Missiya, the Wild One

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Childhood is a time of innocence, when life is simple and uncomplicated.

Children, watching the comings and goings of adults, often see things that they

don't understand until years later, when they are adults themselves and know the

ways of the world.

And the ways of the world are sometimes rather sad...

There is still talk about her in the village, all these years later. She did not

come back after she went away so suddenly that morning ... no one really cared

to find out what happened to her. But they did not forget her. Even recently an

old man in the village said her name, Missiya, with sadness in his voice.

And the village never again knew anyone quite like her. They remembered

her not so much for her good looks as for her boldness. She was good-looking,

though.  But  in  those  days  there  was  no  way  a  good-looking  girl  could  escape

from village life and make an exciting future for herself. What could Missiya do,

except  sell  her  good  looks  while  she  was  young?  Selling  them  for  so  little  -

almost nothing.

Every  time  I  go  back  home  to  the  village  I  see  Missiya  in  my  mind.  She

had brown skin which shone with good health, and a beautiful, strong body. She

moved beautifully too. She used to carry a full pot of water on her hip and use

her other hand to pick a fruit or a branch off a tree for firewood. She was full of

fun.  She  ran  when  there  was  no  need  to  run,  smiled  all  the  time  and  laughed

often.

The women envied her, and felt jealous of the way men watched her lovely

body.

Missiya never married. She never wanted to be like other village girls, who

spent  time  getting  to  know  boys,  walking  in  the  fields,  talking  of  love,  and

making careful plans for the future. Missiya's house was usually full of men, and

her parents did not mind her free and easy ways with the young men - and older

ones - who crowded into that little house. No surprise, then, that before she was

sixteen, people were already talking about her!

As  a  child  I  couldn't  take  my  eyes  off  her.  She  had  a  pair  of  eyes  which

seemed enormous to me. Her smiling lips were full and red with betel juice. She

used  to  laugh  at  the  way  I  watched  her,  wide-eyed.  Under  her  breath  and  still

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smiling,  she  used  to  whisper  something  which  I  knew  was  not  meant  for  my

child's ears. But there was no harm in her - it was her nature, her love of life!

But there were things I did not understand about her. Sometimes she was

my friend. On some days when I saw her, she used to greet me cheerfully, take

my hand in hers and take me into the woods to pick fruit, show me the animals

and birds and a thousand secrets that lay hidden there. But there were days when

she  pretended  not  to  see  me  and  looked  away,  as  she  hurried  into  the  woods.

That  always  made  me  sad  and  I  felt  a  warm  tear  roll  down  my  face.  At  those

times I used to look away too, pretending to look at a wild flower or watch some

insects on the ground.

I knew she did not want me around, and I wanted her to think that it did

not matter. But it did. It did.

I did not understand the way my mother felt about her, either. As I grew a

year or two older, she told me not to go into the woods with Missiya. Suddenly

one hot afternoon mother called me from the garden and said, very firmly, 'You

must  not  see  Missiya  again.  You're  not  a  child  any  longer  -  you  must  stop

bothering her to play with you.'

I couldn't understand why. I didn't say anything. I stood by my mother and

looked out of that sun-filled room. In the garden I saw the purple bougainvillea

and  the  bright  yellow  hibiscus  flowers.  I  wanted  to  be  out  there  playing  with

Missiya.  There  was  no  one  to  play  with  except  Missiya.  And  now  my  mother

was telling me I must not play with her!

'Then who will make me a mud house when it rains?' I asked my mother,

confused.

Mother  knew  me.  She  heard  the  anxiety  in  my  voice  and  said  quietly,

without even lifting her eyes from the book she was reading, 'I will.'

Missiya  did  not  miss  me.  She  did  not  care  at  all  that  she  had  ended  a

handful  of  my  dreams.  She  continued  to  laugh  her  way  through  the  days,  the

months.  She  became  more  beautiful  as  the  years  passed  and  her  lovely  body

became more rounded. There was a bolder look in her eyes and a wildness in her

movements that drove the men crazy.

There  were  violent  arguments  in  the  village.  Like  the  night  when  old

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Appuhamy's wife went to search for him and found him inside Missiya's house,

drunk. The whole village gathered to watch and cheer, although it was well past

midnight. All the women cursed Missiya, and the men watched her with a new

interest. Missiya did not show the least concern. She spat an enormous mouthful

of betel juice towards them and disappeared into the night.

They said that she was a witch. But by now I was old enough to know that

she  was  no  witch.  She  was  human  and  soon  enough  I  knew  what  she  was.  I

began to understand what those trips into the woods meant. I knew the meaning

of those violent arguments. I knew why some women hated her and cursed her. I

began  to  understand  why  women  like  my  mother  wanted  to  protect  their

daughters from her influence and their sons from her clever tricks.

But  Missiya  herself  was  one  of  the  world's  lucky  ones.  She  didn't  care

what  anyone  said.  She  didn't  care  what  happened  to  anyone.  She  cared  only

about one person in the whole world and that was herself. Perhaps, in a way, that

did make her a witch. At least she was not quite human.

That  thoughtless  confidence  of  hers  couldn't  last,  however.  Almost  ten

years later, she came to live in a dark little hut that stood just beyond the end of

our garden. By then she had begun to lose the freshness of her young beauty and

her  carefree  ways.  At  twenty-five  she  was  an  adult  woman,  a  good-looking

woman, and an inviting one. She lived alone because her parents had died, but

nothing else had changed with her. The village still hated her and loved her. The

men still came to her by night. During the day she worked, making baskets. Day

or night, she appeared not to care how the next meal came to her, what happened

to her, or what she would do when she grew old.

When  I  met  her  for  the  first  time  after  many  years  away,  I  was  shy.  She

smiled at me as I walked past her little house.

'Well, well, how you've grown!' she said with her usual bold smile.

I said something in reply and hurried away. In the rapid look I gave her, I

saw the heaviness of her body, and wondered if she was getting fat. There was

something about her that seemed different. I looked back and saw her watching

me. She had a look of catlike happiness on her face that day.

'Has she met some man and married him?' I wondered as I walked towards

my  parents'  home.  But  soon  enough  I  knew  she  was  not  married.  The  village

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now felt sorry for her - she was a woman growing old before her time. The men

did  not  come  to  her  for  their  pleasures  as  much  as  before.  The  village  was

moving  into  the  modern  world  -  just  two  miles  away  there  was  now  a  cinema,

and  after  the  late-night  showing  there  were  women  available  there  too.  So

Missiya  was  finding  it  hard  to  earn  enough  money  even  for  food.  The  village

talked  and  laughed  unkindly  about  her:  how  poor  she  was,  how  little  she  had.

Her clothes were unwashed, her habits dirty.

It seemed that the world's oldest profession did not pay very well.

The  morning  it  happened  started  like  any  other.  The  sun  shone  and  the

raindrops  danced  on  the  wet  grass.  I  walked  down  to  the  edge  of  the  garden,

reliving the pleasures of my childhood. These trips back to the village filled me

with confused thoughts - a wish for past days, past magic, when the world and I

were young...

The  old  tree  where  I  had  sat  in  the  shade,  and  cried  desperate  tears  over

some young sadness or other, was still there. So was the dead tree trunk where

my  friends  and  I  had  sat  on  so  many  golden  evenings  and  watched  the  sun  go

down. The voices from the past whispered in my ear, some long gone from my

life...

The cool air was still so well-known and dear to me. And the morning sun

gave a silver touch to the rice field spread out at my feet.

I stopped with a start when I saw the two policemen. They looked towards

our  house  and  then  looked  away.  I  took  a  step  backwards  and  watched  them.

They spoke to each other and entered the large shed in which the hay was stored.

It was early morning. There was no one else around.

And quietly the village began to wake up. First, the old businessman, the

Mudalali,  clearing  his  throat  and  walking  to  the  corner  to  get  his  morning

newspaper.  He  was  followed  by  the  young  man  who  worked  in  the  tea  shop.

Then  the  women  appeared,  wanting  to  know  what  was  happening.  Suddenly

there  was  a  crowd,  and  excitement  in  the  air.  And  then  the  policemen  brought

out the terrible bundle from inside the building. I shut my eyes and turned away.

It was such a tiny bundle, a helpless little thing, killed by its own mother

and hidden in the hay. It had no father who would accept it as his child. So it had

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to die. A fatherless baby in that little village was a terrible thing, and women like

its mother were cursed, perhaps even killed.

In that lovely little village, with its sunny green fields and blue hills, there

was no room for that child.

And then they brought out the mother. She didn't hide her head guiltily, as

they wanted her to. She still held her head high, and looked straight at all of us. I

hid  behind  a  tree  and  watched  her  -  I  still  couldn't  take  my  eyes  off  her.  She

looked at the silent crowd and then she noticed me. She smiled at me, bold and

direct,  as  always.  I  shut  my  eyes.  She  didn't  care  that  I  gave  her  no  answering

smile. She turned to the crowd with the same bold smile, and spat an enormous

mouthful of betel juice towards them.

And then she went away with the policemen.

- THE END -

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