Belinda in Nagasaki
Thanks for choosing to read this story. This is the first draft with all its limits and hence your comments will be highly appreciated.
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Father Mark wasn’t a great man but I made him rich and famous. His wife called him names; his friends dreaded his company and his children didn’t even see him much at night. But I had changed it all for him. I’d always been with him. I could not miss the pride with which his eyes twinkled everytime he looked at me. I was honestly happy for him but it always looked kind of funny when he did that.
Before I was conceived and developed into a full body of vigour and when I was a very abstract concept in Father’s head, people thought he was good for nothing. But when I grew full and brought him the fame he rolled with, people forgot how annoying and how good-for-nothing he was. If I was to stand unbiased I would tell you that Father Mark was still a fool even with a million people idolising him. If not for me everyone would still be looking at him as a fool which he really was.
I am Belinda in Nagasaki. I have an almost beautiful black jacket enclosing me. My name is written in bold Harrington font on the jacket with a faceless woman hovering behind the text in a stupid pose. A secret not many of Father’s admirers know is that he was a pervert and an alcoholic. He insisted on having that girl hovering behind my name in Harrington font. I hated that idea from the very beginning. People on jackets always disgust me. I would’ve preferred my name plain and neat without that slim lady behind it. Father’s friend and editor Jane wasn’t happy with the girl either. She called the designer a debauch and said she couldn't approve it. But no one could ever change Father’s mind. Especially not Jane. So, she told herself that I am worthier than her distaste. Surprisingly, my jacket attracted people rather than repelling them.
I am six inches wide and nine inches tall. I weigh around 13 ounces. I am compact and I like how people love me. But before I became this, before I got myself in full shape and could stand on my own spine, I was pathetic. I was in pieces. I was a bunch of crumpled papers and lines that were overwritten or stricken out. I was in parts, scrawled on the edges of bill books, on Father’s children’s school notebooks, on the paper calendar that his wife loved and where not. A great deal of my essence was lost when Father was drunk and forgot to write down his could’ve-been-great lines. I was aware. I was strangely and helplessly aware of how great I could’ve become if only Father was more attentive and less of an idiot.
I don’t hate Father Mark though. He was silly. But in his defence, he always said, “Intelligence is often mistaken for silliness.” Perhaps he was actually intelligent. And silly!
When Father conceived me as a premise in his head for the first time, he was very excited and he ran over to his wife to hug her in joy. But briefly before that joyous moment, his hand accidentally hit the teapot on the dinner table by which his wife was sitting and knitting. The teapot flew across the table spilling the hot tea generously everywhere around. Father didn’t care to look at the mess. Perhaps he thought if he didn't give attention to it his wife wouldn't do that either. He hugged her. He hugged her to soothe her (as her blood started boiling to the temperature of the spilt tea) and to partly restrain her from pouncing at him for the tenth time that day. The joy of my birth was long lost in the spilled tea.
I used to think Father's wife hated me when I was born. It wasn't my mistake. It wasn't hers, either. When Father was working with me, he became insanely careless. It was not difficult to see him slipping out of his head very often. Because I occupied most of his headspace. He started skipping his work and gave all the more reason for his wife to be furious with him. She literally kicked his arse every morning to wake him up and threw him out of the house so that he went to work. But even at the college where he worked (where he had maintained a considerably fine personality up until then) he was failing. Better than anyone, I knew how obsessed with me Father was in those initial days. He was tortured. I knew it and I knew I was the reason.
Things went out of proportion when Father started staying out at nights so that he could concentrate more on me. Father's wife ignored it at the beginning but when he started going missing for consecutive days she became concerned. She sent their elder son in search of Father. The searches were limited to nights for a week. Then they began searching frantically. I hoped they wouldn't find Father. And they didn't. I liked those days. I liked being with Father. Alone. Father loved me more in private. He was at his worst in front of me, because I am non judgemental. Also because he believed he could shape me well when he’s at his worst. And he did. To some extent.
After a while, after one month and seventeen days precisely, Father returned home. He looked battered and like a worn-out and rugged old cloth. He had barely eaten for days. Father's wife who saw him in that condition melted down. She sobbed hugging him though he smelled like unwashed socks. She asked him where he had gone in between hugging and sobbing. Father said he was lost. Yes, Father was honest, then. He was lost in his head.
Father was less obsessed after that one month and seventeen days. He knew what to do with me. He's gotten the idea. He understood what I would become in future. He started reading everything from telephone directories to Atlas. He figured out what my name was going to be. I knew much later where my name came from. My first name is Belinda. From the telephone directories. My last name became Nagasaki. From the Atlas.
Father had been to Japan only once. It was a long time ago. I dare say father didn't remember anything from that trip he made before he met his wife. But I saw with a tinge of irritation when he rambled on in interviews how his trip affected him emotionally and left an irrevocable mark in his heart. He was forced to choose that place where I should thrive because he could not think of a better place. I can't believe how Father lied at ease. But again he had been lying all his life in the name of poetry and fiction. I've been in Father's head long enough to know that he barely felt what he wrote on papers. He had enough practice to lie at any given minute. Mind you, he always thought he was an honest man. It was rare that Father lied consciously. He did that mostly without knowing he was lying.
The biggest trouble Father had while working with me was that he created me in pieces and often lost an important piece either between the converged lines meant to strike out the unwanted graphemes or in a long-returned-and-forgotten library book. I wished Father was more organised. I wished Father was sane enough to buy a goddamn notebook and write all of his ideas in it. But my wish never came true. I was glued together, plastered up and down and looked unconditioned. I wasn't sure of Father's work until Booker Prize eyed me.
Father was an attention seeker. He wanted people to look at him. He wanted people to acknowledge his efforts. He wanted validation so much that he started spilling the beans about my creation to passersby. He didn't care if I would be plagiarised. He didn't care about me at all. One day he even printed a part of me and distributed the pieces of me to his students. I was horrified. I didn't want to lose a part of me to a second grade amateur. But who could stop Father from wanting what he wanted? He made his students read a piece of his masterpiece and listened to their interpretation with a big narcissist's smile on his face. I hated Father for this. But luckily, the chosen piece meant nothing to most of them. Others understood there's something deeply moving in them but failed to recognise anything. I was moving underneath with a liveliness they couldn't handle. Luckily, they didn't know.
When Father was content enough with the distorted pieces of me, he spent two whole days putting me together and typing me out. When he approached a publisher, I was sure he was going to get rejected. And I think it is what everyone thinks. Getting published is a big deal. But things weren't as difficult for Father. He got lucky. People wouldn't know this because Father fabricated a story to create pathos and almost everyone fell for it. People pitied Father for his struggles in getting his magnum opus out in public. I don't blame Father for this. He was just being strategic. Also, he had other difficulties. Though the publishing company readily accepted Father's oeuvre, they wanted to change bits and pieces of me. Father was against it. He loved the sporadic, distorted pastiche that was me. But it was a herculean task for Father to convince them. In the end, he accepted some of their changes. I loved Father's editor, Jane. She understood me. She looked, touched and leafed me with burning desire. I couldn't say if that was out of a pure love for me or her ambition to bring out the best works. But it felt good to be desired for.
Jane had been strong and stubborn about her ideas to others. But she always gave in to Father's wishes. She liked Father. Father liked her as well. But this flame burnt out after a kiss. Jane had to go back to her problematic relationship with this short and bony guy who liked to irk strangers on the street and shoot videos of them. I didn't like him. He took my jacket off me, the first time he saw me in Jane's car. He threw the naked, jacketless, proof copy of me on the backseat and stared at the woman behind my name on my jacket. I thought he was far worse than Father. That day, Jane told Father that she wouldn't approve the cover. But she eventually did. After ending up kissing Father. That was their first kiss. And the last. She went back to the irksome guy. I wished her a better partner. This time, my wish came true but after one long year.
Apart from Jane, Father had had other occasional flings. Notable one was with Margaret. She doesn't read. If she did, she would know who inspired Father a big deal in building me. It was her.
Father's wife knew about Father's trivial pursuit of romances. But she believed nobody can last a week with the eccentric Father and she was right. Father wasn't irksome like Jane's old partner. But Father was not normal. I don't believe writers are all eccentric. I don't believe every writer is a liar or a fool. I don't believe every writer is unorganised, lazy and careless. To say writers are all eccentric, in a way, establishes a common ground for all the writers. Father wasn't in the same ground as every other writer. He was different. Sometimes it became his instinct to choose something that was less popular even if he had no idea about it. He craved being different.
Father was also a funny man. But his jokes mostly provoked people rather than evoking laughter. Dark humour wasn't everyone's favourite and Father didn't understand how sensitive a topic could be to some people. When I was introduced to the world, I was afraid parts of me might trigger some people. I knew it wasn't possible to be accepted by everyone but I still hoped for a decent reception. I think I got that. Or, I got more credence than I expected to.
One of the momentous occasions in our relationship was when I got longlisted for the Booker Prize. Neither I nor Father expected this though Jane had told us, more than once, that she wished for us to win the Booker. Father called her ambitious, again more than once, but Father was happy every single time she told that about us. And he was more than happy - euphoric he was, when I got longlisted for real. This time Father made sure to hug his wife without tossing the teapot. She looked content. Father was proud of himself, his wife was proud of herself for being the essential support and I of myself. I was happy. Jane was positive that I will be the winner. Father started dreaming about that, too. But I didn't get shortlisted. I failed Father. I felt bad about it. Father was boozing for three days, ignoring one and all. Father's wife knew Father better. She made sure that nobody disturbed Father. She was careful about not letting their children anywhere near him throughout his grieving period. Isolation always helped Father clear his mind and alcohol gave him new ideas. Ergo, after the solitary grievance, he was normal again. He was creative again. Something that wasn't me was taking shape in his mind. I grew jealous day by day. But, things changed sooner. I became popular after the longlist. I somehow attracted more people than I did before. Father was happy about me, again. So, he planned on a sequel to me.
Some writers don’t know which of their books should stay a standalone. Father was one of those writers. I was supposed to have been left alone. My fame after the Booker longlist gave Father a hunger for more. He believed a sequel is all it needed for him to become more popular. He was wrong. I wish he never did that.
A local newspaper once wrote that Father’s fame went downhill with the publication of my sequel. I hated that they had to put my name in that headline. But they did. Now, Father was more devastated. He went away from home this time. He drove to the countryside and rented a room. Every morning, he went downtown and eavesdropped on everyone for new inspirations. Every night, he hallucinated men and women in that lonely rented room. He played the circus master, conjuring in and out the freaks from different worlds, all the while holding a snifter glass in his hand. You might think that’s the end of Father’s career. I would’ve bet you anything because I knew what was going to happen. It was not the end of Father’s career. No, it wasn’t. It was the end of our relationship.
Father Mark had a way around booze and words. He netted a new abstract idea in the haze. Soon, I became one of Father's favourites. Not the only favourite. I hated being put among other books that were barely alive. Father didn't put his soul and life into others like he did with me. Father wasn't reading everything from telephone directories to atlas when he conceived them. But they were put in par with my reputation. In fact, one of my juniors won the Booker that I failed to win for Father. I was furious.
It was me who built Father a career. But nobody credited me with anything anymore. With time, the world forgot me. Father forgot me. I couldn't help the rage. That was when I wished for the unforgivable. I feel ashamed of it even today. I wished for revenge. I wished Father his death. I wanted him to die remembering me. Only me. And he did.
Father's death was infamous. It was on a cold night in March. Father's wife was out with their children. Nobody was there to stop Father from going to the deadly tavern that night. No star, no soothsayer, no ‘beware the Ides of March’ warning, nothing. Father went. He got into a drunken brawl at the bar after which he collapsed in a corner. He was found dead the next morning by a passerby. There was no Antony to give him a moving final speech. It was a doctor who confirmed his death saying it was a stroke. Father's wife arrived sooner. She cried. Father's children cried all the while thinking of lines for a eulogy that wasn’t good enough. Later, his fans wrote sad messages online. But to my wonder, his death didn't impact the public as much as his words once did.
Father's wife decided to bury me in the coffin with Father. Until that moment, I never knew she valued me. She said that Father loved me more than anyone else. She said it was me who added meaning to Father's life. It was me who brought life to him. She said it was only appropriate for her to put me next to Father in his grave where he would rest forever. I felt guilty about what I wished for months ago. Father had loved me to the very last. I was jealous and I imagined he didn’t. I felt bad about myself. But I also felt honoured to have had a chance of resting with Father in private.
It has been years now. I saw Father's body decaying. His dead meat reeked. I could sense the stench even today. I too was dying. My ink faded while my pages started to rupture. I felt a deep connection with Father when we lied there together in his coffin. But outside the coffin, I still lived. I was Schrödinger's cat, a quantum fable. I was living and dying at the same time. I was living with thousands and dying with my creator. It felt exhilarating.
Isn't this phenomenal? Father is no more. Father's wife is no more. Jane died. Jane's husband and her ex-irksome boyfriend died. Several years had passed. But what Father created still lasts. I still last.
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