The Real Readzy Writing Retreat

I

A tremor of 5.0 on the Richter scale woke Jim up. He felt his bed trembling, and heard the windowpanes shaking, almost breaking under the force of the earthquake. He noticed the water in the transparent glass jug casting a moving, prismatic shadow on his nightstand. Jim instinctively sat up and grabbed the jug, thinking it would topple. The tremors stopped. Jim checked his phone for alerts. There was a text from Becky. ‘What’s going on? Is the building shaking?’

Jim was the lead instructor at the annual The Real Readzy Writing Retreat, affectionately called 4R by the participants. This year’s 4R was being held at Srinagar, in Kashmir, India. It was called 4RXK, the ‘X’ for tenth edition, and ‘K’ for Kashmir. Jim had been an inseparable part of the retreat ever since its inception, and was a much sought-after instructor, with many of his proteges going on to publish short stories and novels. Jim was lead, with Becky and Bella co-instructors. Richard, lovingly called Rick with a Beard, a regular and the co-founder of 4R, could not attend this year due to ‘some personal good news.’ Jim thought that such ‘good news’ often revealed itself to the world, one way or the other.

Jim bathed, wore a T-shirt and jeans, the perfect retreat outfit and went down to the dining hall on the ground floor of the hotel they were all staying, called ‘Dwelling Huts.’ It was a two-story building with twelve rooms on the first floor, and a large dining hall, a conference room, the reception and lobby on the ground floor. The dining hall and conference room both had full-length glass doors that led to the garden, allowing diners and participants to eat or enjoy a break in the sunshine. The Hotel itself was nestled at the foothills of the Zabarwan Hills which overlooked the Dal Lake in Srinagar. The sun rose behind the hills, sending its rays zooming across the sky at dawn, and set on the lake, colouring the water orange and gold. It was a perfect spot for 4R. Jim saw Becky and Bella at a table and joined them for a pre-meeting meeting.

‘Tremors in the morning, we are off to a rocking start!’ said Jim.

‘The waiters told me tremors are common in Kashmir,’ said Becky, sipping on her pink-salt-tea, a local favourite. ‘They weren’t even awoken.’

‘I have seen a few in the Philippines. These tremors can be nasty,’ mused Bella, her usual assured self, spoken in an American accent picked up during her years at an Ivy-League University.

‘4RXK will keep us busy. Any participant that interests you,’ asked Jim.

‘There is a senior guy, he is a doctor. He sounds interesting.’ Bella was in-charge of background checks on the participants prior to final listing, to weed out any suspicious characters.

‘We will see. We start in 10. See you both there!’ Jim sipped the remnants of his tea and got up to leave. Outside, Jim could see sparrows and minas pecking at the rice grains on the footpath. A blue whistling thrush sang on a nearby branch, the long, high-pitched notes, nature’s alarm clock. In the distance, ducks were swimming in the lake, dipping their heads in a synchronised dance to catch fish in the early morning, the sun behind them. No one told the ducks about the rocket that was about to hit the water, boiling some poor fish on impact. Nor did anyone tell the residents of sleepy Srinagar that they were waking up to sunny day no one would forget in a hurry.

II

Jim held a paper in his hand and introduced himself to the group. There were seven participants in 4RXK, with three instructors. The seven were drawn from the winners of the ‘Prompts’ contest that the Readzy website held every week.

‘Please introduce yourselves to the group. We will start from the right.’

An old man raised his hand and Jim asked him to begin.

‘My name is Samuel. I am from Madison, Wisconsin. This is my first 4R. I have written short stories for the Baltimore Review and the Inverse Journal. I work as a doctor. It is nice to be here, and I would like to thank Readzy to have selected this lovely place for the retreat.’

‘Could you tell us your specialty, Sam?’ asked Jim

‘I am a cancer doctor, a medical oncologist. I treat cancers by giving medicines.’

Jim froze. He felt his pulse race, his palms became sweaty, the paper in his hand felt like tissue, his head lightened, and he sat down. The memories of the long days at Western General Hospital in the chemo ward caring for his cancer-stricken friend came back. He remembered Elizabeth’s long nights of retching, the loss of her golden gair and golden eyebrows as her eyes sunk into her skull, her body wasting away. He remembered the day she came home, unable to stand, her arm around Jim’s shoulder, her sister unable to handle the painful sight. Jim stayed by her side throughout the chemo and Elizabeth recovered, but scarred by the disease, she could not resume a normal life. The episode affected Jim, he would get panic attacks on hearing the word, ‘cancer,’ or passing by the Hospital. He needed counselling.

Jim knew what had happened. The word, ‘cancer,’ had sent his mind swirling in a whirlpool of pain, and he needed to cope with the prospect of spending three days with a cancer doctor in a writer’s retreat with one-on-one coaching sessions and feedback.

Jim asked Becky to continue the introductory session, and left the room.

In his room, Jim sat up in bed and checked the time. It was 9 a.m., and 4.30 a.m. in the UK. Sara, his wife, would be asleep. A call at this hour would startle her and their daughter, Harriet.

Jim opened his duffel bag and frantically looked for the one object that would calm him, a rosary gifted to him by the old lady from Pakistan who owned the grocery store in their building. She had heard of his friend’s cancer diagnosis and asked him to recite the name of God each morning, ninety-nine times, and ninety-nine times at Elizabeth’s bedside. She had told him she was from Kashmir, Pakistan, and Jim wondered how he could now be in Kashmir, India, and not in Kashmir, Pakistan. Were there similar names for two different places? The lady’s cockney accent rang in Jim’s ears. ‘Use ‘em beads. Get ya’r God’s par’icles movin.’

Jim started reciting the name of God ninety-nine times. There was a knock on the door. Becky came in.

‘Sorry about that, Jim. Bella should have vetted the doctor.’

Jim shook his head. ‘It would be unfair. Just because an instructor suffers a panic attack on hearing the word, ‘cancer,’ should not be a reason to exclude a participant.’

‘Yes, but.’ Jim motioned her to stop.

‘Do you want to call Sarah? Or is it too early,’ she asked.

‘I will call her in a while. How is the group? What did you tell them?’

‘I told them you have a K-Belly, and you needed the washroom. We gave them 30 minutes of free writing.’

‘Fair enough. I will be down. Let me finish the recitation.’

Becky left the room. Jim poured himself water from the jug that was now still and cast no shadow. Outside, Jim noticed the apple trees, planted in rows, small green leaves on the branches swaying in a gentle breeze, the withered flowers, and green applets joining in the meditative bowing. ‘Apt motion,’ thought Jim, ‘considering where we are. A valley of saints.’

Jim turned the flat screen television on. He had been warned of the loud news channels in India, and he had turned the volume to mute. The ticker at the bottom was flashing ‘Breaking News.’ Jim looked carefully. ‘India Struck Pakistan Airbases with Missiles in the Night. Pakistan says its Response is Underway.’ ‘What?’ thought Jim. He called the hotel reception.

‘Is there any safe room? Is there any evacuation plan? Have you enhanced security? You know we are ten foreigners?’ badgered Jim.

‘Sir, I will send our security in-charge to your room,’ said the harassed receptionist.

A few minutes later, the security in-charge was seated on the easy chair in Jim’s room explaining how Kashmir was a contested region, and such missile and rocket exchanges were commonplace. ‘Sir, we have informed the US, UK, and Canadian embassies of your presence in the hotel. They have instructed us to tell you to shelter-in-place. Our information is that this armed battle will settle by evening, God-willing.’ The security in-charge, a thin built, wiry man in his 40’s, sounded so assured that he could have been mistaken for a London taxi driver giving directions in the pre-Google Map era. Jim thanked him and went back to recitation. He had forgotten how many times he had said the name and restarted.

The word ‘cancer’ could induce a panic attack, but the prospect of war calmed him. I am a basket of contradictions, thought Jim. He finished the recitation, washed his face, had a sip of the water from the ‘springs of the Himalayas,’ and went down to the conference room.

III

The room was excited. News of the skirmish had spread. Frantic calls had been made to say that everyone was ok. It was early morning in the UK, late night in Canada and the US. People were going to bed hearing about the war or waking up to the story. Jim fielded questions from the participants.

‘Is there a safe room.’

‘Yes,’ replied Jim, lying.

‘Is there an evacuation plan?’

‘Yes,’ replied Jim, lying.

‘Have our embassies been informed?’

‘Yes,’ replied Jim. Did the security in-charge call the Irish embassy? There was an Irish writer from Cork in the group. ‘Damn,’ Jim thought to himself, ‘I forgot to tell the guy to call the Irish embassy!’

‘Will the phones work?’

‘They are working now,’ answered Jim.

‘What about the internet? I heard it was disconnected for six months in Kashmir.’

‘It is working now,’ assured Jim.

The loud doctor got up to speak.

‘Let us put it to a vote. All in favour of staying raise your hands.’

Seven hands went up. The apple trees had woven magic, no wonder Kashmir was contested, Jim thought. Cheeky for a Brit to say that he thought a second later.

‘We stay, Jim.’ Jim heaved a sigh of relief, he heard the oncologist speak and his palms were dry.

Jim saw smoke rise from the Dal Lake in the distance and heard a bang. In the evening the loud Indian news anchor would inform the world of a missile from Pakistan, possibly aimed at the Army headquarters in Srinagar, that landed off-course in a lake and killed a few fish.

Jim looked at Becky and Bella, veterans of many 4R’s. ‘What do you say, ladies?’

‘We stay, Jim.’

A painting of a scene from the Dal Lake drawn by a 17th century painter hung over the conference room. A couplet in Persian written on the painting was translated below, ‘If light is in your heart, you will find your way home.’

‘May we all find our ways home. Amen.’

The retreat continued.

IV

At 5.30 pm, the security in-charge entered the room to inform the participants that a comprehensive cease-fire had been declared with immediate effect. There were cheers in the room. The guard gave a thumbs-up to the group and a ‘I-told-you-so,’ look to Jim.

Jim’s face hurt from the effort of smiling despite the worry. He had spent the whole day in and out of the conference room, fielding worried calls and assuring everyone that everything would be okay. On one of his phone calls, he stepped out of the hotel and saw a school bus meandering up the hill, kids in uniform seated by the windows, the younger ones asleep, the older ones worried. He worried what the parents of the kids were going through. Having kids at school with missiles streaking the sky above was never a good idea. His sixty-year-old skin had wrinkled a few more years in the few hours by the time the sun set.

He texted Sarah in the day to tell her he was ok. She had replied with a smiley and a pic of her and Harriet at the park. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon in the UK.

Back in his room in the evening, he texted her again. ‘All quiet on the Eastern Front!’ He had two more days of 4RXK left. Three days before he would board a flight to the UK.

Jim ordered room service. Kebabs and Kashmiri pulao, which was steamed rice mixed with almonds, raisins and saffron leaves. He savoured the flavoured aroma.

He thought about the morning. The group planned to trek downhill to the Dal Lake for an excursion on a boat among the fish and ducks. He smiled and texted Sarah.

‘Unless a missile decides to land on the lake, Sarah, we are going for a boat ride in the morning. Love, J.’