A Single Story

Fortunes

Through the mist she remembers the silly childhood ritual she practiced with religious frenzy – plucking out petals from a flower to uncover his love for her. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. She remembers the happiness that flooded her when she wrenched apart that last soft patch of pink. He loves me, he does! She remembers the months that followed –good months – but not the years since. She smiles, at the irony, at the pain, at the memory of picking the wrong flower.

prompt: petals

Rs.50

She runs a store at a crowded cross-section in the heart of the city. It is one in a long, dingy row of shops spilling onto the sidewalk; most are balancing precariously under their own gigantic signboards. Her board, though, is one-fourth its original size. She has rented out the remaining space to the oily travel agent next door – Fly Away Travels (For All Your Travel Purposes), the giant lettering squeezes out her much smaller ‘Shanti General Stores’. Outside the day is teeming with traffic, hawkers and strays. Ten years ago this clutter would have frustrated her. Today it comforts her, working as a camouflage against unwanted customers.

The shop itself is old fashioned: full of wooden shelves with fat, transparent jars stocked behind glass counters. Fingerprints are plastered across the glass pane; the same prints over and over again like a psychedelic work of art. There was a time when every store was an imprint of this one, but they all fell like domino tiles –thak-thak-thak-thak-thak– when the malls sprang up.

A musty second hand bookstore used to occupy the space next door – Gemini Books. Starving students and impoverished intellectuals crowded its small unstructured aisles, finding their few moments of happiness there. At times, especially on rainy days, she used to visit the shop (with an extra cup of hot chai to share with the bookstore’s crumpling owner) and to take in the delicious smell of ink and paper. It reminded her of her grandfather; a man who lost his voice before she found hers and spent the reminder of his life with his beloved yellowing books. But like all the others, Gemini Books too collected cobwebs. The store battled valiantly for two long years, breaking bit by bit, and then to the horror of its helpless patrons, it shut down.

She has a fixed routine. She pulls up the shutter at nine in the morning and stays behind the counter for the next ten hours. It has given her chronic back pain and her feet are dark and hard with a network of ugly cracks running south to north. Like the cracks on her once delicate feet, her shop too is in a state of decay. Business is slow, just a trickle. The regulars, old fading matriarchs, drop by two, three times a week to badmouth their ungrateful children (and their monstrous brood). Sometimes they also buy a packet of Parle G or incense sticks or some home-ground spices. None of the purchases ever exceed fifty rupees. At other times loud youngsters come in for a bottle of water or a pack of cigarettes, which she doesn’t stock. They laugh in that imperious way kids these days do, and tell her that on cigarette sales alone she can renovate the store. She doesn’t answer. Truth be told, she isn’t much of a businesswoman. Over the years the shop has become a habit. For this lonely old woman, it is a necessity.

Venice: Water, Colours & Masks

The Way Out

Anita had started her teaching career as a naive 22 year old. She still remembers her first day: she stepped into the college quadrangle dressed in a pair of black trousers and a wrinkled blue shirt. She carried a shabby file and an oversized bag. She remembers nervously pushing her rectangular black frames above her nose, when some students mistook her for a geeky new student and tried to rag rag her. That was the first time she realized this wasn’t going to be easy.

Her classes were nothing like what she had expected. The students were rude, they didn’t respect her, and worst of all they didn’t want to learn. The initial few weeks were pure torture, till a senior professor showed her how to deal with the situation. Anita doesn’t know exactly when she got addicted to those pills, but they were the only way to get through the day. It began with just one to calm her down, then two to take her through all her classes, now she was on a packet a day. And while teaching had become more tolerable, she couldn’t afford such an expensive habit on a lousy junior college professor’s salary.

I can barely afford the coffee here, she thought as she wearily looked around the bohemian cafe. Soft red fabric fluttered every time the breeze hit the large windows, the ornate Buddha heads wore hookah smoke ringed halos and the coffee on the menu was more frill and less coffee. She took another bitter sip and looked towards the door and then to her watch. She was getting nervous. This is a bad idea, she thought, clutching the flimsy brown paper bag on her lap.

He finally sauntered in thirty minutes later, just as she was about to give up and leave. His hair was fashionably unkempt and his jeans, disturbing low. He gave her a crooked grin and slipped a stack of cash into her open bag as he passed her on his way to the counter. She was less smooth as she handed him the mid-term answer key on her way out. Each cluched on to their prizes; they were going to coast this term.

prompt: key

Windows

I spend a majority of my writing time staring out of the window. Outside, there is a winding road and a row of pastel homes, one tacked to another. Each house has a strong personality, and they jostle for my attention. But the house standing directly opposite from my window intrigues me the most. Unlike all the pretty homes on the street, this one is stripped of all its fancy trim. It wears only a rugged brick attire with a bit of cement slapped on here and there. No coat of paint, no ornate frames. It stands out, and I bet so do its stories. But it does have one thing in common with the lot – a quirky little garden. Its sort-of-lawn has a pair of one legged flamingos guarding the roses and a stocky windmill puffing away on the sidelines; the garden next to it has the seven dwarfs standing around the flower beds.

The quiet of the street is interrupted every few minutes as a car passes through or a resident slowly tumbles down the slope. Some are elegantly dressed, heading out with purpose. Others seem to have rolled out of bed and are in search of a pack of cigarettes. When it’s cold, wisps of smoke drift out of the chimney and sketch patterns in the air. When it is warm, laundry is hung up, a riot of colours swaying to and fro. Some days the birdsong is punctured by the hum of a lawnmower, on others with the laughter of little kids. These are pictures from everyday: no extraordinary characters or events, no gripping adventures, and yet every single time I look out, there is something to write about and something that keeps me writing.

Back Home

It had been years since she had set foot on these streets, and yet they looked exactly the same as the day she had left. The same curtains, in the same rooms, of the same houses, opened up at the sides. Pairs of beady eyes, some blue, some black and some green, followed her all the way down the street to her front door. She knew she was giving them something to gossip over afternoon tea, but she didn’t care. She had come to accept that your ghosts never leave; you just have to find a way to move forward despite them. Let them stare, she thought. Let them talk. I’m still the only one here who knows what really happened that day, and that’s how it shall remain.

prompt: ghost

The Morning After

The morning began with a bitter after taste. As he nudged sleep away from his eyes, the grogginess made way for last night’s shouting match. Ah, yes. It happened on most nights, but hiding in the dark of his bedroom, he had realized this was worse than usual.

He dressed slowly not wanting to rush out. But he didn’t take too long; his mother would be waiting in the kitchen, fixing him breakfast.

As she placed a bowl of cereal on the table, he noticed a dark storm had gathered on her face. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to wish her bruises away.
“Mom,” he ventured, swirling the milk so the crunchy golden flakes hit into each other like little dashing cars.
“Don’t play with you food” she said.
And that was that.

prompt: swirl

Neha’s universal truths – no.2

You never really know how many little boxes of masalas you actually own till you move house.

Sunday Matinee

He isn’t one for sweeping romantic gestures. He has never bought her flowers or sent her candy. He doesn’t care for Valentine’s Day and is lousy with dates. But it doesn’t bother her; not even when her Barbie-like friends coo about gestures showered on them. She is truly content. He may not remember the calendar, but every Sunday, when she’s washing her hair, he pulls out his blue racing car apron and whips up a meal. Exotic aromas beat out her floral scented hair. Once she’s settled down, he pops in a DVD of her choice, and opens two cans of Diet Coke (always poured in wine glasses). He piles her plate with food, and with a bright smile says, “It’s Sunday, babe. Eat up.”