Oliver Benjamin
weird. Some mornings I would be woken up by his hysterical
laughter which would go on unmercifully for up to twenty minutes,
apparently for no reason at all.
For three days we said virtually nothing to each other and aside
from occasional visits from sick people in the village, it seemed as if
nothing happened. Still, he seemed about as happy as anyone could
ever be, and I found that odd. I pegged him for something of a
simpleton.
Then, on the evening of the third day, as he was making sure
that my leg was well-wrapped he tucked me in and said something
that took me by surprise.
“You are deeply unhappy,” he said.
“No I’m not. Why do you say that?” I answered defensively.
“Don’t be embarrassed.”
“I’m not. Why do you say that?”
“Your face is turning red.”
“No, I mean why do you say that I’m unhappy?”
He looked at me intently.
“Because your eyes. They are dead.”
There he went with the eyes again. Maybe he was the village
ophthalmologist as well. Before I could say anything, he took my
hand and said warmly:
“We will start tomorrow,” and then he blew out the lamp and
went to sleep for the night.
I stared at the darkness through eyeballs that had just been
pronounced dead. Though it had been extinguished, the image of the
lamp’s flame was still burned on my retina. I watched the ghost burn
before me, until it finally dimmed and disappeared behind the
familiar blue dots and black background of a perceived darkness.
CHAPTER 31
Haridas woke me the next day at sunrise. The cold morning air bit at
me as I walked outside, but I had to admit that it was pleasant
enough. The sun coming up over the mountains illuminated the
valleys below us. The activities that followed did not match the grace
of the surrounding scenery, however.
Haridas had filled what looked like a small flower pot with warm
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