BIRTH

Photo by cottonbro studio, Pexels

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by AMAL CHATTERJEE

I was born just then. Or must have been, the moment I appeared in the mist, the long flat surface disappearing into the distance. Concrete ground, cement and sand, firm. Thin iron bars set in a trench, wires whistling overhead. That must have been the moment I was born. I stood there for a long time. A minute, an hour, a day, I was too new to know. No, it could not have been a day, the light never changed, an incessant grey swirling. Me in my pleated woollen skirt like the one my mother used to wear, and my red cardigan, my own red cardigan. I knew it was, it had always been. The crucifix was cold beneath, against my blouse, a reassuring reminder of … I knew not what, my life had just begun. I stood and waited, knowing that what had to come would, and it did, long empty carriages materialising out of the mist in front of me. I did as they commanded, rested my feet, weary even in sensible shoes. No-one came to me, I sat alone with my big shiny black bag, three armless pairs of glasses in it. Everyone is born with no memory, few possessions. So it was with me that morning.

The world outside slid to a halt and a man held a door open for me. This the second command of my life, I did as with the first, obeyed. Followed my feet to where they led. To a room set with tables. A café – the name rose unbidden. The right café, it must have been, for a man smiled at me when I entered, waved me over.

‘You must be the writer,’ he said when I stood before him.

‘The writer,’ I said. I needed history. An empty history requires completion.

‘Would you like a coffee?’ he asked.

‘A coffee,’ I said. Not knowing whether I wanted one.

He pushed his chair back.

‘White? Sugar?’

‘White. Sugar.’ I agreed.

‘One or two sugars?’

‘Two,’ I said, knowing instinctively that it is better to have two, in case one goes astray.

He came back with a cup of steaming brown liquid, pointed to a chair.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ he said.

I obeyed, smoothing the pleated woollen skirt like the one my mother used to wear and my cardigan, my own red cardigan. Lifting it to my lips, I tasted the cup. Bitter, sweet, milky. Strangely familiar, but not quite right. Tea, I thought, I think I like tea. I might, whatever it is.

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He led me outside, my guide in this world. The mist of birth was clearing, rays of watery sunlight breaking its omnipresence. My guide showed me a van, letters familiar that I could not yet read on the outside. He opened a door, pointed inside.

‘Take a look around,’ he said, leaving me alone for a while. For another indeterminate period. Less than a day, the light did not change. He left me alone in that place, a tiny space overflowing with books. Slowly the letters grew familiar, coming to me like the first steps of a new-born calf, and I began to read the spines, the covers. Christie, Collins, James, King. And there, on one side, commanding attention in a box, a neat pile. B_ C_, the author’s name – I knew what those words were now.

On top a note:
‘Dear B_,’ it read, ‘for you.’
Signed a name I did not know. I did not know any name. Except maybe B_ C_. Perhaps.

I touched the books.

My guide reappeared. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘You can’t stay in there. It isn’t allowed.’

I sat in the cabin beside him. Perched high above the road, a vantage point.

‘First stop Penny’s,’ he said, playing with the controls. ‘On your programme as Mrs Quigley.’

I nodded. Mrs Quigley. Penny.

The road was never straight. Roads never are, I knew already, ancestral memory. We swayed certain-uncertain across the hills.

‘Dales,’ he said.

Dales. Like a ship or drunk. A ship or drunk in heavy weather.

The dales sometimes plunge to valleys. In them houses. On them houses. A woman came out of one.

Mrs Quigley also known as Penny she must have been.

Her face lit up when she saw me.

‘Are you …?’

‘She is,’ the driver said. ‘Promised you a surprise, didn’t I? She’s riding with me today. There’s copies of her book in the back, if you want.’

She went inside, returned with one. Held it out to me – but I didn’t want it. There were plenty left for me, for everyone.

‘Would you sign it,’ she said, ‘Please.’

I took the pen she offered, scribbled the name on the title page. B_ C_.

‘It’s the fifth,’ she said, ‘Of October.’ And laughed.

‘Two thousand,’ she said when I began a ‘one’ after it. So I changed it. To 2000. A nice round number, whatever it meant.

‘I’m a real fan of your writing …’ she began. Then blushed, corrected herself. ‘I haven’t actually read any of your stuff yet, but I will now.’ She hugged the book I’d signed.

‘We’re so proud of you,’ she said, ‘Local writer who stays put. They hate you down there, in London, for that, don’t they?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘they hate me for that. Down there, in London.’

‘They’re jealous, really,’ Penny said, ‘They can’t stand the idea that you don’t need them, or their fancy ways.’

‘I don’t need them,’ I said, ‘Or their fancy ways.’

She pecked me quickly on the cheek. Like a little girl touching something she oughtn’t.

‘You’re one of us,’ she said grimly.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’m one of you.’

She waved for a long time after he took me away, was still waving when we turned a corner nearly a mile away.

The dales wore on. Tall skeletal T shapes marched across, lines suspended from them.

‘Pylons ruin the view, give you cancer,’ my guide said. Pylons. That’s what they were, humming not above iron tracks, carrying something we needed. Or did we? Too new to know, me.

Animals punctuated the spaces in between. Them I knew. Sheep, uncurious sheep. Geese too far away to possess expression. Cattle mildly interested.

Around a corner, crowding, muddling, crossing backwards, forwards, no order, a crush of cows. My guide laughed.

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‘Heard a funny thing on holiday once,’ he said. ‘Fellow said that when traffic policemen die, they come back as cows. So they can hold up cars for another lifetime.’

He wanted me to, so I obeyed, laughed with him.

Bovine permission to continue, we rumbled along, that drunken ship in heavy weather. Eating up the dales, reducing them to a history never to be returned to. A history growing inside me.

Another stop. Another person. A man this time.

Mr Orton was his name, I was told. Mr Orton remained outside, at the foot of the steps, vast muddy boots planted firmly on the ground.

‘Go on up,’ my guide urged.

‘Come on up,’ I said from above.

But Mr Orton shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t want to get your nice clean van dirty, ma’am,’ he said.

So I gave him a copy of the book. Signed B_ C_, 14th September nineteen something even I couldn’t read.

He squinted, puzzled. ‘It’s the fifth of October … no,’ he grew excited, ‘It’s not today, at all, is it, ma’am? It’s your birthday, the one you share with your husband!’ And broke off, a cloud passing across his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘It must be painful, ma’am. Your ex-husband, I should have said. I hope you don’t mind me mentioning him, do you, ma’am? Him having left you to go down there and all that. You don’t like him, do you?’

‘He doesn’t like me,’ I decided.

‘He doesn’t understand you,’ Mr Orton said loyally, ‘None of them down there understands you. Him most of all – he wants to be one of them and you remind him he’s not, that he’s from here.’

‘I remind him,’ I said, ‘Yes, I remind him he’s from here.’

Mr Orton wiped his hands on his trousers and shook mine. A robust, manly shake, Mr Orton’s handshake.

‘It’s an honour to meet you, ma’am,’ he said.

‘Time to go,’ my guide warden said from behind his wheel, ‘time to go. Miles to go before we sleep.’
I knew it was a reference to something but didn’t know what to.

Alone with my companion on the road, creating more history. A birthday now. And an ex-husband, down there, hating me. As I watched, new born mist seeped over the hills, the dales, enveloping all. The light grew softer, broken, swirling. A new being coming into being.

And I? I now had a history. Down there, my ex-husband, not liking, hating.

We came to a stop by a rushing stream. Leaves whispered above a stone church.

‘Long stop now,’ he said, ‘You might like to go for a wander.’

Obedient, I took my bag, the big shiny black bag with three pairs of armless reading glasses in it. Smoothed down my skirt, the pleated woollen one like my mother used to wear, and my cardigan, my own red cardigan.

A man stepped out of a car. ‘City Cars,’ it said in big letters. He was brown, very brown.

‘Going somewhere, love?’ he asked.

‘For a wander,’ I said, ‘it’s a long stop.’ Pointing to the van I’d arrived in.

His eyes followed. ‘You’re not from here, then?’ he said.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m not.’

‘I’m not either,’ he volunteered. Paused. Then said, ‘Quiet place, isn’t it?’

‘It’s quiet,’ I said.

‘Some people here,’ he said carefully, ‘don’t like outsiders.’

‘They don’t,’ I said, ‘Like people down there.’

‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘It’s worse down there, in London. I wouldn’t move there even if you paid me to.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ I said, ‘even if you paid me to.’

‘There’s folk everywhere,’ he said, ‘that don’t like outsiders.’

‘Like my husband,’ I said, ‘My ex-husband.’

His eyes widened. ‘Your ex-husband doesn’t like outsiders?’

‘He doesn’t like me,’ I said.

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He frowned, then smiled. ‘You’re all right though, love,’ he said, ‘you’re a lady.’

‘I’m a lady,’ I said.

My guide warden guardian came up.

‘Time to go,’ he said. Nodded curtly at the man from City Cars. ‘He’s not been bothering you, has he?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘he’s my friend.’

‘Oh,’ was all he said.

‘Goodbye,’ I said to the man from City Cars.

‘Goodbye, love,’ he said, ‘Give me a yell any time you need me.’ I smiled at him. And waved. Like Penny, Mrs Quigley. Not like Mr Orton, who only stood and watched as we drove away, vast muddy boots firmly planted on the ground. And my friend, the man from City Cars, he waved back.

I learn fast. The calf is no longer so shaky on its legs. Nearly a day alive and already an expert.

We drove in silence. Crows hopped from the road, dripping entrails of small flattened beast. Life is not kind. A dog ran across. At least I think it was a dog. Only it was red.

We wound our way across the high moor.

I saw it and cried out.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘Stop,’ I ordered, ‘now.’

He pulled over. ‘Why?’ he said.

‘Back there,’ I said.

He shrugged, my guide warden guardian jailer.

‘Put her down where she asks, they said.’ And reversed to the top of the path.

‘Now what?’ he said.

‘Over there,’ I said, pointing.

That’s when I hit him, when he looked away. With a book signed B_ C_. His head caught the window frame with a thud. He didn’t sit up again, so I got out, went round, pulled him out. Laid him out by the side of the road. Tapped his head with a stone, to make sure.

He lay very still after that.

‘It’s all right,’ I told him softly, ‘it’s me they don’t like. Hate. Downtheremyexhusband.’

Then I got back into the van on his side. Patted my hair, my silver white blue hair. Shampooed, set in wings. My red cardigan was now a pennant, fluttering out of the window as I picked up speed, slowly, heavily, on account of all the books in the back.

They’d be useful. To read. For fire when it got cold.

Tumbling over the edge, I let the cardigan go. It lifted away, a new red bird in flight. While the van and I rolled down, over and over, faster and faster. Knowing that I’d come to a halt in that cavern, that cavern that had always been down there, in my head.

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An author and creative writing tutor based in Amsterdam and Oxford, Amal Chatterjee’s writing includes novels, short stories, theatre plays, and non-fiction articles. He is currently working on a book, The Legacy of Empire: Why Countries Fail to be published by Hurst Publishers in 2026. Amal Chatterjee is a Senior Course Tutor for the University of Oxford’s MSt (Master’s Programme) in Creative Writing, and teaches on, and helps coordinate, the Paris Institute of Critical Thinking’s Creative Writing programme. He also created and teaches academic and creative writing courses for, amongst others, the VU Taalcentrum, the Amsterdam Institute of Social Science Research at the University of Amsterdam, and the NIAS (the Netherlands Institute for Arts and Sciences).  His novel, Across the Lakes, was shortlisted for the Crossword India Best Novel Award in 1998, while his short fiction has been published in numerous countries including the Netherlands, India, and the UK. His non-fiction has appeared in publications such as Prospect, the Huffington Post, The Independent, and the Hindustan Times, and includes the book Representations of India, 1740-1840 (1998). He also edited and contributed to Writers on Writing (2013), featuring writing from the US, the UK, India, Pakistan, Ireland, and Australia. In 2017 and 2018, two of his short plays, Dreams of England and Finding José, were staged by the Tamasha Theatre Company and Pokfulam Road Productions at London venues including the Arcola and Theatre.