Pick a truth, any truth. A unsavoury truth, or one that loaded with irony. Pick a ugly one, a prickly one; a truth that smell like a rat. Or pick a truth that so delicious, when you sink you teeth into it, you tingle from skin to within.
Just pick a truth.
Now go to the window with you truth, hold it up to the light, turn it around, examine it. How many truths you see?
Arjun the drunk, the addict, got more truths to he story than anybody I ever hear about.
Uncle J. did say he’s not a bad fella. But Auntie M.did bitter about he selfishness; she had some compassion for he plight but she dish out some cynical truth too.
And now look, not too long after that my mother tell me, “Carpenter-man say he know Arjun family. He say the stepfather is a good man. He is the one who does take care of all o’ them.”
”Noooo man, that stepfather ain’t good,” I protest. “Auntie M. know Arjun gran’mother, she friend that the bus knock down and kill. Arjun been to jail ‘cause the stepfather molest he sister and he beat up the stepfather. Carpenter-man don’t know the insides of every single thing. Molesting is not something people does talk about openly in this country, you think the family gon go around saying it happen?”
We settle down to dinner with the two different truths - Arjun get maligned, the stepfather get maligned; we eat we dinner and the topic change.
You think it done there?
Two or three weeks ago, on me way to Auntie M. I zip past Arjun on the roadside. He shoulders bend, he head low; he staring at the grass, the road, he trying to focus the way people who brain soak up too much rum does try to focus. He hair sproinging this way, that way, shining with grease. Need a shave, clean clothes.
“I see your friend,” I tell Auntie M. “He proper look pathetic.” I tell she what the carpenter man say.
”Hm, for all you know, it could be true. Arjun sister come to we shop and she praising up she stepfather. If you hear all them nice, nice things she does say about he...”
Something there never sound too right to me, but I ain’t no psychologist so I ain’t say nothing. Who knows what the real story is. Maybe the girl and she mother convince theyself of some other truth.
A truth can be such a strange thing, I been thinking yesterday. It can be whatever we want to believe it is.
Buss it open, dash aside all the seeds you find inside...then watch them grow into other...