Mother called again today to ask how I was, and how I was enjoying the new house. It was nice to hear her voice; it’s strange but I have missed her. I haven’t been away for long, but it seems like such a distance. For once I can’t contain myself and words just spill out of my mouth, one after the other in a mad flurry. I tell her about the house, and the décor themes. Behind us, the workmen continue to hammer tiny iron nails, into planks of wood so that my books can finally have a rest. I shout over the din, and I talk.
I tell about the big window in the study. I tell her I’ve dressed it in bright potted plants, and framed it with a flirty green money-plant, just like she had done to her kitchen window all those years ago. I tell her how the whole world opens to this window (at seven in the morning, to be precise) to ringing temple bells and the morning aarti. I tell about the procession of marigolds that engulfs the street at this time; I tell her about the priests on their little scooters, always in a hurry; and the beggars who play cards before the devotees arrive. Knowing there’s a temple close by pleases her, especially after I reassure her of my weekly visits, every Tuesday, I tell her.
Before she can bring up a new ritual for me to adopt, I race along, introducing her to the rest of the cast: the little children waiting for the school bus, picking fights and pulling bits of hair from red-ribboned ponytails; I tell her about the constant trickle of rickshaws and bikes chugging past; I tell about all the hawkers who call out to me throughout the day – the vegetable seller in a perfectly draped nine yard sari; the bottle picker with the scarred face; the fisherwoman with the giant gold nose ring. Mother doesn’t care about any of them, but I keep talking. I can’t control myself, the words just pour out. I blabber on about the squawking crows and the cooing pigeons. I tell her about the maid and her six year old daughter. I tell her about the chai-wala at the corner of the street. I tell her about the neighbours I don’t like. I tell her about this, and I tell her about that. I tell her everything except the truth.
January 30th, 2008 at 6:14 pm
And what’s the truth?
January 31st, 2008 at 5:20 am
yay! storee time!!
we were getting quite bored of seeing sachin and gilly.
January 31st, 2008 at 9:59 am
You have practiced the art of story telling and seemed to have mastered the craft. I see a common thread in your writings. They end with a bang.
You have the ability to toy with your readers by continuing to write the way you do. You may take that as a compliment or as an accusation. But, it is my observation.
I do not have a very great attention span. Add to that I get bored very soon if the article is not interesting. But, every now and then, say once in a couple of months when I land on your site, my concentration takes a new meaning! And I do not deserve the credit. You do! I remember submitting myself completely to a few posts and have forwarded them to a few of my friends.
Phew! That was a long one. Keep writing! And congratulations on your new home!
February 1st, 2008 at 11:15 am
perhaps it is easier maintaining a facade, than having the truth out there…!!!
You sure are extremely good at what you do.
Cheers and happy weekend.
February 2nd, 2008 at 3:58 pm
good one 🙂
February 3rd, 2008 at 4:15 am
Too good!
February 3rd, 2008 at 12:53 pm
@ pri: gasp! really?! whyy?
February 12th, 2008 at 10:58 am
Bahut hi badhiyaa..hum bahut time baad padhaare yahan..humein khushi hui ki aapka touch naheen gaya hai 😀
February 12th, 2008 at 2:40 pm
[…] writes a short story (or is it a short-short story?) describing her new surroundings to her mother. It’s beautifully written and paints a perfect picture of the city scene. I tell her how the […]
February 12th, 2008 at 6:12 pm
nice piece of writing. The expression paints the exact picture in the head; i call that good writing.
But if this is not the truth, what is?
My guess: the narrator by telling her mother the routine faced by her is able to hide her personal agony of being there, in the new house. What that agony is, is anybody’s guess.
But then short stories need not have a very explanatory end.
February 13th, 2008 at 4:09 am
Absolutely brilliant post this one. Especially the last line.
That one line transforms this story from being a nice warm one to an absolutely profound expression of one’s being at that point in time.
Cheers…….Jam
February 13th, 2008 at 4:39 pm
Nice writing. I liked the way you ended it.
March 1st, 2008 at 7:41 pm
Thank you 🙂
April 16th, 2008 at 2:54 pm
Neha,
Very O.Henry-isque, with that twist at the end!
Couldn’t help wondering: Could this have been better as a poem?
🙂 Rada