Nameless

A new short story slated for my third book, In the Woods Without a Compass, from my Innocence of All Things series.

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Without a name, can there be a story? even more important, without a story what is a name? Without a story, what of memory? and without memory, where is suffering?

A story is no more nor less than a tale of suffering; the joys just contrast to understand the depth of suffering.

To avoid suffering, all such stories are best left unnamed and untold, but for you to understand this subtle but pervasive truth, a story must be told, and so I need an 'I' with a name, and I christen it, Salman Rashid Toor, a small man living by a river flowing in front of a devasthana. He lived as the caretaker of the devasthana, a man who never married but fathered many children, children who grew up to become monks and nuns of the devasthana, some as builders to enlarge the structure, others who gathered the flowers and made the incense for the daily offerings, and a few who sculpted the figurines and carved the hieroglyphs relating the significance of the devasthana. Then, after three generations of effort, Salman Rashid Toor died, his body entombed in the heart of the devasthana.

The End

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You think there is more to the story? more to life than living three generations, fathering many children, then dying? You could be right, but you could also be not right, maybe not wrong but definitely not right.

I heard a story the other day (can't remember the name that goes with it, but if I could, it would make an almost memorable name) about a high-functioning autistic person who didn't need people, worked from home as a copyist, and at night, sat in a machine that made them feel like they were being hugged—it was all the intimacy they needed. Then the high-functioning autistic person died, and having no family or friends to speak of, lay undiscovered for two weeks until the smell of rotting flesh permeated the neighborhood. The high-functioning autistic person was found with a peach pit stuck in their throat and their laptop on an Instagram page showing a hilarious video of cats surprised in various (sometimes inhumane) ways.

Headline the next day: "Death by Instagram!"

I'm sure the cats, including the murderous peach pit, if they had a name, would be sad for causing the high-functioning autistic person's death.

Now that's a story of a nameless person.

Whose story is more important? Which one will you remember: Salman Rashid Toor or the nameless high-functioning autistic person? Such are names, such is the world of names, definitions grasped by the feverish so they might cry out, "It's all REAL! And so I must be REAL!"

Whooo-weee! My tongue swells and my lips are dry. I must go find something to quench.

Something to quench? Desire!

Of all things that define an 'I', desire is the bubble encasing the 'I', and the 'me' at the heart of the 'I'? just a synonym for desire. Me and desire, desire and me: fundamentally without distinction. Desire has created all there is of me and without it, who am I?

Salman Rashid Toor would not have had a single thought in regard to an 'I', though it doesn’t discount desire fueled his endeavors. What he did defined him. He gave his whole heart and being into serving the devasthana: producing children to serve along with him, without a wife (or wives) for companionship, keeping the grounds immaculate and raising his children to do the same for the structure, its construction developing from a hundred square meters to a thousand, from a single story to twelve, each pinnacled by one of the twelve asanas representing the twelve Adityas, all sitting on cultivated land that expanded from the size of a single family farm to almost a hectare.

The temple brought many visitors, most on a pilgrimage to the great city, a two-day journey down river. A significant portion of those pilgrims would postpone their trip for a day to visit the site, but there were those who would suspend their pilgrimage up to a week, some going so far as to cancel their journey altogether and offer their devotions at Salman Rashid Toor's devasthana.

The temple’s growth began when two sisters took refuge with Salman Rashid Toor during monsoon season when a tremendous ten-day downpour made the river a dangerous place to travel and the roads impassible. After the rains, when the river was less swollen, they continued their journey to the great city down river where they would visit their mother's relatives. After a two month stay, the sisters returned upriver to their village farm, and once again, halted their journey to visit Salman Rashid Toor. They had news for him: they were pregnant and wanted to remain at the temple until the birth of their babies.

Salman Rashid Toor was very happy to oblige.

The sisters sent a message to their mother waiting anxiously back on the farm, explaining they wanted to help with temple's upkeep through the winter. She reluctantly sent her blessings along with a purse of coins.

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"We have returned," the younger sister said shyly to Salman Rashid Toor.

"You know why," the older sister said staring directly into the caretaker's very dark, moist eyes. "We cannot go home as we are."

"I accept all responsibility," he said, his words polished by a grin of satisfaction.

After the births (just days apart), when they returned to health, they prepared for their journey home. Giving their babies a kiss, the younger sister asked if they could visit.

"The temple is always open," Salman Rashid Toor said. "Your children will be well and happy here."

"Thank you," said the younger sister.

The older sister eyed the temple guardian suspiciously.

"We will send money when we can," she said moving her lips as little as possible.

"—and convince our rich widowed mother to send monthly donations!" the younger sister said, her eyes, filled with exuberant youthfulness (and deep sadness), betraying her decanted comportment demanded by the presence of her older sister.

Salman Rashid Toor bowed low to hide his grin and said softly, "All donations are welcomed. Incense and flowers, along with heartfelt prayers, will be laid upon the altar for the donor and their family."

Standing on the riverbank, Salman Rashid Toor watched the sisters’ boat sail away. He did not know they would be first of many pilgrims who would help the temple grow in such a manner.

He thought, They did not even ask me my name. How marvelous!

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