Normal

She found comfort in her mother’s anger. It may have been a strange thing for most people around her. Yet, it was a fact. She felt most comfortable when her mother was having “one of her days” – which was during most days of her childhood.

She rang the bell a few times. No answer. The house wasn’t locked. She knew, mum was inside. She waited on the porch for a few minutes. The wait seemed to be never ending, because, she was tired from a long day at school and terribly hungry.

But patience had become second nature to her. She stood still, staring at the door before knocking one more time. No answer.

Her brother would soon be home from school as well. He would be hungry too. He would know what to do next, as he was older and seemed very mature to her.

Finally she sat on the front steps, dropped her schoolbag on the step below and started digging inside the bag for remnants of some old snack. Nothing.

The evening was quite normal. People around were going about their business as usual. Kids drank their milk and came out to play. She observed. "Clean clothes would be nice", she thought, smelling her school shirt. At a distance she saw a bunch of women in white sarees marching away with big banners and signs in their hands. All she heard was a rhythmic, musical rumble. She couldn’t make out the words properly. She observed. Her brother finally walked toward her, after getting off the school bus. What a relief!

She ventured to knock again. No luck.

He decided they needed to call their father. They went to the neighbour’s and asked to use the phone. The neighbour’s house was dark and scary. The delicious aroma of dinner was quite a tease, though. Unlike their parents, this family wanted to save electricity, she concluded.

Her brother’s voice was bit shaky during the call, she noticed. “Father would be here soon”, he said.

“May be we should call out to her from the backyard”. She knew he would have better ideas! They went behind the house, dropped their bags on the grass and started calling out after their mother. The calling became a game, to find out who was louder. It developed into a competition of sorts and they fell into a fit of laughter, at the end of it.

That sure made her forget about how hungry she was.

After having tried to knock and ring the bell a few more times. They decided to play detective and tried to get in through some window. They were all locked.

Finally dad was home. The door opened effortlessly. “I was busy writing and studying”, mum said. Her hair was a mess. There was no delicious aroma of food. Dad raised his hand to slap mum's face, but didn't.

Father decided, he would have to cook today. She would help.

Although, the neighbours stared at them in disbelief during the evening, she and her brother had learned to ignore them. This was their “normal”. Their, very own, personal “normal”.

Apologize for not writing

Hello followers,
I have this blog on my mind all the time however, recently, my mind has been pre-occupied with a play I am directing.

It is play called "Gabharaa" written by my friend Pradeep Vaiddya. It is a very challenging and interesting script and loving the process of creating something out of nothing! :) Lets hope the show looks exactly like it looks in my head!:)

I do have a couple of short stories in mind, which peep into my consciousness every so often. I have just not been able to focus on those.

Hoping to write soon.

Love
Swapnali

The Last Creation

As the long evening shadows danced around him, he lay on the beach watching the sunset.

His body stiff. His mind filled with agony. He felt this urgent need to be free. Free from the creation, the painting, the sculpting, the writing. Instead he wanted to BE the sculpture, the painting, the story. He craved the sublime - that existed beyond his physical self. He knew such a thing existed, because he had experienced it often through his creations.

Somewhere in some palm tree, a bird waited for her eggs to hatch. She sat in her nest admiring their creation. The nest was perfect this time. It had enough room for all 4 of their eggs. They hoped at least two would survive to grow old. She waited patiently.

He was growing impatient. How much longer? He did not know. Not knowing was tedious.

The bird seemed to know it all. It came very naturally to her. All she cared about was the eggs. No confusion.

The confused net of shadows on the beach was growing darker. The water, more brilliant. The existence more beautiful. Yet, he felt as if it was not enough. He wanted more. He had planned this very carefully.

An egg cracked. The bird, let go.

He would not face the pain of creation anymore - The struggle, the strife for perfection, the hollow of imperfection, the constant feeling of something missing. A pit in his stomach. It would soon be over. He would soon, BE the sun, the shadows and the ocean, all at the same time. He took a last deep breath. He let go.

The egg hatched into a little bird.

Now on the beach… now in the nest.

Soon he would be able to soar up and fly in the air - a free bird, a mere observer. Yet, trapped.

Life in a Carboard Box

“I wish people didn’t move so much. They would just stay put where they belong and be content with it. These days they just seem to vanish. No life-long neighbours no life-long friends. I wonder what it would be like to be born and grow old in the same house, to know every wall and brick and have every wall and brick know you back. Homes have now become commodities, simply a means of exchange. Money. That’s what they are, money! What a dreadful thought. What happened to nesting?”

She sat by the bay window sipping at a cup of tea. The tea left a coating on her tongue, that irritated her. She sat there, pondering, nevertheless.

The doorbell rang and annoyed her furthermore. “Who now?”, she thought. She decided not to open. It rang once more.

And again.

Banging the cup on the floor she walked to the door to open it.

“We are offering a great deal on the vent cleaning service, Miss.”

“That’s rude of you to assume the vents in this house aren’t clean!” She frowned back.

“When was the last time you had it cleaned madam?”

She wondered what the right answer would be to drive this man away. They won’t be needing any vent cleaning. Not any more.

Then she decided there isn’t a right answer and just replied, “Not interested, thank you” and shut the door to his face.

She always felt bad later. Maybe she should have asked him for a drink. It was a hot day outside. And maybe he had walked from door to door, all morning trying to make a living. Poor chap.

She picked up her half finished cup of tea, not wanting to drink it anymore, and poured it out in the sink.

The shiny speckles in the granite counter looked sad. Sad, that she was going to be leaving them soon. She looked at the walls that she had fondly spent hours in picking the right colours. She looked at the sit-out and wondered if she will ever have a great sit-out like this one ever again. The trees around provided a perfect shade and privacy. She could even lie there without wondering if the neighbours were watching.

She walked to pick up a magazine she had left by the bay window and saw the “vent cleaner” pass by her house again. This time, ringing the house in front. The lady of the house had actually let him in.

She didn’t feel so bad for him after all. The young couple who had bought the house last week are probably keen on getting everything cleaned.

“I would have to get my new house cleaned as well”, she thought. And before she knew it, she was already thinking about new paint colours and new ways of decorating her new home.

They had sold their house at a much higher price than they had paid. That extra money meant too much, in their current situation, having lost her job and all.

The Unspoken

The smell of the idle air in their musty, little place was comforting. The bed, soothing. No one was home and he had the 10X10 room of their one bedroom apartment to himself. He dug is head further into the sheets that had darkened from lack of a scrub.

Ignored by the world as being mute, Rashid preferred his world in the bed. Here he could speak, he could express his feelings. It was a fatherless world with no judgments being passed. He simply lived, breathed, observed and lived again. He built wonderous places and wore extravagent clothes. He travelled within this creation and spoke to anybody in any possible language.

His father was getting old and more demanding day by day. Rashid had grown deaf to the constant bickering about his inabilities and his weaknesses.

His father had been harassing him to look for a job, lately. “We can no longer sustain in the meager sum I make. I am getting old and can no longer go on slamming metal in the workshop with my arthritic hands. Get on your feet you ‘good-for-nothing’ piece of junk”, he would groan.

In this sublime world, Rashid spoke. He spoke poetry. He spoke lyrics. He spoke passages by Rumi, Kabir and even Shakespeare. He dug is face deeper into the mess of pillows and sheets and entered the creation once more.

Rashid was four, when he stopped talking. The doctors concluded it to be some sort of a traumatic result. They didn’t find anything physically wrong with the boy.

His dream world was getting more vivid day by day. The people and places seemed more and more real.

At four Rashid had decided not to speak ever again. He was twenty-two now, barely educated and a dumb piece of junk, according to his father. It was evening and the father returned, breaking the peace of a lazy afternoon. His temper shot the roof, when he saw Rashid laying on the bed, yet another day. He threw the hammer in his hand towards the bed. Rashid woke up with a start holding the edge of the bed.

Still shaking and trying to decipher the real world from the dream world, he picked up the hammer. His eyes now gathered the crimson of rage. He got off, steadied himself and moved closer to his father. Now scared, the father moved toward the open door and into the passage way. Rashid, continuing his mad charge, pushed him out of the apartment and on the steps. He closed up on him, with the first blow knocking the father down, followed by a second one that went straight for the head.

The neighbours, who now gathered like flies, were appalled to hear the words from Rashid’s mouth, “I am free, finally, I am free”.

 
(This story was inspired by a news item in Sakal, Pune)