vikramkarve
RIP
A freak accident. A ghastly death. A gruesome sight.
The young seaman fell off the ship’s towering main mast, his body somersaulting, tossed around by superstructures and bulkheads, till it lay mangled on the deck, neck broken, skull smashed.
At sunset we consigned him to The Davy Jones’ Locker at the bottom of the sea. RIP.
I rummaged through the sailor’s belongings and found his journal. I read his diary. It’s extraordinary how close you can be to a man and how little you can know about him. I knew he was married but I had never realized how deeply he loved his wife.
I sealed the dead seaman’s belongings in a kitbag, except his diary - this I would hand over personally to his wife, and try my best to alleviate her distress, the next time we berthed at Mumbai. I owed it to him, for it was I who had sent him up the main mast to repair the light, while the ship was rolling and pitching in the treacherous North Atlantic.
My shipmates waited for me on board when I went to make the condolence call.
The moment I returned they all asked me anxiously, “What happened? You found the place?”
“Yes. I found the house and paid our condolences to the bereaved wife.”
Suddenly they all started speaking together, “His wife… widowed so young…poor thing…so unlucky…such a pity…so sad…tell us…tell us…how has she taken it… what was she doing?”
“She was in bed,” I said.
“In bed? Oh My God…she’s still bedridden with grief…”
“She’s not bedridden with grief,” I said.
“What?” they all exclaimed in chorus, and then a cacophony of voices, “lying ill in bed for three months…what happened…accident…fracture…heart attack…stroke…depression…shock…”
“Please! Please!” I interrupted loudly raising my finger, “She’s not ill, she’s not had an accident, heart attack, stroke, nothing, she’s not in distress, she’s not taken it badly at all; in fact she has taken it rather well. She wasn’t alone in bed when I suddenly reached her house early in the morning - she was in bed with someone else.”
“What? Impossible…tell us…what happened…tell us…”
“What’s there to tell?” I said, “I went to the address written in his diary, but she’s shifted a swanky apartment in Malabar Hill…”
“She must have bought it with the insurance money…”
“I rang the doorbell. She opened the door, dressed in a flimsy nightie. I told her who I was. She invited me in, when suddenly a man’s voice called her from inside the bedroom, ‘hey sweetie pie, what are you doing out there? Come fast, I’m getting cold’ and she said, ‘someone’s come’ and he shouted, ‘just tell him to vamoose’… so I bid her good bye...”
“Bloody hell…two-timing bitch…maybe the seaman knew all about it…maybe he didn’t fall off the mast accidentally - he jumped off…poor guy…his diary…did you give it to her?”
“No. I threw his diary into the sea, to The Davy Jones’ Locker. RIP. Like him.”
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A freak accident. A ghastly death. A gruesome sight.
The young seaman fell off the ship’s towering main mast, his body somersaulting, tossed around by superstructures and bulkheads, till it lay mangled on the deck, neck broken, skull smashed.
At sunset we consigned him to The Davy Jones’ Locker at the bottom of the sea. RIP.
I rummaged through the sailor’s belongings and found his journal. I read his diary. It’s extraordinary how close you can be to a man and how little you can know about him. I knew he was married but I had never realized how deeply he loved his wife.
I sealed the dead seaman’s belongings in a kitbag, except his diary - this I would hand over personally to his wife, and try my best to alleviate her distress, the next time we berthed at Mumbai. I owed it to him, for it was I who had sent him up the main mast to repair the light, while the ship was rolling and pitching in the treacherous North Atlantic.
My shipmates waited for me on board when I went to make the condolence call.
The moment I returned they all asked me anxiously, “What happened? You found the place?”
“Yes. I found the house and paid our condolences to the bereaved wife.”
Suddenly they all started speaking together, “His wife… widowed so young…poor thing…so unlucky…such a pity…so sad…tell us…tell us…how has she taken it… what was she doing?”
“She was in bed,” I said.
“In bed? Oh My God…she’s still bedridden with grief…”
“She’s not bedridden with grief,” I said.
“What?” they all exclaimed in chorus, and then a cacophony of voices, “lying ill in bed for three months…what happened…accident…fracture…heart attack…stroke…depression…shock…”
“Please! Please!” I interrupted loudly raising my finger, “She’s not ill, she’s not had an accident, heart attack, stroke, nothing, she’s not in distress, she’s not taken it badly at all; in fact she has taken it rather well. She wasn’t alone in bed when I suddenly reached her house early in the morning - she was in bed with someone else.”
“What? Impossible…tell us…what happened…tell us…”
“What’s there to tell?” I said, “I went to the address written in his diary, but she’s shifted a swanky apartment in Malabar Hill…”
“She must have bought it with the insurance money…”
“I rang the doorbell. She opened the door, dressed in a flimsy nightie. I told her who I was. She invited me in, when suddenly a man’s voice called her from inside the bedroom, ‘hey sweetie pie, what are you doing out there? Come fast, I’m getting cold’ and she said, ‘someone’s come’ and he shouted, ‘just tell him to vamoose’… so I bid her good bye...”
“Bloody hell…two-timing bitch…maybe the seaman knew all about it…maybe he didn’t fall off the mast accidentally - he jumped off…poor guy…his diary…did you give it to her?”
“No. I threw his diary into the sea, to The Davy Jones’ Locker. RIP. Like him.”
Poll Rate this entry