ISLAMABAD: Prime Minister Syed Yousuf Raza Gilani has said that it is time to promote real image of Islam that has been damaged by some extremist elements as the society needs peace and harmony. He was addressing the launching ceremony of English Poetry Book “High Assembly of Sages”, written by Deputy Chairman of the Planning Commission Sardar Aseff Ahmed Ali here on Friday.

The Prime Minister said the poet in a very light language touched the problems being faced by common man and has highlighted the problems of the society. He said as the poet belongs to the land of Bula Shah has talked from his heart in the languages of sufis and has covered all issues of the people and the country through his poetry.

The Prime Minister said this book soothes us as it grapples with serious subjects and it is not the kind of poetry which is written by critics for other literary critics. His book of poetry also reflects of the wide range of his thoughts and imagination. It touches us more because it covers contemporary subjects.

He said the poem “High Assembly of Sages” which is also the name of the book inspires us with its belief in mankind’s destiny to fulfill its promise. While paying tributes to the Poet, the Prime Minister said he talks about the major scientific currents of modern times such as the Human Genome Project and the Big Bang, but he is not overwhelmed by them.

Sardar Asif Ahmed Ali in his remarks said the poetry is language of heart and he highlights the sentiments of the people through the poetry in a light way that attracts those who want to solve their problems. NNI

Chapter 20 – Meet ups and meet downs.

Kenji slipped out the window while now and elsewhere upon the earth – three and one half hours behind on Kenji’s watch – the boy named Jack O’Brien was negotiating with his ambassadorial captors.

“Look guys, I haven’t had a bowel movement in five days, and I’m gonna need some privacy to make it happen, and it’s a good idea for it to happen now; so do you mind… I’ll just walk behind that brush over there, and alone, please?”

The captors were holding Jack on a hilly and scratchy-dry patch of land about 200 meters from the checkpoint between India and Kashmir.

Jack was raising his eyebrows and smiling big and rapidly nodding his head.

The rifled soldiers surrounding Jack looked up at the man in the sunglasses, who nodded once his head in allowance.

And the captors, all five, watched Jack walk the 30 meters and then behind the brush; and they watched too an aging SUV pop out of pure dust and over a north ridge nearby and make a lateral bee-line for Jack and they heard the sounds
of a car door that opened and closed, and witnessed a semi-circle of dirt and dust clouds spraying off all four wheels like some organic curtain.

And they looked then at one another with mouths agape somehow knowing that for the remainder of their lives, they would never again set eyes upon the boy named Jack O’Brien.

? ? ? ? ?

“I like your timing.” said Jack.

“Almost caught ya with your pants down, huh.” said Lilu, Jack’s friend from school

“You wish, Lilu.” Jack said.

“Nothing we ain’t seen before, oh Jackie boy.”

“Hey, Fariishta . Sooooo good to see you guys.”

Jack was wiping with his shirt the sweat and dust off his face.

“Can’t believe you’re here.” Jack said, all eyes in shining, all voices cranked.

“It’s our meet up, Jack.”

“Yeah, we been watching ya.”

“From where?” Jack said.

“Just over ridge.” said Lilu.

“Slipped the guys on the other side a bonus.” Fariishta went on…

“Two hundred bucks.”

“Made their day.” said Lilu.

“Made mine too.” said Jack. “So, what’s on the agenda?”

“Ya mean besides you movin’ your bowels?” the girls laughed.

“Come on guys, give me a break.” Jack said.

“Remember that group trying to recruit us – over the net – several months ago?” Lilu said.

“That one from up around here? – secretive? – bunch a kids our age?” said Jack.

“That’s the one, Jackie boy.” Fariishta said.

“And we thought they were just kiddin’ around?”

“They’re not.”

“How many of ‘em are there?”

“Thousands, my friend, thousands.”

“What the hell is going on?” Jack said.

“they hooked up with some lady from the outside.” Fariishta explained.

“…invited her up here.”

“and she’s now their leader.” said Lilu.

“Their leader? Where’s she from?”

“East Timor.”

“Where the fuck is East Timor.”

“You wouldn’t remember, but Lilu actually did her 10th grade thesis on East Timor.” Fariishta said.

“You’re right,” said Jack, “I can’t even remember my own 10th grade thesis.”

“Sure you wanna know, Jackie?” said Fariishta.

“Lay it on me, Far-away-girl,” Jack said, using his pet nickname for his friend.

“Okay. Listen up.”

“Wait a sec. What’s the situation with my parents?”

“Um… they youtubed a video in the wee hours.”

“It went out over the news wires.”

“Can I see it?”

“Ah. Yeah, but listen-up first.” Lilu said.

? ? ? ? ?

Later that night, still Saturday, Kenji flipped open his cell phone walking in the park near Shinjuku Station.

A woman tapped him from behind on the shoulder. And Kenji turned and smiled.

“Who needs cell phones? Good evening, Yamato-san.”

“We’ve been on the lookout for you, Sensei.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” Kenji said.

“You seem like a teacher to us.”

“Let’s see if we can keep our relationship on the same level… you know my name, Yamato-san.” Kenji said.

“Follow me; we’re taking another path down under.”

“Sounds right up my alley.”

And she led him by the hand through darkness and to a covered man hole.

? ? ? ? ?

“Katie-Susan-chan. Come here, girls.”

Katie and Susan O’Brien walked from their bedroom back into the living room and wrapped their arms and legs around their grandmother on the floor.

“Are you crying, Obá-chan?” said Susan.

“No.” Obá-chan said, tears streaming down her cheeks faster than she can wipe them off.

“Why is all this happening, Obá-chan?

“Girls. Listen to me now. Obá-chan may be taken away.”

“Because of Satchitananda-san?”

“Yes.” She paused and wiped her cheeks again.

“That’s not fair.” said Susan.

“Obá-chan ?” Katie said. “What’s going to happen to Mom and Dad? Their message on the television cannot be serious, can it?” continued Katie.

“I don’t… I hope not girls, but for now, just in case, I want you to promise me three things.”

“We know, Obá-chan.” Susan said.

“Okay. I trust you. You are good girls, and you will do so well in your national trials meet on Wednesday.”

“Somehow you know we will, Obá-chan.” said Susan.

And Katie was nodding her head. “That’s the one thing we can hang onto, Obá-chan.”

“Besides you.” said Susan.

Chapter 21 – East is not east, nor is west.

After their meal inside the mountainous hideaway near the border of Kashmir there was a knock on the door.

‘A’ gave ‘B’ the nod and ‘B’ found the old man returning for the dishes.

“Let him in,” ‘A’ said. And the old man, his head still covered began gathering the dishes on a board he carried in.

“Can we now, ‘A’-san, hear your story?”

“Mrs. O’Brien, there is nothing for you to know now. It is too late for that.”

“Never too late,” the old man mumbled to himself.

“Who is this old man who speaks up!?” ‘A’-san shot back. “Secure him, now. Next to those two. Put a hood on him, and put theirs back on, too.”

‘A’ stood watching the backs of her prisoners and feeling, just now, more nervous than angry.

“Go find out the background on this man.” ‘A’ said.

She had eaten behind her prisoners to keep her anonymity, and was pacing before them again.

“What is the telling of a story, Mrs. O’Brien,” she began saying, “to one so close to death? Will it carry on with you? For the betterment – or for the terror, perhaps – of souls in another realm?”

Mieko O’Brien began crying under her hood. And suddenly screamed out, “Why are you so angry?!”

‘A’ placed the end of an automatic rifle against Mieko’s forehead, and slowly leaned into the stock and barrel until her prisoner nearly fell over backward.

“You have no idea what anger is, Mrs. O’Brien,” she said, pulling the barrel away. “And you have no idea what causes it.”

“Can I say…” Mieko began.

“Quiet. You want my story. Here it is.”

‘A’ stood quiet for a moment and stared blankly at the back wall and shook her head.

“The name Pol Pot is one that everybody knows, is it not? The demon of Cambodia. A commiter of genocide. But who made conditions ripe for his crimes? You know, Mr. O’Brien, don’t you?”

Henry whispered the word and shook his head no.

“No. Of course not, Mr. O’Brien. How many brain-washed Americans do? The United States quietly conducted horrendous bombing in central Cambodia during the early 1970s. Tens of thousands were killed. Many more innocents perished in the aftermath… mostly children, from hunger and disease. And Pol Pot came along and organized the surviving suffering masses and continued killings of his own.

“The US news industry seized upon the demonizing of Pol Pot, without a twinge of self-reflection upon the desperate rivers of blood let loose, unseen, from 20,000 feet.

“Is there something more sanitary, or more sporting perhaps, Mr. O’Brien, about bombing from high altitudes entire populations of children, women and men compared to the manual slaughtering of these human beings with a machete?

“Here we have a disgusting set of facts just a bit too sour for the delicate palates of the American public, and far too rotten for the capital market wolves that guard the US Defense Industry to ever taste out loud in a quarterly financial report.

“What’s more disgusting if you can imagine the hideous possibility of such: As Pol Pot was doing his thing in Cambodia, the US was quietly directing genocide elsewhere in the world.”

‘A’ began to boil water for tea over a make shift wood stove.

“I don’t get the connections,” said Henry O’Brien.

‘A’ clenched her teeth and poured water into a pot.

“I’m just getting started.” she said.
Chapter 22 – Shinjuku down under again. A dead heat piano duet. A teaching on losing your career in Japan. And a parable of Buddha.
“You’re impossible.” said Yamoto-san.

“What?” Kenji said.

“And amazing.” she added.

“What?” he asked.

“You bring together people on the street from all over Tokyo, and for what?… mission improbable? Satchitananda-san my friend, we don’t even know what’s going on. Yet everybody’s happy about it.”

She moved in the night, still Saturday, through low branches of plum trees near Shinjuku Station. And kept an eye on her friend, Kenji.

“Okay. This is it. This is the place we’ve chosen. It’s outta the way. But it’s pretty much a straight slip into the sink.

“Let’s see,” said Kenji.

And Yamoto-san lifted and swung off to one side a sizable section of turf apparently fixed upon plywood, and then grabbed her friend by the hand and led him into the black interior of the earth.

And she said, “Don’t move while I reach up and slide this board over, humph, thank you, all done. I hope you know what you’re doing?” she went on, leading him half in crawl and half in slide into nothing at all but black.

“Well Yamato-san, let’s put it this way. It is unquestionably what we are going to do, and beyond that? I don’t have a clue.”

“Would it bother you,” she said, “if I told you I think you are lying through your teeth?”

She could feel Kenji’s smile in the dark.

“No. Not at all.” he said.

? ? ? ? ?

[In the Tokyo Metropolitan Sewer System below Shinjuku Station.]

“Let’s go over the plan on Tuesday morning around 9:00? That good for each of the nine coordinators?” Kenji said.

“Just the same old question for you, Satchitananda-san. What is being delivered?” asked one of the nine, with the rest shaking their heads out of frustration.

“The what is a who.”

“Huh?” they said together.

“There will be a who of two ,” said Kenji. And you will know them by a password.

“Which is…?” another voice called out to him.

“Which is I don’t know.”

“This is getting frustrating for us.” said another. “You’re asking us to do a lot here. And we really don’t know what’s going on.”

“And I commend you for your patience and dedication. If you’d like to know fully what this is all about, here is what to do: after your mission: go to the nearest TV and tune in Jifu Television Network.”

“And if we don’t?” someone asked.

“No sweat. Next morning, just consult any newspaper headline, radio news broadcast, or morning television show. It’ll all be there… No more questions? Good. I must be on my way.” Kenji said already at the secret exist.

“Wait! What’s the damn password!?”

“I don’t know!”

“How are we going to find these two people?!”

“I don’t know!”

“This guy’s too much.” a man said out loud.

“Where are you going?” asked another.

“I have a flute recital in the morning.”

“A flute recital? Well, knock `em dead,” Yamoto-san said in sarcasm.

? ? ? ? ?

Katie and Susan O’Brien awoke early Sunday morning and silently set up the computer, the microphone, double checked the settings, and told Obá-chan they had already eaten breakfast and did the cleaning up. Obá-chan headed back for the comfort of her futon. And the girls sat by the window, watching and waiting for their Uncle, the flautist, to arrive.

At nine o’clock there was no sign of him. At five minutes after nine, there was still no sign, except for the complaints and worries of nervous and impatient fourteen year old twin sisters.

There was back and forth in whines and moans.

One of them finally said, “Let’s get started.”

And the other said, “What if he doesn’t show up?”

And the one said, “Let’s not think about that.”

And the other said, “Okay.”

“Who’s gonna play grandfather’s lullaby?” said Susan.

“You play it, Susan. I’ll watch the recording… and the window.

“I’m too nervous to play it right now.” said Susan.

“Oh come on, Susan! Okay, I’ll play it… No wait.”

Now I’m too nervous.” Katie said.

“Okay. Loser plays it.” said Susan.

“Rock scissors paper.” They both said aloud and pumped their right hands three times.

Tie.

“Rock scissors paper.”

Tie again.

“Rock scissors paper…

Oh come on with this tie crap.” said Susan.

“Rock scissors paper.”

Tie.

“No use.” Katie said.

“That was four times.”

“Eew, four. Bad luck.”

“Rock scissors paper.”

Tie.

“What’s our record?”

“Rock scissors paper.”

Tie.

“Thirteen.”

“Been a long time ago.”

“Rock scissors paper.”

Tie.

“We were eight. Remember?”

“Rock scissors paper.”

Tie.

“Yeah, over the Pacific, right?”

“Rock scissors paper.”

Tie.

“Fifty thousand feet.”

“Rock scissors paper.”

Tie.

“Yeah! We drew a crowd in coach class!”

“Rock scissors paper.”

Tie.

“That was fun.”

“Rock scissors paper.”

Tie.

“Wait. How many was…”

“Ten.” said Katie.

“Rock scissors paper.”

Tie.

Eleven.

“Rock scissors paper.”

Tie.

Twelve.

“Oh wow.”

“Rock scissors paper.”

Tie.

“Thirteen.”

Here we go.

“Rock scissors paper.”

Tie.

“Fourteen.”

They stopped.

“New record.”

“That’s weird.”

“Ya know what?” Katie said.

“What?” said Susan.

“I think I can play it now.”

“Me too!” said Susan laughing.

“I’ll take the bass.” said Katie.

“Good. I got the top. Let me just hit the record button here on the screen. Ready? Just a sec.” Katie said.

And Katie and Susan O’Brien sat at the piano and stretched their arms and wrists and hands and in syncopation, breathed and sighed aloud, nodded their heads in eye contact, and began to play their American grandfather’s lullaby at a slow and yearning pace, pace. Quietly they sat a few moments when finished.

“Grandpa calls it a ‘Negro Spiritual’.

“Yeah.”

“What black slaves might have sung..”

“..to sooth themselves at night.”

“I think he did write lyrics for it.” Katie said.

“I don’t think so.” said Susan.

“Doesn’t need `em, does it?” said Katie.

“It’s soothing enough without words.”

“Yeah.”

“Still no Uncle Flautist.”

And Susan began playing from memory the melody from Satchitananda and his flute.

“That’s it!” Katie said. “That’s it. Good. Keep it going. Don’t stop the recording.”

And Katie began filling in with a sparse and wandering and waltz-like bass line. And the two continued playing Uncle Kenji’s theme, over and over, moving their heads in slow motion up and down, and losing track of time.

“You remembered,” came a voice from behind them.

“Satchitananda-san!”

“Uncle! Where have you been?”

You remembered, girls. Very good.”

“How did you…?”

“I’m sorry, Katie and Susan… I was outside listening the whole time, wondering how you might solve this problem, and then wondering if you’d remember the other melody or not?”

The girls gave Kenji big, serious frowns and angry eyes.

“Very good. I’m proud of you. It’s not easy to remember the things we hardly know when we’re under the gun, is it?” said Kenji.

“No, it’s not easy.” the girls said.

“But you did remember, and then you acted on it.”

“Yeah.” the girls said.

“Very good.”

“What about your flute? Will you play for us?”

“Oh. Um. Unfortunately for me, at least, it’s not easy to remember even the things I know well when I am under the gun. You’re way ahead of me on that, girls.”

“Which means what about your flute?” Katie said.

“Which means I lost it.” Kenji said. And paused. “What’s already recorded sounds wonderful, girls. Perhaps that is enough?”

“Alright.” said Katie. “Susan, let’s get it edited and converted.”

“Uncle Kenji, look!” Susan said. “People in Hebiyama!”

“And dogs!” said Katie.

“It’s okay.” Kenji said.

“They’ll find you!” said Susan.

“It’s okay. I’ll go out the front door. I better go now.”

“What if they…?”

“It’s okay. I’ll meet you on the train a bit later.”

“How?” said Katie.

And their Uncle Kenji was already gone.

? ? ? ? ?

“Our careers are sunk.” said Kaneko-san.

“That or tanshinfunin,” added Taya-san.

“Tanshinfunin.” Kaneko was shaking his head. “I’d rather be dead.”

“What is tanshinfunin?” came a voice from the back seat.

The agents swung around their heads and shoulders and there was Kenji lounging in the back seat, feet up and head rested on the window.

“Good morning.” Kenji said smiling. “What is tanshinfunin?”

The agents were opened-mouthed and stunned silent.

“Well?” he said.

“How did you…” Kaneko-san started.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen. I asked first.” said Kenji.

“Don’t you move.” said Taya-san.

“Do I look mobile? Now please. Do tell.”

“We’ll get transferred to the boondocks forever…” Kaneko-san started saying, “that’s tanshinfunin.”

“What are you doing?” Taya barked at Kaneko.

“He’s answering my question.” Kenji said. “Please continue.”

“You get put away… from your family, your friends, in some office far away from home…”

“Ouch.” Said Kenji.

“At least six hours by bullet train away from home.” Kaneko-san added.

“…for two, three years.” said Taya-san. “A punishment we may have nipped in the bud,” he continued, “thank you for turning yourself in.”

“Thank you for the explanation, Kaneko-san. Gentlemen? I’ll be on my way. Now, if you’ll look for just a moment at the chaos taking place in Hebiyama…”

And behold, there was Obá-chan in her robe and sneakers, stomping through the bamboo stalks and waving her arms and screaming with profound articulation at the agents and dogs covering the bamboo jungle.

The agents in the car turned around to look. Then turned back around once again to speak to Kenji, but Kenji was already gone.

? ? ? ? ?

“I don’t see him.” Katie said.

“Come on, we either hop on this train, or we’ll be late for practice.”

Katie and Susan slipped through the closing doors of the train at Fuda Station, and with their gear bags slung over their shoulders, they leaned and bumped their way in search of standing-room through the crowded car of Sunday shoppers headed for Shinjuku.

Each grabbed with one hand an empty handle from the ceiling and each grabbed with the other, her sister’s palms and fingers, weaving what they held into one.

And in and out of the clack and rhythm and intermittent shuffles of the train, upon the eyes of Katie and Susan and on the muscles of their cheeks and foreheads, fear and despair were again gaining ground.

“There you are,” came the voice of Satchitananda.

“And there you are!” the girls said breaking into a smile.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.” said Katie.

“No.” Susan said.

“Okay. No.” said Katie.

“What is it you’re feeling?” Kenji said.

And at once the girls began to cry in wordless sobbing and half-muttered agonies, then gasping for a breath, then sobbing. Kenji looked at and put his arms around and squeezed the shoulders and heads of his two grand-nieces.

“Let’s take a pit stop at Shimotakaido Station, and get ourselves a drink, and a tiny bit of rest.” said Kenji.

And Katie and Susan O’Brien sat on a bench without discretion and with little effort to gain some control over the sobs yet began to settle down a bit, when Kenji returned with hot green tea for all.

“We can’t really stop, Uncle Kenji. We’re almost late.”

“Katie and Susan, tell me now, what it is you’re feeling.”

“I don’t know.” said Susan.

“We’re afraid.” Katie said.

“Yeah. Okay. No kiddin. We’re afraid.” Susan said.

“I understand,” said Kenji.

“Our mother and father may be killed in two days.”

The girls squeezed harder on their hands.

Kenji remained silent.

“What can be done?” said Susan.

“How can you stop one person from taking the life of another person?”

They looked at Kenji’s eyes and could see some kind of understanding, and could see his willingness to talk about it.

“Hmm. Good question.” Kenji began. “Let’s get up and continue to the Setagaya Line, and we’ll talk along the way.

“Many years ago, I was lucky to hear a story told to me by a young saint traveling alone through the mountains of Nepal where I was in silence for quite some time.”

“Young saint?” the girls asked.

“He was sixteen or seventeen years old.” said Kenji.

“How did you know he was a saint?” Katie asked.

Kenji chuckled and shook his head.

“I don’t know. I just knew he was.”

“And he told you a story…” Susan said.

“Yes. This young saint said that Buddha was once traveling alone through land that was new to him. And in this land there lived a vicious mass-murderer whose name was Angulimala, and whose favorite target were those unfortunate individuals he happened to discover traveling alone.

Angulimala was famous for collecting the thumbs of his victims on a necklace he wore around his neck.

He was determined to collect one thousand pairs of thumbs on this necklace. And it just so happened that on the auspicious day when he was but a single pair of thumbs short of his dream of one-thousand, he met a lone traveler in this land. And this traveler happened to be Buddha.

Angulimala directly approached Buddha and with a big display and loud voice stood before him and proclaimed, “I am the feared and vicious Angulimala, famous for murdering nine hundred and ninety-nine people and collecting their thumbs on this necklace you see here. All in a proud and glorious effort to have a proud and glorious necklace of one thousand pairs of thumbs, and you, poor soul,” Angulimala said, drilling his intimidating stare upon the eyes of Buddha, “are at last my final victim.”

“Is that a fact,” responded Buddha, not biting at the bait that dangled before him to capture his anger or his panic or his fear.

And Buddha continued with a calm and friendly voice, “Isn’t that interesting. Me. Your final victim.” The words were spoken quietly, directly, and with compassion and respect: “Now then, Angulimala-san, I stand here patiently, I stand here honored to welcome you, and to be delivered whatever it is you wish to do to me. You may attack me at your will.”

And for the first time in his murderous life, Angulimala was struck by the understanding, and alas – the compassion! – of his murderous ways.

And from the power of Buddha’s opening heart, Angulimala fell to his knees sobbing helplessly like a child who was feeling loved and feeling it all brand new.

Buddha comforted the murderer until he was able to stand up again and invited Angulimala to walk along with him.

Angulimala did so. In fact, he did so for quite some time. And after seven or eight years of walking with Buddha, Angulimala became, like his teacher, enlightened.

And soon was sent away by Buddha to walk alone and to instruct those he might find along his own path.

And one day Angulimala happened unwittingly upon a village he had forgotten had suffered many deaths at his very own hands years before.

And the people of this village recognized him as the murderer that had taken away so many of their loved ones, and they attacked him, and Angulimala fell to his knees in surrender to these people as they beat him.

And Angulimala remained surrendered and curled upon the ground during this vast and furious beating brought down upon him by a considerable majority of people in this village.

After a time, the people became exhausted of their beating and their passion, and then also became bewildered at the surrender of this vicious mass-murderer, and his acquiescence toward them and of their venting anger.

So the people of the village stopped their beating of Angulimala. And let him lay there in a great pool of blood while their victim simply continued to ask for nothing but their forgiveness.

Angulimala survived the beating and resolved to remain in and serve the people of this village.

Years later, many people from that town became enlightened through Angulimala`s patient and artful teachings.

And that is the story of “Buddha and Angulimala” told to me by this young saint as he was walking through Nepal many years ago.

“What was his name, the name of this saint?” Katie asked.

“I later heard some people refer to him as “Punditji. They say he was born and raised and lives now in the city of Bangalore, India.” Kenji said.

“Now?”

“Yes.” said Kenji. “Oh! And here you are, your destination. And please forgive me, girls, I will remain aboard and will see you at home this evening.”

“But… but…”. the girls tried to speak.

“Have a good practice.” Kenji said.

And the girls tripped out of the train car, and the doors of the train car closed, and the train itself was fading from view, as was – in a disappearing window -
their uncle’s smiling face, and then the girls remembered they forgot to lift their arms or to raise their voices to wave or to say goodbye.

“We didn’t even…” Katie started saying, shaking her head and throwing up her hands.

“… no, we sure as hell didn’t.” said Susan.

And the two began kicking pebbles beneath them

Yet quickly feeling better, and so noticing it in surprise, neither, of course, had foreseen the sudden “what-is-this?” emptying-out of something stuck inside, something old and dark and dense. And then creating “what-is-this?” anew, some ancient and quiet and familiar vacancy now expanding in a lively wakefulness inside each of them.

? ? ? ? ?

author’s note: The parable, above, is adapted from a talk given by Sri Sri Ravi Shankar years ago as part of a verbal commentary containing thirty public talks on the Bhakti Sutras. The parable, though not repeated verbatim from Sri Sri, does contain, Sri Sri’s own dash of knowledge often not apart of this ancient and often told parable.

Chapter 14 – The river stops here.

“Right about now, that looks like fun.”

The girls just walked into practice after school, and Katie noticed several five, six, seven year old girls, a blurry swarm in a corner of the gym, rolling hoops and balls and laughing and screaming and playing drums on the floor mats with mallets and willy-nilly dancing with colorful ribbons.

“Sometimes I feel more jealous of those little girls than I do the older ones

I’m trying to beat.” Katie reflected.

“Yeah.” Susan agreed.

“Wouldn’t it be nice?” Katie went on.

“What?” said Susan.

“… a Shintaiso championship of frolic and fun.”

“Get real.”

“Yeah, just a thought.”

“Well… here’s a better thought, daydream-butt:

just this once,

forget about warm up and stretching,

go back to when you were five years old…

I dare ya…

go frolic with the little girls

just to see what

Godotnova-sensei says.” said Susan.

“You think I wanna go back to five years old? I just wanna play.” Katie said.

“So, go for it. What’s she gonna say?” said Susan, “ ‘get with it while your whole world explodes around you?’ “

“She might.” Katie said.

“And she might not,” said a male voice several meters away.

“Satchitananda-san.” Susan saw him first.

“What are you doing here?”

“I hope I’m not intruding. Obá-chan said it would be okay for me to stop by and watch you practice.”

“Not much to see.” Susan said in monotone.

“It’s nice of you to come.” said Katie.

“You girls go ahead… I’ll sit over here…”

And Katie ran over to the little ones and dove upon the floor and rolled around grabbing and tickling them, and rolling again, encouraged by more screams and squeals.

Katie paused a moment and rested on her back amidst the tiny feet and arms and bodies piling on top of her and stared blankly at the ceiling, and some smile rose up inside of her, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Who is this man?” said Inga Godotnova standing next to Susan and watching Katie play.

“Um, I’m not sure. A friend of the family? Ask Obá-chan.” said Susan.

? ? ? ? ?

“You coulda’ picked a better practice than this one,” said Susan to the old man.

“Pretty bad considering…” Katie said.

The two were shaking their heads, all were walking home together from Chofu Station.

“Considering?” said Satchitananda.

“Considering the National Trials Competition is several days away,” said Susan.

“Never felt so… I don’t know… unprepared before a meet,” Katie said.

“Unpracticed? Untrained?” said Kenji.

“Yeah and that’s what makes me so mad. Thirty hours a week of training and I am feeling unprepared.”

“Hmm.” Kenji nodded, “you girls ever been down at the river at night?”

“Not lately.”

“Few years ago, Dad took us there really late one night.” said Susan.

“To watch a meteor shower.” Katie said.

“Dragged us outta the dead of sleep.” said Susan smiling a bit now.

“See any?” said Kenji

“Boy did we.” Susan said laughing.

“There were more than meteors up there.” Katie said.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“We saw… the three of us… I don’t know what it was.” Katie said.

“not a meteor huh?” Kenji said.

“Not unless meteors these days have minds of their own.” said Susan..

“and dress in designer colors,” Katie added.

“It was… weirdly blue,” said Susan shaking her head up and down, “not like a flame.”

“Some kinda punk meteor we decided,” said Katie, “with state-of-the-art avionics.”

“Obá-chan was so mad she missed it.” Susan laughed.

“Obá-chan.” Kenji said. “I’ll bet she’s awaiting your return with more worry than usual tonight.”

“We’re worried about her too,” said Susan.

“She’s a wonderful grandmother, isn’t she?” Kenji said.

“The best there ever was,” Katie smiled.

“Well hurry home. And how about meeting me at the hut after you eat? Unless you’re feeling too tired. We can always meet tomorrow night.” he said.

Susan chuckled to herself. “We can probably make it.”

“We’ll eat. Finish some homework.” Katie said.

“See ya.” the girls said and ran the last fifty meters home.

? ? ? ? ?

“Have you heard or seen anything strange in this forest.” said Susan, with a mock-deep authoritarian voice.

The girls were merely steps away from Kenji’s hut.

“Shhh,” Katie said laughing. “The agents can hear us from their car right over there.”

“Only the normal haunted stuff.”

The girls heard Kenji’s loud whisper over the bullfrog army choir.

It was coming from ten meters further down the hill and past his hut.

“Hey, wait up!” Susan whispered hoarsely back.

“You were listening to our whole conversation with the agents this morning, weren’t you.” said Katie, stepping over godknowswhat in the dark.

They caught up to him, still in the forest, but close to the road.

“Who me?” Kenji smiled.

“This is kinda fun,” said Susan.

“Let’s cut over the road and then down the hill into the rice paddy and along the edge of the water toward The Tama River.”

“Really?” Katie said.

“It’s way too muddy down there, Satchitananda-san.” said Susan.

“Don’t worry, follow me.” he said and shrugged and waved his arms.

They held hands and laughed while slipping down the hill then followed Kenji’s big steps and leaps over deep and sloppy mud and into wet and shin-high grass and then up several footsteps to the top of the levy looking west across slick black shallow water glittering with the candlelight of ghosts, here and there, in the shine of a late rising moon. Or so Susan imagined as they walked along more relaxed now.

But Susan couldn’t resist a snicker out load about the ghosts of Hebiyama, and surmised that if there were such things, they were too much varied in their ways and looks and sounds to get noticed apart from all the weirdness still very much alive in there.

“If every thing and everyone alive is truly different,” Kenji said, “perhaps every thing and everyone dead is too.”

“Well, I guess that’s a nice thought,” Katie said, making her eyes as big as she could in sarcasm.

“Sorry, that is not a nice thought,” said Susan, “it is creeping me out.”

They were walking along a dry pathway now between old houses, a hundred meters from the Tama River.

“Let’s try shifting our angle of view on this, Susan and Katie, on this timely subject you’ve raised.” he said.

“Timely?” the girls said together.

“Well, you know. Oh look there’s the river!”

And they climbed atop the river’s own levy to get a better look.

“I have an idea.” Kenji went on, this time with clear intention. “Discussions about death and dying are fun, believe me, where I come from? These are things to know about. But let’s consider for a moment something we’re negotiating right now… or trying to anyway.

“The river?” Katie asked.

“The river, yes Katie, but in this case, more general.” he replied.

“Life.” said Susan.

“Life.” repeated Kenji.

“Now there’s a scary thought,” said Katie.

“Yes,” said Kenji, “in many ways.”

“Especially…” Katie started and stopped and pressed the temples of her head to hold off tears with the palms of her hand.

They looked at the moving water for a while in quietness.

“Isn’t it strange,” he said and paused.

“What?” said Susan.

“The most precious thing we have… from moment to moment, the one thing we love the most…has never been defined.

“Huh?” said the girls.

“Life.” Said Kenji, “Life has no structure we can put our hands on, no inherent flavor embedded in our bodies to secrete the tiniest taste of certainty. And it doesn’t concern us in the least, or most of us anyway.

“Strange.” He continued, all the knowledge our species has fancied and tested and documented and applied… isn’t it strange we still don’t know who it is we are?”

“Or ‘what’ it is we are.” said Susan.

“Excellent point!” Kenji said. “What we are…” he began slowly, is who we are, but too big for us to see or to smell or taste – or to even think about.

“Too big?” said Susan.

“How’s that?” Katie asked.

“Life. You.” said Kenji. It’s simply too big for our own minds to fathom.”

“I try to fathom it,” Susan said. “… sometimes.”

“and?” Kenji said, “what have you learned?”

“Not much. Just fun to do sometimes, I guess.” said Susan.

“but you said we’re too big, didn’t you? …for our minds? …I don’t get it.” Katie said.

“Good point!” Kenji said, “yet another oddity of our existence – our minds, perhaps nature’s greatest creation, is all but crippled, really, in ever knowing anything.”

“Oh but there are billions on this earth who would disagree with you.” said Susan.

“There most certainly are.” said Kenji. “The mind lays claim to all knowledge. It’s the nature of the mind, and yet it knows so very little. It’s a beautiful confusion built into our existence,

“Beautiful?”

“Perhaps when you consider that the nature of existence is itself pure knowledge.”

“Pure knowledge?”

“And astonishingly accessible.”

“How?” the girls said almost at once.

“Through our feelings.” Kenji said.

Susan was shaking her head in doubt. “To fathom or to feel – let’s stop this nonsense. I am so confused.”

“Hmmm yes.” said Kenji, “confused is also good! Shall we go ahead and try it out?

“Huh?”

“Try what?”

“Try out the feeling of how big you are?”

“how’s that?” said Susan.

“well…” Kenji looked around aware, “let’s sit down here a moment and get comfortable and let’s close our eyes and see.”

“I don’t know,” said Susan.

“Three four minutes at the most. Are you game? Let’s try.”

“This is weird,” Katie said.

“This is weird,” repeated Susan.

And they sat down on dry soil and closed their eyes and Kenji said, “let’s take a deep breath in…

and let it out…

Now let’s take another deep breath in…

and let it out…”

they sat about half a minute.

Kenji spoke:

“Do you feel some quietness, some silence, some good feeling?

Let’s close the eyes again and be with and watch inside very gently that good feeling.”

They sat a few more moments
and Kenji spoke:

“Become aware of your breath, however it is… fast or slow or changing…

become aware of your breath…”

And they sat quietly again.

“Now become aware of your body…

without concentration,

without effort…”

For moments more they sat.

“Slowly, let’s open the eyes.” Kenji said.

“Did you notice

while sitting

and observing this breath and this body

that thoughts of any sort arise in the mind?

hmmm?”

The girls nodded slowly.

“Did you notice how naturally this happened? hmmm? how the mind naturally comes into play?

This time, let’s close the eyes, and when we become aware of the mind in play let’s gently refocus our attention to the breath… let’s close the eyes…”

And a minute or two passed.

Kenji slowly said:

“Become aware…

of your body.”

and a restful minute or so passed on.

Then Kenji said:

“Become aware…

of the top of your head..”

And Kenji continued to guide them gently through alternating and growing levels of quietness and awareness…

like so:

“Become aware of the space…

above the top of your head…

Become aware of the moon…

Become aware of allllllllll the space..

between the moon

and the top of your head…

Become aware of a direct connection,

a long, unbroken connection…

with a smile on its face…

between the moon

and the top of your head.

Let’s be with that connection, that smile

for a moment…

Become aware of all the stars in the heavens…

And alllllllllll the space between all the stars in heaven

and the top of your head…

Become aware of all the connections,

each in smile,

from trillions of stars in heaven

to the top of your head…”

The three sat quietly for several more minutes unaware of time passing.

“Become aware of your breath.” Kenji said. “Let’s enjoy with eyes still closed this awareness for a moment.

Then Kenji said, “Gently, and when you are ready take a minute or two or more and very slowly open the eyes…

What did you feel? Hmmm?”

“I felt as relaxed as a rock. And I also somehow felt huge.” Susan said.

I felt exactly the same way,” said Katie, “and I also felt like crying.”

“Me too.” said Susan.

“Good. And how do you feel now?”

“Relaxed,” said Susan, “Calm. Quiet. And sad too.”

“Hmm mmm. And Katie? What did you feel?”

“Yeah. the same. I felt big. Huge. Quiet.”

“Did you notice thoughts coming during the experience? Hmmm?”

“Yes, thoughts of everything,” Susan said, “of Mom and Dad, of Jack, Obá-chan, of our coach, my routine, my impossible routine.”

Kenji laughed. “And did you notice how these thoughts come spontaneously without intention and without effort? Yes? Hmm? With just this amount of effortless effort: the way we notice thoughts arising naturally in the mind, with just this subtle direction of our awareness we can feel how big life is, how big we are, inside and out, and feel your very own ‘who’, your self, all along the way.”

“I don’t feel like moving a single muscle in my body.” said Susan.

“Me too.” Katie said.

“Good.” said Kenji.

“Will you do this again with us?”

“Yes. And you can do it without me as well.”

“Maybe not.” said Katie.

Susan smiled.

Kenji smiled and nodded his head and said, “Good. Anyway, you can try it. And now you know what to do.”

“I’m starting to feel so sleepy.” Katie said.

“Me too,” said Susan. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter 15 – Intelligence here and there.

“What am I doing?” answered Jack O’Brien to the old man on the train to Kashmir, “how could this be any of your business?”

“Business?” said Kenji. “Like what? Some investment? A transaction?”

“You know what I mean.” said Jack O’Brien. “Some privacy… would be appreciated.”

“How long have you been… in transit?” Kenji said.

Jack shook his head. “You won’t quit, will you?”

“I quit all the time,” said Kenji. “And I quit now. A simple question is all.”

Jack O’Brien took a half-deep breath , “what is today… Friday? Left on Tuesday afternoon. Lost a day coming over.”

“Over?” Kenji asked.

“Over the date line.” Jack said.

“You’ve come a long way.” said Kenji.

“Not long enough.” Jack said.

“You have relatives in Kashmir?” Kenji said.

“My parents.”

Kenji looked at him without response.

“My parents went missing in Kashmir.”

“When?”

“Perhaps two weeks ago.” said Jack.

“Lost?” Kenji said.

“Taken.” said Jack.

“and you know this for a fact?” Kenji said.

“from a reliable source.” Jack nodded.

“and this source sent you on your way here?” Kenji said.

“not really.” Jack said. “That was my decision.”

And both of them at once looked up to a man standing in the aisle looking at them.

“Will you come with me, young man.” he said. It was the man in a beige linen suit and sunglasses. Soldiers from the Indian Army appeared at each end of the train car and stood alert with rifles slung over their shoulders.

Jack looked around, his face pulled up tight with fear. Kenji looked at Jack and looked at the man who was holding out a badge.

“I am a security officer of the government of India. And you will come with me.” the man said, and began pulling Jack out of his seat with a hand gripped under Jack’s arm.

“Where are you taking him?” Kenji asked.

The man did not respond.

“My young friend, listen to me.” Kenji said.

Jack was being led quickly down the isle, and he looked over his shoulder to Kenji.

“Keep your head. Keep your courage too.”

? ? ? ? ?

Katie awoke on Saturday morning and immediately sat up in her futon.

“That’s weird… sleep went so fast… but I feel just fine…”

She looked over at Susan who awoke and sat up right away too.

“Yeah, what’s up. We’re not dragging our selves outta bed.”

“Felt like I slept ten minutes from the time I closed my eyes to just now.” Katie said.

“Yeah. Did we really sleep?”

“I think so, I feel great.”

“Me too. What happened? I didn’t wake up even once during the night and had no dreams or anything.” said Susan.

“Let’s not tell anybody.” Katie said.

“Don’t worry. What’s there to tell.” said Susan.

“It’s weird.” said Katie.

“I’ll take it.” said Susan.

“Me too.” Katie said.

“Good morning, everyone!” the girls walked into the living area.

The room was like a replay from yesterday morning, except Kenji was already sitting at the breakfast table and scooping rice and natto (fermented bean curd) into his mouth and listening closely to Taya-san and Kaneko-san from the Japan Foreign Ministry who sat on either side of him.

Obá-chan was eating, as she often did, standing up and cooking at the same time, usually getting something started early for the evening meal before she, herself, left for the office.

“They found your brother in India.” said Obá-chan to the girls right away.

“In India.” Katie said. “That’s good. Mom and Dad?”

Obá-chan simply shook her head.

“The Indian Government reported to our embassy a few hours ago.” said Kaneko-san.

“That’s correct.” Taya-san continued the story, “they picked him up on a train heading for Kashmir about twelve ours ago, India time, and reported Jack was traveling with some old man.”

“Jack can make a friend of anybody, anywhere.” Obá-chan said.

“It’s very strange, however.” Taya-san continued.

“They said the old man could speak Japanese.

Naturally it aroused suspicion and they tried to detain him as well.

“And?” Obá-chan said.

“And…” Taya-san paused and displayed both surprise and guilt upon his face, “somehow…” he paused again and shook his head, “somehow, the old man got away.”

“Strange indeed.” Kenji said without pause and his mouth still full of food.

“From a train?” Obá-chan said almost laughing out loud.

The men just raised their eye-brows and shrugged their shoulders. “One less thing to worry about.” Said Kaneko-san.

“You really think so?” said Susan.

“Susan.” Katie was shaking her head to stop her.

“They don’t know Jack either.” Susan mumbled away.

“They’ll hold your grandson at the border until agents from the Japanese Consulate arrive six to eight hours from now and then he’ll shortly be on his way back to Tokyo.” said Taya-san.

“With an escort from the Japan Foreign Ministry,” added Kaneko-san.

“And how in the world did my grandson, attending a private boarding high school in Sedona Arizona – the other side of the world – discover, before anyone in power,what happened to his parents in Kashmir?” Obá-chan had her arms crossed now.

“According to U.S. investigators,” Taya-san explained, “Jack has two friends at school whose fathers are situated, respectively, at rather elevated positions in the Indian Government and the Government of Pakistan.”

“I can’t imagine any father in that position disclosing such information to their own teenage son. What purpose could that possibly serve?” Obá-chan said.

“It appears the students… of these men of high rank, are their daughters, not their sons.”

“Oh that explains everything.” Susan said.

“And with the considerable aid of your grandson, hacked into secure intelligence networks of both governments.”

“What would give them that idea?” Obá-chan said.

“They hacked these networks at the beginning of the school year – for what purpose we still don’t know –and by coincidence, just a few days ago, discovered this information.”

“And these girls are providing information to authorities?” Obá-chan said.

“I wish I could tell you yes.” said Taya-san.

“But these girls have turned up missing as well…”

“Huh?” said Obá-chan.

“…And are yet to be found.” Taya-san finished.

Obá-chan stood staring and shaking her head. “Who are these girls, what are their names?”

“Their names are being withheld by other authorities.”

“Well. If they found Jack, I’m sure they’ll find these girls soon.”

“This is what’s expected, yes.”

“If Jack was helping them?” Susan shook her head, “Wouldn’t be an expectation I’d bet on.”

“Gentlemen?” This time Obá-chan jumped in to quell her granddaughter’s comments. “I can’t thank you enough for your dedication to this crisis and for disclosing this important information. And girls?” she turned to Katie and Susan O’Brien, “I believe you have just enough time to get to the station and catch your train to school.”

“Is Satchitananda-san walking with us to the station?” said Katie.

“I’m staying right here, today.” Kenji said, his mouth still full.

“Then we’re outta here.” said Katie. “Thank you for breakfast, Obá-chan.

“Thank you for breakfast, Obá-chan, and we’ll see you tonight.”

Obá-chan followed Katie and Susan to the door. “Stay focused girls. I know you will.”

“We will, Obá-chan.” Katie said.

“We will, Obá-chan.” said Susan.

And Obá-chan slowly closed the front door, and the girls departed for Fuda Station, and the three repressed with effort the urging of their tears.

? ? ? ? ?

“This is too much.” Katie said after the two walked quietly for five minutes.

“Can you stay focused?” Susan asked.

“No way.” Katie said.

“Me neither. What’ll we do?” said Susan.

Katie was shaking her head and kept silent for a minute or two.

“I don’t know.” Katie finally said. “Maybe we attach the moon to our head with a bungee cord?” she chuckled to herself.

“Hey a whole bunch of bungee cords,” Susan chuckled back, “from all the stars in the heavens.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Katie laughed louder.

“Yeah.” Susan laughed back.

Chapter 16 – Chaos and demands.

The girls reached Fuda Station moments later and froze suddenly in their tracks to see their father Henry O’Brien on a large flat panel television screen affixed above the entrance of the station.

He was kneeling in a position with hands behind his back.

He looked worried and tired and unshaven and thin.

He read a message in English aloud:

“We are the humiliated
the stomped upon
and the hated.

Even as we simply live
upon the land
our ancestors nurtured
for a thousand years,
or ten thousand.

From Palestine to Chiapas to North Carolina
from Tibet to Kosovo to Kashmir
from Chechnya to East Timor
from Basque to Northern Ireland
from the Ainu of Hokkaido and of Honshu before that,
and from a thousand – at least -
more populations of people
whose cultures are no longer endangered,
because the people themselves are extinct.

In our own homes
we are homeless.

We are strangers and scapegoats,
or simply and wholly forgotten.

In our efforts
to live and to raise our children
and to honor the spirits of our ancestors,
upon these mere spots-on-the-rug
of planet earth,
drenched in the blood and the tears,
and the smiles and celebrations
of who we are
and always have been,
we are called ‘the terrorists’
for not disappearing
for not allowing
the ubiquitous and self-proclaiming-to-be-enlightened,
capital-market, finite-resource, political-boundary bullies,
to cage us in,
to abduct our children,
and to kill our entire people
however detrimentally
however slowly
and then to belch unaware
and to sleep it all off
over decades
between the sheets
of our very own beds
as if nothing in the world
ever happened.”

And then their mother appeared before the camera situated in the same position looking equally as worn continuing to read the message:

“The lives of Mieko and Henry O’Brien
are at stake,
and will come to an end
one hundred hours from now
unless those who are accountable -
you leaders of the big eight -
step forward
to take their place.”

A local news commentator then appeared on the screen with words that went unheard by Katie and Susan O’Brien.

“I have to sit down.” said Susan.

“Let’s sit down.” Katie said too.

And people they knew and who knew them – at least from sight – moved on in avoidance, ostensibly concerned about disturbing the sudden disturbance, and looking down or away and quickly walking by Katie and Susan O’Brien.

? ? ? ? ?

When the girls left the house minutes before Taya-san’s cell phone went off, and listening for a moment he replaced it in his pocket and walked to the television nearby and turned it on.

It was an unscheduled broadcast by the television networks of Japan. A moment later he motioned for Kaneko-san, and the two walked silently out the door to their car.

Obá-chan and Kenji stood up and watched what the girls and perhaps the world were seeing.

“These people are nothing but savages and terrorists!” Obá-chan said when it was finished.

“Their approach is one of ignorance,” Kenji said and continued slowly, “But how much more ignorant, it is difficult to say

compared to the crimes put upon them.”

“How can you take their side!”

“I’m not sure I am taking their side. You wouldn’t allow your own government to conduct a simple search for your daughters on the land next door you deem sacred, and for all the same good reasons. What if they were Chinese or Koreans or Taiwanese or Americans, who not only wanted to search Hebiyama, but to stake there a claim forever?”

“This is different.” Obá-chan said.

“Please tell me how so?” Kenji continued slowly.

Obá-chan buried her head in the palms of her hands and wept aloud and cried “it isn’t fair”.

And Kenji, aware he was pushing, his older sister to the edge,

said more softly and slowly, “Tell me this, One-san, what if it were the Ainu returning here next door, who called Hebiyama their own home for ages longer than the Japanese?”

He paused and continued.

“From the soil of this bamboo forest, whose generations of ancestors are crying out now?”

“Get out!” Obá-chan screamed, and ran into her bedroom.

And Kenji left the house, not unnoticed by the agents sitting outside in their car.

[My apologies for such a long delay since my last post - I have no reason or excuse to offer.  - tommy]

Tokyo Twins – Chapters 11, 12 and 13

Chapter 11 – The flow of a brother’s fate.

Kenji went to his knees and held his arms around his sister and sobbed with her and felt her arms embracing his shoulders and back and younger brother and older sister became quiet of words within and they held this silence in silence hearing only their breathing combined.

She spoke first, “There must be a reason why you are here now. No one returns home after fifty years without something overwhelming guiding their return.”

“Yes,” he nodded.

“You know, then, Kenji-san, what is happening in our lives right now?”

“Yes,” he nodded.

“How do you know?” Obá-chan said.

“Let’s move over here to my camp and talk.” Kenji said, “the agents don’t come around until a bit a later…”

Obá -chan interrupted, “they know I’m at work and the girls at gym.”

“but they’ll return, and they mustn’t see me.” Kenji said.

They walked to his geodesic bamboo hut and sat down inside.

“I entered the country illegally. There was no time to get a passport,” Kenji said, “they are not looking for me – yet – but soon will be, and I cannot yet be found.”

“How did you enter Japan?”

“Contacts of mine in India and in Kashmir made arrangements for my… um, delivery.

“Kashmir?!” Obá-chan said.

“Yes, Kashmir.” Kenji said. “I have been living there for forty years. In areas controlled by both Hindus and Muslims.”

“This is where Mieko and Henry have gone missing!” Obá-chan said.

“Yes,” Kenji said.

“This is where Mieko and Henry have already visited and returned from several times!”

“Yes,” Kenji said.

“And you were aware of their visits?”

“Yes,” Kenji said.

“But you were never introduced.” Obá-chan surmised.

Obá-chan didn’t have to ask Kenji why he, himself, didn’t make the introduction to Mieko and Henry in Kashmir.

He was old enough when he left Japan to know how these things work. His history, his story, his existence dropped out of sight and sound among family members and friends after the first year or two of his disappearance.

They learned he was last seen boarding a freighter in Tokyo Bay headed for some place on the west coast of India. It seemed to be what Kenji wanted. He left willingly. In safety. All were happy to know this, but after he departed, they could not bear the pain of wondering about him out loud to each other.

His story was simply never passed on.  Mieko and Henry were unaware of his existence.

“Please tell me, Kenji-san, how all this came about,” Obá-chan said.

Kenji, his back straight and head and shoulders looking relaxed, shifted his weight a bit, sitting on haunches.

He began talking, measuring carefully his words in Japanese, his long sleeping native tongue.

“I first settled in India, in the state of Gujarat, in a city called Ahmadabad. There was a wonderful man I met on the boat that took me out of Japan.

“He was from Gujarat. His name was Tapan Majmudar. A trader of spices and cotton fabric. And a student of someone whose name I had never heard before. Mohandas Gandhi.”

“Gandhi.” Obá-chan repeated.

“Yes.” Kenji continued. “With kindness and patience,
Tapan Majmudar got me to tell him my story.  He listened to me word for word, and would often stop me to clarify one point or another as my story unfolded, or to ask me a question to further his own understanding.  I was speaking to him in a language he had only recently begun learning in order to do business in Japan. He trusted me, and I him, I had never heard a foreigner speak Japanese.

“He took me home with him to his family in Ahmadabad. I began learning Gujarati, the regional language, and Hindi, a more nationalized language of India. Soon after I was introduced to people at the Gandhi ashram near Ahmadabad on the Sabarmati River. Gandhi had been assassinated eight years before my arrival, but his students and his teachings lived on.

“I soon began living as a community member at the ashram.
It was a good place for me, One’-san.” Kenji continued, “I learned about Satyagraha, living a simple life that accepted every human being, regardless of who they were or what they believed.

The ashram was a spiritual place, not because of rituals or practices – Gandhi’s principles were not so much thoughts and forms as actions: of courage, of nonviolence, of truth. Gandhi called this Satyagraha, the manners in which we act are of greater value than the results of our acts.” Kenji said.

Obá-chan engaged Kenji with an insight, “The ends don’t justify the means.”

“Correct, Oné-san,” Kenji said, “universal words of common sense, and universally ignored in our common actions,” and he continued, “I felt accepted there, and unconfined, and free from the expectations of others, from the pressures of society and culture, I began to feel relaxed about the drama of my childhood.”

“You seem quite relaxed, Kenji-san, and you stutter no more.” Obá-chan said.

“I do sometimes,” Kenji said, “but the entire issue
gradually lost its significance as I began using other areas of my brain to learn new cultures and new ways of interacting with people, and new languages.” Kenji paused now and looked with a smile at his sister.

“You must be thirsty, Oné-san, would you like a glass of water?” Kenji said.

“I’m sorry, Kenji-san, I should be the one asking you.” replied Obá-chan, “it’s still early, let’s sneak into the house through the girls’ room and make some tea.”

Inside, Kenji felt at home but Obá-chan, although elated to see her brother, felt anxious to hear more.  He sat at the dining room table while his sister began to boil a pot of water.

“So how did you get to Kashmir?” she asked.

“I’m sorry for the long story, One’-san, I will try to make it short.”

He paused a few moments while his sister brought a fresh pot of green tea and two cups to the table.

“My first Japanese green tea in fifty years,” he smiled.

And Obá-chan was feeling too filled with emotion to reply.

“Gandhi wanted an India that was free and undivided. An India where Muslim and Hindu lived and worked together peacefully, as one national family. As you know, this did not happen. In 1947, India was granted her independence, but cut in two by politics and religion.

“There was India, free at last, and there was Pakistan too, and free as well, but now these sibling states turned immediately to war with each other.

“This situation saddened me so completely, Oné-san. My friends were of all faiths, Muslim, Hindu, Sikh, Christian, Buddhist… I also began speaking Urdu, the language of Muslims in the area. Perhaps because of my childhood, perhaps because of Gandhi’s influence, I felt a responsibility to make a difference.

“In 1961, a friend of mine took me to Mumbai, or Bombay as you might still call it, to meet and to study with an obscure spiritual teacher named Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj.”

“I have not heard that name.” Obá-chan said.

“He was a humble man,” continued Kenji, “a cigarette maker, with a profound spiritual knowledge, not so much politically oriented like Gandhi’s, but deeper and more personal on the level of one’s heart.

“Nisargadatta lived and spoke a complete knowledge that was utterly simple, yet powerful, and easy to apply. This knowledge did not conflict with what I had learned at the ashram in Ahmadabad.

“On the contrary, for me, it made Gandhi’s principles of Satyagraha so much easier to live.” Kenji continued.

“I lived and worked in Mumbai for the next several years to be closer to my new teacher.

“As I felt progress within me, I changed my name – this was not required, merely something I wanted to do. My name is now Satchitananda.

“I followed in my teacher’s footsteps, and did as he did early in his spiritual growth, and I went north to live in the Himalayas.

“Nisargadatta gave me his blessing to do so, and warned me it would not be a permanent relocation.

“And he was right.

“After a few years of living a very simple life in the Himalayas devoted constantly to the peace and joy and love that surprisingly kept growing more and more inside of me, I left the mountains, and traveled to Kashmir, a beautiful and enchanting land, and a boiling pot of ignorance and hatred between two cultures, two peoples I had come to know and love: Hindus and Muslims.

“I have worked alone between these people for the last 40 years in a personal effort to unite them or at least to make things a little better.

“And I am afraid that I have failed. And now, my niece Mieko and her husband Henry, have fallen victim to the hatred between these people.

“So, you know who has them, and where they are?”

“I do not know, Oné-san,” Kenji said. “A group who wants attention has taken them only because of their nationalities. A Japanese and an American. A married couple. And they intend to use them to put forth a message.”

“So Mieko and Henry are in great danger.” Obá-chan stated.

“Yes,” replied Satchitananda , Mieko and Henry are in great danger.”

Chapter 12 – Green tea and treats uneaten.

They were drinking-in long silences – unselfconscious – over cups of loose green tea.

Obá-chan put out a plate of rice crackers short bread cookies and semi-sweet chocolates and these remained as they were, untouched, unlike those who sat at the table.

“No green tea for fifty years,” Obá-chan repeated her youngest brother’s words.

“Well, none this special,” he said.

“None this special existed even here during post war years until… after…” Obá-chan hesitated.

“My departure,” Kenji said.

“How does it happen, Kenji-san, that we… ? oh, I’m sorry…” Obá-chan said, “Satchitananda.”

“You, Oné-san, can call me whatever you like.”

“Thank you, Satchitananda-san,” Obá-chan started again, “how… how can such things happen? We are simple people. You too, hmmm, Otóto-san?”

Obá-chan addressed Kenji, in the honorific, as younger brother, the only name she ever called him growing up at home.

He smiled at how the sound of this word coming from her voice invoked a long ago sense of sweetness, for his older sister, deep and shimmering, now pouring out inside him, unforgotten, untouched unknown by time.

“ ‘How does it happen’ I was going to say, Otóto-san,” Obá-chan was speaking at sub-slow now: monotone, whispering and thoughtful, connected to herself.

“I am seventy five years old, too old, I used to pray for too much life as this right now. How is it that opposed and infinite feelings overwhelm me…, of loss… of joy?

“I used to pray if I were to live to old age I would not be one so built to run on such a rich admixture of fuel. I am so delighted, stunned, you are here, and also lost, broken, incomplete. My daughter is missing, and somehow I’ve gone missing too.”

Kenji was nodding almost imperceptibly with every word she spoke.

“I am so sorry, Otóto-san, this should be a time of great celebration… not a time of pain and confusion.”

She filled again the pot and added a pinch more tea then set the pot aside.

“How is it, Otóto-san, in the eyes of the Divine, when joy and hopelessness walk hand in hand? Hmm?  Are we not the most insane of anything at all in God’s creation?”

She tipped the pot into her brothers cup. He lifted the pot from her hands and tipped it likewise into hers.

“You are still Japanese, Otóto-san.”

He smiled.

“I am sorry to go on about me, you must be exhausted, though you do not look it. When did you arrive in Japan?”

“Six days ago.” he said.

“Six days ago?” she repeated. “Where did you go? What did you do? Wait. Six days?” Obá-chan was applying the duration, now, to happenings in Kashmir, “How long has this been going on?”

“In spite of news reports yesterday, Mieko and Henry were taken nearly two weeks ago. When I heard about it, I began my journey here.”

“I do not understand, Otóto-san, why you would leave your space on earth just as your own family… and in your own front yard,” she stopped and covered her mouth and lowered her head.

“I came here without weighing the pros and cons of where I should be, Oné-san.”

“But what can you possibly do here?” she said.

He looked quietly at her.

“Did you come here without even a plan?” she said.

He smiled. “There are plans coming together, Oné –san, though none that required unpacking upon my arrival in Japan.” he said.

“Back to my earlier question, then, Otóto-san, for the past six days where have you gone, what have you been doing?

“I made friends at Tokyo Station, and Ueno Station, and quite a few in Shinjuku.” he said.

“Friends.” Obá-chan said – a bit skeptical.

He nodded his head. She only shook hers.

“Let’s go back even earlier. Why and how did my children go missing in Kashmir?”

“There are two groups who claim responsibility: one Muslim. one Hindu.” he explained.

“That’s absurd.” Obá-chan said.

“Yes it is, Oné-san. It is indeed absurd, and unfortunately also true.” he said.

“Would you not have been the ideal negotiator, Otóto-san, with your experience, your connections
had you stayed?”

“I am known, yes, by many in both cultures, Oné-san, as one who favors harmony and community over separation and security. In the eyes of some younger groups, however, I am old school and disconnected from what they believe is real.” Kenji said.

“I’m grateful you are here.” Obá-chan said, “and so utterly confused. I am worried, too, about the girls, Katie and Susan. They are dedicated young athletes, with a crucial national competition just six days from now.

“Do they just wipe the feelings of this devastation from their minds, pretend it’s not happening, train like little robots for hours on end, and compete like heartless soldiers?

“Please understand, Otóto-san, I want them to do well. And Katie and Susan want to win. But the shock of this I don’t believe has hit them yet. When it does, I am worried how they’ll react, and what affect it might have on them, not just for the competition, but for the remainder of their lives. Surely, Otóto-san, you understand this, do you not?”

“Would you allow me, Oné-san, to spend some time with them this evening,
and perhaps the next few evenings, if they are agreeable, of course.”

“Don’t worry about that. Any chance to do anything, a bit different in their day is a rare luxury for them, and you do, beyond your blood connection, have perhaps something they need right now.

“What is that, Oné-san?”

“I don’t know.” she smiled looking away with a hint of gotcha back.

He thought a moment, “It is not youth, per se, nor inexperience or folly that misguides them now and then, even of these kidnappers in Kashmir.” he said.

“Kidnappers?” Obá-chan interrupted, “they are not kidnappers. they are terrorists, Otóto-san!”

“Perhaps, Oné-san, you’ll allow a continuation of that important topic soon, but allow me to say this. Youth are given little room on this planet to manifest the beautiful wisdom they must hide inside themselves. Children in this world have power unmeasured, unmapped… have reservoirs of knowledge and love and intuition… to which the older of us are blind. And yet… what hurts them as children keeps hurting them as adults… That night… do you remember, Oné-san?, as we walked to safety… the whole family?

“I feel so badly about what happened to you.” Obá-chan said.

“Well… I am not referring to me… someone else in our family was also badly hurt that night, and that pain is not only buried, it is sadly buried alive and boiling under a pressure that, true, may never explode, yet does keep the one who suffers from living, and loving, and being themselves. And out of adulthood ignorance, keeps them seeking relief by spreading their pain around.”

“Who? What? What happened? Who is it?” Obá-chan said.

“Will you do me the favor of allowing this story to unfold on its own a bit more before you learn the details?” Kenji said.

She tilted her head and squinted her eyes.

“And one additional favor, Oné-san. Please tell no one I have returned?”

“What about the girls? Obá-chan said.

“Tell them who I am right now.” he said.

Obá-chan squinted a bit harder.

“Tell them I am Satchitananda.”

And with that he almost made her smile.
Chapter 13 Part 1 – Big breakfast.

“Have you seen or heard anything suspicious
in this wooded area?”

Kaneko-san and Taya-san were trying to get a word in edgewise while the girls prepared for school and the day.

“Excuse me, but no discussion at breakfast, gentlemen.  And not because you are here,” Obá-chan said. “The girls need their breakfast, and a good one. And excuse me for saying so, but it looks as though you could use more than just a little breakfast yourselves. Both of you. Have a seat… Katie-chan, would you please grab tea cups for the gentleman…
Natto with your rice? Kaneko-san?”

“No thank you.”

“You Taya-san? You’re a Tokyo lad.”

“Yes, please, um…”

“You can call her Obá-chan.” Susan said. “She’ll like it.”

Obá-chan tried concealing her smile but it was too late.

“Yes please… Obá-chan,” Taya-san said.

The men sat charmed and barely eating.

“There’s mackerel, there’s melon, there’s ume-…, Susan-chan, hand Kaneko-san the umeboshi.”

The skin on Kaneko-san’s face grew tight and his eyes stood suddenly still.

“A salty plum with your fermented bean curd never hurt anyone, did it Taya-san?” Obá-chan said.

“Thank you, Obá-chan.” he said, and grabbed an umeboshi for his natto, his head and eyes still a bit lowered.

“Now gentlemen, I believe you had some questions for the girls?”

The men in concert put down their bowls of rice, their hashi, sat up straight a bit and grabbed their napkins on their laps with both hands.

“Katie-Susan-chan. Have you seen or heard anything suspicious in this wooded area?” Taya-san said carefully.

“Sir, we don’t go in there. Obá-chan says it’s haunted.”

“That’s not our question.” Kaneko-san interjected.

Obá-chan raised the muscles above her eyes.

“Have you seen or heard anything suspicious?” Taya-san said again.

“If a place is haunted, sir, with all due respect, would it not continually emit rather odd sounds and visions?”

“I don’t know.” Kaneko-san said.

“Well this haunted place, Sir, is no different than others. We’ve grown used to it over the years.” Katie said.

“And they’ve grown used to us.” said Susan.

“We seem to get along just fine,” Katie said. “nothing suspicious.”

“Just the normal haunted stuff…” Susan added.

“Good morning everyone.” Kenji from the back hallway suddenly walked into the room.

The girls looked at each other with big eyes and turned away.

Obá-chan quickly gathered herself.

“You’re looking a bit sleepy this morning, dear cousin.” she said,

“Oh, gentlemen? Allow me to introduce our cousin visiting from Guam, Sachinosuke Mori. Dear cousin, these men from the Japan Foreign Ministry are helping us during our crisis.”

“An honor to meet you,” Kenji said, “with great hopes of making a good relationship.”

“How do you do, Mori-san.” the men said.

“Welcome to Tokyo.”

“We must be off, Obá-chan.” said the girls getting up and grabbing their schools packs and shintaiso gear.

“And I must be off for an appointment in Shinjuku.” said Kenji.

“Come on girls, let’s walk together to Fuda Station.”

“No breakfast, dear cousin?” Obá-chan said.

“No thank you, I ate early this morning.” he said and followed the girls out the door moving backward, bowing a bit up and down until he shut the door still facing those whose company he was leaving.

“You are not our cousin, are you, Satchitananda-san?” Katie said.

“No, I am not.”

“Why did you come in and allow yourself to be seen?” Susan said.

“I am hiding.” he said.

The girls shook their heads.

“Well?” he said. “Sometimes it is easier to hide something in clear view.”

“Even yourself?” Susan said.

“Sometimes especially yourself.” Kenji said.

They walked for ten minutes mostly in silence.

“We can talk again tonight?” the girls asked.

“I look forward to it.” said Kenji.

“In Hebiyama?” Susan said.

“Yes,” he said.

Chapter 13 Part 2 – Down under and the big inside.

Kenji stood outside Shinjuku Station and turned around.

“Ah, Edo-san.” he said.

“Can you come with me, Satchitananda-san?”

Edo-san was in her late fifties and probably as familiar with Shinjuku Station as its builders were.

He followed her around to the busy south exit, but not out the door.

She led Kenji to a wall beneath a staircase drumming currently and loudly with the footsteps above of a thousand commuters on the fly.

She slid back a large panel of sheet metal, enough for them to slip into and behind, and led him by the hand through damp and dripping walkways lit barely by too few low-watt incandescent bulbs, and then down a narrow flight of stairs, and then another more dark, and then another completely black.

She knocked a couple times on one of the walls, apparently made of wood. There was movement from the wall, and a hand came over the hands they held, and said, “Good to see you.”

And the three hands moved together through many steps of void until a line of light appeared at the bottom of something somewhere.

And then opened up a cavernous room, if you can call it that, where women and men gathered in smiles and nods, and bows here and there.

“Where are we?” Kenji asked.

“Welcome to the Tokyo Metropolitan Sewer System.” said Edo-san.

“Nice digs.” he smiled.

“We like it.” she smiled back.

And the two removed their shoes and set them by a line of a couple dozen more, and walked across make-shift carpet flooring and sat down.

“Would you like coffee or green tea?” A new voice spoke. But not a new face.

“Ah, my friend Yamoto-san from Harajuku, how are you,” Kenji said. “Tea would be nice.” he added.

It was a loose group, Kenji thought, unpretentious, self-knowing. He was impressed, but not too surprised. He could feel an energy coming off this group he had often felt among the poor, hard to describe, he thought, but easy to feel…

He sat watching his new friends.
Hmm. He smiled a thought. These are unself-serving people – and for no reason – and unattached, unattached to the very thing they have the most to give. Must be love, he smiled.

Who’d a thunk it, or even made it up: This unlikely and delicate palette for compassion, and more unlikely still, for joy, among the poor?

There were, naturally, he thought, those among this group of twenty-five, that figured this Kenji guy for nothing but crazy. A comfort to know, he smiled to himself, some reputations, well earned, never change.

He stood up and stood still a moment, looked around and got a nod from Edo-san across the room.

“Hello and thank you all for coming.” Kenji began. “Gives us a chance to touch base. Wasn’t aware many here are already good friends. Thanks to each of you for meeting with me over the past week.

“Each of us knows now, what actions to perform…when and if the party does break out.

“It’s the outcome of these actions that I am here to discuss with you today.

“Only a couple of you, carry our delivery on its final steps, but each of you carries it for some distance, so each will know exactly where our package is being delivered.”

Kenji stopped and reached into his bag and unfolded something for a moment, then displayed before the group a large print of a building.

“Jifu Television,” someone said.

“Their headquarters.” said another.

“Down by the river.” it was added.

“Good, good, good,” Kenji said. “Each of you has my cell number. Feel free to contact me anytime, and thank you for coming here today.”

“Question please, Satchitananda-san?” Someone asked.

“Yes.”

“Satchitananda-san, it’s been mentioned by more than a few of us sitting here in this room… how can I say this… several of us have become aware that the dates and times when each of us individually or in small groups first met with you… these points in time are, well, not only close together, they are identical.

Kenji looked at them.

“Can you comment?”

The question came from Yamoto-san.

“Is that so?” Kenji said.

“It’s very strange, can you explain it?” Yamoto-san added.

Kenji paused. “I’m sorry.” he said. “I cannot explain it.”

There was silence in the group and people looking at one another.

“Satchitananda-san?”

“Yes.”

“One more question?”

“Yes.”

“What is it exactly we’re delivering?”

Kenji paused again and smiled.

“Oh yeah.” he said.

Chapter 13 Part 3 – Unless you’re movin’ on down the line.

On a train going north from New Delhi to the northern frontier of Kashmir, a young man of sixteen squirmed about while trying to sit, trying to sleep, from this long train ride, and from his longer journey the past 48 hours.

It was dawn already again, a dark crimson sun rising slowly onto his shoulder through the window and then too quickly into blinding flash.

“Not a bad time to wake up,” he mumbled in his thoughts, “if you’re not dying to get some sleep.”

He wrapped his long arms around his feet and ankles and pulled his knees up-under his chin.

“I don’t give a shit who says what,” he started back in with himself. “You got my parents, you got my parents, you got my parents, you amazingly stupid… …” and so forth.

He sat and slowly shook his head, focused his gaze on nothing, and stared into the relief of a daydream.

For a moment the sky inside his head was blue, blue but awaiting the storm of his own anger to continue slapping him up and down.

“I better eat something.”

And he got up, walked forward to the next car and looked for coffee or a snack or maybe real food.

An old man suddenly stood up, his back to the boy, his legs spread into the aisle.

Jack tripped and fell over the old man’s ankle to keep from knocking him down, and landed face up and spread eagle, arms and legs tangled with tourists.

Jack shut his eyes tight a few seconds, embarrassed, then opened them up to an unknown smile on a face twelve inches from view, on a face that should really not have been there, on a face that made him forget where he was.

“Hmm..” the old man said and stood, “thought I’d seen everything.”

“Well you ain’t, so move along, grandpa.” the kid reacted.

“Grandpa?” the old man smiled.

The kid nodded a bit, determined, and looked at the old man, then stared away.

“You’re American.” the old man said.

“Sarcasm don’t work here, pops..” the kid said.

“Hmm. Am I hearing American English? And spoken native? Let see. Somewhere around – not-quite-Minnesota – what’s that state called… Missouri, I think? Kansas? No. Are-kansas.”

“Iowa.” Jack said.

“Iowa! that’s right. I always forget about Iowa.”

“And it’s Arkansas. Not Are-kansas.”

The old man nodded his head to think, “Iowa City?”

“Des Moines.” Jack said.

“Born and raised?”

“Born there. Learned English from my father.”

The old man paused. “and from your mother?” he said.

The old man reached down with both hands, waited for the kid to grab on and pulled.

“Maybe the same thing as you.” the kid said.

The old man dipped his head briefly to the side against thin air.

“Or not.” he said in native street-level Japanese.

“Or not.” the kid responded in kind and smothered a knowing smile.

“What’s upsetting you?” the old man said, concerned, his voice trailing up in the end.

“At the moment?” Jack mumbled at the side of his mouth, “Having company.”

“My company? Pardon me?” the old man said. “Come, let’s sit down.”

Jack sat down, frustrated, embarrassed, exhausted. Silent on the outside, raging on the in.

“What brings you to this neck of heaven? School trip?” the old man smiled. “Well. I thought for a moment I might have broken through here.” The old man took an intentional breath and dipped his head again, “Long trip ahead. I’m in the next car if you need anything.” the old man started getting up.

“I’m Jack O’Brien.” Jack said and forced his hand forward.

The old man paused.

“I am Satchi…” The noise from a brief tunnel drowned out the word.

“Pardon me.” Jack leaned his head forward. “All I heard was Sachiko… and I do believe that is a girl’s name?”

Satchitananda. he annunciated this time.

“Ah, sa chee tow a na n da – san, desu i yo, ne.” Jack said.

“So desu ne.” Kenji responded. “Yoroshiku.”

“Same to ya,” Jack responded in English. “One a your parents from India, or what?”

“You still hungry?” Kenji said. “Come on. Let’s eat. It’s the best thing about taking the train in India.”

“What.” Jack said.

“You haven’t noticed?”

“What.”

“The incredible food sold at every stop! Right along the tracks. Just for us. Come on. The train’s slowing down. We’re stopping in a few moments.”

And they sampled in healthy amounts the charming and lively masalas of northern India and the curds and pickles and nan. A lady offered gulab jammins for dessert, maybe later for a snack, she insisted.

“No thanks,” Jack said, but Kenji stopped and dug into his pocket to buy a small tin.

“So, what’s your story, Satchitananda-san?”

The old man sat working a tooth pick with his mouth and spoke. “I have lived in this part of the world, in these cultures, for a long time and though it’s not necessary to say so to an experienced and capable young man, allow me, Jack O’Brien, to offer my assistance to you at least over the following couple days to where ever it is you’re going.”

“I think perhaps I can find help enough from nearly anyone sitting around us.” Jack said.

“Quite true, my friend. Quite true.” He paused, his mouth still at work on the pick. “… except for that gentleman three benches back – don’t look – beige linen suit… sunglasses… interested in your every move.” Kenji stopped.

“What.” Jack said. “You trying to scare me.”

Kenji looked patiently at him.

“Yes I am.” he said nodding and went on, “Is it working, Jack O’Brien? Enough to make you stop and consider what it is you’re doing?”

- end of chapter 13 -

Tokyo Twins A serialized online story

Introduction

Tokyo Twins looks at two issues -

what the roots of terrorism are, and what the end of terrorism might be.
One or two new chapters, in both text and audio, will be posted each week to Pakistan Times.

mp3 audio – Tokyo Twins – Chapters 8, 9 and 10

Chapter 8 – Superstition and allowance in Hebiyama.

_____________________________________________

Obá-chan watched Taya-san and Kaneko-san from the Japan Foreign Ministry, discuss their alternatives and tactics to find the girls; first on the list: Comb Hebiyama with agents and dogs.

“They are not in Hebiyama.” Obá-chan said. “It’s a place forbidden to them, and forbidden to you as well.”

“Pardon me?” said Taya-san.

“It’s…” Obá-chan paused, “haunted.” Obá-chan paused again, “occupied, you might say. And you do know what I mean.” she stated flatly and paused once again.

“I might be a physicist,” she continued, “an electronics engineer and a patent attorney, but I am also a grandmother. And I am sorry to say this: if you enter, even with the best of intentions, that bamboo sanctuary, you will bring great hardship upon my life and upon all the lives in this home. And I repeat: You do know what I am talking about.”

The men stared at her without a word.

“Would you care to give notice to the neighbors and get their opinions on this matter? Every body around here knows these – things – about Hebiyama, and most have felt this way for generations. And do you know why?” she paused.

“Perhaps you would like to test what affect these spirits might have upon your own lives? Your own families and futures? Surely you know what sits beside us in Hebiyama? And how many dozens of generations of my ancestors”, she paused, “and yours… are sitting-up right now across that bamboo forest taking notice as we speak.”

The men just stared.

“Fifty? Sixty? Seventy generations?”

The men were dumb founded.

“Then,” Obá-chan folded her hands in front of her, right over left. “Let’s not put a fox hunt in Hebiyama at the top of the list of ways to find the girls, okay? The girls are not in there. I can tell.”

She was walking to the door, and grabbed the door knob.

“Gentlemen?” she paused. “A thousand apologies for this inconvenience, and a thousand thank you’s for your help.”

? ? ? ? ?

“Who are you?” Katie asserted.

He let go of her arm, and took a couple steps back into the darkness.

“Who are you?” Katie repeated.

“I cannot tell you who I am at this time.”

“You’re an old man. I can run faster than you and turn you in.”

“Yes, you may.” he said.

“You’ll never get out of here.” Katie said.

“That, Katie, is another matter.”

The man moved toward his dark makeshift hut, pulled up a flap, and crawled inside.

Katie noticed the glow of a well hidden candle inside and followed.

“How do you know my name?”

“Is there anyone at the moment in Japan who doesn’t?”

“The television would never say our names.” she said.

“You’ve been blogged.”

Katie rolled her eyes.

“You can help get my mother and father back?” Katie said. “My brother?”

He was silent.

“Why are you here” she demanded.

He was silent.

“This is dumb. There are agents just beyond the opened window there… Surely you know this… I could scream no matter what your intentions are.”

“Yes you may.”

Katie took a long look at nothing into the glow inside the hut.

“Go retrieve your sister. Or not. Or go finish your homework and forget about this. Or not.” he looked in her direction, and continued. “Susan, right now, is crawling your path.”

He looked Japanese, all right, Katie thought, but he didn’t look like he had been working and drinking with the same salary men for eighteen hours a day, six days per week, every single month for the last 40 years of his life.

Then again, she wondered, what other look do I know? And on a sixty-five year old man in Tokyo Japan? This look, his look, was not the same. The muscles in his face sat differently somehow under his skin. His eye brows, hard to say, she thought. Soft. Relaxed. Accepting. But intense, she decided. No. His face is not intense. His entire presence is.

“Why the interest in us?” she said.

“ I cannot tell you at this time.”

“Are you crazy?” Katie said.

“Are you going to retrieve your sister?” he countered.

She looked hard at him.

“Or not.” he slowly added.

“Or maybe I go home like nothing happened.” she asserted.

“Aren’t you working on your math homework?

“Hmm.” she nodded. “Yes I am, if I am still alive after Obá-chan finds out.”

He smiled.

“Either way: we run, we stay,” said Katie, and she began shaking her head to measure her words. “We are big-time screwed. Susan is not going to return here with me. The moment she sees me, she’ll run home. And so will I.” Katie said, “Maybe.”

“And you’re allowed.” he smiled, “no maybe about it.”

“Yes she will,” Katie kept going, “Susan will run… What? What did you say?”

He was silent.

And she grabbed the flap and lifted and took off out the door.

She followed her way back up the hill as best she could, dodging fingers of moonlight.

“It’s better I find her and not the other way around.” she said out loud to herself. “It’ll give me a slight edge in this upcoming battle of the O’Brien twins.”

And with that precaution she fairly ran up the hill nearly reaching the ridge and the trail that headed back eastward, toward her bedroom window.

She felt movement in the bamboo stalks several meters down and east from where she stopped now,

trying to breathe, if not more lightly, then at least a bit more quietly.

“Susan!” Katie whispered loudly.

Katie watched the movement stop.

“Susan, stop it! No… I mean… Susan, don’t stop it. Get over here quick!”

Katie saw no movement, heard no sound.

“Oh, this is dumb. Susan! Get over here!”

“Here I am,” Susan whispered excitedly, loudly and from a direction that pointed a good 60 degrees north of the movement of bamboo Katie just saw.

“Susan! Stop! Katie said. “Don’t move! There is someone else here! I mean, right there, a few meters down the hill from you!”

And both girls now saw vigorous movement coming from the same area.

“Susan-Katie, Katie-Susan.”

“Ohmygod, it’s Obá-chan,” the girls said in concert. And each of them froze suddenly in her tracks.

Chapter 9 – The me, the mirror and the man.

______________________________________

“Katie-Susan! Susan-Katie!” Obá-chan said, continuing to bend and bat away the bamboo thickness.

“We’re dead.” Katie mumbled to herself and Susan, not so oddly, mumbled to herself the same.

“But not yet,” each continued in her mind, their feet moving now, in unison, reversing and spinning in mirror images, the first steps of their Shintaiso duet, one they had been practicing for months, to be performed in competition next Wednesday afternoon, only six days away.

They had practiced it so often, for so long, muscle memory now took over, even on Hebiyama: “Pivot inside-step, pause-and back-spin away one, two, three, spins step, two, roll inside, tumble-up and there’s the mirror, not of glass but eyes and faces, from one me to another.

Katie and Susan O’Brien intuitively let fly in formation the motions and movements themselves: pivot and spin, arms-up and tumble, head straight and roll, and there’s the mirror, no! not the mirror!

Appearing suddenly there popped-up out of moonlight right between their noses and poses, the stranger of Hebiyama, who grabbed a forearm from each, and raised his hands in victory.

“Obá-chan, here they are!”

“Send ‘em home when you’re done!”

And Obá-chan, whose trickiness manifested more cleverly when structured in the mundane, started walking home.

“Wish you were our uncle right now… he’d set things straight, he’s the head of Fuji Television Network, you know, the largest television network in Japan!”

“I see,” said the stranger.

“I don’t think so,” said Susan.

“Nope.” said Katie. “In 30 minutes, he could have 50 live-feed cameras on trucks and helicopters crawling all over this place.”

“I quite agree with you.” the stranger said.

“Maybe you’re not getting this? Obá-chan is going to call him now!”

“Hmm. the stranger said. “I don’t think so.”

The girls just shook their heads in doubt, and gave him – the look – the look of confidence somewhere beyond human ego, and the old man smiled back – his own look – the look of knowing somewhere beyond human knowledge.

‘We have some things to discuss,” said the old man.

“Like what?” said Katie and Susan.

He paused. “Like you,” he said, “like your parents, like your brother, like your friends, your Obá-chan, and well, like I said, like you.”

“And you?” said the girls.

“And me.” the old man said.

“Who are you?” the one said.

What is your interest in us? said the other.

And how do you know Obá-chan?” said both.

“My name is Satchitananda.” said the stranger.

“Satchitananda?” Katie said. “That is not a Japanese name, and you are Japanese!”

“Yes, I am Japanese,” the old man said, now looking with intentional curiosity at the girls. “And many other things as well.”

“Like what?” said the girls.

“I’ve spent most of my life in northern India in areas around Kashmir.”

“Kashmir!” the girls said.

The man stayed quiet.

“You have come to help our parents…”

The man stayed quiet, and just looked back at Katie and Susan.

“Then, why are you here?”

“I don’t know the answer to that question. Events coming to pass today are making circles with events from many years ago.” said the old man.

“What events,” said the girls.

“I cannot say at this time.”

“What’s the secret?”

“It is no secret.” he said.

“You will come to know all the unlikely yet natural closings of these circles only when they close.” he explained.

“Sounds like you’re describing what’s it’s like to throw your ribbon in the middle of a tumbling run,” Susan said, “praying like hell . . .”

Katie was shaking her head.

“You pray you catch it?” he said.

“Hmmm. Sometimes.” Susan said.

“Does it work? he said.

“Last ditch effort?” she paused. “Rarely.”

“How come?” the old man said.

“I don’t know.” Susan said.

“Have you ever looked into it?” he said.

“What do you mean?” said Katie.

“Looking into it?” he reflected and paused. “Watching it while it’s happening.”

“You mean visualizing it? Like doing a tumble or a throw in your mind?” Katie said.

“Is that what you do?” he said.

“Of course,” said the girls.

“Hmmm,” he said. “During your tumble or throw, which one do you observe: the visualization or the action.”

Susan glanced away to think. “I don’t know,” she said.

Katie shook her head slowly in doubt.

“Perhaps this is something to look into.” he said.

“But didn’t you just say you don’t even know why you’re here?” Katie said.

“Yes.” he said. “I did.”

“Perhaps this is something for you to look into.” Susan said.

The old man looked at the girls. “Some things, when you look into them seem knowable, some things are not.” he said.

“How do you know which is which?” Katie said.

“You look into it.” he smiled.

“What’s the point, then?” she said.

“Life.” he said.

“And achievement?” she Susan.

“Yes.” He nodded.

“And learning new routines?” Katie said.

He nodded again.

“And fear?” the girls both said.

“And fear.”

“And pain?” Susan said.

“And pain.”

“And death?” Katie said.

“Yes,” he said.

“What’s this have to do with getting our parents back?” said Susan.

“Will you do me a favor, girls?” he said. “Will you return home now and get some sleep. And if it’s possible, return here tomorrow night?”

“Why?” the girls said.

“There might be more things to talk about.” he said.

“How about now?” Katie said.

“How about now, it is time for bed.” he smiled.

“What about Obá-chan? What about these government men?” the girls said.

“Try not to worry about Obá-chan. And try not to worry about these government men.”

“What about our mother and our father and our brother!”

“Let’s discuss that tomorrow night.”

He felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket.

“Yes” he said, lifting up to his ear the flip part of the phone.

“No,” he answered to the person on the other end, “the coast looks clear for tonight. Let’s everyone keep our positions… Contingencies, events… could boil-up any day, any hour. Thank you, my friends,” and he closed the flip part of the phone and smiled at the girls.

“Good night and dulci del sueño.” He said.

“Sounds like Spanish.”

“Hmmm,” he nodded.

“Hmmm,” the girls replied and found themselves stepping quickly outside the stranger’s shelter, and even more quickly up the hill, across the ridge and home.

? ? ? ? ?

Obá-chan returned to the house and the men were waiting.

“I am sorry. False alarm.” Obá-chan explained to the two men from the Japan Foreign Ministry.

The girls were just playing out back and I couldn’t see them.

“May we speak to them now?” the men said.

“Heavens no. They’ve had a very rough day, and they are deeply asleep. Would tomorrow morning be okay?”

Chapter 10 – Older sister younger brother.

___________________________________

Katie and Susan O’Brien paced in an anxious trance around their bedroom soon after returning from the jungle and from the stranger, Satchitananda.

They heard the government agents talking between themselves from their car in front of the house.

The news about their missing parents in Kashmir was twenty-four hours in the past, and what felt like a nightmare yesterday was now feeling real, with a life of its own.

They felt physically and emotionally disoriented, anxious and afraid. Grief was setting in – a new experience for them – the feeling of an unbreakable loss, nourished without pause by an overwhelming loneliness it carried on its back. And new to the girls, too, a feeling of panic was knocking at their door.

Susan and Katie looked at each other and nodded slightly and stepped slowly from their bedroom and down the hall and into the living room where Obá-chan was quietly sitting on tatami flooring, and slightly rocking her body out of a similar sense of panic and despair.

She moved a cup of hot tea away from her and looked up at the girls entering the room, their faces blotched in places from crying, pale in places from fear.

“What is the news about Mom and Dad?”

“How much danger are they in?”

“When will they come home?”

And for a moment, through the stress, they failed to conceal, with conditioned cultural reticence, the lynch pin holding in place their pain:

“if indeed they ever do…” Katie murmured.

“…ever do come home.” finished Susan.

“Why is all this happening at once.” Susan said in tears. “National Trials are next week; training is not going well.” she continued.

“This man in Hebiyama – he says he is Japanese?” Katie added.

“With a foreign sounding name? from Kashmir?” Susan said.

“Perhaps he is the one responsible,” Katie said, “for our parents missing.”

“And how, Obá-chan, do you know him.” she went on.

“When did you meet him and talk with him, and how could he possibly help our Mother and Father – or our brother Jack – from a tiny bamboo national forest in Tokyo Japan!?” Katie said.

“And these government men,” followed Susan, “I’m confused. You, Obá-chan, are protecting Katie and me, and also a total stranger in the forest next door.”

“And from who, from what?” Katie said.

“The Japanese government?” said Susan. “And you, Obá-chan – our only connection to family in this house right now – Obá-chan, you must be hurting so much right now. You are not yourself.” Susan finished talking.

Obá-chan motioned with both hands and pulled the girls up close to her.

“My dear Katie and Susan, I wish I could explain this to you, and everything else that has happened the past couple days,” she was moving her head in doubt, “but Satchitananda – our new next door neighbor – may be some hope for saving your mother and father… and your brother Jack.” Obá-chan explained.

“We don’t get it.” said Katie and Susan together, half angry and half crying.

“Listen to me, girls…” Obá-chan said quietly, “Obá-chan does not understand this either, but the fact that Satchitananda is here at all, is, in itself, a miracle, and he is here with some purpose, and we will understand these things in time, and probably sooner than later.”

Obá-chan continued, “Promise me, Susan. Promise me, Katie… Three things: You will go to school, you will continue Shintaiso training daily, compete well next week, and you will study hard.

“Satchitananda wants to see us tomorrow night after training.” Katie added.

“Yes, I know.” Obá-chan said.

“You trust him? You don’t even know him!” Katie said.

No one knows him! And he is… what… a homeless person!” Susan argued.

Obá-chan pulled her hair back with her hands and looked at the girls, “I do realize that your Obá-chan should not be the one receiving these wise words of caution.” She paused, “especially from her own fourteen-year-old granddaughters,” Obá-chan said. “But I trust him.” There was a dash of reverence in her voice. “I am asking you to trust him, too.”

“Why Obá-chan?” Susan urged.

“Obá-chan, how can we.” Katie cried.

And the three sat in silence for two, three minutes staring into hopelessness.

“I don’t know.” Obá-chan said. “But I do know this: Already, out of this chaos and suffering, some kind of miracle has been let loose.”

“We’re lost.” the girls said.

Obá-chan took a deep breath, “You are not lost, Katie and Susan, this miracle, perhaps, is headed your way. Come…” she said and held their hands again. “Come… let’s offer rice and sáke to your great grandmother.” Obá-chan said.

And they moved to the Buddhist area of the living room where a photo of Obá-chan’s mother, long passed away, reminded them of her constant presence, and soothing influence, in the household.

“Give your undying strength, great grandmother, to your grand daughter, Mieko, who is in danger. To her husband Henry in danger too. To your beautiful great grand daughters, Susan and Katie, and to their older brother, Jack. And to this man who lives in the jungle… to this man… give him strength. “

She covered her face in her hands. As did the girls. All weeping. All consumed by the moment and by grief, and now all hugging tightly.

? ? ? ? ?

Earlier in the day, shortly beyond noon, Obá-chan cleaned off her desk, filed her working folders, shut off her workstation, and told her assistant she’d be gone the remainder of the day.

When she boarded the Yamanote Line at Tokyo Station two blocks from her office, she was making an unprecedented and unthinkable return home while daylight of any sort still shined.

“This is impossible, under any circumstances,” her assistant stopped to think a moment: “It has been twenty-five years, maybe thirty, since she even ate lunch anywhere else but at the table in the kitchen of her own law firm! And now she’s leaving the office?”

? ? ? ? ?

Yesterday morning, Obá-chan had caught a glimpse

of the stranger in Hebiyama from her dining room window as he cut and gathered bamboo.

This glimpse of the stranger invoked some feeling of peace and quiet inside of her. Normally, she’d have dismissed the event. Now, twenty-four hours later,

with life turned upside down, she had to check this out.

As purely as she was dedicated to her work, and the logic and discipline that drove her successes in the field of law, she acted, too, on her intuitions, not a knowledge born of study or experience, but a knowingness born of her feelings, of people, of places and things.

This knowingness was of precious personal value to Obá-chan over the years, whenever it made its unexpected appearance, and whenever it did not.

? ? ? ? ?

She arrived home from her usual walk from Fuda Station, threw on a pair of baggy pants and athletic shoes, walked out the front door and turned directly into the bamboo wall of Hebiyama.

“This is a simple program,” she thought, “I am going to meet the stranger of Hebiyama.”

And she had not walked a dozen paces when she heard the voice from somewhere calling to her, “Oné-san, Oné-san. (What one calls one’s older sister in Japan, without fail.)

She stopped and stood and she knew at once, unseeing, for no good reason, who was calling her name.

She fell to her knees sobbing deeply and felt a hand lay upon her shoulder and she turned around.

“Oné-san, I am your brother, Kenji,” the man said.

Tokyo Twins A serialized online story

Introduction

Tokyo Twins looks at two issues -

what the roots of terrorism are, and what the end of terrorism might be.
One new chapter, in both text and audio, will be posted each week to Pakistan Times.

Tokyo Twins – Chapters 6 & 7 – mp3 audio

Chapter 6 – Full moon rising and the girls set a trap.

___________________________________________

Katie and Susan O’Brien left for school with quiet hugs for Obá-chan and fewer words for each other, and they continued to have little or nothing to say going to school, during school, taking the train after school to the gym.

They saw Inga Godotnova, their Shintaiso coach, stepping onto the platform from the train car behind them at Wakabayashi Station and walked quickly to her.

“We are sorry to have to tell you this…” Katie started.

“There is bad news about our parents.”

Susan filled in with what little was known, and added “the news may drift in during practice. We wanted you to know and hope it does not disrupt things too much.”

“Even under these terrible circumstances, I am not surprised you are here for practice.” Inga Godotnova hugged the girls closely. “Thank you for telling me.” she said with a smile touching and honest and sad, and this smile left a deep and centering impression on Katie and Susan O’Brien.

The three continued walking to the gym.

“I’m not sure practice will go so well today,” Katie said half muttering.

“If you want your amazing progress in this sport to change right now, in any direction whatsoever, for better or for worse – it is, right now, your choice to do so.”

And Katie and Susan paused walking and at once looked up into their coaches eyes.

? ? ? ? ?

During break the girls took towels from their gym bags.

“Look at this,” Susan said eyeing the other girls, “the news must have hit.”

Katie sat and wiped her face and rubbed the back of her neck with the towel and looked at her team mates nearly all looking at their cell phones and then nearly all the girls in quick and off-beat bobbing glanced up and around at Katie and Susan, the spreading awareness of horrifying news coming in flashes of lightening out of some uninvited presence that rolled thick and fog-like across the gymnasium floor.

“I’m not looking at my cell phone.” said Katie.

“Me neither,” said Susan, yet allowing a sideways stare at the instant messages flooding in across the cell phone screen: “I’m so sorry,” “We’re with you.” “What can I do to help?” and so on.

Katie lifted her face buried in her towel. And she and Susan looked calmly around the room, Susan standing; Katie sitting; the others doing their best not to look as they already were – suddenly frozen in self-conscience.

“Let’s get back to work!” said Inga Godotnova, a set of words not normally acted upon by her young Shintaiso athletes with such welcome as now.

Toward the end of practice the girls warmed down in slower motion than usual, then dressed, loaded their equipment, swung the straps of gym bags and gear over there shoulders and headed for Wakabayashi Station with more presence of mind than usual.

They got off at Shimotakaido Station, the terminal for the Setagaya Line, and walked toward the Keio Line tracks and approached a choice of two sets of stairs to climb – one for the local, one for the express.

They looked each other in the eyes and traded nods that no one on the planet but the other was supposed to ever understand.

And climbing the right-side set of stairs, and looking straight ahead, with monotone and purpose: “Chofu,” the one said. “Chofu,” said the other. “Hebiyama,” the one said. “Hebiyama,” said the other. “We won’t be late getting home,” the one said. “We won’t be late,” said the other.

“We’ll just walk by.”

“Just walk-on by.”

“And we’ll look,” the one said.

“And maybe find!” said the other.

Both thought about Inga Godotnova and both smiled their coach’s sad and knowing smile, catching brief glances of eye contact with each other, backing and squeezing their bodies and gear onto the express train for Chofu Station.

? ? ? ? ?

They walked along the black wall to their left of the bamboo forest of Hebiyama and watched a full moon come up over tall and distant apartment-complex buildings, the big moon orange and dim through clouds then bright then orange and dim again.

“Mom and Dad are missing . . .” said Susan with both wonder and worry.

“It’s just impossible. I can’t believe it.” said Katie.

“. . . and on the very same day. . .” continued Susan.

“…might not be anything.” said Katie.

“. . . appears a mysterious neighbor in Hebiyama?”

“Maybe we are getting a bit carried away here.” said Katie.

“. . . and a flautist! That is just too weird . . .” said Susan.

“Life is weird.” said Katie.

“. . . and apparently a composer of beautiful melody.”

Susan said.

“Who appears – well – not intending to appear at all.” said Katie.

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right. We’re almost home.”

said Susan.

“I’m seeing no candle lights or anything at all in Hebiyama.” said Katie slowly, “and hearing – wait a sec –” Katie continued… they stop for several seconds. “…just checking” she said, “…no foot steps either.”

“And no flute.” said Susan.

“And no daijoubu’s from the darkness!” Katie added.

And they giggled. Slightly. Nervously.

“Ah, it’s probably just a coincidence.” Katie said.

“He’s probably gone.” said Susan.

“Wish we were too.” said Katie, “hey, who’s car is that?”

“Yeah!” said Susan, “different from last night.”

“I hope it’s not somebody we don’t want to be nice to right now,” Katie said.

“Like who?” said Susan.

“Like you,” and Katie pushed her shoulder into her sister’s.

“I do believe you’re stuck with me for a while.” said Susan slightly joking.

And Katie nudging Susan’s shoulder again said, “Yeah. Thank heaven for that.”

They saw the front door swing open and ran the last several steps to hug Obá-chan together.

They walked with arms still around each other to the living room, and two men in dark blue suits and white shirts, Kaneko-san and Taya-san, stood up on the tatami mats in their stocking feet, and the girls politely exchanged their introductions.

At once and together, the five sat down on the floor on dark red mats scattered around the small square dining table in the room.

“These are representatives from the Japan Foreign Ministry. Obá-chan said.

“The ones from last night?”

“Different ones, Katie.” Taya-san said. “We’ll be your contact with the government as news about your parents progresses…” he added.

“What’s the latest.” said Susan in almost a whisper.

“Your brother, Jack, is also missing.” said Obá-chan.

“Huh? What? He’s in Arizona. In Sedona. Living at school.” the girls said together.

Obá-chan shook her head.

Kaneko-san began explaining, “The headmaster of the school reported him missing yesterday from class, and then missing from meals and homeroom, and bed check as well.”

“Oh come on. This is so dumb.” said Katie.

Susan just shook her head.

Obá-chan talked now, “He might not have been kidnapped… or taken. You know your brother, Jack,” she continued.

“…friends all over the world,” said Katie.

“…even in his own dorm room,” Susan said.

“Jack attends a boarding high school in Arizona.” Obá-chan explained to the government officials. “There are students from over 25 countries attending.” she continued. “He might have heard somehow… caught wind of something.”

“and split for Kashmir.” said Susan.

“Jack would do that.” said Katie.

“Jack would do that.” Susan said.

“Crazy brother. Now Jack to worry about too.” said Katie.

“Jack once ran away …” Obá-chan began explaining to the men.

“Oh?” the men said.

“To the north shore of Oahu. Good place to surf, so he claimed.” said Katie.

“How could he travel on his…” Taya-san started asking…

“Oh, he’s a rather resourceful young man, I’m afraid,” Obá-chan interrupted. “He brings letters, documents, seals, stamps, signatures. Whatever he needs.” she continued.

“Jack brings his silver-tongued self is what he does,” said Susan.

“We have his photo at every airport immigration office all over the world.” Kaneko-san explained.

“No.” said Katie. He’s probably there already.”

“Where?” the men asked.

“Kashmir. Like we said.” Katie added.

The men paused a moment. “I guess he’s had time to get there.” Kaneko-san admitted.

“But there is no record of his passport crossing . . .” Taya-san started to say.

“You don’t know Jack” said Obá-chan.

“He’s sixteen years old . . . well, seventeen at the end of the month,” Obá-chan explained.

“He’d do anything.” said Susan.

“And does.” Katie said.

“For precaution we’ll have a car outside to keep an eye on things.”

“And who’s going to be in it?” asked Katie.

“We are.” said the men.

“Hmmm.” the girls and Obá-chan nodded their heads.

“Last night we saw a . . .” Susan started saying and Katie interrupted, “Last night we saw your people pulling away in a car. . .”

“Well, thank you, gentlemen.” said Obá-chan, anticipating a possible end to the meeting.

“Yeah,” said Katie, thank you for caring.

Susan, just frowned and nodded her head in agreement.

The girls headed for their room.

“Are you crazy, we don’t know yet who that is in Hebiyama!” Katie said.

“Are you crazy, we could have been kidnapped already!” Susan countered.

“I don’t think so.” Katie said. “If that man wanted us, he could’ve gotten us last night.”

“We were running too fast.” said Susan.

“Don’t be naïve.” Katie said.

“Uh… how’d you suddenly get so smart.” Susan said.

“I just don’t think he is our enemy.” Katie said.

Susan threw her arms up in the air. “What are we talking about! He’s just some bum hanging out! Who’s now moved on.”

Katie and Susan dropped their bags on their bedroom floor.

“I got a little more homework to do.” said Katie.

“Me too and I don’t feel like doing it, and besides I’m hungry.” Susan said.

“I hope they stick around a while longer.” Susan continued.

“You know they’re not leaving,” Katie countered.

“I mean, you know, in the house.” Susan said.

“Why?” Katie asked.

“Katie? Let’s try something.” said Susan.

And Katie watched Susan walk over to the oil lamp and light it and turn off the fluorescent light above.

“Katie…” she whispered.

“Um, why are you whispering?”

“We have to try this.” Susan said.

“What?” asked Katie.

“Sit down at the piano… start playing Grandfather’s lullaby like I was doing. . .” Susan explained.

“That’s not going to work like last night.” Katie interrupted.

“So what if it doesn’t. We play it a lot anyway.” Susan paused. “Hey, we need to find out something about something, huh?… Let’s clear-up the curiosity, about the man in the woods.”

“And what are you going to …. ?” Katie started saying.

“Shhh,” Susan said. “Just start playing, Katie.”

“I don’t like this, Susan,” Katie said trying to stay quiet and trying to make a point. “What are you planning?”

Susan sat by the lamp glow where Katie sat last night.

And Katie began slowly, and with the sparest of chords, to play their dear lullaby.

And they both got lost in the sweet serenity, the sweet sadness of the melody that re-attached them now to their own pain and longing.

And after Katie played for a minute or two, they almost forgot they were listening for the sound of a flute.

“Oh my god.” they said at once. And the sound of the flute began playing along, the companion melody they heard last night.

“He’s there!” Katie said, her eyes huge in the glow, her throat muffling a squeal.

“Keep playing. Listen to what I have to say.” said Susan.

“I’m playing, Susan, but I’m not listening to you on this!”

“After thirteen years of living next door to this jungle,” Susan explained still whispering, “I think I know my way around a whole lot better than whoever it is hiding in there . . .” Susan went on, her own eyes growing bigger now, excitement spreading across the muscles of her mouth and forehead. “I can sneak above where the flute is coming from, maybe get an idea of who is there.”

And she paused and tugged with the fingers of both hands on the ends of her hair.

“No way.” Katie said. “You don’t do that. I don’t do that. That’s not going to happen.”

“Just keep playing,” Susan whispered again. “It’ll be a reconnaissance walk in park,” said Susan. And she began to pull a black turtle neck over her head.

“You stop right now, Susan.” Katie could hardly contain her voice.

“You keep him occupied with the lullaby,” Susan countered with a voice irritated and determined. “And I’ll check him out. Take me five, ten minutes.”

The girls continued to hear conversation in the living room.

Katie snapped her head and hair back and stared at the ceiling, her fingers still on the lullaby.

“Don’t just sit there. We have to do something, Katie. We don’t have much time!” Susan said.

Katie stopped playing.

Susan’s face grew furious at her sister.

“Give me that turtleneck!” Katie said.

“Keep playing!” said Susan.

“Give me that turtleneck, Susan. If you want to do this, Susan, fine. But I’m not playing any more. Now gimme that turtleneck!”

Susan took over at the piano still furious.

“What if you’re not back?!” Susan whispered almost aloud.

And Katie just stared at her sister, her anger flipping into fear.

Susan deliberately looked away now and Katie sneaked out the bedroom window like a ninja, without beacon and without sound.

Chapter 7 – Windows, songs, voices and hands.

________________________________________

Katie crouched and kept her head and shoulders under the spill of light. The jungle, Hebiyama was right there. Its blackness was not something you carefully approach:

Slip out the bedroom window, and you’re there.

Katie continued hearing the piano, the flute, her grandmother in polite and high octave voice still chattering away. She felt her socks and ankles grow cold and wet from dew, felt a single drop of sweat running down the ridges of her ribs, heard the drone of ten thousand bull frogs, and could smell the jungle in a new way.

If her eyes were opened any more they’d be falling right out of her head.

The chance of the flautist not being alone, with a small group maybe, produced a flash of fear: she could be snatched if he had somebody, some goon waiting just inside the wall of bamboo black.

She stayed crouched and moved along, knees bent, head up, ankles feeling strained, heart pounding and eyes focused out there, at nothing.

“Great.” she snickered, but on a lower level she hated it when she allowed this sort of sarcasm to vouch for feeling afraid.

“Right now fear is fear,” she thought. Right now there’s nothing much funny about it. You’re out here,” she thought, “Don’t screw up. Don’t get caught.”

“Yea right,” she interrupted herself..

“Dang. I gotta pee.” she thought.

“No I don’t. I just peed. Stop this nonsense.”

The moonlight scattered at random the thinnest of fingers of itself, eerie and pale blue beams, in apparition among the bamboo and never touching ground.

Heavy wings were flapping, arranging themselves seven, ten meters above, in nests: Jungle crow not accustomed to having human company, not even during daylight in these trees. “At least they can’t swoop down here in this thick mess…” she thought.

“The bullfrogs are so loud.” She tried remembering Obá-chan telling her about how the bull frogs were imported from America decades ago, Alabama bullfrogs.

Japan’s rice crop had failed and bullfrogs were food, bull frogs were protein, bullfrogs were breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Now… just a pain in the butt.

“We got them back, I guess, with kutsu.” She recalled reading about the invasion of kutsu, or kudzoo perhaps they call it there, in the southern states of America.

“Sorry, didn’t mean that,” she thought again . . . still swatting down thoughts. “What am I thinking about? Kutsu? Pay attention, Katie!”

The flute was thirty or forty meters due west of the house wall.

“I’ll crawl along the edge of black here, past the back of the house, then over the retaining wall, four feet high, piece a cake, up the hill about twenty meters, then west into the jungle. And I will go really slow. As quiet as a snake.”

She felt her heart pound now, “Oh god. Snakes! I forgot. Do snakes sleep? Snakes sleep like sheep, don’t they? like kittens?”

“Great.” said Katie again.

Katie crouched lower and slipped sideways into the jungle, holding herself up with her right hand, her right forearm sometimes.

“Oops, no room… Do right elbow, Katie!” She was silently coaching herself: “Left leg push, right arm pull, left hand grab, oh god, make sure its vegetable or mineral or anything at all but snake.”

Her body shivered at the thought.

“Right arm slide.” she continued. “Right foot drag and stop.” She shivered again – that gross feeling of yuck and fear – and moved again and shivered.

? ? ? ? ?

This government land had been sectioned off forever, as far as Katie knew, even during the Edo Period, when the Emperor lived in Kyoto, the old capital of Japan, when a handful of Daimyo – land barons – ruled the world.

“Perhaps one of the Tokugawa Shoguns made this a park,” Katie and Susan would speculate from time to time.

In this solitary seven acres of bamboo forest, in the thick of suburban Tokyo here was a habitat unique to the greater part of Tokyo, and the Kanto Plain.

There were birds and snakes and insects in Hebiyama that you would never see for a good 70 kilometers in all directions.

? ? ? ? ?

“Keep on playing that pipe,” Katie whispered to herself. “He’s gotta be down there about twenty yards, if I could only see.” She tried to imagine the depth and distance inside her mind.

The piano stopped playing. And in a single measure stopped the flute.

“What are you doing, Susan!” Katie said with her eyes.

“Katie-Susan!”

“Susan-Katie!” Obá-chan was yelling.

“Oh my god, Obá-chan is calling us.”

And again, “Katie-Susan. Susan-Katie!”

“Say something Susan!” Katie whispered harshly.

“Yes Obá-chan? Did you want something?” Susan responded.

“Would you girls come here a moment… the men from the Japan Foreign Ministry would like to ask you a few more questions.”

Katie’s jaw dropped and she suddenly exhaled.

“Just a minute Obá-chan! I’m helping Katie with her math! We almost got it.”

“Do finish … but hurry girls! We are keeping these men waiting!”

Katie’s moved her neck in a “no” and looked around, trying to remember exactly where she heard the flute.

“Not there. Not there. Not there. Oh great. Must be right down there. Not one finger of pale blue moonbeam in those five square meters just down there.”

Katie crawled in that direction. And she felt someone grab her hand.

“Don’t scream.” spoke a soft voice.

Katie made a quick motion with her arm and body to get away.

“Don’t move. Don’t worry. Your sister is on her way.”

? ? ? ? ?

Minutes passed inside while Obá-chan waited with the two men from the Japan Foreign Ministry. “I’ll go check on them.” Obá-chan said.

She returned to the living room, her hands covering her face.

“They’re both gone.” she shook her head.

Title: Terey Kheyal Ka Chaand
Author: Ahmad Hammad
Publishers: Jahangir Books, Lahore
Price: Rs. 200, Pages; 136
By Dr. Amjad Parvez
The poets emerging among the younger generation do not have a second thought on what they need to say. They say it in a straight forward manner and believe in brevity. That is why Ahmad Hammad says that without his beloved he fails to follow what life is all about. He says that on the title of his latest poetry book titled Terey Kheyal Ka Chaand published in greenish blue colour painting on the title by Fuaz Niaz of Jahangir Books. The couplet being referred to here is Mukhtasar Baat Yeh Hei Keh Terey Bina/ Zindigi Ki Samajh Hi Nahin Aa Rahi. Similarly this generation does not live in its past and looks for betterment in future. Generally speaking, despite touching vehemently on the soars of the society they are optimistic in their approach. Hammad says Roz-e-Ainda Mein Dhal Ja Merey Beetey Huey Din/ Mujhey Maazi Key Hawaley Nahin Achey Lagtey.

As a starter, Hammad shares some pages of his diary in the introduction to this book with his readers. He says that on a visit to Karachi he found dust on Quaid’s Tomb with vultures hovering around the tomb. In the city of Karachi he found sea on one side and wilderness on the other. He thought that it was a city cut from the mainstream reality. As a poet he must have felt lonely. This reviewer remembers poet Syed Younis Ijaz’s line here that Sheher Ho Jitna Bara Utni Bari Tanhaiyan. The larger is the city the enormous is the loneliness, it offers. Hammad must have said a small poem Terey Dard Sey is such a mood. He says Mera Seena/ Agar Aatish Fashan Hota/ To Ab Tak Phat Gaya Hota (page 128). Brevity and saying a lot in it is Hammad’s forte who says poetry both in Nazm and Ghazal format in easy diction. He avoids metaphors, is direct in expression and uses the terminology of everyday life of this modern age. On page 47, Hammad says that his dreams are like the pots of a pot maker that get shattered easily. He says Merey Sapney/ Kisi Nau-Umr Koozagar Key Koozey Hain/ Jo Aksar Toot Jaatey Hein.

Love, like many other poets is theme of some of Hammad’s poetry as well. In his poem titled Muhabbat Ki Afaaqi Nazm, he says that everything is mortal except love that is immortal. It turns black nights into days. It repulses all the evils. It melts the hearts of stones. Sometimes it appears in the form of butterflies and sometimes in the form of fireflies. Sometimes it appears in the shape of grown hair of the old and sometimes in the hands of a mother. The concluding Para of this poem is very catchy. It says Koi Gehrey Dukhon Ki Khaai Mein Girney Hi Wala Ho/ Muhabbat Aagey Barh Kar Apni Jaanib Khainch Lati Hei. Traditionally love is the story of meeting and departing. It is the basis of life. Love therefore is immortal. In another poem titled Mujhey Tum Sey Muhabbat He (page 69), Hammad expresses his love without restraint. Initially he could not express his love freely but then girdles up all his courage and pours out his heart to his beloved. The format that he uses to do so is poetry. He says So Ab Raqs Kartey, Jheenptey Misron Mein/ Haal-e-Dil Samota Hun/ Koi Jaisey Wuzoo Kar Key, Muqadas Baat Karta Ho/ Yeh Kehta Ho/ Mujhey Tum Sey Muhabbat Hei. Hammad is also proud of the contributions of writers. He says in his Ghazal on page 72 that the custodians of pen must not be treated lightly as they seldom appear in this world but when they do they change the destinies of nations. He says Samey Key Dard Ka Daaroo Hein Hum Qalam Waley/ Zameen Key Zakhmon Peh Hum Aisey Log Marham Hein. He is also aware of the loneliness of a poet when he says that somebody had termed him mentally unstable. He says Kisi Majzoob Ney Mujh Sey Kaha Tha/ Keh Too Diwana Hei, Tanha Rahey Ga.

Music appears in his poetry too. In a Ghazal on page 79 he used musical vocabulary to express his sentiments. He says Koi Tujh Jaisa Lagey Daikheney Mein Laakh Magar/Terey Malhaar Sey Lehjey Mein Kahan Bolta Hei!. Hammad like any conscious youngster of this country is aware of the burning problems of the society. On the business of selling of one’s kidneys for money out of poverty and the clients making best of the helpless of the sellers, he has said a wonderful poem titled Organ Transplantation. He proposes lending his eyes instead of his kidneys such that one could dream of a better world instead. He concludes Khwab Khushboo Hei To Tabeer Hawa Ki Soorat/ Khwab Insaan Hei To Tabeer Khuda Ki Soorat.

Hammad says a lot about the present state of affairs in the globe at large and of his country in particular. If the stress put by the State on the masses regarding inflation, ever rising prices of eatables, petrol, gas and electricity raises with no respite in the offing, with no hope for producing cheap energy from water reservoirs etc, he feels that asking for a respite for the masses from the leaders is like asking for moon. The concluding lines of his poem Kab Aaeye Ga Sultani Jamhoor Ka Mausam (page 97) are indicators of a horrifying time to come. He says Kaf-e-Takhreeb Sey Umeed Karta Hoon/ Main Goya Yaum-e-Aashura Ko Yaum-e-Eid Karta Hoon. So, he prays to God to give him enough courage to protest and he says so in the small poem titled Sakoot-e-Marg Taari Hei (page 99). He asks the Almighty to give him strength to speak as consistent control on his emotions might blast of his chest. He says Kahin Seena Na Phat Jaey/ Kisi Talwar Si Berabt Saanson Sey/ Kahin Meri Reg-e-Jaan Hi Na Kat Jaey. Sustaining the pressures too have a limit no matter whether G8 sit in seven star hotels and try to resolve the food riots situations in Africa and on such emerging situation as we are witnessing in Asia or speculators raising the oil prices. Where are we leading our world to?

TEHRAN: Mehr News Agency has reported that Ebrahim Hassanbeigi’s novel “Muhammad(S)” will be published in French, English, Urdu and Uzbek after it has been translated into Arabic. Iraqi author Ibrahim Basri has translated the novel, recently published by Beirut’s Dar El-Hadi Publications, into Arabic.

Farideh Mahdavi Damghani will translate the book into French and Iran’s cultural attaché in Canada will sponsor the English version. The head of the Centre of Persian and Central Asian Studies of the New Delhi’s Jawaharlal Nehru University, Akhtar Mehdi is translating the book into Urdu and, once completed, the Urdu version will be distributed in Pakistan, India and Afghanistan.

Iran’s cultural attaché in Tashkent will publish the Urdu version of the book that is now being translated by Shakirjan Alamov. Published by Madreseh Publications, the theme of the book is the life of Prophet Muhammad (S). Hassanbeigi’s book for elementary school children entitled “Golden Fish and Silver Fish” was translated into Turkmen by Maral Batirova and published in Turkmenistan recently.

Tokyo Twins A serialized online story

Introduction

Tokyo Twins looks at two issues -

what the roots of terrorism are, and what the end of terrorism might be.
One new chapter, in both text and audio, will be posted each week to Pakistan Times.

Tokyo Twins – Chapters 4 & 5 – mp3 audio

The girls did lightning fast rounds of rock-scissors-paper to divvy-up their chores, and Obá-chan went into her bedroom and sat upon the tatami mat with her back against the wall to let drain “oh please let drain” the ghost of fear and panic now seizing her body and soul.

The disappearance of Henry and Mieko O’Brien in Kashmir would hit the news in 24 hours, so say the two gentlemen from the Foreign Ministry of Japan.

It didn’t matter to Obá-chan that it would hit all at once and all around the world.

The problem she simply could not face right now was telling Katie and Susan.

She knew in her own life what sudden losses were. Loved ones. Family. Here today. Then here no more.

She was in her early teenage years living in Tokyo during the Second World War.

She pondered through the years her memories of fear and loss and hopelessness. Were they now all the more hidden inside her, or were they wearing themselves away?

Tonight, the answer came.

For Obá-chan and every surviving Japanese these were the utmost of private matters. Not even with your older sister, would you bring the topic up. There was too much work to do. And way too much to sort through.

And now this sudden devastation: Mieko and Henry were missing in Kashmir.

Her state of shock was digging up fresh her ancient despair and suffering and loneliness.

She had escaped inside her bedroom to gather strength and just the opposite was happening now.

How could she find and form the words to explain to Katie and Susan?

Without invitation, without intention, her past was roaring itself to life, and there was nothing she could do about it.

She cracked open a bottle of shochu – rice whiskey and poured a half a glass. And slipped her hand inside her bottom chest of drawers pulling out a cigarette from her secret place.

How could she find and form the words to tell Susan and Katie, she thought again.

Then her mind got captured by the past.

Obá-chan had three younger brothers and an older sister – five children in the household during the war.

The first two brothers, it seemed, survived unscarred the misery of those four years.

At the end of 1945 they were ten and twelve years old–and now both leaders in television broadcasting, an industry then unimagined, but made real over night by physics as physics made real—yet faster—The Bomb.

But it was a gradual and growing wreckage that invaded the life of Kenji, the family’s baby boy.

Kenji was five years old at the end of the war. Unable to talk… well he stuttered, stuttered himself speechless. Unable to play with others. Unable to demonstrate or even show signs of how or what he was feeling.

Not after the war.

Kenji was fine at birth, fine at three years old, a perfectly normal Japanese toddler. Happy, expressive and aware. Always smiling. Sensitive for a young child to the needs and well being of everyone – family, friends, even those in the neighborhood we didn’t care for much.

Kenji got lost one night. It was summer 1944.

For safety, we were changing locations – walking, the whole family – to a cousin’s house miles away, to avoid what most of us long feared: that our own neighborhood was the likely and imminent bull’s-eye for new bombs.

Just so happened we were right.

Little Kenji, four years old, got lost along the way, and somehow followed the tracks we had hiked for miles and made his way back home.

Kenji was found the next day buried in the rubble of the bombing of our home, alone, severely hurt, severely awake, aware of all that transpired from moment to moment – the violence and destruction, the flames and heat all around him, the unceasing explosions, the deadly loud noise of neighbors in pain–put viscously upon the only world he knew.

The events hit Kenji like a meteor leaving its footprint for godknows how long.

Kenji shut down badly, more and more so with the passing days and months and years.

Nobody said anything, but everybody knew.

Some of us could still see the old Kenji-light somewhere in his eyes, the old Kenji-wit and humor and love. But these beautiful ways he had of being himself, a joyful little boy, stayed hidden deep inside.

At 16, without saying good-bye – it was 1956 – Kenji hopped an ocean freighter in Tokyo Bay, and left Japan, (could it be 50 years ago already?) and we never heard from him again.

“Obá-chan, daijoubu?” Susan stuck her head half-way inside the bedroom door.

“Come in, Susan. Come in and sit here on my lap like you use to do… You too, Katie. Come in girls, let’s get close.”

“Obá-chan, we know you’re not feeling well, so we made your dinner. It’s there at the dining room table.” said Susan.

And tears welled-up in Obá-chan’s eyes, and rolled in slow motion down her cheeks, then over a delicate and feeling smile somehow finding form.

“You kids eat?” Obá-chan slowly asked.

“Hmm.” Katie and Susan nodded their heads.

A long pause came down upon them, and the three sat quietly in the dark.

“Katie and Susan?”

“Yes?” the girls responded.

“Obá-chan needs to tell you something.”

Chapter 5 – Mourning and mystery on Hebiyama.

__________________________________________

Katie and Susan and Obá-chan huddled and cuddled around one other to absorb, to grieve, to reject as impossible the news of their loved ones missing in Kashmir.

Obá-chan suggested the girls stay home tomorrow away from the uncertainty and chaos surely to hound them from well meaning friends, from media from within their own minds.

They had never missed a day of school before, not a single one, nor a day of Shintaiso practice, and “tomorrow”, Katie and Susan said, “would not be the first.”

The girls retired to their room. And Katie did some homework by the light of an oil lamp lit for comfort and for quiet, while Susan sat at the piano and began to slowly and quietly play the very first song her father Henry O’Brien had taught her at the age of six, and her own tears broke new ground in her feelings of loss compelling more tears from Katie.

The melody Susan played, became the words spoken between sisters and these were words enough – this lullaby passed down to her through her father, passed down to her father by his own, who wrote the melody in Des Moines, Iowa, 70 years ago.

Some minutes passed by when softly appeared another melody. Maybe from the radio in Obá-chan’s room?

The girls looked around and at each other.

No.

This melody, harmonizing and weaving measure for measure over the lullaby Susan played, a soft solo sound from some kind of flute, floated quietly and on key out of the black of Hebiyama through their opened bedroom window into the golden glow of their room.

These melodies, unlikely companions, induced the girls to peace of mind, to feelings of exhaustion to futons on the floor, and sweetly and subtly to sleep.

? ? ? ? ?

Where the national forest begins at the O’Brien household property line, a mere one meter from its west brick wall, the stranger in Snake Mountain (Hebiyama) whose voice the girls had heard that same evening on their way home had spent the earlier part of the day making a nest about 40 meters away in a thick and impenetrable thatch of bamboo.

He cut out a small clearing with a machete knife, dividing out in stacks the solid bamboo stalks for vectoring from those a bit more flexible for shaping from those a lot more flexible for lashing from those brand new for food.

The solid bamboo stalks for vectoring became foundation and floor and walls laid out in pentagon, in diameter the length of his body and half again.

He then trimmed and cut and lined up in ratio, like making angels in the snow, a pattern of chords from the flexible stalks for a geodesic dome. Weaving for a few hours more in the afternoon a bamboo roof of some organic half moon, he lashed this unlikely sturdy top to the foundation and walls and floor.

Then sitting back with a smile and a sigh he welcomed himself in silence to home-sweet home.

He took from his sack a bottle of water, and also a bottle of mayonnaise labeled “Kyupi”, and sat down and enjoyed a banquet of H2O and bamboo shoots dipped in the local mayo.

After his evening meal the man took a walk in the woods in darkness and spotted Katie and Susan O’Brien returning home, and he naturally offered a “daijoubu”, inquiring about the well-being of his two special young neighbors who passed by nearly unnoticed, and upon hearing his voice suddenly ran away.

And later in the evening he began to hear an exquisite and simple melody plucked gently on a piano nearby, so he took from his pack his well worn flute and with improvisation played along for a while.

And with his final chore of the day, nearly forgotten by these transporting and companion melodies on piano and flute, the man retrieved a cell phone from his bag, and to his team on the other end reported, “I’m all set-up. Let’s spread the party out.”

? ? ? ? ?

The next morning the girls awoke to a quandary of determination and unbearable loss.

A determination to make it through the long day ahead, then seek out before bedtime, to meet face-to face the mysterious flautist of Snake Mountain.

Yet sadness hung dragging from their will power like anchors dropped many and deep into a harbor of anxiety and too heavy for the bottom of that sea.

Tokyo Twins A serialized online story

Introduction

Tokyo Twins looks at two issues -

what the roots of terrorism are, and what the end of terrorism might be.
One new chapter, in both text and audio, will be posted each week to Pakistan Times.

Tokyo Twins-Chapter 3-mp3 audio
Chapter 3 – Unseeing a gathering storm.

Katie and Susan O’Brien negotiated their bodies and school backpacks and Shintaiso gear through the maze of commuters on the train at Chofu Station and stepped onto the station platform and into a lesser maze and put their footsteps on autopilot for the twenty-minute walk home.

“Mom and Dad will be …” said Susan, half wondering…

“…back tomorrow night,” Katie said.

“Been a long three weeks without them.” said Susan.

“Yeah… hope they weren’t kidding when they promised this would be their last long trip together.” said Katie.

“Better be.” Susan said.

“What is it in Kashmir anyway?”

“Sweaters.” Susan chuckled.

“Yeah, it’s like: ‘my Mom and Dad spent three weeks in Kashmir and all I got was this cashmere t-shirt’,” Katie joked and gave a twin’s nudge with her shoulder into the shoulder of her sister.

“Hey, don’t start.” said Susan.

“I thought we were doing the local train tonight,” said Katie, “ya know, get off at Fuda Station so we wouldn’t have to walk past Hebiyama…”

“I know. I forgot.” said Susan.

“Me too… ‘til now.” Katie said.

“Well, we’ll walk fast, and hey, the full moon’s out tonight. I love seeing how the moon reflects off the water in the rice paddies.” said Susan.

“Me too. Not something we get to see very often…” Katie said.

“Yep, only now… late spring…” said Susan.

“Just when the bull frogs are mating.” Katie said.

“Guess they like this time of year as much as we do.” said Susan.

“I’m hearing them already.” Katie said.

“Yeah me too – half mile away.” Susan said. “Noisy little things.”

“Just one singing bullfrog close to your bedroom window…” Katie said.

“They have us outnumbered a million to one, Katie chan.” Susan interrupted. “Don’t encourage ‘em.”

“We should ‘a got off at Fuda Station.” Katie said.

“Let’s not think about it.” Said Susan.

“Think about what?” Katie said pushing her shoulder into her sister’s again.

“I can’t remember.” said Susan.

“Then why are you walking so fast.” Katie said. “Hey, whatever the rumors are about Hebiyama… who cares?”

Susan was silent for a bit. “Me. I care.”

Katie released a quick sigh. “Yeah me too. Well, there it is… coming up… a hundred meters ahead… our wonderful and mysterious bamboo forest, Hebiyama.”

“Oh stop it. You’re scaring both of us.” Susan said.

The girls became quiet now, vigilant, absorbing the blackness of the bamboo forest of Hebiyama now spreading out beside them for hundreds of meters to the left and to the very edge of the road they walked.

Whatever or whoever was in there would only have to reach a single length of an arm to snatch them into the dark.

The more they tried to see and to listen at the total blackness, the more blinded and deafened they felt.

The rice paddies were carved flat into the earth ten meters below on the other side of the road and the racket coming up out of there from the bullfrogs didn’t help.

“This was a bad thing to forget about.” Susan said measuring out the words in monotone.

Katie countered to hold back her own accelerating pulse. “Not if you’re admiring the reflection of moonlight off the water to our right!”

“Maybe I’ll just keep walking.” said Susan.

“Wait.” Katie said.

“I’m walking; you wait.” Susan said.

“No wait. shhh.” Katie grabbed Susan’s forearm and lifted her index finger to her lips.

Now Katie was talking with her eyes wide open, darting glances between her sister and into the forest.

Seconds ticked by, then more seconds, and froze the young sisters into fear.

Katie’s index finger was still at her lips.

“Daijoubu?” suddenly came a man’s voice from the blackness. “Are you all right?”

“No!” the girls screamed and took off at a sprint.

“Run!” said Susan.

“I’m running!” Katie said.

They were two hundred meters from home, school backpacks and Shintaiso gear nearly flying off their shoulders. Katie and Susan spotted two men in suits getting into a car in front of their house. And the car drove away in the other direction.

“Who’s that?” Susan gasped.

“Keep running!” yelled Katie.

The girls threw up their arms to slow themselves down, landing out of breath and making loud thuds against their front door.

Katie groped for her house key and the two stood panting and the front door itself slowly opened.

The lights were off inside the house and they couldn’t see their grandmother’s face.

“Obá-chan? Obá-chan!” the girls chanted and stumbled into the house.

No response.

The girls stood at the entrance, their mouths still open, and stared at their grandmother who walked soundlessly down the hall toward a bedroom and clicked on a light and turned around.

Katie and Susan O’Brien were seeing a blank and distant look on their grandmother’s face.

“Obá-chan! There’s a man…” Susan started.

And Katie grabbed Susan’s arm again sensing trouble with their grandmother.

“Obá-chan, are you all right?” Katie said, and lay a hand on her shoulder.

“Are you sick?” Susan asked.

“Huh?” said their grandmother. “Oh. I’m fine.” Her eyes floating back toward the present now. Her voice still in another place.

“You don’t look so fine,” said Susan.

“Who was that? Those men who just drove off?”

“Oh, that was nothing… that was… um… they were lost… stopped for directions.”

“Why are all the lights off?” Katie asked.

Katie and Susan O’Brien stood looking at their grandmother. They had never seen anxiety in her normally calm eyes, never seen worry – or was it fear – tighten the muscles in her face.

“You’re out of breath.” said grandmother.

The girls grabbed each other’s hand.

“We were racing.” said Susan.

Katie nodded her head rapidly.

“Go and start your bath. Dinner’ll be ready soon.”