The Rapan's Descendents

Written 4/2/2008


Himurata feared the booms which shook his home and shattered a frame containing his marital picture. In his bones the impression was the rebels, warring against banks worldwide, had insipidly bound up India in their tendrils. Already collapsing under the Talmudrah, a denomination of credit shared by the central banks of India, Bangledesh, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Serbia, Sri Lanka, and a formerly expanding group of neighbors clamoring to use the world-reserve as their standard, his country could not bare much strain. Atleast the state couldn't. Smoke seen through his window seemed definitive confirmation. It uncurled slowly, as if in stupor. Himurata Rapan found surreality in seeing a large bloom of fire-ash smoke but smelling none of it; Lilac and vanilla scented his house. Thank goodness his wife wasn't home. It wasn't worded in his mind, but the homecome tumult reassured him again not to regret (though he did in his core and these assurances were distractive covers from dwelling on the awful fact) postponing having a baby until they were in a place they owned. Their apartment, part of a new complex in Damirti, a newer influential Indian city, was pressing their ability to afford. He restored the picture to its' former perch and gathered the glass to throw away. Was it confidence in safety that kept him from fleeing his home? Sentimental resolve? Or a certainty that the streets would be no safer if battle began just blocks away. He opened his window to hear and he heard. Honking horns, chattering, a few screams, voices squashed together in a breathy drone, crashing against each other so inflection jammed, recombined wave heights. With his head stuck out the window Himurata could see the throngs. Some pushed others aside to get to work, women screamed for children, many ran from streets that led to Tibuta Park. It looked like that's where the explosion went off. Burnt grass blended into the air. Many buildings had greenery for roofs in the city; Tibuta Park was an enormous building (could contain several warehouses) with a recreational park for its' roof.
Himurata wished he had a gun. They were illegal in Damirti. Still, there where channels through which they could be procured. His hands felt empty. They were. He grasped at air, clenching his fists, helpless. Violence was an option for protection but what would he ward off attackers with? Who would he need to ward off? Himurata shook his head. The rebels' reputation as heartless bastards wasn't trustworthy. News anchors spoke of it too regularly, mentioned it too much for Himurata to trust there was no agenda behind the message. Gripping the wooden table edge, firm and unyielding, was comfortable. The strength of his tensed muscles was a reassurance. He closed the window again to have some quiet. He would call his wife. at work. She brought in most of the money for their household, though Himurata too worked.
She didn't answer. He left a message. Things were fine...there'd been smaller incidents...but he couldn't focus on the routine domestic chores that lay before him or reanalyze the aft day's work to plan improvements. There was no smoke in the air anymore. Sirens wailed and stuttered in the fashion of local police. A tang of swallowed sweat tinged his mouth. The day was hot and the apartment felt binding like a jailor.
Crossing streets still swamped with two-legged traffic, intersections of occasional cars (most audible beneath street level), motorcycles, scooters, and bicycles Himurata made his way to a grocer. The Koonta he bought served well to relax his throat. Cool, smooth, artificially peach flavored it was a moment to savor. Then a second explosion knocked him from his feet. Moisture embedded his sleeve. Blood? Just juice. Ears rang. Daze. Gray mists of thick smoke. Cough-inducing cloud of burning bomb. He staggered into a sitting position. He tripped unto his feet. The scene's unsavory gibs ground with gravel brought him back to a more famous scene. The much-covered story of an explosion on the international vertical highway of America during its' resurgence. The road was T'd off halfway through the country, incomplete, compromised. So much for that country's economic comeback, said announcers, magazines, celebrities, experts, etc. all with one voice. Himurata imagined he now knew how those survivors had felt: stupefied by undiagnosed physical damage and a sudden change in location. The smoke-strewn, organ-ridden, wrecked place he stood was not the avenue he'd known. It was newly-anointed by blaze and dessicated bodies.
Himurata passed out walking away from the explosion site. He had felt fine before blacking out. Friends and family will pass along updates from the hospital and I'll give them to you. Right now he's in critical condition so please pray for Himurata's recovery.