#john burbidge

[dozydawn]

john burbidge

[yodapress]

Extract from ‘The Boatman’ by John Burbidge (Yoda Press, 2014)

No problem for whom, I wondered. The only exit I could see was the path we had taken to get there. Above us it took an abrupt turn, so there was no way you could see anyone approaching. I was on edge, but my burgeoning desire took care of that. He motioned me to sit on the log beside him. A twig snapped up the hill and a crow let out a raucous cry. The thunderous roar of the city had been quelled to a rolling hum where the forest began. It gave me a momentary sense of security, enough for me to reach over towards him, gently lift his T-shirt, and slide my hand around his waist. I stroked his back several times before venturing to his front. He didn’t protest, so I decided to up the ante and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. He pulled away, as if in disgust. Instead, he reached over and unzipped me. I was already fully stoked and ready to fi re. I took this as my cue and did the same to him.

Just as we were reaching a mutual crescendo, he turned his head away. I was puzzled. Had I done something to offend him? I was about to ask, when he whispered, ‘Someone coming!’ He quickly withdrew his hand and pushed mine away, and zipped up with a swiftness that suggested he had this routine down pat. It was then I heard footsteps a few yards away, accompanied by a rush of Hindi. Before I knew what was happening, two men had turned the corner and were headed straight towards us, while a third mysteriously appeared from the path below, sandwiching us. My companion leapt up and darted down the hillside like a startled rabbit. One of the men went racing after him, while the other two closed in on me.

‘Aap yahaan kya karte hain?’ snapped the older of the two men. ‘I don’t speak Hindi.’ ‘What you do here?’ ‘My friend and I were taking a walk.’ ‘Don’t lie! I know what you do. Sala kutta!’ With that, he slapped me across the face with the back of his right hand, sending a sharp pain rippling through my body and throwing me off balance. As I tried to regain my footing, the other man grabbed my left hand and tugged at my watch.

Instinctively, I tried to pull away but was no match for the two of them. He ripped the watch from my wrist, grazing my skin with its metal band. As I looked down to check if I was bleeding, I noticed my umbrella lying on the ground. While my attacker was distracted admiring his prize, I snatched the umbrella. Years of fencing practice suddenly resurfaced and with a vigor that surprised even me, I lunged at the man and whacked him across the shoulder blades, then spun around and caught the other one with a blow to the head. ‘Pagal!’ he screamed, convinced I was crazy. Then, turning to his cohort, he commanded ‘chalo’ and the two of them bounded down the hill, leaving me shaking as I slumped onto the log.

I don’t know who those men were—plain clothes cops, goondas or just friends out for a bit of fun. It even crossed my mind this may have been a set-up, but it seemed unlikely. I was angry at having allowed myself to be led into such a dangerous situation and vowed never to do so again. But, as I would come to discover, my proclamations were no match for my proclivities.