Labels

Showing posts with label Short Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Stories. Show all posts

Sunday, 28 July 2013

Disconnected



Tring tring... The phone rang for the sixth time. The blank calls she had been getting since days disturbed her freelance works. Working alone past midnight, she heard the outmoded landline phone ring again and remembered why she had, in fact, gotten it disconnected today.

Her pencil stopped.

“Dis-con-nec-ted…”

A calm chuckle resounded behind her.


This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

Tuesday, 23 July 2013

And I taught Me a lesson



I wonder why I did that. I wasn’t poor; I didn’t need money, yet I stole money from those poor kids. Four coins, to be precise. The kids happened to be playing in the verandah where our room was. It was a trip to a hill station where we stayed in a Dharmshaala. I remember there were approximately 20 rooms on one floor. One of those rooms was ours on the second floor. This trip could have been fun but no, it wasn’t. I had no friends or cousins my age there. Alone and bored, I kept pacing up and down the stairs and remained in the premise. On one such rounds, I noticed a group of poor kids playing with coins.

They had just finished their game and were counting numbers. I ignored that and concentrated on the coins that lay on the stairs below. I picked the coins up exuberantly, and went up the stairs to hand those to them. What mischief took over me, I have no idea. I quietly put the coins in my pocket and pranced toward my room like nothing happened. I knew they had acknowledged the missing coins and I knew they were frantically searching it everywhere but I didn’t turn back.

Once I was in the safety of my room, I giggled. How very smart of me! They will never know it was I. I really can trick people. 

And then I realized. I had robbed them. They weren’t my friends; I wasn’t supposed to play games with them. The coins in my hand felt like thorns suddenly, scratching me to the point that I felt uncomfortable in my own skin. I opened my tight fist to see the coins were of Re 1 each. Not much to me, but they sure meant a lot to them. Guilt trapped me on my bed. Mamma was sitting right beside me, probably unaware of what I had done. But when you are six years old, you just feel like Mamma knows. All mothers just know everything, somehow.

I felt like a criminal. Mamma would hate me if she comes to know about it. Will I be put in jail? I went to the bathroom and cried. For how long, I don’t remember, but the mirror sure teased me to no end. I looked at the entangled hair and the quivering lips and cried some more. A few minutes later, when the adults in the room were engrossed in their conversation, I went out to check on the kids once. They were still searching for their beloved coins. How very cruel of me to do that to them. Please, God, forgive me.

---

Of course, I returned their coins to them, adding a few extra of my own and of course, I did that inconspicuously so that no one could ever blame me of my immaturity. I risked my credibility in that whole episode but, thank goodness, I was cute enough to make it through the entire charade. I did not confess this thing to anyone like I morally should have done. I didn’t have to endure any punishment; I didn’t have to apologize to anyone; or bear any guilt in front of anyone. Right, I chose the easier of the two right ways that I had. So what? I have apologized to those kids, to Mamma, and to God a lot many times since then, in my mind. It’s not for nothing that I remember this incident after 17 years of an eventful life.

This incident reminds me that I am not so nice, after all. I do commit mistakes. I can be utterly ridiculous. And I am very much able to hurt people. Everyone is, I reckon. Don’t you think it should be forgivable to be wrong if one has the power to bring himself to do the right thing thereafter? I think it should be. It’s not very rare that you get to do the right thing and when your conscience speaks to you, the choice that you make is all that matters.



I am sharing what 'I Saw and I Learnt' at BlogAdda.com in association with DoRight.in.

Wednesday, 1 August 2012

An immortal bliss

                                                                               Courtesy


The passive dawn heard the muffled footsteps of two blanket-clad men approach a thin pale shepherd on the outskirts of the village.

“She shouldn’t survive,” said the first man, as he bore his dark eyes on the sleepy face that now laid in the arms of the shepherd.

With that, the two men left with a casual gait. The shepherd saw the moroseness in the child’s eyes as she saw them leave. Then, she shifted her attention to her holder… to nothing but his eyes. He felt a shadow of guilt lurch somewhere in his heart.

“Azad kaka?” the girl chirped.

“Yes, Guddi… your father says we’ll go for a small hike… Here, sit on my shoulders. It’s better that way,” he said, speeding his words and his footsteps. He felt relieved to be away from her gaze but a strange fear gripped his beating heart.

***

The early morning sun had never been this cruel as it felt today. The cacti-ridden hillside gave him no relief. Azad knew he wouldn’t get water for the next three hours. There was only one well on this stretch of The Aravallis. And he’d never satiate his thirst from the death well that bore the tears and blood of the countless girls who were abandoned by the families of his village. 

The little beads of sweat, formed on his forehead, tickled down his beard. He wiped the sweat on his sleeve and paced faster.

“Do you know you have a boomerang on your head?” Guddi said.

“Boomerang?”

“Yes, its shape… did something hit you here?” She ran her small finger on the mark.

“Don’t remember.”

After a few silent seconds, Guddi spoke with a heavy tone. “My sparrows would be waiting for me.”

“Where?”

“Home. I feed sparrows every morning with bajra and water. They are such nice birds. Colorful… and they sit in pairs and sound so funny. Sometimes it sounds like they are calling my name.” Getting no response from Azad, she continued, “Have you ever seen them eat?”

“No,” he said, surprised at her exuberance.

“They walk funnily specially when they are full. They eat, then drink then eat and drink some more and then sit for a bit making pairs and talk to each other and then they fly away… so far.” Her voice became morose. “Can I ever become a sparrow?”

Azad simply shook his head.

She studied the passing trees in deep contemplation. “I wonder how small baby sparrows would be when they are born.”

Azad couldn’t contain his laughter. “Quite small,” he began, “but not as small as you think.”

“How small do I think they are?”

“A sea-shell’s size? I used to think the same when I was your age,” he spoke, perked up.

Their laughter echoed softly in the rocks.

***

Guddi’s weight became heavier with each step Azad took towards the death well. He had come here many a time in the past but never had the journey been this torturing. He was tired, scared, guilty, angry… but more than anything else, he was in pain – physically and mentally. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that the girl he had so loved since her birth would soon be no more. The gentle hands that had cradled her would become a murderer’s weapon.

Kishan, Azad’s close friend and Guddi’s father, had left the village four years back; he wanted to earn more money and, thus, fled to the town. None in the village knew that Kishan had been kept unaware of Guddi’s existence. They felt a wave of change; most of the villagers thought it was for the better. There had been far less killings of the female babies in the last four years.

Now that Kishan was home, his fury had taken everyone in the family by their throats. The village panchayat, too, had decided in his favor, “Now that Kishan does not want the girl, she shall not live.”

As a punishment of keeping it hidden from his own friend, Azad was given the task of drowning ‘the unwanted girl.’

“Had you killed her on her birth, it’d have been less painful, Azad. I hope you enjoy doing this now,” Kishan had mocked in the panchayat.

Azad sniffed. But he knew he had lied to his friend; he had taken a decision on his behalf when practically he had no right to do so.

He hardened his jaw; he had a task to execute. The girl was to be killed.

***

As they reached the death well, Azad winced at the wasteland this part of the rocks had become over the years. It seemed like the village practice had not only taken the lives of the girls but had obliterated each sign of nature, too.

His mojari felt uncomfortable. He put Guddi on the well’s sidewall and felt his sore feet. Maybe God was the perpetrator of his blistered feet; maybe He didn’t want another girl smothered to death.

“Kaka, let’s go home… Ma will apply her haldi mix on your feet. You’ll be alright.” She hesitated for a moment, “But how will I lift you, Kaka? We’ll both fall down.”

Azad smiled weakly.

He closed his eyes. The dark flashes of an eight year old Azad blinked before him. His mother was crying and a new born baby girl was being taken away from her to be thrown in the death well.

He felt infirm. Curbing Guddi in his arms, he said, “My sister is in there, you know.”

“Down? What is she doing there?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Azad said as he looked deep in the confines of the brick-laden hell.

“Wouldn’t it be difficult to breathe down there?”

“It would have been more difficult to breathe outside.” Azad felt his anger drip from every pour of his body.

The realization of the truth suddenly dawned on her. “Kaka, is this the death well?” She asked, scared.

“What death well? And who told you about this?”

Baba was saying last night. He said that he’ll drown me in the death well and that I’ll di… I’ll die?” Her voice choked.

“No! What, no! It’s not the death well… I mean, it’s named as death well but you won’t be drowned in it... I’m here, my child.” Azad embraced the scared baby in a tight loving hug. Several emotions screamed to him for mercy, for humanity.  He could not cheat a four year old’s trust.

He thought about his village. The people down the hill might never forgive him; they might abandon him; his decision might not change anything but letting her die did not seem to be an option anymore.

“Look, my girl, I cannot take you home but we both can stay together. We might not have anyone with us; you might not get to meet your old friends and it might be a little bit different in the beginning but I promise… I shall keep you as my own heart,” he beamed, “Will you come with me?”

Azad held his hand out for her; she took it with a beatific smile.

Guddi’s small hand held Azad’s finger lovingly. They walked down a few steps to sit beneath a tree and revel in the company of the most mellifluous birds and the loveliest breeze that hovered around and played on their smiles. There was nothing more precious Mother Nature had held since a long, long time.


Copyright © 2012 Vaishali Jain
 
This post is part of the contest A picture can say a thousand words.. on WriteUpCafe.com


This story has been awarded the 2nd Runner Up prize at WriteUpCafe. Go check out other awesome entries.
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...