Eight

 

The picnic was turning out to be a great success. Everyone was having a wonderful time. The men were drinking beer. The women were knitting and gossiping, while getting the lunch ready. The children were, as usual, arguing with one another.

And, it was such a glorious day.

The postman decided it was time for fun and games, and so he climbed up on a stool, clapped his hands and said, ‘OK, tough guys, let’s see which one of you can put Balloon in the sky.’

A roar went through the crowd, which thickened as wives and children joined the enthusiasm.

‘Let us make this a family show,’ said the postman. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. ‘House No. 17A, Road No. 63!’ Then he pointed his finger and said with a voice of considerable authority, ‘Stand there!’ And then, ‘House No. 22, Road No. 51! Over there!’

Moaning and groaning, the families queued up, following the postman’s strict postal identification system.

Satisfied with the way things were proceeding and visibly enjoying his newfound authority, the postman looked around for a whistle. Not finding one, in a no-nonsense sort of tone that sounded much like that of a new policeman on the job, he said, ‘OK, No. 1! Let’s see what you’ve got!’

One by one, they all tried. The baker, the plumber, the travel agent, the mayor, the principal, the lawyer, the policeman, the diplomat, the architect, the doctor, the bicycle man. Indeed, every able-bodied man in the village had a go at it.

A considerable amount of air went into Balloon, but it was still far from enough. Balloon remained on the ground, as sad as ever.

There was such rejoicing in the sky from the other balloons.

‘Can’t fly, can you?’

‘Like to stay down there? Don’t we know!’

Snigger, snigger.

‘You are the Mother of all Balloons? Well, well, well!’

‘Like the view from down there?’

Balloon wished she could find a hole where she could just lie down and disappear.

The old man knew what was happening. Only he and his wife could have known. It was not going to be easy to fill Balloon with air and, in any case, it was promised to a little girl, and God alone knew where she was. Tears welled up in the old man’s eyes and he wept silently. His wife put her head on his shoulder and softly said, ‘It’s OK, my love. My dear, dear love, we never knew it would end like this.’

Suddenly, the old couple fell back gasping, as if they had been violently struck.

‘I can hardly breathe,’ said the old man’s wife, clutching her husband’s arm in horror.

It was as if a shroud of the most ghastly stench had been thrown over them.

‘I have smelt this once before,’ the old man whispered hoarsely, as he covered his nose, ‘there is an evil presence here. I can almost feel it.’

‘I feel it too,’ said the old man’s wife, ‘as if it is a warning of something terrible that’s about to happen.’

The old man nodded silently, and put his arm around his wife as if to protect her from danger. They waited for the reaction of a spoilt picnic. The horrifying stench seemed to be everywhere and it was growing cold, despite the bright sunshine.

The fathers, angry at being shamed like this in front of their children, suddenly started screaming and shouting at the forlorn balloon-maker and his wife. ‘You and your stupid balloon,’ they hissed and spat, ‘keep it with you.’

‘What’s the use of a balloon that just sits around?’

‘Occupies so much space.’

‘Where, I ask you, are the children going to play?’

The children joined in the anger and the screaming. ‘Better to get rid of it,’ they said in unison.

Get rid of it? The old man could not speak. He just stood there, weeping silent tears. ‘I can’t,’ he seemed to have whimpered at one stage.

‘It’s the stench,’ his wife whispered to him, ‘it has some kind of power. The villagers are talking and behaving differently. It’s as if someone or something evil is controlling their minds.’

The postman was a kind and gentle soul. He sniffed the air. ‘Awful smell,’ he said and looked around. None of the other villagers seemed to be bothered by it. The postman found that somewhat odd but shrugged his shoulders. There was, however, more important business at hand, he told himself, because the situation seemed to be getting out of control.

‘Quiet!’ he thundered. There was immediate silence. ‘This is not what we came here for. We came as friends, and it is important that we leave as friends.’

His words did not help much. The children were grumbling. Wives shouted about the amount of beer the husbands had drunk. And well, quite understandably, the menfolk were quite upset. While they reluctantly heeded the postman’s advice, they could not stop complaining.

The picnic was over.

Imagine how miserable the old man and his wife felt.

The balloons in the sky were clearly pleased at the way things were going.

‘She’s had it,’ said Fatty, smugly.

‘Oh yes! Done for, if you ask me.’

‘Get yourself poked with a pin, my dear,’ Star Balloon advised.

The old man and his wife could hear every word, and they knew that Balloon had heard as well. ‘I did not want this to happen,’ the old man whispered in anguish. ‘Please forgive me,’ he said, looking at Balloon.

After a while, everyone picked up their belongings and left. The children trampled Balloon with their dirty shoes.

The postman, who was a good and kind man, hugged the old man and said, ‘I tried, old friend. I really did.’

Then, he sniffed the air once more, ‘Wonder where this awful stench has come from. And the weather, how odd that it is so cold when the sun is shining so brightly!’

The old man, his wife and Balloon were left behind.

Somehow, the old couple managed to fold Balloon and bring her home. They left her in the garden of their house.

The children never came after that.

The old man stopped making more balloons.

He even stopped going to the school. Not wanting to anger the parents or the students, his good friend, the principal, never came to visit. The old couple were now left all alone, with no one ever coming to visit them.

Balloon lay as she was left, covered with dust and dead leaves for it was now autumn. Lonely, cold, sad and helpless, she felt like an orphan.

And in the cottage, the old man and his wife felt that somehow, they had failed the girl child.

A whole week passed.

And then, on the seventh night, while the wind howled like the dead in torment, the old man dreamt of a hideous hooded figure whose eyes glinted in the dark, and from whose mouth a forked tongue slithered as he hissed and said, ‘You have done well, Balloon Maker! She will soon come to me!’

The old man shuddered. He knew that his wife must have had the same dream. ‘This must be the sign the flute player spoke of,’ he said to her the next morning, ‘and like much that is unexplained, let us wait for the unfolding of the mystery.’