* Author : Mimi Mondal 

* Narrator : Elizabeth Green

* Host : LaShawn M. Wanak

* Audio Producer : Peter Wood

*

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PodCastle 349: This Sullied Earth, Our Home is a PodCastle original.

Rated R. Contains some violence, disturbing imagery.

This Sullied Earth, Our Home

by Mimi Mondal

A few hours after the Majestic Oriental Circus rolls into Deoband, Johuree steps into our tent and whispers, “This is the place where I took you in. It was here.”Outside, it looks just like one of the many small towns we wind our way through, halting for a week or two to put up a show. It has been raining for days. The university dome in the distance glistens with dark moss against the ponderous sky. The fairground is all mud, sludge and clumps of grass, sucking in our tent posts like a fumbling, ungainly monster. A group of local men, hired to dry up enough ground to put up the main circus tent, have been working since the morning. So why does this miserable earth feel like a familiar taste, again?We wonder if Johuree would like a cup of tea. He agrees. There is no milk, but he sips the dark brown brew in silence.We watch.“There is a cottage at the far end of the town. Little more than ruins now, I presume. Would you like to visit?”Johuree never goes anywhere. We don”t recall him ever stepping out into the daylight. We don”t recall much anything. Though we travel far and wide with the circus, we have never left the camp site and gone “sightseeing”, as some others in the troupe are in the habit of doing.

Nor has he.

“He was my friend. My brother. We had fought together through our darkest hour.”

Johuree never reminisces, the least of all about family. We are not sure if there is anything to reminisce. He shifts his bulk upon the faded patchwork rug that is the only seat for guests in our tent. He places the empty cup and plate delicately on the floor.

We sit on wooden chairs set against the mirror and the dressing table. We nod.

“Well, then. We leave after lunch and return by sundown. I will send Bansiram out to find a pair of hooded raincoats for you . ”

After he leaves, we fiddle around our tent, grappling with the thought.

Eventually, Elia speaks, “Our . . . father.”

“Should we put on our makeup?” says Sascha.

“He didn’ t say. ”

“He didn ‘ t say not to.”

That is a fact. We never leave the tent without our makeup. But then, we never leave to go anywhere but up on the stage.

“What if we dress up as one of each?” Elia suggests. “You take the light one, I take the dark.”

This sounds reasonable. Sounds like the way we think people in the non-circus world might dress.

Our efforts meet Johuree’ s approval. We are less sure that his silver ringmaster jacket is the appropriate attire for a visit to the dead. But we do not know what is, so we hold our judgement.

“Going out, babu saab?”

Wading through the mud towards us is one of the men working on the ground. Soaked, mud-splattered kurta pajama lingers against translucent skin that stretches tight over his bones. The man sucks vigorously at a sodden beedi.

“Just taking the children out for a walk. Bit of sightseeing.”

“Some weather for sightseeing.”

“Not likely to improve any time soon, is it?” Johuree displays his teeth.

The man stares at us. We recede under the hoods of our oversized raincoats.

Then he smiles. “Let me come with you. I know the town well – places to see, things of interest.