Hell By Harry MacLure

( first published in Savvy, Bombay, March 1990 )

Deep down in her heart she knew she could never love again. Not after what had happened. Not after Raymond.

Shirley Browne looked out of the window at the speeding countryside dim-lit by the afterglow of sunset. The wheels of the train pounding on the rails sent sound waves reverberating not only inside the compartment but also inside her head.

The pain within her was unbelievable, as if etched on her very soul. No one could imagine the anguish she felt. It was almost suffocating – she couldn't sleep, eat or even think properly. No matter what she tried to do, her mind drifted back to Raymond. There just wasn't any diversion, no escape; the pain stayed.

Why did I have to love him so much? she asked herself over and over again. Now look what's happened to me. She knew they were momentary, vile, selfish thoughts, thoughts formed out of sheer anger and frustration. How could she blame Raymond for the pain she now suffered – he had nothing to do with it. She realised that if ever at all she had to throw off her anger, it should be directed at Fate and not at Raymond.

Their love had been pure and simple, yet fierce and strong – a wholesome beautiful love. They had loved each other completely. And nothing was going to stop them from taking love's own inexorable course. Or so she had thought. Fate did just that: it put a stop – an abrupt horrible stop – wrenching them apart. When Raymond died, a part of Shirley died, too. Her world crumbled. Life that seemed so natural, so divine, so eternal, suddenly exploded into tiny topsy-turvy fragments – and Shirley knew she could never put them back into their former coherence again.

From many friends came many words of consolation. Standard clichés that could never lessen her grief. It did nothing to help.

From her roommate: "Time heals the worst of wounds, Shirley. It takes time. But you have to pull yourself together and help the process. It's no use letting yourself go. You'll be alright. It takes time..." Words that meant well, but... it did nothing to help.

Then, from a tactless acquaintance: "Oh, you'd forget him soon enough when you find another chap..." Forget Raymond? Another man? Love again? It did nothing to help... only caused more damage; people can be so unwittingly cruel with what they say. But then, not everyone understood true love.

Time did not heal the wound – it only deepened it. More than three months had gone by since the accident, and Shirley still struggled desperately to fix the broken world she now lived in. Every single day was mental hell for her. She lived a trance-like existence, going about her daily chores like a robot.

Her roommate did many things that she thought would ease Shirley's pain. Shirley was grateful for her kindness. But how could anyone ever share emotional pain? It was Shirley's alone to bear.

Finally, from her roommate: "Shirley, I guess it's not working. You must take a break from work, from Bombay - go home. Trichinopolly will certainly help you heal quicker. And it is much safer for you there than being here in Bombay now. You have leave to your credit. Take it. Go home..."

In a way she was right. Bombay was a dangerous place to be in for Anglo-Indians. 1947 was a very tense and conflicting year for every Anglo-Indian. It was a time when most families were leaving in droves, looking elsewhere – at England, Australia, New Zealand and Canada – for anything that looked greener.

But go home? Shirley never really had a home. Her father was not on the scene when she was born. Whereabouts unknown. Living or dead, no one knew. And Shirley's mother had died while giving birth to her. It was Aunt Marie who saved the situation. She took Shirley under her wing, or was rather forced to: her sister's little baby had no other place to go to. Aunt Marie was a forty-five year old spinster who eked out a living by working as a seamstress at a private garment factory in Trichinopolly. She was a man-hater and it showed in the way Shirley was brought up: she hated seeing Shirley having anything to do with the opposite sex. She severely punished the girl for even a trivial contact such as handing over a ball that was accidentally shot over the compound wall, back to the boy next door. Shirley was never allowed to do anything however remotely connected with boys, without her aunt's approval. Religion and morality were the two prime philosophies Aunt Marie believed in, and unconsciously instilled into the young girl. And there was not a day that went by without Aunt Marie telling Shirley what a burden it was to feed, clothe and educate her. Always, the lecture ended with Shirley's father being the villain – a man after all...

* * *

As the train rattled noisily over a long bridge, Shirley couldn't help but think of Aunt Marie. She was seventy now. Still fiercely independent, still hating men. In a way, Shirley looked forward to going 'home' to Trichinopoly and seeing the old lady, which she hadn't done for over two years now. Spending two whole months with Aunt Marie, she hoped, might bring some sort of meaning back into Shirley's ruptured life. She hoped.

Memories flashed in her mind like scenes from a movie. The good ones and the bad ones went past her inner eye. She remembered the bad memories more clearly. Shirley could never forget the day when Aunt Marie had grabbed a pair of scissors and gone berserk: she cut all of Shirley's curls away. "I saw that Dickson boy looking at you in church with that all-too-familiar gleam in his eye. I also heard him say things about your hair to other boys. I cut your curls off because it makes you look too pretty. It's dangerous to look pretty when you live in a man's world. It's for your own good, Shirley; mark my words, you'll thank me for protecting you one day. Don't trust men. They're all the same."

Shirley was seventeen then. That night she looked into the mirror and cried herself to sleep. But she loved Aunt Marie. She had no one else in the world. Days, weeks and months passed. After graduating from college and doing a secretarial course, she applied for a job in Bombay. She got it. She was excited to make the move.

The day Shirley was leaving for Bombay, Aunt Marie had come out into the compound to see her off. "Be careful, Shirley girl. There are many men in Bombay. It's a big bad city. Remember, men are all out to hurt young girls like you..." Aunt Marie said, leaning over the wooden gate under the shady mango tree. Shirley gripped her small suitcase more firmly and nodded, "Yes, Aunt Marie, I'll remember." Before she turned away to walk down to the bus stop she noticed that tears had welled up in Aunt Marie's eyes; it was the first time in her life she saw her cry. And it was funny that Shirley never did find out why Aunt Marie hated men so much – it had always remained an off-limits question.

When Shirley met Raymond Conway in Bombay she was scared to even admit to herself that she loved him. Guilt seemed to encase her. He's a man! something had screamed inside her. Beware, he's a man. But a couple of months after going out with him, all those years of fending off boys seemed such a silly thing to have done. Surely God did not intend it that way when He made man and woman. Why should a woman feel guilty when she loved a man? And why should she hate him? When Raymond kissed her for the first time, Shirley hugged him tightly and laughed. "Oh, what a silly old thing my Aunt Marie is. She doesn't know what she’s missed!" she said, and seeing Raymond's quizzical look, laughed even louder.

* * *

The train was climbing a gradient and the old steam locomotive was letting out a lot a smoke and noise. Thousands of tiny red sparks flew across the nightscape reminding Shirley of the fireflies they'd once seen in Khandala. Treasured occasional weekends spent away from Bombay with Raymond. He had come running into the room lifted her up from the bed and carried her out onto the balcony. "I want you to see this, Curly." He fondly called her Curly because of her curly hair. And she adored him all the more for giving her a pet name.

The fireflies were circling a tree nearby and they seemed to form a nocturnal dance of lights, choreographed by Nature itself.

"Oh, Raymond, it's so beautiful..."

Raymond held her close and whispered into her ear, "Not as beautiful as you are... will you marry me, Curly?"

Her heart almost burst with joy. That night, inbetween intervals of love-making, they spoke of nothing else but the preparations for the wedding. He said, “Let’s have it in Trichinopolly!” She said, “No, let’s have it in Bangalore! It’ll give Aunt Marie a reason to see Bangalore!”

The following week Raymond died; three weeks before their scheduled wedding day. She had gone into the morgue surprisingly calm – it was all a mistake. Raymond was not going to be there – how could he die in a stupid train accident? Crossing the railway lines near Byculla station and getting killed was just not the way to die. It couldn't be... it was all a big mistake. The body they showed her was not Raymond's. It was mangled and torn beyond identification. But the face – miraculously, there was not even a scratch on the face – was Raymond's. Shirley had gone straight to a nearby church. She stood in a corner and sobbed silently; then she looked up at the altar and said softly: "Why...? Why...? Why...?"

* * *

The sharp whistle from the engine snapped her back to the present. There was a lump in her throat and she found that her eyes and cheeks were wet. The old Sardarji sitting opposite to her was taking quick glances at Shirley, with concern showing on his bearded countenance. She wiped her face hastily with her handkerchief.

No, she musn't let herself go like this. Life has to go on. She had to live. She looked out of the window at faraway flickering lights slipping past into the night. There was a sheet of lighting in the sky that suddenly transformed the rolling countryside for a quick second into a dazzling spectacle. The distant rumble of thunder followed. Shirley shivered. She realised that she had to go to the toilet; she got up and walked down the darkened corridor. Most passengers were asleep or dozing. She passed an old man who stood puffing away at a cigar, and then turned left to the toilet. She flipped the latch open, pushed the door and entered.

She let out a short scream that ended in a strangled gasp. Her hands flew to her face; her eyes round with fear, she looked at the toilet in horror. Only, it was not the toilet. It was a long room with radiant blue walls. There were no windows. A narrow door at the far end stood ajar. A thin white mist that hung in the air gave the whole room an unearthly look. Shirley whirled around, instinctively groping for the door latch. She couldn't find it. Then she realised why: there was no door! But how had she come in? Suddenly she felt the room closing in on her; the blue walls started to telescope into themselves. The long room was now becoming shorter. Claustrophobic waves passed through her. She screamed. Her rational mind could not figure out what was going on. All she knew was that she had to get back onto the train. No, she was on the train! God, if this was a nightmare, please let me wake up. But it was not a nightmare. It was for real. All of a sudden the room had become icy cold and the blue walls were still closing in on her. The narrow door then started to open wider. And standing one step beyond the threshold was — "Raymond!" Shirley cried. "But ...but... you're dead!"

Raymond stood like a statue staring at her with sadness in his eyes.

"No, he's alive!" A distorted figure in a silhouette appeared behind Raymond; it seemed to dance erratically. "He needs you, Shirley. He wants you." The figure was not still for even a moment, a hazy dancing shadow. Shirley vaguely recognized who it was. Her eyes blurred with tears. The cold, the fear, the unreality of what was happening – all sensations left her body. Only Raymond mattered now. She wanted to touch him. Wanted to hold him close. Wanted to be in his arms once again. I've missed you, Raymond. Oh, how I've missed you.

Suddenly a thought struck her. "Is this... is this Hell?” she heard herself say and immediately regretted asking, for how could Hell be such a cold place?

She saw scaly lips peel back, revealing ugly yellow teeth, and laughter boomed. "You mortals can really be naive." A pointed tail swung into clear view, then was whipped back into haziness. As the grinning porous face danced behind Raymond's back, Shirley thought she saw a pair of horns.

"Come on Shirley – cross over. Raymond needs you."

She moved forward.

"Noooooo! Don't do it, Curly!"

Raymond did not say the words, but she heard them in her head. She hesitated for a moment, looking over Raymond's shoulder into the other room. She couldn't see anything except for a bluish haze, but somehow she felt that she would find solace there. She shouldn't keep Raymond waiting. A chill blast of piercing-cold air swept at her dress, invigorating her body and soul.

She crossed the threshold and stepped into the room.

"Noooooo...!" Raymond's mouth formed an O. But the scream was hers.

The last thing Shirley remembered was seeing thousands of dancing fire-flies. They looked so beautiful.

* * *

The old man was not sure. He stood in the corridor scratching his head. He had heard a scream and in a flash saw something or someone fly past the window. He took another puff from his cigar. Should he pull the emergency cord to stop the train? Should he wake up the dozing conductor? Or should he tell his wife? He shook his head. Damn, but he was not sure. What he was sure of was what his wife would say: "You have bad eye sight and good imagination. Now put that cigar out and get back to sleep!" He shook his head again, took a last puff and threw the cigar butt out of the window. Better leave well alone, he thought; he ambled back to his compartment. And the train rattled away into the black night...

End

Courtesy: Anglos In The Wind.

Madras-based Harry MacLure is the editor of "Anglos In The Wind", the international magazine for Anglo-Indians; he is also a professional cartoonist, comic book illustrator and short story writer. For samples of his work, please visit www.harrymaclure.com or write to him at harrymaclure@yahoo.com