My wife was devoutly wishing I would be promoted to our office in New York. The company for which I work has employed me to oversee construction of a factory here. I would have expected a more gracious welcome from the local citizens, since we are bringing them new industry and many jobs. Except for Luther's Uncle, the mayor, and fine Luther, our reception has been noticeably cool. After a few polite nods the people have faded into the background, where my heart listens and hears dark whisperings about us. Luther's Uncle, Morris, who owns a great deal of land, was most eager to assist me in finding a suitable location for our new facility. To this end, he introduced me to Luther, whom I offered employment as my assistant. I would have thought this would make him happy, to drive me around, carry my tools, and help me survey the sites; but Luther seemed rather hesitant to accept. Still, after he met my wife he changed his mind.
I had always heard that the Southern United States, especially Georgia, was a place known for its hospitality. I am afraid if that was so, this hospitality has not been extended to me. I have found the good people of Statesboro to be provincial and suspicious, if not openly hostile. This appears to be directed towards me because I have brown skin. I know this may seem unbelievable, because there are many Negroes living in America, and they have for years, and they all have brown skin, but apparently many of the white people have not, as yet, grown used to them. When I was looking for a house to buy, the real estate agent told me they did not sell houses to niggers in that neighborhood. I explained to him that I was not a Negro but was from Surendranagar, in India, had been educated at the Polytechnic Institute of Calcutta, and had plenty of money to pay for this house. But he told me he didn't care where I came from, what school I went to, or how much goddam money I had, they did not allow niggers to have houses in that part of town!
At first I thought that the whisperings of the townspeople were only about me, but I now know that there seems to be some misunderstanding about why my wife, who is British and white, would marry a dark brown Indian man. Apparently such things do not happen around Statesboro, even though there are plenty of white and brown people to choose from. I am, of course, familiar with the caste system, but in school I was taught that western civilization had abandoned this kind of discrimination a long time ago. Perhaps they are late in hearing about that in Statesboro. Luther has informed me that there still dwelled among them certain men who earnestly believed that if your grandfathers had not died fighting in a war of secession some hundreds of years ago, that you could never really be an American, at least, not in their eyes.
Thank heavens for my excellent friend, Luther. Kind Luther has loaned me not only this good rifle, but these most excellent rubber boots, as well. Unfortunately, they leak some small quantity of water (a fact I am certain he was unaware of). I would not think to complain at all, except that I am standing all day in this deep, brackish water. My feet are cold. I can imagine my toes, wrinkled like little walnuts from their soaking, but glad I am that Luther gave these boots to me, for they will protect me against the serpents he has warned me inhabit this place.
In India we had cobras. Luther has warned me about the very dangerous serpents called water moccasins. Unlike a cobra, who will flare his hood, hiss loudly, and dance to frighten you away, this water moccasin will swim underwater to bite a man in the heel without so much as a warning. These bites produce a most excruciating death, and that is why I am grateful to Luther for these fine boots, which will no doubt protect me.
When I was a boy growing up in Surendranagar, there were certain wise men we called Swamis who wandered from place to place with nothing but the clothes on their back. These Holy Men dedicated their lives to finding enlightenment, which could only be achieved by abandoning one's material possessions. This fascinated me. I would watch for them to come walking down the road when I was playing in the yard after school. I would spy them coming into town, and I would run to the garden to fetch something for them to eat, or perhaps a cup of cool water from the well. I would sit at their feet and listen while they recounted stories about their travels. More than anything I wanted to grow up to be like them, wise and fearless, full of love and generosity, having neither possessions nor worries. My mother would scold me for inviting these strangers into our yard, and my father would punish me for encouraging their foolishness, but this did not deter me.
My father, who worked for the railroad all his life, was a man of practical concerns. He raised eleven children on a conductor's wage, and though we never lacked for any of life's necessities, he instilled in us a compulsion to care for our things, as though one schoolbook, one pair of shoes, or a single shirt should last us a whole lifetime. Fortunate I am for my father and his discipline. I would not be the man I am today if not for him. Even though others may perceive me as fastidious, it has paid for itself in thrift.
I once confessed to my father this secret dream that I might someday run away into the mountains to study with the hermits there. I pictured myself returning home an old man with a long white beard, my brown skin hard as camel leather from my travels, a kiss of otherworldly serenity parting my lips into a smile. If my father complained to me about his boss, his wages, or the pain in his legs, I would dispense wisdom like the sages of old, helping him to realize that everything is right with the universe.
But everything is not right with the universe. My father, who was possessed with a strong sense of obligation to his family, perceived the error of my ways. It is the duty of the eldest son, he said, to provide for the rest of his family, and it would have been a great shame on all of us had I abandoned this ancient tradition. In a rage my father ordered me sent away to a private school in Bombay, and thence to the Polytechnic Institute, where I became an engineer. Glad I am that he was strong in his desire to recall me to my senses.
Luther reminds me of those wandering Swamis, except that his hair is blonde, not gray, and he pulls it back into a long pony's tail. And he wears blue jeans and T-shirts. Also he drinks beer all day and listens to country music, and I do not know of any wandering Swamis who do that, or whose forearms are covered with tattoos of naked women. But he thinks like a Swami.
His uncle introduced him to me as a jack-of-all-trades-and-master-of-none, which sounded enlightened to me. Besides being a good employee and my only friend, he has assisted with a great many chores around the house. My wife, especially, has found him indispensable.
My wife Helen is British, from London. She is an educated woman, though not especially well-connected with English Society. Her father was a tradesman from Hereford and her mother ran away with a sailor when she was a small child. I met her at a performance of La Boheme. We corresponded for some time before she accepted my proposal of marriage. She is a fine woman. She takes much pleasure in painting and gardening, music and literature. She is much younger than I. When first I met her, I might describe her as plump, even pleasingly overweight. These past few years, however, she has indulged herself in a number of self-help classes and seminars, ingesting aerobics and diet supplements, until she underwent a rather striking metamorphosis, emerging from her cocoon as radiant a butterfly as any man might delight to marry.
I must admit she was not enthusiastic about this move from London to Statesboro. She has pouted a great deal, even threatening to return to England without me. I was hoping for a transfer to our office in New York, a place, perhaps, more agreeable to my wife's cultural pursuits than South Georgia. But it was not to be. For the past few years, my career seems to have suffered from a drought of ambition. I am forty-seven years old, overweight, and growing bald. I have worked for this company for twenty-three years and they seem to have run out of places for me. I was hoping this job might revive my fortunes.
Luther has helped her a great deal to overcome her depression. He is a man of the earth, like the Yogi masters. He is good with his hands. He is always telling stories. He never shows up to work on time, but this does not seem to bother him. Nothing seems to bother him. He has not a care in the world. Sometimes I grow annoyed with him, but he is always making me to laugh. Besides, he has been my only friend. I would have been very lonely without him.
Perhaps because he was a conductor on the railroad, my father always insisted on things being orderly and punctual. I have grown up to be a man just like him. I am ten minutes early for every appointment. I am very precise in my calculations. An engineer has no room for mistakes. If an engineer makes a mistake, the building falls down. If a Yogi master makes a mistake, he shrugs his shoulder and says "whoops." Nothing else, just "whoops." I like the sound of that.
I know nothing at all about hunting. It seems to me to be a very imprecise science. When I graduated from the Polytechnic Institute, I did not even have to go job hunting. The offers came to me. I went to work in India for this company, who took me to England, now to America.
I do not know anything about these snipe. I do not know what they look like, if they are large or small, what color they are, what sound they make, if they sing, if they travel singly, in pairs, or in flocks. Luther told me I would recognize them when they come. He has gone around to the other side of the swamp, which he will cross, driving the snipe ahead of him. I imagine them flying out of the gloomy canopy of moss and leaves crying to each other "whoops" as they stumble in the trap we have laid for them.
In some ways, this place reminds me of India. It is hot, humid, and infested with mosquitoes. I can close my eyes, stand here, and imagine I am back in Surendranagar.
My wife hates it here. She can't abide the heat. She finds the people uncivilized. I worried about her for a while. She took to lolling about the house in her--dare I say this--lolling about the house in her underwear, not wanting to go out, unwilling to do much of anything. No amount of reasoning on my part could convince her to abandon this malaise. Thank heavens for Luther, who seems to have roused her to her senses.
He helped us find a house to buy. He helped us with the many repairs necessary on it, and then he helped us move into it. While I busied myself studying the blueprints, negotiating contracts, and developing the construction plan, he spent many hours helping my wife paint, dig in her garden, and do chores around the house. He drove her around town running errands (she never learned how to drive), and even now (not meaning this precise moment, now, but in a general sense, now) he is giving her driving lessons.
It is quiet here, and I must admit I am a little bit frightened. We have jungles in India, but I was not one to go walking about in them. Even these trees seem to stand up on their tiptoes, trying to escape the black water. The canopy overhead is darkened by long gray clouds of moss which hang down like beards on the Maharajas, but there is nothing enlightening about this place. It is lonely. I keep listening for Luther. I hope he is all right. I hope he has not forgotten me. I hope he will come soon. Ever so often I hear a rustle in the bush, or a splash in the water, or the far away cry of a bird, perhaps even a snipe.
In Surendranagar we had many birds. The peacocks, especially, were my favorites. Among peacocks, the female is a dull brown, while the male is robed in dazzling plumage of bright blue and green. I wished I was more like a peacock. They make wonderful displays at mating season. I imagine how these illusive snipe might look. Are they beautiful like the peacock, or perhaps large and clunky, but delicious when eaten, like the turkey? I picture this snipe at home, laid out on its back on a bed of rice, its legs high in the air, waiting to be eaten. But all this talk about food makes me weak and distracted.
Night will fall soon. If something has happened to Luther, I will have to find my own way out of the swamp and home again. I am not quite certain how I will do this. I had wanted to bring along my cellular phone, but Luther was opposed to this idea. If it rang at the wrong time, he said, it could ruin this hunting experience. He is right, of course, but I should have insisted.
I wish I could call my wife, who may be at this very moment thinking about me. I would like to tell her that I will be late for dinner. Perhaps I could summon up the courage to tell her that I was sorry I brought her to Statesboro. Sorry I had not spent more time with her. Sorry I had been an engineer all my life. That every building I ever built fell down. Sorry I had not run away to study with the hermits and become a wandering Yogi.
But, no, I have always opted to do the right thing, to wait patiently for life to drive the snipe to me. I have been content, like my father, to ride the train to the end of the line, then turn around and ride it back again. I have always been trusting and patient, patient to a fault. Perhaps that is why I have not advanced to the corporate office. I have been too studious, and not enough a man of action. I have spent my whole life hunting snipe, standing with a borrowed rifle in my hands, lost in a lonely place, waiting for a bird I have not seen to come flying into my dinner plate.
I wish I could be like the brave hunter, who walks all day through the swamp, driving the snipe ahead of him. I wish I could be like the wandering Yogi's, or like Luther, who travels from town to town with neither employment nor worries. But perhaps it is not too late. It is a long way to Surendranagar. If I started now, I would grow a long beard before I reached home.
