‘Baba!’ My ten-year-old son pulled my hand, ‘Was it very difficult?’
‘Was what very difficult, my love?’ I asked, while smiling into his curious dark eyes.
‘Was it very difficult becoming your own father?’ He chose his words carefully.
Instead of answering his question, I looked afar. I looked towards the place where time and space ceased to have a meaning - the place where all was obscured under a slowly falling, golden dust. This is from where a few memories smiled back at me, while the others were wrapped in the grey shrouds of sadness. It was a magical place - a place where dead butterflies rested forever in the glass jar of nostalgia, but their colors remained immortal. I have always had this glass jar, tucked away safely within the folds of my heart. It is my most valuable asset and also a friend who keeps me company.
Deep beneath ancient Bakkah lies a secret chamber with a forgotten goddess - and the woman who guards her secret taught a heartbroken scholar why patriarchy buried the divine feminine and why wisdom requires embracing loss.
An epic narrative set in ancient Becca about Venusian, a scholar whose broken heart drives him up a mountain to seek a legendary hermit, only to discover Inanna, a warrior priestess of the forgotten goddess Ishtaar.
A wise man once said that all great quests for knowledge start with a broken heart.
The traveler was tired. He could feel and listen to each little creak in his middle-aged joints. All the creaks sang in unison, the chorus of weariness and exhaustion.
He looked around. The red sun was setting behind the pale mountains, painting the sky in shades of gold, crimson, and purple. The stars had started glimmering faintly just above the eastern horizon.
The mountain under his feet was ancient, like all other mountains - its stones witness to billions of years of sadness. He could feel it gently vibrating as if it was trying to tell him stories of the days past.
‘If only I could talk to the mountains,’ he chuckled to himself.
He checked his leather mushkeezah and greedily sucked upon the few leftover drops. The sudden chill in the air seeped into his bones, almost freezing his sweaty brow.
‘I should not have stopped,’ he thought.
He looked up. The summit was almost within reach.
‘I can reach it,’ he decided determinedly. ‘But what if I do not find the old hermit in his cave? What if he is already dead? What if he was never there in the first place?’
Then, shaking away the onslaught of negative thoughts, the traveler readjusted the load of his meager belongings on his shoulder. He strengthened his grip on the gnarled wooden staff and restarted climbing.
He was Venusian, a resident of the ancient city of Becca. As he climbed higher, he could see the city down below and thousands of twinkling lamp-lights. The city was located in a narrow valley, in the middle of the Paran Desert.
He was not of Arabian descent. His father was Procopius of Caesarea, a leading late-antique scholar from the ancient region of the Levant, and a prominent Roman historian for the Roman Emperor Justinian.
It was love that had brought him to that cold and barren mountain range, which was located just North of Becca. More appropriately, it was a broken heart that drove his tired steps. But it was not the hope of regaining lost love. Instead, it was a quest for knowledge.
Venusian did not weep when she betrayed his love. He did not beg her to stay. He just let her fade away in the distance, anxiously awaiting the first jab of cold pain.
He was not a sadist. He was just a man who knew pain brought along so many gifts within its dark fold - the gift of understanding, the gift of knowledge, and the gift of awareness. Maybe that is why the old gods made him fall in love with her.
By the time he reached the top, darkness had already set in. Venusian breathed in deeply the pure mountain air. The cold air felt warm against the coldness of his heart.
The stars glittered across the length and breadth of the ever-stretching galaxy, sparkling like spilled jewels. Towards the west, the sky was still a deep hue of purple, the farewell gift of the long departed sun. He looked around but could see nothing except dark boulders and a few dry bushes. No hermit or caves were visible.
Suddenly, he saw a dull orange glow behind a nearby boulder. He eagerly stepped ahead, but then the earth vanished beneath his tired feet. Venusian could hear himself scream and then heard the dull bang of his head hitting a small rock. The night became absolutely dark within seconds.
It seemed only moments had passed when he reopened his eyes and found himself warm and comfortable. He found himself lying on a rough bed of thistles, while a crackling fire was burning nearby.
Venusian looked up and could see a low ceiling of rough-hewn rock. Dark shadows were dancing on the ceiling, playing hide and seek with the red glow of fire.
He tried to look around, and the sudden movement brought back pain. He groaned loudly and delicately felt his head. There was an apricot-sized lump, extremely sore to touch.
‘It’s nothing but just a bruise. You are quite alright.’ A deep and almost female voice resonated around the cave.
Startled, he looked up. A woman was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the fire, and her broad back was covered with a saffron-colored robe.
There were gold patterns on the robe. He looked at the patterns closely and identified an eight-pointed star, enclosed within a circle alongside a crescent moon, and a rayed solar disk. There were also strange words written on the robe with the same gold paint, in apparently the Babylonian or the Sumerian script. Venusian tried to sit up to examine the words and symbols, but groaned with pain again.
‘Do not move. Keep on resting. There is no reason to get up. You are safe.’ The robed back spoke again, and Venusian ceased all efforts to get up. Within minutes, he was asleep again.
He woke up to a brilliant afternoon. The sun was shining brightly, and even from inside the cave, he could catch sight of delicate, white clouds. He looked around, but there was no sign of anyone else in the cave.
He thankfully sipped from a bowl of fresh, sweet water, placed near his makeshift bed, and then got up with the assistance of his staff.
The cave was a strange place. Its rock walls were decorated with crude paintings and carvings made by people from before the dawn of civilization. There were scenes of hunting and dancing and also of birth and death, all surrounded by innumerable handprints. There were also a few rosettes drawn in gold.
There were only a few material possessions inside the cave - a rolled up bed in a corner with a few pillows and blankets, a few clay pots and earthenware, and a small collection of dry wood. But everything was arranged in an orderly fashion, and the cave looked neat and clean.
Firmly holding onto his staff, Venusian delicately put pressure on his legs. They were sore but strong. After a few moments, he grew confident and was successful in walking out of the cave.
The cave was located under a bluff, and that is why he was unable to detect it. It had a small stone platform in front. There was a large flat stone boulder on the farther end of the platform, and beyond that boulder, there was absolutely nothing - just a sheer drop of hundreds of feet.
The sun was washing the complete valley down below with a golden splendor. But Venusian had no time to look at the valley and the glittering city of Becca, visible in the far distance. Instead, his eyes were fixed on another spectacle.
A woman was sitting on the boulder and facing the valley. A grown Barbary lion cradled his massive head in her delicate lap. She was dressed in all leather, though it was unfair to call it a dress. It was more like a female battle attire in two pieces, both insufficient to cover her attractive form. Her auburn hair was blowing in the crisp mountain wind.
On hearing him approach, the lion suddenly sprang up to attention. It growled and faced him as though protecting his mistress. Venusian observed that it was a full-grown lion, which was at least four and a half hands in height, with a nose to tail length of approximately eight hands. The lion had a majestic brown-black mane, which almost touched the ground between his proudly stretched forelegs.
‘Sit down, Gala.’ The woman commanded the lion softly, without turning her head. ‘He is a friend.’
Hearing her gentle yet firm command, Gala the lion turned back and sat down on the boulder again, with his head in her lap.
After a few moments, the woman got up gracefully and faced Venusian.
He was awed by her beauty and elegance. She was tall - taller than him and was muscular. There was not an inch of fat anywhere on her finely-toned, bronze body. She had a high forehead and deep, green eyes flecked with gold. Her eyebrows arched like scimitars above her eyes, and an aquiline nose. The nose descended onto full red lips and a round chin.
Her scant leather garments were without any adornment, but there was a gold rosette-shaped pendant hanging around her lovely neck. She held a twisted knot of reeds lightly in her right hand, while the left was placed casually along the lovely curve of her hip.
‘You look perfectly alright, Venusian.’ She smiled at him.
‘How do you know my name?’ He was surprised as there was absolutely nothing in his belongings that could betray his identity.
‘Between the mighty blue sky and the patient expanse of mother earth, there is very little, which I do not know.’ She said while making a wide gesture with her well-formed arms.
Venusian shook his head. It all seemed a dream.
‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ He asked.
‘I am Inanna of Nippur, and I choose to live here.’ She said, gesturing at the cave.
‘But….but who are you?’ He was perplexed.
‘I am a humble priestess of Ishtaar.’ She answered with a smile.
‘And Gala….?’ Venusian pointed towards the lion, who was lazily studying the birds circling high up in the sky.
‘One day, I was roaming the forests of Akkadia when a serpent attacked me.’ Inanna said with closed eyes, recalling something important from her past. ‘Gala came to my help. He attacked and killed the serpent. Since that day, he has been my staunch companion.’
‘And who is Ishtaar? Is she a goddess?’ Venusian asked. ‘It is strange that I have never heard her name.’
Instead of answering him, Inanna turned and climbed the boulder.
‘Come, join me.’ She motioned to Venusian.
He hesitatingly climbed up the boulder and stood on it alongside Inanna. They were both facing the valley, but Venusian’s efforts were more focused on avoiding stepping on the tail of the resting lion.
‘Don’t worry.’ Inanna said with a smile. ‘He knows how to take care of himself.’
Becca could be seen down below in the valley. It was a beautiful city, which was located on the lower slopes of a mountain, and lacked any defensive walls. The mud and brick houses appeared to be neatly stacked over each other. The streets looked like threads marking the boundaries of small localities and neighborhoods.
Somewhat located on the outskirts of the city, was Bakkah - a place of worship, thousands of years old. It was not a grand structure - just a small square room, built with dark stones, in the middle of a circular courtyard. Very few were allowed to go inside that room. For most of the populace and the visiting pilgrims, the small building was holy and hence, out of bounds. But Venusian had been inside that room many times.
‘What is inside Bakkah?’ Inanna asked him.
‘It is the abode of nine gods. There is Hubal, who presides over Wadd, Suwa’, Yaghuth, Ya’uq, and Nasr. Then there are also Al-Lat, Al-Uzza, and Manat.’ Venusian dutifully counted the names of the nine deities, six male and three female.
Nobody knew the origin of the deities. Some said they were brought from Egypt and India, while others considered them local.
‘Yes, the nine deities.’ Inanna smiled. ‘And what lies below Bakkah?’
‘Below Bakkah? There is nothing below it.’ Venusian was surprised. He had seen each nook and cranny of the abode of gods, but had never heard of any other place below the sacred chamber.
‘Deep down, below the chamber of Bakkah, there is another secret chamber - far more sacred and far more significant.’ Inanna said.
‘And what lies inside that chamber?’ Venusian was very curious.
‘Ishtaar lives in that chamber.’ She placed her hand lightly on Venusian’s shoulder, and he could feel a strange heat flowing from her to him.
‘Ishtaar?’ He asked, puzzled by the name.
‘Ishtaar is the most ancient of all the gods and goddesses.’ Inanna explained. ‘She is the mother who gave birth to everything. She gave birth to life, and she gave birth to death. She created knowledge, and she created wisdom for those who desired it. She created light, and she created darkness for those who chose to follow it.’
‘But why is she hidden in that chamber? Why is she not up there alongside Hubal and the other deities?’ Venusian asked, still puzzled and confused.
‘Because she is a female and not a male.’ Inanna said and looked deep into his curious eyes. ‘In the beginning, it was the woman and not the man who ruled. Women led their tribes and sat on the tribal councils. Women rode the stallions and participated in the wars. And man respected woman. He respected her for her patience, and strength, and for her wisdom, and intellect. He respected her for her power to give birth and her power to create life out of nothing. But slowly and gradually, man’s heart was corrupted and his intentions went foul.’
‘Corrupted how?’ Venusian asked.
‘He looked at the apparent frailness of women, and identified somebody who could be objectified.’ Inanna replied. ‘He looked at the immense value of women, and found an instrument to satisfy his greed and lust.’
‘What happened then?’ He asked with a growing interest.
‘When women lost their power and status, so did Ishtaar.’ Inanna answered while smiling at his impatience. ‘Ishtaar reminded men of the former glory of the women. She threatened the security of the men. So men relegated her to the deep secret chamber - hidden from the world for times to come.’
‘But why did they not destroy Ishtaar once and for all?’ Venusian asked her.
‘Because men were afraid of her power, and also because men knew she was the true holder of power.’ Inanna answered the query of his inquisitive guest.
‘Come now.’ She said and grabbed hold of his hand. ‘Enough talk of Ishtaar and the greed of men. It is time to eat. You must be hungry.’
Venusian spent many days and many nights with Inanna in her cave. Whenever they were hungry, Gala the lion hunted in the mountains and brought them fresh game. Fresh water came from a well-hidden spring in the mountain.
He learnt so much from her.
She told him of the dark skies, filled with mysterious, moving stars, and also of the treasures hidden deep beneath the earth.
She told him about the days that were, and the days that were yet to come, along with an onslaught of blood and gore.
And she made him understand desire, and the accompanying darkness, and also lust, and its dark folds of insatiable greed.
With each passing day, Venusian’s knowledge expanded, but he remained thirsty for more.
Then, one day, Inanna informed Venusian that it was the ‘Night of the Great Loss.’
‘What is the Night of the Great Loss?’ He asked her.
‘It is the celebration of the great loss, when Ishtaar lost Shukaletuda.’ Inanna replied while rubbing her bronze body with olive oil.
‘Who was Shukaletuda?’ Venusian asked as he had never heard the name before.
‘Shukaletuda was Ishtaar’s lover.’ Inanna said and looked at him. ‘He was proud and handsome and ruled the heavens with Ishtaar, by her side. They were like two souls within one body - true soulmates who together were capable of conquering the universe.’
‘Soulmates?’ Venusian asked with a smile.
‘Yes.’ Inanna smiled back at him. ‘They compensated and complemented each other’s weaknesses and strengths. Where Shukaletuda was too trusting, Ishtaar was skeptical and experienced. Where Ishtaar was too energetic and excited, Shukaletuda was patient and observant. Where Shukaletuda was too careless and forgiving, Ishtaar was careful and meticulous. And where Ishtaar was too emotionally sensitive, Shukaletuda was comforting and loving.’
‘If their love and bond were so strong, how did they lose each other? Venusian asked Inanna.
‘They started walking the path to loss when Ishtaar became insecure, and her insecurities corrupted her love with Shukaletuda.’ She replied sadly. ‘She started searching for security, but couldn’t find it within her heart. Then one night, to find the solution to her problem, she bowed down to the Lord of the Underworld of Gilgamesh.’
‘What is the Underworld of Gilgamesh?’ He asked while sensing the darkness that came with the name.
‘It is the world of dust and ashes, ruled by evil and darkness.’ Inanna answered with a shudder. ‘When Ishtaar bowed down, the Universal Consciousness got angry with her and decreed that she be limited to the confines of the earth, while Shukaletuda was bound to the heavens. That night is called the Night of the Great Loss.’
‘Universal consciousness? What is that?’ Inanna’s words were adding scores to Venusian’s knowledge.
‘Universal Consciousness is the one true God. It has always been the one true God, and it will always be the one true God.’ She explained with a smile, while brushing her dark tresses.
Thus came the Night of the Great Loss. There was a bright, full moon in the dark, blue-black sky, and all was silent. It was beautiful, but a strange heaviness could be felt in the night air. Venusian had all his senses on alert. His senses were telling him that something significant was about to happen.
Inanna sensed his anxiety and smiled kindly. She prepared an aromatic potion of herbs and made him drink it. The potion had a heady fragrance and a thick taste. It calmed Venusian’s nerves and relaxed his body.
Inanna was robed in saffron again and was fiddling with a metal contraption. It was an eight-pronged frame with a small receptacle at the end of each prong. She carefully placed the fat of some animal in each receptacle and laced it with yellow phosphorus.
Suddenly, Venusian could hear strange music. It was emanating from nowhere in particular. There were heavy drum beats, and also some wooden stringed instruments - weeping in unison. The symphony was strange and reminded him of his lost love.
Inanna started gyrating to the music and then abruptly removed her robe and threw it aside. Her bronze and oiled body gleamed like polished marble in the pale moonlight. She picked up the metal frame and started dancing again. Her movements became faster with each passing moment. As the phosphorous came into contact with air, it first gave off a few random sparks, and then, one by one, each small receptacle burst into flame.
Venusian sat entranced. He intently watched Inanna, dancing and romancing the fire. She twisted and turned in flowing movements, and the mountain danced with her. The burning receptacles drew circles of light in the darkness. Slowly and gradually, Inanna became the nucleus while the receptacles rotated around her in their respective burning orbits.
Inanna kept singing, and Venusian kept listening to her words, floating with the mysterious music. Then, intoxicated, he got up and joined Inanna. They both danced until fatigue overcame their exhausted bodies, and they fell on the platform in each other’s arms.
When Venusian got up the next morning, Inanna had long gone with all her meager belongings.
He cried her name and roamed the mountain slopes, but there was no trace of her. He searched each nook and each crevice behind each rock, but she couldn’t be found. And finally, one day, losing all hope of ever finding Inanna again, Venusian returned to Becca.
‘Tell me, O wise and sacred one, is there a secret chamber deep beneath the Bakkah?’ Venusian asked the Chief Priest of Bakkah.
‘Why do you ask, my son? What is it that you seek?’ The Priest was surprised. It had been ages since he had been asked about the existence of the secret chamber.
‘I have had the strangest of dreams.’ Venusian had no intention of telling the Priest about Inanna. ‘I dreamt that I descended into a deep chamber beneath the Bakkah, and found a goddess there.’
‘And what will you give me if I take you to that chamber?’ The Priest asked with greed sparkling in his old eyes like a blue sapphire.
‘Anything you want, O wise one.’ Venusian humbly bowed and replied.
A secret deal was struck between the two, and one night the Priest led Venusian to Bakkah. He opened up the old brass lock with a heavily engraved and complicated key and took him inside.
When an oil lamp was lighted by the Priest, Venusian could see all the nine deities, standing silently in their respective nooks within the wall. The Priest reached behind the effigy of Hubal. He operated some secret mechanism, and a secret trap door opened up right in the middle of the floor. Stairs could be seen, descending into unending darkness.
Venusian descended the stairs, led by the Priest, who was holding the oil lamp high in his hand. Venusian tried to count the stairs but lost track after one thousand, and still they kept on descending into the bowels of the earth. Finally, they reached an ancient door.
It was a strange door - half gold and half silver, and intricately engraved. The golden half depicted a terrible place full of demons and misery, while the silver one was rich with scenes of peace and tranquility.
The Priest operated a few levers, muttered some unintelligible words under his breath, and the door silently swung open. He entered and lighted a few lamps, and then called the younger man inside. Venusian took a deep breath and entered the chamber.
The chamber was a large room, almost fifty hands in width and a hundred in length. There was a marble-covered walkway in the center, which led from the door to the farthest end of the room, while on both sides of the walkway, there was a pond of black water. Strangely, the water in the pond was not stagnant, and a faint aroma of herbs and spices rose from its surface.
At the very end of the walkway, there was a raised platform, and on that platform, on a stone throne, there sat a life-sized effigy of a woman. Venusian walked up to the effigy and smiled at the familiar features. It was a life-like stone statue of Inanna. He kissed the statue’s cold lips and then sat down, lost in meditation for the next few hours.
On the way back to the surface, the Priest was startled to hear Venusian singing. He tried to focus on his words:
The grandfather clock ticked in the corner where three generations had died or gone mad, and Wiley realized his ‘quest’ to save his son from Alzheimer’s had only one possible ending.
Content Warning: This story contains infanticide and deals with severe mental illness, caregiver trauma, and the psychological deterioration caused by dementia. The ending is deeply disturbing and may be triggering for readers who have experienced loss of loved ones to Alzheimer’s or other degenerative diseases.
‘Tic toc…tic toc….tick toc!’ In a dark, lonely corner, the old grandfather clock was ticking its decades-old, sad mantra.
It was pouring outside, heavy drops streaking down the thick, plate-glass windows. The raindrops left twisting, abstract patterns on the glass, whose pearly contours seemed frozen in the random lightning flashes. Outside, the urban landscape was silhouetted against a dark purple sky - dark giants morbidly sparring with lightning.
Wylie stood at the window, watching the slowly moving lights of the late-night traffic below. He listened to the muffled bass of thunder and the unending symphony of the weeping skies. But inside, his heart was beating in perfect synchronization with the clock, aware of each passing second.
The sound of muffled snickering disturbed his reverie. He turned around and smelt the pungent stink of piss.
‘Shit! I forgot to change his diaper again.’ He silently cursed himself and looked at his dying father.
Aaron was secure within the cosy comfort of his bed and was lost in his own sad world. He was oblivious to the warm, wet pool between his legs and was looking through Wylie with rheumy eyes, while smiling at some amusing but rapidly fading memory.
Wylie stared back and was momentarily startled to see a small spark glowing in the depths of his father’s eyes. But then he sighed in hopelessness. There was no spark, and there was no light. The hotline connecting his father’s eyes with his grey matter was broken forever.
Over the last ten years or so, Wiley’s empathy for his father had gone rather stale. His gaze shifted from the pitiful figure in the bed to the gold, gleaming saxophone. It stood in the corner, almost graceful in its sad silence. To him, both his father and the saxophone belonged to the same era - once dazzlingly remarkable, but now dying and forgotten.
Pending the cleaning ritual for another five minutes, Wiley looked out again at the heavy storm clouds. Their ugly bellies were pregnant with rain. He thought of a similar evening in the far-off past. It was raining and his father always loved rain. Rains somehow inspired the musician hidden inside the heart of a common accountant.
‘Wiley, can you please bring her over here?’ By her, Aaron of course meant his saxophone.
‘Every beautiful thing is a woman to father,’ Wiley silently chuckled to himself.
He delicately picked up the saxophone and cradled it in his arms as small boys do when they are sometimes entrusted with a prized possession. He carefully brought the gleaming instrument to his father, who lovingly ruffled his hair and held the saxophone like a lovely waltz partner. Wiley still remembered the gleam in his father’s eyes. They were alight with the secret dreams of a yet undiscovered maestro.
Aaron cleaned the mouthpiece with a silk handkerchief and then started playing. His lips blew magic into the polished brass, and he became one with the instrument. The rain and music made love, while the clouds clapped thunder to the beat.
Wiley loved to think of those evenings and those magical moments from the past. He remembered very well his father’s immaculately pressed, black tuxedo, and the carefully brushed-back and gleaming, gelled hair. The dark aroma of Cuban cigars hung about his person like a warm and comforting aura. That was Aaron - a loving and caring father and a brilliant jazz musician. That was Aaron - enjoying the end of the age of sanity.
Then came Alzheimer’s. It was like Wiley’s father got possessed by some ancient evil spirit, who demanded more from its unwilling host with each passing moment. Slowly and gradually, the demonic spirit fed on the soul and body alike, draining them of each speck of intelligent awareness.
A fresh clap of thunder ended Wiley’s sojourn into the past. He flexed his tired shoulders and went to the cupboard to get a fresh diaper. He dipped the corner of a clean towel into warm water and lovingly cleaned up his father like a mother cleans a baby. Their roles had reversed. His father had become his child.
The warmth of the wet towel brought a kind smile to his father’s face. But Wiley knew it was his subconscious playing games. His father was an empty house playing host to a dark void. He no longer felt any emotion, yet his mind was alive. It was a playground of tired and disjointed pieces of memories. It was a puzzle that could never again be completed. Aaron, the accountant and the brilliant jazz musician, had left the house a long time ago.
Wiley gathered the wasted skeleton in his arms and carried him carefully to the rocking chair in the corner. While adjusting the blankets around his father’s frail shoulders, he sensed a movement and turned around. There stood John, his nine-year-old son, leaning against the doorway.
John was a beautiful boy with black, shining eyes, an almost perfect milk chocolate complexion, and a head full of the densest black fur. But his eyes were not shining as he silently looked at his grandfather. Instead, they were two deep pools of growing awareness. Looking into John’s eyes, Wiley felt the jarring onset of an unsettling déjà vu.
It was a hot and humid August afternoon. Wiley had just come back home from a baseball game - all sweaty and soiled. Ignoring his mom’s pleas for a quick shower, he bounded up the stairs, eager to tell his father about his home run. Passing his grandfather’s room, he heard his father singing softly. The door was slightly ajar, so Wiley managed to slip inside unnoticed. His father was wiping the sweat off the old man’s brow and softly singing his favourite lullaby:
‘The land is dark, the land is sleepy,
no time to be happy, no time to be weepy
Close your eyes and go to sleep,
beware of the shadows, dark and creepy’
Aaron murmured the last sentence with almost a sad acceptance and rearranged his father’s head on the pillow.
‘It is sad.’ Wiley couldn’t keep his mouth shut for long.
‘Yeah, indeed, it is sad, my boy.’ Aaron said while slowly turning his head. ‘Come here and give a kiss to your grandfather.’
Wiley hesitatingly stepped forward and planted a quick peck on his grandpa’s wasted cheek. He never liked the old man, who always stank and kept on staring blankly in space. His disgust changed to hatred one day when the old man knocked him down for touching his saxophone. Wiley ran crying to his father, expecting a quick retribution. But his father did nothing. He just wiped his tears and his bloody nose and said, ‘Look, Wiley, your grandpa is a very sick man and he deserves your sympathy. Just avoid going into his room more often. And please don’t touch his things.’
It was Wiley’s first meeting with the Alzheimer’s.
Shrugging off the bitter and unhappy memory, Wiley just gave a kind and tired smile to his son. He checked on Aaron one final time and then joined his wife and son at the dining table.
‘What’s up, John?’ Wiley asked the little boy, who was trying to avoid looking directly at him.
‘You again forgot to come to my game, Dad.’ John muttered angrily, and Wiley jolted with realization.
‘I forgot to put on the old man’s diaper, and I forgot to attend John’s game. Is this what I think it is?’ Wiley thought resignedly.
Cloe got up from her chair and stood behind John. ‘What’s wrong, little one?’ she asked while massaging his tiny shoulders.
‘No big deal.’ John shrugged in annoyance and ran to his room.
Cloe looked at Wiley concernedly.
‘Wiley baby, what’s happening to you? Yesterday, you forgot to pick up groceries, and last week you just skipped the old man’s appointment with the doctor.’
It was at that moment that Cloe saw fear jump into Wiley’s eyes. The fear reached out and its dark tentacles slithered out to grip her own heart.
‘Oh merciful God in heavens, not him please…..not my Wiley.’ She thought and ran into the solace of her husband’s arms.
‘Wiley, is it…..?’ She whispered against his strong chest, almost afraid to speak the name of the disease.
‘No, godammit no, I am ok, Cloe. I am really fine.’ But Wiley knew the reality. Alzheimer’s had come visiting again.
He tenderly caressed his wife’s head.
‘You love me now, darling, but wait for the time when I cease to be Wiley and then, you will turn as bitter as gall.’ Wiley thought sadly of his own dead mother.
It was 1978. Wiley had just returned from school and walked straight into a mom-dad confrontation.
‘For Christ’s sake! Why don’t you go to the doctor? You are forgetting things. You forgot our anniversary. You forgot Wiley’s birthday, and today you just forgot how to bang your own wife.’ Wiley’s mother went on with her frustrated bantering, but Aaron just kept on looking out the window.
‘Are you listening to me?’ She screamed.
‘Yes, I am,’ he answered while turning his head. ‘Nothing is wrong with me, baby. It’s just middle age creeping in.’
Wiley’s mother just stood there. She grabbed the back of the dining chair for much-needed support, her knuckles turning white with silent rage. Then she breathed deeply, walked to her husband, hugged him tightly, and cried.
Wiley loved both of them and wished with all the intensity of his six-year-old heart for his father to get better. But no matter how many times his mom cried, no matter how many times he prayed to God, Wiley’s father kept stepping away into oblivion. He kept walking towards a dark void and the impending doom.
Aaron was an accountant at the local bank. He was a brilliant accountant and not a single blemish marked his twenty-year-long record. People respected him. His colleagues did. The neighbours did. Even Mr. Patel, the Gujarati owner of the corner grocery store, who never respected his own father, respected Aaron. The people who knew him esteemed his honesty during the day and, when the sun went down, admired his talent with the saxophone.
The world seemed to be a perfectly happy place when a beaming Aaron entered the tiny apartment with his weekly paycheck in hand. They weren’t wealthy but respectably comfortable. The apartment was not luxurious but nice, clean, and comfy at all times. Wiley’s mom ensured it. To top it all, there were evenings in the jazz club across the street with Aaron in the spotlight.
Wiley loved the jazz club. He loved the red smoky atmosphere and the waves of beautiful and magical music. He intently watched his father performing on the stage, smiling at everybody, and especially his wife and Wiley. In those enchanted moments, Aaron’s sweaty face and the gleaming saxophone formed the centre of Wiley’s universe.
It was almost natural that Wiley was seduced by the saxophone. The instrument felt really smooth in his hands - almost an extension of his own body. After observing his father for a decade or so, the playing came naturally. He blew into the mouthpiece, and his fingers danced on the keys with an invisible life of their own. Aaron just silently watched Wiley, his heart brimming with pride. The legacy had been transferred.
On Wiley’s twelfth birthday, Aaron took a loan from the bank and presented him with a Yanagisawa King Super 20 - a most serious saxophone in sterling silver. It was the most beautiful thing Wiley had ever seen, but his heart still resided in his father’s old brass saxophone.
A day came when the father and the son played on the stage together for the first time. The loyal audience at the jazz club gave them a standing ovation. Wiley and Aaron looked at each other with eyes filled with tears. In their blissful ignorance, they believed that the good times would go on forever.
A month had passed since Wiley found his parents arguing in the kitchen. One day, when he came back from school, there was a police car parked in front of the apartment building.
‘Maybe there has been a burglary again.’ Wiley smilingly thought of the prospect. A burglary was an excuse for excitement in the otherwise drab and dreary daily routine.
The old elevator was out of order as usual. He bounded up the stairs, two at a time, heart thumping wildly, and almost crashed into his father at the last landing. Aaron was standing between two burly policemen, his hands cuffed at the back.
‘What happened? Where are you taking my father?’ Wiley’s desperate cries were falling on deaf ears. The policemen pushed his father into the back seat of their dark sedan and drove off.
Wiley ran back to the apartment. His mom was sobbing quietly at the kitchen counter. The unthinkable had happened. Aaron had been caught skimming off money at the bank. When confronted by the shocked Mr. Jefferson, the kindly and old bank manager, Aaron simply denied the accusation. The bank had no alternative but to hand him over to the police.
Those were some bad times. All the meagre savings went to the lawyer. Wiley’s mom even had to pawn his new silver saxophone. Food was more important than music.
Then one day, Aaron came back home. The manager had found the missing money. It was always there, hidden under the cashier’s drawers. Aaron had never touched a single dime. He just forgot to enter the amount in the proper register. The bank quietly retired his father with a small pension.
Wiley’s mother died a decade later. The diagnosis was of delayed, spotted lung cancer, but Wiley knew the truth. Her heart just got too tired and too broken to go on. She was in love with a man who was a pillar of strength and was energetic and bursting with enthusiasm to take life head-on. She had always admired Aaron’s resilience in the face of all odds. Aaron just had to smile at her, and poof, all her petty troubles vanished into thin air.
But Alzheimer’s changed all that. Her once towering and strong husband started to dissolve right in front of her eyes. The change was gradual and slow. Aaron still loved her, but didn’t know how to love her anymore. He still cared for her, but the disease made him selfish. This change was what killed his wife.
Wiley could still vividly recall that cruel, December evening, when his mother breathed her last in the hospital. Aaron was there too. He had brought white lilies to his dying wife. He sat with her for a long time, holding her pale, wasted hands in his big, brown ones and peering into her clouded eyes. Then Aaron kissed her forehead and asked her who she was. She just caressed his hand, sadly smiling at her long departed husband, and died. Wiley buried his mom and took his father home.
Those were dark days indeed - filled with sorrow and helplessness. Though his feeble mind was no longer rational, Aaron was still aware of the depth of his loss and searched for his dead wife all day long. Soon after the funeral, he started wandering off at will, visiting all the spots where he once took his wife. Fearing the worst, Wiley went to the police for help. It worked a few times, but then the overburdened policemen started to ignore him. So when Aaron got lost thereafter, Wiley roamed the city streets, checking each homeless man sleeping under a cardboard sheet.
Once, Wiley found Aaron all messed up and dead drunk with a bloody nose. He was lying amongst a pile of disused garbage cans, while stray cats were licking his face. Wiley took him home, cleaned and dressed up his wounds, and then just wept.
The disappearances increased in frequency, and Wiley had to collar his father like a dog. He wrote Aaron’s name and address on a laminated piece of cardboard and tied it around his neck. Thankfully, the strategy worked. Aaron never tried to remove it and always managed to get home, courtesy of some concerned citizen or the police.
Then the second stage of Alzheimer’s commenced and brought along hallucinations. Aaron started talking to his dead wife, like she was sitting on the rocking chair in the corner of his bedroom. It was so fucking realistic, it creeped Wiley out. Each time his father chose to address his long departed mother, he literally had to force himself not to look towards the empty chair. To top it all, Aaron not only chatted with his dead wife, but he shouted at her, sang to her, and even talked dirty to her. Wiley was going mad amidst the violent erotic fantasies of his father.
The worst came when Aaron started treating Wiley like an enemy. He abused him, degraded him, and constantly fought off his son’s attempts to clean his excrement. He reacted to each shower like water was burning, hot acid. Wiley was forced to wet sponge his thick stink away, while Aaron slept under the dense fog of sedatives.
Sometimes, Aaron just refused to be fed. Willy had to tie his hands and push porridge down his frail throat. This did almost no good. Aaron vomited on the clean bed sheets and then tried to lick back the foul contents of his stomach. He liked to pee on the bedroom floor and loved playing with his own shit. The apartment stank like a public toilet most of the time.
One day, Aaron mustered every ounce of strength in his emaciated body and kicked Wiley in the balls, while howling with devilish laughter. Wiley had to really stop himself from knocking down his own father and kicking the shit out of his skeletal excuse of a body. That day, Willy wished his father was dead, and then he cried at his own selfishness.
Wiley and his father were both saved by Cloe. Wiley met her at the hospital where he took his father for regular check-ups. She was a sweet little thing - all smiles and caring eyes, showering kindness and attention on everybody. Wiley fell in love the first time he saw her.
They started dating. He avoided bringing her home the first few times, but then Cloe guessed the real reason. She just laughed at Wiley. Having just buried a schizophrenic mom and being a nurse at a mental health facility, she was no stranger to Alzheimer’s.
Wiley and Cloe got married, and she smoothly slipped into the spot left vacant by Wiley’s mom. She was a good and strong woman and managed to calm down Wiley’s father. Aaron became her personal pet, waiting for her kind gestures and cooing voice to be soothed. The situation at home dramatically improved.
Two days after Wiley missed John’s game, Aaron died. His lungs were filled with mucus. He died because he couldn’t remember how to cough anymore. He suffocated in sleep.
Wiley played the saxophone at his father’s funeral, trying to remember the times when Aaron was kind and loving and warm. He started playing his father’s favourite piece, but could not go on after the first ten seconds or so. It was like he knew the composition but couldn’t somehow play the exact tune. Tears of helplessness and angry frustration clouded his vision.
Finally, he just threw the saxophone away, sat on the podium, his head in his hands, and cried. People thought the son was grieving his dead father, but only Cloe could understand what was really happening. Wiping her own misty eyes, she went to her husband and helped him back to his seat.
Wiley buried Aaron beside his mother, under the old oak. He looked at the vacant spot in the family plot and felt mutiny rising like bile in his throat.
‘No, I will not fall prey to this deadly disease. I will fight. I will fight for John’s sake and for Cloe’s sake.’ Wiley silently promised himself.
His personal quest had started - a quest for freedom from Alzheimer’s deadly clutches.
Soon, Wiley’s bedroom became the mission control centre. There were diet charts pinned to the walls, mental exercise regimens displayed on a makeshift notice board, and a glowing computer monitor in a corner.
Wiley read about the relationship between high cholesterol levels and Alzheimer’s and went on a crash diet programme. He found out about the possible advantages of brain stimulation and started doing crosswords and Sudoku every day, for hours at end. He surfed the internet all through the night, thanks to an Alzheimer-induced insomnia, looking for miraculous drugs and herbal cures.
Wiley got conned, he got robbed, and he even got sick because of the herbal trash he ordered online. He read a study linking coffee with a considerable reduction in the risk of dementia in late life, and increased his coffee intake to twenty or so cups a day. He was a possessed man, determined to fight a war which was probably already lost.
Wiley also started getting into trouble a lot. First, it was just altercations with the supermarket staff over the levels of nitrates in tinned food. Then he fought with his doctor as he thought the drugs weren’t having the requisite results. He also fought the assistant manager at his bank when he refused him a loan. Wiley badly needed this loan to order some medicinal herbs from India.
One day, when Cloe fought off his attempts to eat the gold fish in the living room aquarium, Wiley accused her of wishing him dead.
Wiley felt sanity dripping out of him, one drop at a time. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t plug the leakage. He knew he was getting paranoid. The insanity and paranoia made him listen in on Cloe’s telephonic conversations with the doctors and her friends. He perfectly understood the demons of the disease, but submitted to their dark power nevertheless.
Things took a turn from bad to worse when Wiley made John an equal partner in his quest. He knew the increased hereditary risk of Alzheimer’s for African Americans and hence wanted to shield John at all costs. But John was just a kid, fond of fried chicken and pizza. He just couldn’t come to terms with an all-vegetable diet and herbal concoctions. Once Wiley enforced this diet, John started falling sick frequently.
Cloe watched it all. She knew Wiley was going to die one day soon. But she wasn’t ready to accept him taking along John. They started having fights. They tried counselling and had to abandon it when Wiley tried to strangle the therapist for calling him sick. They tried to discuss the issue, but reasoning became arguments, and the arguments got violent. Soon her colleagues at the hospital started talking about her blackened and swollen eyes.
Thus passed five very long years. Wiley had entered the fifth stage of the disease. He started suffering from severe cognitive dysfunction. Once in the middle of a sentence, he forgot Cloe’s name. After repeatedly failing to recall it, he just placed his head in her lap and wept. But no matter how much his mental health declined, he still carried on with his quest.
Wiley still tried to walk a lot but had frequent falls and ultimately got his hip fractured. After recovery, he tried to enrol in an experimental drug trial but was rejected due to the advanced progression of the disease. He fought with the hospital staff where the trial was taking place. He also attacked a physician with his walking stick. The hospital authorities turned him in, and the Atlanta justice system took a long time turning him free. But the last blow was yet to come.
A few days after Wiley’s release from prison, Cloe got back from the hospital after a tiring night shift. She unlocked the apartment door and suddenly smelt something oddly familiar. It was a smell from the past, from her college days. Then realization suddenly dawned upon her.
‘Oh my God! Who is smoking weed in my house?’
She stormed into their bedroom, where Wiley sat on the bed, smoking weed. He looked up at her through the fumes, with an almost stupid smile on his wretched face. She looked around for John and then found him mercifully alive, but lying unconscious amidst a large pool of vomit.
‘Why Wiley….why? He is your son, and you were making him smoke this shit?’ Her voice got hoarse with pent-up emotions.
‘Just try to understand. Marijuana can help prevent Alzheimer’s.’ Wiley offered weakly.
That day, for the sake of their only son, Cloe decided to commit Wiley to a psychiatric institution. She just couldn’t go on. She just couldn’t take it anymore.
It was a rainy July afternoon. Cloe was away at the hospital finalizing arrangements for Wiley’s admission. He was alone at home with John, but Cloe trusted the sedatives.
It was probably thunder that woke up Wiley. After a few moments of disorientation, he got up and went to John’s room. The little boy was napping in the bed in which Aaron had died, while the old grandfather clock silently ticked away in the corner, ‘Tic toc…tic toc….tick toc!’
Wiley walked to the window. It was pouring outside. He watched the raindrops slithering down the glass panes. He tried to find meaning in their zigzag patterns but failed.
A sudden flash of lightning and the delayed drum roll of thunder broke Wiley’s trance. He looked back at John through the purple fog and smiled. He had found the way to end the vicious cycle of Alzheimer’s in his family and felt intoxicated with the power of realization.
He silently stepped forward and picked up a soft white pillow. He looked down at the sleeping child with gentle, fatherly love. Then he placed the pillow carefully but firmly over John’s face. The child struggled for a few minutes and then ceased moving. It was all quiet and peaceful. The quest was finally over.
Shehryar khawar 