the discovery of

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The Discovery Of

a story by Ranbir Sidhu

The woman's mouth was round and soft, a glazed doughnut of a mouth smeared in scarlet frosting, and I imagined her lips clamped to my chest - they were a suction cup, leaving only a ring of red and a vacuum to separate us. Then she said something which, had I been listening, would have disturbed me. Instead I was only half-listening. I never watched this tail-end news. The sportscast was over and all that was left were the human interest stories. Instead this woman's lips were stuck to my chest, her saliva dripped through the TV screen and found a natural home in the jungle of my nipple hairs. I only heard the words breaking news as an aside to her teeth biting my nipple, only caught the splintered bodies falling from the plane in the reflection on an imagined ruby blood bead as her teeth pierced my skin. Sikh terrorists, she said. My hand found my crotch, and slowly, I unzipped my pants.

The next morning when the newspaper lay motionless and folded on the kitchen table, a bland, emasculated exclamation point, this momentary unease of the night before returned. There was something in the news I suspected I didn't want to read about, and, unaccountably, my hands were shaking when I unfolded the paper.

Instead of looking at the headline, I took the first short sip of tea. Hot, almost scalding. My tongue retreated. But I had to laugh at the headline when I saw it. 213 DIE IN AIR INDIA CRASH. What an amazing mistake, a fabulous error. We had made up that name as kids. My sister and I playing in the backyard creating countries out of mole hills. She had Czechoslovakia, a real country. And I made up India. Dreambirth country whose dry, California dirt borders were no more certain than a cowpat, for this was a yellow-grass-surrounded-India.

I scanned quickly through the story, hoping that perhaps there was only the single typo, the single error. But the word repeated itself, again and again - Air India, India, Indians. With each repetition the newscaster's voice from the night before found an ugly path into my brain - Sikh terrorists from the North Indian state of Punjab have claimed. . . . The word almost gave itself meaning, as though seeing it printed and repeated, the mirror image of a lie flashing endlessly, gave it a core of semantic truth. But what responsibility could these terrorists have claimed. Killing not-Indians from not-India on an Air not-India. This must be a joke, some tremendous and ridiculous trick.

I walked into the other room, forgetting my tea, and picked up the heavy, tan phone from off the telephone book, and soon found the newspaper's number.

The assistant editor's voice was frantic, on edge about something. I tried explaining my problem, in fact, my basic sense of confusion, in a slow, controlled tone so as not to disturb him further. It was no doubt a clerical error, a simple typo, a computer glitch. However, when I was about to say the word, or more correctly, the non-word, I found I couldn't get it out of my mouth. My lips were paralyzed, became rock and formed a high dam against the not-word.

"You say in your paper," I said, "that terrorists from. . . ." I started again. "A plane from. . . ." The river of my speech was blocked midsentence.

"Are you talking about the Air India explosion, sir?"

"Yes. . . I mean, no." I couldn't easily explain my dilemma. "There was no explosion, there couldn't have been. There was no plane. There is no country. There are no people. No word." Without saying a word, the assistant editor hung up on me.

I walked back into the kitchen and picked up the newspaper again. From the short drawer to the right of the stove I pulled out a pair of orange handled scissors. I clipped the non-word out of the headline, and out of every occurrence in the story and in the paper. As I searched through the pages, the word multiplied, it fractured and splintered, spreading like a fungus across almost every page. My hand was tired when I finished. On the table the shallow breast of clippings lay awkwardly, as though demanding something from me. I had nothing to give it. Only its negation.

The next day was Monday, and in the morning I telephoned the gas station I worked at. Without even a word of greeting, Sandeep, the manager, asked angrily where I was. Words vanished momentarily from my mouth.

"Is it that late?" I asked finally.

"You should be here an hour ago," and then he swore at me in Gujurati. Speaking only Hindi and English, I didn't know what he said.

"Talk in English," and I swore in Hindi.

"Don't you. . . ."

I cut him off. "Let me tell you. My aunt, she was in that plane yesterday. She died in that plane." I lied.

Only the phone line hummed, vibrating in the expanding maw of space between us. I explained I would be out of town for the funeral, and added, "I'll be in Delhi, in India." I emphasized notIndia.

There was a sound like a vacuum filling with gas. Sandeep's breath yearned after that notword notIndia, as though it were real. I could hear his Adam's Apple gulping for a taste of that notcountry, shucking back and forth. He wanted it bad. Was I the only one who saw, who could hear, even over an old phone, this desire for an imaginary country, this hard-on for the unreal centerfold of notIndia? I slammed the phone down. No use.

My hands were shaking when I pocketed the orange handled scissors and left for the library. When I had created the notcountry, my sister laughed and immediately took out a piece of paper. With a thick brown marker she wrote the notcountry in bold, shaky letters. We pinned the paper with a knitting needle to the spot where notIndia lay in our garden. It was a small, irregular mole-hill, surrounded by patches of crisp, yellow grass. It stood in one corner of the backyard, in a spot where the sprinkler never quite reached.

My sister and I threw stones as atom bombs at each other's countries, but each morning the countries were revived, had grown back from the ashes of their nuclear annihilation. No nuclear winter cast its long shadow over their phoenix-land plains. Until one night I crept out with a thick, palm-filling flashlight and kicked my sister's country down to the level of soil over an old grave. There was only India left. NotIndia, I mean.

The librarian's blonde hair fell in a sharp braid down the back of her neck. Her green pullover outlined her breasts as full-bodied mole-hills, and her smile showed a dull row of almost regular teeth.

"What do you mean?" she questioned, her smile fading, nuclear clouding over. I felt a chill of fear immobilize my mouth into wordless anxiety. "The not country, India?" Her voice was direct and honest, a little loud for a library. Her questioning look gave me a moment's hope. Perhaps she didn't know the word. Perhaps she wasn't in on this massive hoax, this trick or joke or disease.

Then she said, "We have some books on India. The country India. If that's what you mean?" I nodded and followed her silently across the floor. When she stood she was much taller than I'd expected, and her legs made long, arcing strides as she walked into the stacks. Behind her I felt small and worried. Distrust and not a little anger was growing in me then. How could she know? How dare she know about my notword, my notcountry, my notIndia?

The stack on world history stood at the far back wall and the fluorescent tube overhead was out. The only illumination was the diffuse finger of light which came through a thin rectangular window set high in the adjacent wall. She pointed out the shelves on Asian history and politics.

"Here," she said, "This shelf is mostly India." I saw the series of familiar names. Nehru, Gandhi, Lajpat Rai.

"My aunt, you know, is married to an Indian man," she confided. Why I'm not sure. What did I care about her aunt's marrying a figment of my imagination. "Perhaps you know him. Vishnu Patel."

"No," I said tersely, "I don't know any Indians."

When her long braid disappeared around the corner of the far stack, I knelt down and began inspecting more closely the shelf of books she had pointed out. The Glory That Was India. India's Century. A Short History of India. Communism in India. I could hardly believe it. Many of these books were old, decades old. Could this deception be so grand, so all encompassing? I paged through one book quickly, seeing the notword repeated over and over, almost at random, an electron-name whose position I couldn't predict, I could only know its orbit.

Carefully, making sure no-one could see, I squatted down on the floor and took out the scissors hidden in my pocket. With a surgeon's precision I began cutting out each entry from the book, each time the notcountry, the notnationality, the notword appeared I made sure it found its way into my pocket. By the time the morning was over, I had four bulging pockets, and had gone through most all of the books on the shelf. I couldn't touch the spines or covers unfortunately. I had to make sure it would be some time before my healing of these history books should be discovered. I was still under the impression then that this was some passing madness, a flu on the political geography of the planet. That within a week it would pass, be spent, and that no-one would ever mention the notcountry again. NotIndia would revert, as it had always been, to just a scrap of paper pinned to a Punjabi family's mole-hill in Fresno, California. Blowing in the hot, late summer wind.

Home, I spread the cuttings out across the small kitchen table. There were so many that I had to put some on the sparse counter space by the stove, next to my jar of masala and box of Stovetop Stuffing. I even laid some on the floor. Many had been crumpled in my pocket, and I spent a good hour trying to straighten or flatten some of the most damaged. This further complicated the kitchen, as between the neat, flat lying cuttings, were those groups weighted down and hidden beneath books, or flattened with plates or salt shakers at either end to keep them straight.

Soon after, I stopped watching TV or reading the newspaper. There were other notcountries. Even the newspapers acknowledged them. Creating them in one sentence and destroying them in the next. I learned that the notcountry notNorth Yemen was no more. That the notSoviet Union had fractured and splintered back into what it was. That notYugoslavia was, in fact, not. As was notEthiopia. Even my favorite newscaster, the woman whose lips I often imagined caressing my body or licking with soft, fishlike lips the tip of my penis, began sprinkling her speech with more and more notcountries and notwords.

My friends decided I was joking. "Not India," they'd laugh. "Very good, Ranjit. It's the only way to get away from that bloody country, eh, just disappear it, make it dissolve. Very good." They didn't believe me. Many talked about it as though it were real, as though under its umbrella it somehow sheltered all those places we had come from. NotIndia, I learned, was home to Punjab and Gujurat, Patiala and Delhi. Bombay was in notIndia, as was the Bengal, and the Sutlej flowed into the Indus within the boundaries of an ancient notIndia. Some even spoke of visiting the notcountry, of returning permanently. I was horrified. "Next year," said Sunil, "I'm going back for good. I'm leaving these damn goras to their own damn country. There's nothing here for us. Our home is India." What could I do but bring him to my apartment. I had to show him.

"What is all this?" asked Sunil, his jaw dropping in what I thought at first was proper respect for the scale of the problem, of the spreading disease. "Why all these words, all these cutouts?"

Everywhere, in my whole apartment, on tabletops and countertops, over every inch of floor and wall and ceiling. Words. Notwords, I mean. Even covering the slits of the toaster there was Czechoslovakia and industrial. I ate among the notwords, the notcountries and notverbs, notpeople. I drank my morning tea staring at their nonexistence, drinking it in with every sip. When I sat on the sofa, I had to clear a space for myself, pushing the nots aside. Sunil didn't stay long enough for me to clear a space on the sofa for him. I wanted to say to him, not everything is covered. Not the sink, or the bathtub or the nottoilet.

He was gone before I could tell him, and I was left alone.

I have since stopped leaving the apartment. Sunil continues to visit and brings with him food. So much of it I can’t eat, it isn’t food. I don’t know why he brings notfood. When I asked him not to he shook his head. "You must eat it," he demanded with a madman's self-confidence in his own delusion. I knew he was sick and I questioned if I wanted to allow him entry anymore. Perhaps he would infect me. Perhaps the notwords would become words again. The thought terrified me. Notindia would become India, the notSovietUnion would reform.

There is little room left for food anyway, even notfood. There are more notwords than words in the world, and each day I find others. I am reduced to reading only the junkmail, and what Sunil sometimes leaves. A magazine or a newspaper, but it breaks my heart to open them. It's spreading, and there's nothing I can do about it. Soon there will be no room left, soon they will overflow, escape again, back, back. . . . Where can I possibly put them all? My apartment is almost full. The bathtub is crowded, as is the nottoilet, and all the closets and all the sinks, and all my notplates and floors. Even under the bed, and in all my jacket and trouser pockets. The house is swimming in them. On the rare occasions when I open the door, I shore up the clippings by forming a short storm wall in the hallway. It’s the only way to stop them from spilling out onto the landing and escaping back into the world.

Recently I found a letter from my sister. I had no idea know how long it sat among the clipping by the door. The postmark was from two months ago, and I didn’t know why it came here. It was clearly from my sister. Her name was in the top left corner, but even now I'm afraid to touch it. It's addressed to a notperson. I carefully cut the name out and pasted it to my front door. Through the small hole in the envelope I saw the green of dollar bills. I was sure I'd seen the notname other places. On a driver's license I found in the kitchen drawer, and on a checkbook. If I could, I would mourn for whoever the letter was written to. Maybe he once lived here. But I ask myself, staring at the name pasted to my door, how do you mourn for a notperson? What prayers can I say for a life which didn’t leave so much as a shadow, which fell between the cracks of the notliving and the notdead?

This story originally appeared in Zyzzyva.