Free The Cauliflower by Nicola Barker Page B

would—?
    I’m going to quickly mute the … If you’re of a sensitive disposition I suggest you turn away for a second, because from what I can tell a murderous crow seems to have—it seems to be … they will sometimes … if they’re hungry, or simply for the sport—or maybe because it caught a quick glimpse of something fascinating and reflective at the circa-1855 swift’s throat as it flew.…
    Hang on … what ?! See that?! The shadow has lifted, very suddenly, and if you look to the left of the screen … Is that—? Is that a man approaching, at speed, holding a homemade catapult? Am I correct in deducing that he seems to have shot a pellet from this primitive contraption toward the crow while it busied itself tormenting the … and now he’s running to the spot—barefoot? That’s his toe. Do you see his toe? I’m going to turn the volume up again.… Yes, yes , I know the picture keeps cutting in and cutting out. But you must see the man, surely? A young man, skinny, with a pretty, golden complexion and a moon-shaped face, peering down at our wounded, our fatally injured—our poor dead circa-1855 swift (RIP). He looks very concerned. That’s his—that’s his index finger, gently poking at the bird.…
    I’m not sure if he’s noticed the—has he spotted the camera? Tiny as it is? Do you see his eye gazing straight at us? He is picking us up. He is holding us in his hand! Yes, the camera keeps cutting in and cutting out and—yes … yes … the swift is dead. But that’s not … just … just quiet down your wailing, please—over there, at the back.… Because if I’ve not completely lost the plot—and I don’t think I’ve completely lost the plot—the hand that now holds us … the camera … the swift … belongs to none other than a nineteen-year-old (although we can’t be sure that’s his precise age) Gadadhar Chatterjee (if that is actually his real name), who will eventually become—who will eventually be hailed as …
    Ahhh . Do you see the tenderness in those brown eyes? Such beautiful eyes! Such intelligent eyes! Fringed with such an abundance of luscious lashes! There remain very few images of him—very few … just three or four … and those only from when he’s much, much older.… But to see this boy … this little Krishna , this artless Mowgli , and to sit in his warm hand, like this, to lie in his revered palm …
    He is inspecting us, very closely. He is looking deep into our souls. Do you feel that? Do you? The sheer intensity of his gaze? And there is such—such sadness in those eyes, and then … then there is such resignation, and then there is … there is laughter. Laughter? Of course. Do you see his lips moving? “This is her play,” he murmurs, as if to comfort himself, “This is the play of the Divine Mother.” (He speaks in his rural Bengali dialect—but no stammer. Not a hint of a stammer!)
    Ah. Such extraordinary detachment! Such exquisite fatalism! Yes. This is the lila of the Divine Mother. He thinks that this (the circa-1855 swift’s violent death—and, who knows? Us ? The camera?) is her play. This is her divine sport. We are her play.
    And who’s to say that we aren’t? Eh?
    I’m just … urgh … the words have dried up. I’m rendered inarticulate. I mean if you don’t quite appreciate how significant this moment is—how rare, how precious —then I can only … Although (in your defense) I suppose you’ve clambered a little tardily onto this speeding spiritual train, haven’t you? You’re a fraction green. Feeing slightly travel sick. Somewhat unprepared.
    And I’m a—I’m sorry if I’m not proving entirely capable of