The Far Field

by Madhuri Vijay

the woman who nodded sympathetically through our neighbor’s fond complaints about the naughtiness of her five-year-old son, then said, with every appearance of sincerity, “He sounds awful. Shall I slit his throat for you and get it over with?”

Hilarious response to neighbors

“Yes. My friend, he sells spectacles, you see. Maybe with the right pair you would have been able to see my clothes properly, and you wouldn’t have embarrassed yourself like this.”

Bashir's rhetorical come back

“You have to make a decision,” my father had said one evening in a restaurant, and wasn’t that what I had done? I had decided; I had chosen this place, these people, this life, with its secrets and its violence, its hardness and its beauty, and even though I was not yet worthy, even though I would never fully belong, I would not leave. I would stay and try.

Decision to stay

For six years, I have given myself one reason or another for not speaking, for not acting. Most of the reasons in one way or another had to do with sparing my father, but all of them are, in truth, intended to spare myself.

Not doing anything

scraps of work that paid almost nothing, but provided me with a sense of purpose and, strangely enough, protection, for which I was grateful. The work I did for her was conscientious and careful, and, after two years, she took me back full time.

Part to full time