Beneath the branches of the cotton tree, he let his gaze drift across the far fields, a heaviness stirring in his chest. He lit a stick of incense for his brother who lay beneath the earth. With a flick of his lighter, he drew on a cigarette, then placed it against the glowing incense stub at the grave. On either side sat two open cans of beer, and a small packet of candy. The fresh white blossoms of the cotton tree fell quietly around him; he gathered a few and laid them gently by the grave. Their faint fragrance mingled with the light breeze. He always believed that his whispered confessions, his quiet sharing, would somehow reach his friend – that in the afterlife, perhaps, his friend could still hear his heart.
Could he, he wondered, carry on the path his brother had left unfinished? That question lingered in him like an ache, a burden without rest.
The cemetery had changed. Graves now sprouted like mushrooms, yet were neatly arranged, more orderly than before. A grand archway marked its entrance; the muddy ground of the past was now hardened with cement. Some resting places were built into small houses, as if to comfort the dead with shelter. Perhaps, he thought, those lying beneath felt less lonely now.
He sat there, reflecting. In the end, all must return to the soil. What one carries into death is not wealth, not possessions – not even a scrap of clothing. Nothing remains but stone markers, etched with names no different from the ones surrounding him. Was that truly the end? Life and death – nothing else could claim more weight.
So he must live, and he must give of himself in what remains of his years. He once dreamed – foolishly, perhaps – that when he died, his name might one day grace a road in his village. Dreams, after all, were never taxed. So why not dream? However far he might travel, however much he might taste of the world’s glittering cities, his heart always pulled him back to his homeland. He longed to return, to build – a school, a library – something lasting. For if he did not even dare to dream, what then could he ever hope to do?
He thought of those who had strayed from the right path – some of them brothers, kin, neighbors. He had, at times, been able to offer them legal aid when they needed it most. He felt an obligation to live responsibly for the very soil that had raised him, for the village he had pledged to honor since the day he resolved to enter university. What use was working for the outside world if he could not even serve his own? Perhaps he could not yet build grand structures of brick and stone, but he could share knowledge, spread the law, pro bono, even the smallest gestures mattered.
He had heard whispers of growing troubles – young men and women adrift without jobs, slipping into crime: drugs most of all, but also theft, gambling masked as lotteries, robberies. Each evil feeding the next, crime birthing more crime, threatening the fragile peace of the countryside.
This village, so quiet, so serene, carried beneath its stillness a shadow of unrest. And prison, crime, vice – most of it sprouted from poverty, from unemployment, from the lack of education. What could one frail body like his possibly do?
He lifted his eyes. In the mist, figures stooped over rice shoots in the paddies; cattle grazed in the distance. The graves stretched on, silent, their shapes rising and falling with the slope of the land. The drizzle thickened into fine rain. He raised his face to the sky, breathed deeply, and sighed. With heavy heart, he offered his final farewell to his brother’s nameplate, smoke rising in solemn curls.
He promised to return. Yet as he rose, his feet grew heavy, as if reluctant to carry him away…
Excerpt – A Monologue Beneath the Flame Tree – He
