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Printed in Ink and Ashes

by Priya Sridhar

In the basement, scant lightbulbs sputtered in and out. The single torch, propped on a shelf, shone on the pages as I reviewed my copy: The plight of the Hindu laborer must be addressed on a societal level. He is forced to face his burdens alone, often without friends or family.

Typewritten stencils, leaving corpses of plastic letters on the ground. Mildew sprinkled the walls and released a foul odor. When I opened new ink, that stink would mix with the mildew.

Rage filled me as I pressed the keys on the typewriter. When I visited my father, he hadn’t even offered me a cup of coffee or asked how I was. Instead, leaning on his store counter, he told me about his latest backaches and arguments with his tenants. When I hinted that I was parched but wanted to pay for a soda, he offered me a cup of white Ovaltine. Its taste reminded me of how I missed my mother’s chai, how it would always soak the tongue with spices.

Father owned a candy shop in Seattle by a trolley stop; it also sold sodas and tobacco for those interested. He would curate newspapers and magazines for travelers and offer hot coffee to loyal customers. For children, he would boil sweetened Ovaltine powder in milk.

“You have grown too fast,” he’d grumbled in Tamil. “And you are eating too much, Shyama. How much money are we sending for your education?”

“Not much,” I responded.

While he claimed he wouldn’t take my payment, he slid the coins into his pocket. They clinked beneath his meaty, scarred palms.

“You should visit more often,” he said. “Can’t trust anyone these days.”

“You trust Mother,” I said to myself in French.

He squinted at me. Perhaps it was my impertinence in speaking French. Or he could translate how my lips twisted and how I didn’t make eye contact.

“Well, it’s a busy day,” he said. “If you can, try to fix the back door. It’s creaking and my bones can’t handle a draft.”

“I also have a busy day,” I mumbled.

“You’re always busy, and you never have time for me!” A little whine had entered his voice.

“This is a social call and I have to go back to class and my studies-”

“Excuse me, mister?” A boyish voice chirped. “Can I buy these candy bars?”

My father’s squint softened. He looked at the boy, who only came up to my waist. The boy had a few shiny coins, a clean cut, and a collared shirt. No trace of a Tamil accent, and his shoes shone under the counter lights. The boy that my father would have wanted me to be.

“Certainly, young man.” He adopted an unctuous tone. “Why not come to this counter, and you can tell me which ones are your favorite?”

Realizing the conversation was over, I drained my mug of Ovaltine, placed it on a counter meant for dirty dishes, and left. I closed the front door on the way out, so that it did not creak.

Even though the drink had scalded my tongue, the Seattle chill settled beneath my coat, and I wasted no time hustling to the shop with cheap printers’ ink. A horse lunged from its carriage, but although the traces held it back, I’d still returned to my basement with trousers muddied from splattering hooves.

I typed away, careful not to make errors with the stencil. If I made a mistake, I could not correct it as I would with a paper. The copy would reflect where my finger had pressed the wrong key. It would cut a lie where I intended a truth.

The last line. Okay. This was the copy. Now all I had to do was test the new ink that I had purchased. It had been one bottle on sale, one that didn’t look too runny for the mimeograph. I was eager to try it out and see if I could get the right proportions. The last few bottles I tried had caused a nasty spill.

First, a test stencil. I rolled a new one into the typewriter. This one was yellowing and cracked in one corner. You always used the bad ones for your test, and you didn’t have to worry about your typos.

I stared. What could I put down that I could toss away forever, and never think about once it was burning in the building’s furnace?

My father thinks that I’m stupid. I typed into the stencil. He acts like I don’t know what I’m doing, when I went to university, and when I worked to learn two languages. Shining my shoes and shaving my face every day, with my hair being straightened. And you can’t have a normal conversation with him because he always says no to anything you say. He always asks me to do stuff, and I am not a laborer. He knows that I am not good with repairs. Sure, I can fix a creaky door. But I cannot hear him asking about how I’m doing. He’s jealous that I am going to earn more than him, but I am only doing what he wanted!

Words flowed out of me, the rage that I had held buttoned within my coat. It did not matter that no one else would see this, or that I would have to process my feelings in a journal later. It would be perfect to test the ink.

My father and I lived in the same state, but we did not understand each other. When we spoke, his English was guttural, and his Tamil was often grating. I spoke softly, out of respect towards him. He would claim that he would not understand what I was saying, making me repeat it several times. So I took to my pen and my typewriter. He would not read those either.

The bottles resembled alcohol flasks, and they were stained. I had a standard purple ink, designed specifically for mimeograph machines. Another one said “ONE POUND BLACK TRUTH”. Odd name, but it was discounted. And if it worked, I had seen dozens of bottles of it on the shelf, unsold. I would be able to pursue my story and allow it to run.

I pulled the stencil out with the harsh words. Then I attached them to the mimeograph, before reaching for the one-pound ink. I had worked so hard to earn the degree that my father had claimed to pay with his wages. He paid some, but scholarships and donations from the British had allowed for the rest. Yet he would often ignore me. If he asked me about my studies, he would tune me out. When I said nothing, he would call me disrespectful. He would say that I didn’t understand struggles. And if I told him off, even softly, he would call me ungrateful and wished I was sent back home. Our interactions were like vaudeville shows, with the predictable cue cards and act numbers.

The mimeograph brush was missing some bristles. When I dipped it into the ink bottle, more bristles clumped in black. Still, it spread the ink on the drum, as well as the stencil. I slathered the drum, letting the strokes dissolve my anger.

Mother didn’t understand. I had complained to her, and her neat handwriting in Tamil deflected every word of pain. She kept imploring me to treat my father with respect and to understand how hard he worked. I always did, but I was getting fed up with how he didn’t offer me the same courtesy. Other Indian men like me were dating girls, smoking, and dancing. My two left feet and my shyness around women meant that the mimeograph was much safer. If my worst sin was that I stunk like printer’s ink, then my circle of hell would not burn me.

The drum had a rusty hand-crank. I grabbed a sheet of paper and inserted it. It flapped and wrinkled. I arranged it and rolled the crank. It always jostled.

When the paper came out the other side, I reviewed it. Not bad for a test. Crisp letters from the stencil, no runs or bleeds. I could leave room for any drawings or photographs if needed.

I ran my finger over the words. A bit of smearing, but it was still wet. Once it dried, I could assess the quality. I rubbed the smears off against the edge of the paper.

I turned away to grab the proper stencil that I would print with this ink. One experiment to pass around and ask my peers. If I could mimeograph my work, then I could also spread stories.

Fluttering interrupted my thoughts. So did the sound of rustling. I turned, just about to grab the real stencil of my essay.

The machine was cranking on its own. Papers flew to enter it and came out the other side inked. They folded into birds and sailed around the basement.

I stared. Nothing in my university studies had prepared me for this. The paper birds made their way out of the basement, some banging against the shut windows. Others flew outside.

One paper flew into my hands, unfolding its wings. I stared at the typewritten letters. The cracked stencil had bled ink, where it blossomed into wisteria blooms.

Your father is a broken man, the text read. He wants to love you, but fire and life have damaged him too much. No one has been able to tell his story.

These words weren’t mine. But no one had used the typing machine.

The paper refolded itself into a bird and sailed away from my grasp.

“Hey wait!” I tried to grab it. Another one crashed into my palm instead, this one with the ink forming into a cup of chai. I let that one fall open.

Bellingham and Everett burned down his hopes and dreams. You are all that he has left, and he fears that you will vanish like his life did.

This one flew away as well, flapping its wings. I let it leap from my hands, digging the edges into me like claws. These were not happy thoughts. They reflected anger and hurt, only it wasn’t mine.

One damp paper landed on the furnace. Its wings struggled. I picked it up and straightened it.

He will never tell his truth, believing you will never be ready for it. Professor Soma may be able to help.

It kept fluttering but was unable to lift itself off my palms. Eventually, the wings collapsed, and it was only a blank piece of paper. I stroked the sheet; it did not move.

---

Professor Soma was one of the few Indian professors in Seattle. He had been around since long before I had even heard of the university, and no one knew more about history than he did. Yet he kept to himself and never raised his voice, not even in class.

I knocked on his door at the university quarters. Evening classes had long finished, and the pubs would stay open all night. If all else failed, I could visit during office hours.

“Shyama!” Professor Soma smiled. “This is a surprise. If you had a question about the assignment, you could have sent a letter to my mailbox.”

“It’s not about class, sir.” I bounced from one toe to the other in my regulation loafers. “This is about something else.”

Of course, the papers had gone limp. If I wanted to replicate the experiment, I would have to bring him to the basement. But maybe my summary would be sufficient.

“I see.” He pressed his fingers against his eyebrows. “Please come in then. Would you like tea?”

“That would be great.” Going inside, I took care not to trip over the threshold. No one had replaced the wood in a while, and it splintered at the ends.

“It is nice to have a guest,” Professor Soma said. “They still won’t let me bring my wife over, and I worry about her a lot. A man gets lonely with only papers to grade. Take a seat wherever you like.”

The quarters consisted of a tiny kitchenette, a washroom, and this sitting room. A small desk, and one chair. No bed even. Such tiny spaces for an austere professor.

“Oh, they consider me a bachelor since I have no wife to house.” Professor Soma laughed at the look on my face. “I got the smallest space. Not that I need much, and I unroll a carpet for my bed. Take the chair.”

A carpet! My father would have pitched a fit if I had agreed to such conditions. I lived in a dorm room a few blocks away from the candy shop. Yet I did not visit as much as he or Mother wished. I would often use my studies as an excuse, and that was not a complete lie. I also had to prepare to talk and travel, to meet the university expectations and my degree requirements.

My other excuse was the mimeograph that I had bought out of meal money. It required typed stencils and ink to produce these papers. My typewriter could handle the stencils, but the ink would get everywhere if one was not careful. Though I had permission to work with it in the dormitory basement, I would take a lot of care to cover the room with discarded newspapers so as not to cause any stains. Any stains already splattered on the floors and walls would have come from flooding or rust.

But the ink had left a different sort of stain, and I didn’t want to think about the papers that I would have to handle. And I certainly wasn’t going to ask my father any questions.

I opted to lean against the wall. Professor Soma took a tin from a cupboard. When he opened it, leaves popped out with the lid. A familiar smell wafted out in bursts.

“Is that chai?” I asked.

“Yes.” He set the kettle boiling with some water. “I asked my wife to mail me a box. They have Indian stores here, but her blend is the best one.”

The aroma filled the apartment. Professor Soma unrolled a carpet and sat on it cross-legged. He was shorter than me, but always had a presence in class. Seeing him beneath me made my fingers twitch. It felt wrong to tower above his authority.

I closed my eyes and inhaled. My mother is in the kitchen in our flat back home, leaning over a pot. Silk fabrics from her extra sewing job flutter from the walls and ceiling. Sometimes I would lie on the floor, under the silk, and imagine that it was enveloping me.

“Why don’t you boil it with milk?” I asked.

“Oh, I’ve boiled it over too many times,” he chuckled from the floor. “After you have to clean up burnt milk and risk complaints from the landlord, you have a lot of questions about your life and how you spend it.”

He got up after a few minutes, took out two chipped mugs, and poured the tea before bringing it over. My mother would have rapped his knuckles for boiling the milk over multiple times.

I took a long sip of the chai, leaves and all. Not at all saccharine like the Ovaltine, and more like home.

“Now,” he said after taking a long sip, “What is this all about, boy?”

I handed over the papers to him. No need to talk about the weird ink, but about the messages I had received. I just lied that someone had slipped them under my door. Professor Soma skimmed them before placing the papers next to him on the carpet.

“Ah, I think I know what this may be about.” He raised a chipped mug to his lips. “Someone wants you to uncover a great injustice. One that happened against us.”

“Us?”

“You know. Hindus.”

“I don’t, actually.” Not out of naivete, but because I hadn’t read about anything like that, and my father had never mentioned anything.

“Ah.” He sipped more tea.

“What?”

“You know how you are considering going to a newspaper rather than staying in academia?”

“Well.” Not just considering; I wanted to write about the news. Newspapers were flooding the streets from different publishers. There were many job opportunities at my beck and call.

“Someone must have gotten wind of your ambition. And they want you to tell a story that happened to men like your father.”

“What?”

“Riots,” he whispered. “Race riots.”

I had to put down my tea mug on my lap.

“Riots?”

“They were not here, of course,” he went on, “because there are no labor mills. But it happened in two cities. One was Bellingham. Was your father a laborer?”

“Aren’t all Indian men if they come here not to university?” That much I knew. The British would not let many emigrate. You had to prove you were of value.

“Indeed. So, it’s most likely that he was there when it happened. I wasn’t there, but word travels fast.” He blinked, a mist entering his eyes. “White people stormed into houses and destroyed furniture. They screamed the Indians were stealing their jobs at the local mill and were worthless compared to the white man. Some set the places on fire. When the laborers in danger went to the police, they were arrested. So, they left, but the riots followed them. More violence in another city, with livelihoods destroyed. And all we could do was watch.”

My jaw dropped open. I had to close it and sip more tea, so that it would not catch any flies.

“What?”

“It is hard to believe,” Professor Soma admitted. “We are not in a perfect country, but Americans make a promise. You come here and work hard, you will be left in peace. But that is a lie. If you do not fit the mold, by looking dirty with dark hair, they turn you away.”

“Was this in any of the papers? Did they do anything about it?”

He gave me a flat look.

“Have you ever seen a newspaper that favored people like us?”

I couldn’t believe it. William Randolph Hearst solicited journalists to sneak into burned buildings and mount boats to go out onto storm-ridden islands. It would pay more and would give me more adventure than studying in universities where students would occasionally ask how dirty I was. I could go out and make things happen, rather than let them happen to me.

“That’s why I don’t want you to leave university.” He studied his tea leaves. “Here, you have support from the professors that have seen your talent in your speeches, letters, and essays. If you go to a newspaper, you’ll start with nothing. No one will publish the stories that you want to put out there. And you’ll be alone.”

I stared at my own tea leaves, swirling them. I had never seen a newspaper that talked about us.

“Okay, so suppose my father had to deal with that.” I finished my chai. “But then, why not tell me? I’m his son.”

“Would you want to tell your child that you were chased out of your home, not once, but twice?”

“Yes! Especially if it affected how I was acting towards my child.”

“Ah. More tea?”

When he got up, his legs creaked. I winced in sympathy. He poured with gusto. Some splashed on my hand, but I ignored the brief scalding. He poured the last dregs for himself.

“You always have to honor your parents,” he said. “Even if you cannot understand them, you have to respect them. And you have to respect what they have gone through.”

“I can respect it.” I sipped more tea and sighed.

“Your father must love you a lot to send you here. That much money for sponsorship, and the paperwork, it’s a lot of effort.”

“I know he does.” That’s what hurt more. He loved me but didn’t want to respect me the way I respected him.

“You will understand one day when you have a family.” He patted my shoulder with his free hand.

“Perhaps.” I leaned back. “What am I supposed to do with this story, though? If no one will publish it or tell it? Besides you, of course.”
He considered the papers next to his cross-legged knees. They were still damp, the ink a stark black against the brown fur.

“Someone wants you to tell it,” he said. “Whoever sent you this message, they trust you. But you have to figure out if you want to carry this burden. There is a reason no one prints our side in the newspapers. No one wants to see the truth when it involves this much blood.”

Well. I couldn’t explain that a bottle of ink that had come to life was responsible for this transformation. And it had guided me. But only one person could provide the answers. And that brought another question: how would I get them?

---

My father was opening up when I hustled the next day to his candy shop. It was a damp morning, with puddles covering the streets. The large ring of keys had flecks of rust, but the newest ones showed his status. He must have gotten a new padlock.

“Shyama-ram!” he said when I came. “You’re early.”

“I’m here to fix the back door,” I said, gritting my teeth to imitate a smile. Anything to make it through here, to not fight with my father.

He exclaimed and ushered me inside, past the candy counter and the soda fountain. He had gotten several shipments wrapped in grease paper to protect them from the bad weather.

I glanced at them. What would it be like to be an ordinary customer here, just grabbing your chocolate and some coffee?

Father shoved the toolbox into my hand. It was rusty black and brown. The clasp took a few tries to open. I removed my overcoat and knelt by the back door. The creak was closer to the bottom.

“Appa,” I said in Tamil, “you never tell me about your life before Seattle. Where you stayed and where you worked.”

“It’s not interesting,” he responded. “I saved up my money while renting a flat, so I could send it to you and your mother. And I sent enough for your books and uniforms.”

No need to mention that Mother working with fabrics had paid for a portion of those books. Sure, the British did not always appreciate the silk, but wealthy Brahman patrons did.

“Did you ever stay in a city called Bellingham?” I ran my fingers down the screw. So much dust and dirt. Before I determined if the screw needed replacing, I would need to clean away the grime.

A moment of stillness. I reached into the toolbox for a cleaning cloth and started buffing the screw.

“Only for a short while.” His voice was curt.

“I was reading in one of my history books that there was a mill there, where a lot of Hindus worked. Were you one of them?”

More silence. Grime came off in clumps. I cleaned it away from my fingernails.

“People like us aren’t in American history books.”

“You were.” A little white lie. How would he know about the many stacks at Seattle University?

I worked in silence. Rain drummed outside in splatters. One of my fingernails became coated in oily dust, while another chipped away. I would have to take care of that at home.

“I don’t enjoy thinking about those days.” Crinkling paper, mixed with Father’s dour tone. “If I hadn’t kept money in my clothes all the time, I would have left with nothing. There were so many men that night. They came with no masks, only clubs and some had guns. I fought back and left with some belongings. It was a miracle my face didn’t scar from the blow I got. I returned it and left one of them on the ground. But I fled, as our houses burned. My money box was burning my hands, but I held onto it. The city could not protect us, so we left. I never saw the men from the mills.”

I wish I had my notebook, so I could take notes. But if I had tried, Father would have clammed up. So, I focused on oiling the screw. Enough lubrication, and it would remain quiet. Some of the wood near the bottom had splintered, so I would rub that with sandpaper.

“All I was doing was working. They brought us to operate the mills, and I injured my hands but kept waking up early for my shifts. What were we to know of the men we replaced? I was only thinking of you and your mother, unable to come here. In Everett, it was the same. The mobs wanted our blood to ensure we had no home. I fled again, and this time I did not knock out a man.”

The sandpaper was cool in my hand. I rubbed it against the door.

“You couldn’t understand. When you came here, the university welcomed you with open arms.”

That was not true; I had to struggle to earn my place. But I focused on the splintered wood. No point in contradicting him.

“I never want you to understand,” he whispered to this last one. “You are safe.”

Safe from his perspective. But it was more dangerous to hide such history from me. Because I was safe, he could order me around. And he could not see me as I was.

Right on cue, he asked, “Is the door fixed?”

I stood and opened it. Not a sound. There were some skills I had picked up living alone for a few years.

“Great job!” he said, tapping my shoulder. “I knew you could do something well if you applied yourself.”

“Thanks.” I stared at the grease paper packets. “Can I have the grease paper when you’re done with it? I want to wrap my lunches in them.”

“Take as much as you like,” he said. “It has no value to me.”

---

My typewriter clicked away. There was a lot to say within one page of the stencil, especially when no one else was writing it.

Paper birds filled the basement. I had typed up what I had remembered from my conversation with my father. They all had answers, but I knew I didn’t have to read them all. They wanted to fly and spread their truths. This time, the windows were shut, and there was less rage emanating from them. But they wanted the outside, rain and all.

The grease paper that my father used for groceries had slipped in the mimeograph, but I coaxed it to stay. The ink rubbed off on it, leaving a mess. I sighed and came up with another idea. Glue the sheets together, one greaseproof sheet with my normal printers.

There was plenty of paste for stencils and images. I brushed down both pages and waited for them to dry. One side was waterproof, and the other side held the story. It would allow them to endure the rain for longer. Maybe someone would read them.

Some of the paper birds had landed on me. They allowed me to read their words. Some were names and addresses based in Bellingham. Others showed sketches of men that I had never met, including one with a crooked nose. Perhaps that was the one my father had punched thirteen years ago.

One bird refused to leave my shoulder. Its paper wings flapped against me. I read its message: Some men cannot reveal their pain and relieve yours. You have to live with the man he is.

I didn’t know what the consequences would be of releasing all these birds. They were not angry, as the others were before. But they wanted to spread their answers.

“You know what you must do,” I told them, walking towards the stairs. Everyone was asleep, and my roommates would not know of what I had printed, or the chaos I would cause.

I strode into the bottom level corridor. The birds followed me to the rear dormitory exit.

Outside, Seattle gleamed innocently. More rainclouds and a chill. No hint of what had happened before, or what would flood the city. Who knows how people would react. With denial maybe, or fear at the birds.

I hoped enough would listen. Some truths could not stay buried for decades.

“Make people listen to you,” I told the birds. “Until they understand.”

I opened the door. The sky rumbled with flapping papers, soaring into the damp night.