The Last Storyteller (First Edition) | Page 15

News of the sordid love affair soon reached my uncle. He shook his head and scoffed. “Who can love such a donkey, someone who lives like an animal?" Uncle could have beaten Ditha for his affair. Instead, he decided to humor the outraged sensibilities of the village aristocrats. The issue was to be decided in a mock village assembly. One evening, all the so-called nobles flocked in my uncle’s big yard, drinking fresh camel-milk and telling raunchy jokes. Ditha sat on the ground in front of them, his head bowed . He appeared to ignore the snickers of the men. I crouched in the darkness and peeked around a corner, watching every moment. Ditha didn't move or speak. A grumpy voice barked, "His mother was also a great lover! She taught our youth.” Then another voice was heard, nasal and unmanly: “She shared the fierce load of our teens. Maybe she taught Ditha some tricks to woo the beggar-woman! The villagers roared with laughter and chatted as Ditha’s heart sank under the barbed laughter. When he got up and left, it seemed as if he felt free from the burden of love. He resumed his duties carrying his water pitchers, wearing a big smile as though nothing unusual occurred. He reverted to his former self as he wore unwashed clothes and let his hair grow wildly. No one saw him near the beggars’ huts after that night. At night, I often observed, he’d get in his cold bed and sob himself to sleep. I left him sobbing, in villager's charge, in pursuit of my education and career. ******** I found a job and settled in a city, leaving the past behind. Then, it arrived: an invitation to my cousin’s wedding back in the village. All I could think of was Ditha. I never forgot him.I returned, but I could not find him. I demanded to know where he was. The words hit me, hard and cold, like a bullet through my heart. Tuberculosis was about to finish him. But the worst was that he had been left to suffer in some hut outside the village. I was fuming. How dare they leave him to die! Page | 15