Adelene
Writing
Mazin Mohamed Iqbal
Adelene.
That was her name.
“Why Adelene though?” asked Jingo. We were in the army truck, bumpily making our way from Marseilles to Cassis. I frowned. “I don’t really know,” I said, holding the black and white photograph at arm’s length. I closed an eye and looked at the picture more closely. A young lady in a laced dress sat on a divan, smiling back at me. She held her chin tilted slightly upward; at the instructions of the photographer, probably. “She looks like an Adelene to me.”
Jingo sucked in air through his teeth. “You know what she really looks like?”
I was still staring at the photo. The lady was nowhere near what anyone would call the pinnacle of beauty, yet there was something about that face, I felt sure I knew her. Like seeing a classmate from nursery school years later and feeling that flicker of familiarity. “No. What?”
“She looks like a photograph you picked up off the old barracks.”
I turned to look at him. He grinned, popping a peanut into his mouth.
Jingo’s real name wasn’t Jingo. Two days after he first joined our troop, the lieutenant happened to remark that the new recruit’s wide-toothed grin resembled that of his dog, Jingo; and the name had stuck. He had a silly face, and a smart mouth, but a kind heart and good sense in the battlefield kept his name up as a soldier.
I looked at him now. “How’d you know I got it from the old barracks?” Still grinning, his mouth full of half-chewed nuts, Jingo answered. “My dear friend, I literally saw you pick it up off the floor. You were so absorbed in your examination of this Adelene that you didn’t even see me standing there, smiling, just away from where you stood.”
The truck went over a particularly bumpy stretch just then, making all of us jump. I pursed my lips and held onto the seat for dear life. How could I explain to him that she reminded me of everything and nothing in particular? Of home, of an embrace, of a warmth I had not known since my mother had hugged me when I left? “She… she looks familiar, see? I feel like I’ve seen her somewhere.”
The venerable Jingo shrugged. “If you say so, pal.”
We were passing by a grape orchard (or what remained of it, any rate) when he piped up again. “Vineyards. Haven’t seen that in a while.” He scrounged for more peanuts in a small paper bag on his lap, but was unlucky; it had been cleaned out.
I looked outside at the trees, saw the scorched grass and puddles of dirty water pass us by. The water was dirty, but it still looked inviting. We hadn’t showered in a while. God knows I could have done with one. An old childhood rhyme came to mind just then, unbidden.
Machli jal ki rani hai. The fish is the queen of the sea.
Jeevan uska paani hai. Her life is tied to the stream.
Humming it under my breath, I stopped when I saw Jingo giving me a queer look. “You know,” he said. “I never understood why you have a French name. You’re the first Indian I’ve met with a name like that.”
“I told you,” I muttered.
“When his business was failing, my father had a French benefactor. It revived the company, you know, got us out of near poverty. Father was so grateful he vowed to name his firstborn child after the Frenchman. And, well… ”
“That was you,” said Jingo.
“That was me,” I agreed.
That all of this was before the war we left unsaid. That the business had eventually gone to ruin anyhow, and that the firstborn son had joined the British army out of necessity. I sniffled. The picture of Adelene fluttered in the wind. I held it tight in a fist, not ungently.
Haath lagao dar jaayegi. Touch her once, she’ll dart in fear.
Bahar nikalo mar jaayegi. Take her out, she’ll die right here.
Presently the truck squealed to a stop. Four of us tightened our helmets and got out of the vehicle, me and Jingo and two others. The lieutenant put his head out the window from where he sat beside the driver and screamed instructions.
This is a strategic outpost. Do you understand that? Sir, yes sir!
Man the stations and radio the main barracks if you see an enemy flight, you hear me? Loud and clear, Lieutenant!
Looks like these ladies got the lay of the land, driver. Get going!
Concept Note
I wanted to write about love through the lens of soldiers in the middle of a war. It becomes a dreamy sort of half-truth, something you hang onto to keep your sanity as the world crumbles around you, forcing you to do things to strangers you would probably be neighbours with otherwise. I wanted to imagine how an old man would look back on his experience as a soldier, see how he'd dwell on the littlest of details as they punctuated his memory of how things had once been. I wanted to explore love in both a romantic sense and in terms of brotherhood, and I believe I've done so, to the best of my ability.
Artist Bio
I'm Mazin. I’m 22 and I like to read, write, cook and eat food; but more than anything I like telling stories. It's what led to my TED talk in 2024. I survived studying CS engineering and currently work as a writer/editor in Bangalore. When I was a kid I used to drop half-cut onions in our family fish tank. I want to write a Booker Prize winner. Hopefully soon, Insha Allah. Studying data science and illustrating children’s books on the side. Generalism > specialism always.