God, again. My mother wanted redemption
for saying unkind things about God.
“God has given my daughter
back to me,” my mother said.
“God has been kind to me. I
have a lot to be grateful for.”
When Sunday came, my mother
and my father proudly entered the church with their new daughter. I was sure
the villagers will not accept their reality... I was sure the villagers will bluntly
tell my parents that that girl was not me... I was sure the villagers will
force bitter truth- that I was no longer alive - down their throats.
But I was wrong. Just like
parents, the entire village had gone insane.
They wanted me to see what
they see. They wanted me to hear what they hear. They wanted to smell what they
wanted to smell. They wanted me to
believe what they believe. They hugged my parents. They hugged the girl that
supposed to me.
Watching my parents and the
people in my village jumping with joy was like watching a bandwagon of madness.
I cannot make sense of the chaos that
surrounded me.
I thought our church priest
Father Danny Fratine will bring calm to the chaos that was taking place in my
village...I thought Father Danny Frantine will bring sanity to the madness that had erupted in our
village. But he did not. Instead, he joined
the bandwagon of madness.
In his mass, the good old
Father said: “God works in the most mysterious way. God had brought back Sophia
to us. What God have done here is a miracle and we should always be grateful to
God for this miracle.”
*****
Two years passed. Initially I
was furious that my parents and the people in my village had easily replaced me
with a girl that my father found roaming in the streets. I did not want to be
replaced. I did not want my identity to be taken away. I wanted them to mourn
for me. I wanted them to remember me, forever.
But, now, I am no longer
furious. I have learned to rationalize their madness. I have learned to
rationalize the chaos that surrounded my life. I am looking at my parents and
the people in my village with the eyes of sadness than with the eyes of anger.
They came from a village
where nothing bad really happen. They are simple folks. They are not trained to
handle my kind of tragedy. My tragedy had broken them. My tragedy had pushed
them into the world of madness.
They were tired of living in
sadness. They wanted happiness. They wanted hope. They wanted me to be alive.
They wanted my tragedy to have a happy ending. Madness is necessary when you cannot handle
the truth.
The End
