Colonel Aureliano Buendia

{Every aspired writer might have his inspiration; by whom he would be very much shaken till nerves and gets furiously invoked to make great work and pay tribute to the one who caused the stirs of revolution take place in his adobe of desire. I too have one: Gabriel García Márquez, the greatest writer ever and the most favorite for me. His writing technique and mastery of Magic Realism is something I just can’t take off my mind. I hope I won’t disgrace his mastery. I took up this work to heart, just trying to express how much love I have befallen with his untanned and immortal characters.}

 

His hands trembled. His eye sight quivered. His iris was flooded by a thin layer of water, which he didn’t allow to get poured down. Colonel Aureliano Buendia, the war hero, the myth, the legend and a history (who was about to happen) remembered his days in Macondo. He remembered the smell of mercury in his father’s crazy laboratory. He remembered his mother’s strong voice which could solely contain the house on its saneness, driving it off his father’s winged thoughts. Whenever he saw women, he remembered his elder brother Jose Arcadio, whose elaborate descriptions of sex triggered the foremost sensual pleasure in him. He remembered how he used to shiver whenever his brother slowed down to explain the way he touched the bare skin of Pilar Ternera, under her neck and he still remembered how his brother said she would moan. He remembered the way the Chestnut tree had cracked the cerement floor in the garden and rose above his height in no time, but he would not know that his father was tied to it when his saneness would completely drain off him. He also remembered the way when his brother ran off the town when one of the gypsies, a woman with snake skin promised him pleasure all the life.

“The Liberals are losing,” Colonel Gerineldo Marquez entered the tent, letting the dark space to get flushed with golden, dusty sun light. “We must think of something before the Conservatives wipe us off.”

Only in the light did Colonel Aureliano Buendia notice the dried up rose on the table beside his bed. He wondered how a rose could make its way, trespassing the guns, explosives and the soldiers who were as ruthless as a hungry jaguar. Then he remembered, it was from the hair knot of the women who offered herself to Colonel Aureliano Buendia to get off the weariness of ever-lasting-war. He wanted to smile, but couldn’t and then he tried to smirk, but he couldn’t and he tried to let out a fake loud laughter, just as how he and Colonel Gerineldo Marquez used to do while taking secret sips of cigarette behind the Chestnut tree in his house, but he couldn’t and only then did he understand the real meaning of his mother, Ursula’s words, when she said, he had become as a tyrant and slowly turning as a wall. Then he understood why people of his own had maintained at least of a ten feet distance between them and him, even his mother, his own soldiers and his friend in death – Colonel Gerineldo Marquez, but he didn’t know by then, that Colonel Aureliano Buendia would be the one who will aim the pistol towards Colonel Gerineldo Marquez when he was to die by the orders of military, under the orders of Colonel Aureliano Buendia himself.

“Yes, I see,” Colonel Aureliano Buendia said and motioned to close the tents cape. He was sued to darkness. When Colonel Gerineldo Marquez zipped up the tent, he remembered the day, in his childhood, when he went into a women’s tent paying twenty cents for an hour and he knew later that she had to sleep with seventy men per night to clear the debt of her aunt, whose house the girl burnt in unconscious. That moment and even the memory moved Colonel Aureliano Beaundia. He remembered how fragile the girl was and how he frightened she might die if she pinned her to bed with his might, and he remembered how he let himself not to touch her, but to relieve her for an hour, and if that twenty cent could relieve her for the trauma for an hour, he wanted to buy her for the whole night, but he knew he couldn’t as her aunt wants the whole town to taste her, so that men would come again and again and she could sell the fragile body of the girl more than seventy times that day. “Now, it’s fine,” Colonel Aureliano Buendia said, offering Colonel Gerineldo Marquez to sit.

“How are you feeling now, Aureliato?” Colonel Gerineldo Marquez asked, sensing a kind of relief on his face, and Colonel Aureliano Buendia remembered the dark skinned, healthy woman, who had offered herself the previous night, who had, while leaving early in the morning, leaned upon him, who was half awake by then, and nibbling her lips on his, letting her bare breast lie on his muscular chest, for one last touch, and asked him in a whisper, how he was feeling after the night. He didn’t remember what he had answered, but sure, he had felt the bliss which he would never forget again, not because of her broad lips nibbling on his, or of her breast’s perfume, which would haunt him all the life, but for another reason, that she, with her impenetrable cherish, had reminded him of Remedios Moscote, the late wife of Colonel Aureliano Buendia, who had died a year later their marriage. He loved her all the day, all the night, all the dusk and dawn; even at twilight. He loved her like no one had ever did anyone, for whom he was a poet at that times, and who would have been popular all over, if the fortunate lady had lived long enough. She had brought all the light to his life and to his family, which was by then struggling with the insanity of men in the family line. The house was so happy, filled with her grace and Colonel Aureliano Buendia, who was a happy young man, who was called Aureliato, by friends who would never leave him, and the town was well known of his splendor, for wherever walked, he spread smiles. Such a happy man, with all hardships married such a fair lady and their joy was nothing like anything when they knew she was giving birth to another Buendia and that was doubled when the doctors anticipated the birth might be of twins, but what they couldn’t anticipate was that it’s not twins, but a pair of twins. The blood got poisoned by on its own, and she died, she died leaving family in grief and Colonel Aureliano Buendia in the desert of furious anguish.

“Good,” Colonel Aureliano Buendia said, not even knowing himself that it’s the same answer he gave to the dark skinned girl, who lifted herself up with an enchanting smile and she then said that she was thankful for the colonel for he had sown a seed of a brave soul into her, and promised she would shape the birth as brave as colonel and send it to him when its time, and she didn’t knew, his son would get hunted down, shot right on the middle of head, for he was off spring of the colonel himself. “Remedios,” Colonel Aureliano Buendia said in a kind of wrath, holding his own neck, and Colonel Gerineldo Marquez nodded his head in silent understanding, as he knew, even its farther than a solitary decade for Colonel Aureliano Buendia with his lovingly wife dead, the scent of any other women would bring the memories of hers rushing back. Colonel Gerneldo Marquez prayed every night to the God which he believed doesn’t exist that he is thankful for his friend didn’t die and still alive, overcoming the grief of his dead wife and when he prayed, he is a true Christian, but if his friend knew this, he wouldn’t really appreciate.

“You’ll be fine,” he said. Then Colonel Aureliano Buendia shook his hand scribbling in air, and Colonel Gerineldo Marquez understood his friend was asking for a paper and a pen, for that was how he used to ask in the previous days, when the whole town sang his poems, with love, with pleasure and with amusing joy while he walked through his streets towards the house and Remedios Moscote, while she stayed at her window, wearing an yellow frock, which she knew Colonel Aureliano Buendia, then Aureliato would love her so much wearing it. She used to have a myriad of sparkly around her, and when she smiled, blushing, she is the treasure of eternal beauty, for which lock was only known by Aureliato. He used to go by her window, kneel on his legs, and take out a rose, like a French lover waving her beloved, and with tightly knitted lips, trying to cease her smile in vain, she used to shake her head and run off the window, making the public roar with joy, as they know, the lovely Aureliato wouldn’t do that fascinating act if she had nodded her head, and they want to see such a sweet act done again and again, and when she ran inside, they would spill a thousand roses on to Aureliato, who would beam and wink at all the people who love him so dearly. “Pray for the next day,” they would tease him, “but see, she would never accept you, just for the thrill of getting you on your knees before her every day.” He would try to throw the rose into her window, but for the window so high, it would never reach it and fall on the ground, and children, sent by young maids to collect the rose, would make a mini-war for it and tear it down to petals.

Colonel Gerneldo Marquez handed him a paper, and Colonel Aureliano Buendia had scribbled something Latin on it, after ten years and rushed out of the tent, for he feared more darkness would conjure his death, and he would plan for another war, which he didn’t know, it would end up as his 31st war, which he would lose in a row. Colonel Gerneldo Marquez had taken the page and read it, which could be translated, by this poor English writer (if you consider me so), as,

“Fade away and never return,

For now you had beaten,

This barren heart so hard,

It would wither and bleed,

All the love it had.”

 

{Every word written above, by the grace of Muses, is my creation.

Inspired by, Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years in Solitude.

Thank God, he is a writer who is not God by birth.}