Life after darkness in a plantation – The Way of the Farmer
October 9, 2012
That evening as the farmer dined with the daughter of the one million hectare landowner. He realized only too well there were certain time honored conventions that had always dictated the timeless ebb and flow of plantation life – it had after all been there long even before he was born - and though the farmer was a man who was accustomed to doing things his way. That night even he felt compelled to abide to these ancient plantation customs. Even he realized, he didn’t have anything resembling a choice as to how that evening should come to an end – it was after all well over ten – and as custom dictated, all guest would have to be accomodated. And that was really all there was to it.
After desert was served. The farmer’s Hainanese man servant had even taken the liberty of laying out fresh bed sheets and towels along with toiletries to prepare for the plantation ma’am to stay overnight in the master bedroom - that night before the 70 year old Hainanese man servant turned in – he had suddenly remembered the last protocol of receiving a guest in a plantation mansion.
A ritual known as the ”last protocol.” Hardly had the thought sprung to his mind, the 70 year old man smacked his head and murmured under his breath, “how can I be so forgetful.”
That evening as the farmer and his lady guest were seated outside the verandah sipping brandy – the 70 year old Hainanese man servant ceremoniously brought the pistol that had been handed to him earlier in the day by the Sikh driver of the lady - he had placed it on a polished silver tray and when it was presented to the master of the house – the farmer realized that this was the last protocol – the moment, when the master of the house returns the firearm to it’s rightful owner. The farmer recognized the pistol instantly - it was a Walther PPK, handsomely finished off in a gold brushed patina, with oak leaves in relief complete with teeth white ivory handle inserts - decorated as a dainty ladies weapon to the untrained eye. Before handing it over, the farmer had briefly noticed the last two digits of the serial numbers. He could sense that there was something wrong with the weight – it seemed lighter – and recalled it had ended with eights, which the man knew to be the professional variant of the Walther PPK series - that was once manufactured in small secluded and highly secretive weapons factory in Ulm Germany – that held five instead of the standard seven rounds to save weight and minimize recoil on the first two shots – as two shots is really all it takes for a well trained assasin to finish off a target. A variant that even came with an stub nose barrel that accomodated a Brausch silencer - the preferred weapon used the execution arm of Mossad, the Kidon which affectionately referred to this side arm, as the weapon of silent death - that evening, as the farmer handed the assasin’s pistol to the woman he searched her eyes intently for any hidden agenda or any residue of thoughts that may point to why she felt the need to bring along such a pistol during her stay. But all he could make out was an unassuming woman who received it without hardly a word or expression. As if even she was oblivious to such detailing or even the history of this pistol which she promptly put into her bag - by now, even the farmer himself suspected he may have underestimated the daughter of the one million hectare landowner to such an extent that the woman before her was indeed a delightful mystery that he knew so little about - he even began to toy around with the notion that he may have been too presumptous in the way he had approached the whole business of trying to gain her confidence – and for the very first time, he began to feel the familiar sense of discomfort creeping into his consciousness - with these thoughts lingering somewhere in his head, the farmer leaned back into his chair and looked at the woman who sat opposite him. This time the farmer did not see her as just the daughter of the one million hectare landowner - she had after all successfully slitthered into his house like a Cobra that day. Hypnotized all his guards along with everyone else in his own household. Mesmerizing them so completely that she had somehow stepped into a place in this house that he himself did not realize existed – a place where she herself had clicked into place perfectly like a lego set – a place where she could do absolutely anything she liked while all he could do was to watch helplessly. He realized then, this benign woman who was now armed and dangerous and would be spending the night in his house that evening. And there was really nothing he could do about it - absolutely nothing and with these thoughts, the farmer smiled supremely as he offered her another glass of brandy.