Nanowrimo

After suffering from a prolonged block, I see a ray of hope in Nanowrimo.

I am attempting to revive writing through this.

Any one else doing it this time?
Two is fun, three is company, twenty would be awesome!

Lost and Found

The potato chips were crisp and spicy. She was munching on them for the last twenty minutes ‘scrunch, scrunch, scrunch….’ She was about to finish them. Oh no… She looked around; the huge pack of cream-filled biscuits was such a consolation.

The biggest betrayal was from her parents. ‘We did our bit, didn’t we? It’s up to you to realize the truth now.’ How easy it was for them to point fingers away from them! Thirty seven years of her life lay scattered carelessly; some, completely lost to her memory, like faded pages of ancient books. She had struggled to make ends meet; cared for a mother who always had complaints about the ‘failing’ health and later, groomed the younger brother to the glorious opportunities of a western education, on which she had no rights over. Was it too much to ask for a slice of life for herself, now?

Orange and strawberry flavours – both her favourites, she remembered, from her school days. Why is the whole place looking fuzzy? she wondered; she didn’t want to waste time wiping tears and all that muck.

One phone call had destroyed the hope that had hovered around her like a housefly. Not that it had not happened before. But this time she had been very cautious in not letting her imagination weave patterns of silk sarees and design pretty jewellery.

“Ma, can you fry some onion pakodas?” She waved her hand even as they stared at her in horror. “And, don’t forget; add green chillies instead of dry powder.” Her grandmother looked away, helpless and secretly ashamed to have remained so insensitive all these years.

“Fool, you will put on weight if you binge like this,” her mother screamed.

In hopes of a prince charming, she had toiled, taking care not to spoil her chances. She exercised when the dawn still yawned, hoping one day she could laze on the bed not worrying about love handles. She always passed the sweets and refused second helpings. All her adult life, she only dared to dream of chocolate-chip cookies and layered cakes. And now, she no longer had the liberty to ask for cheesy dreams.

‘Oh, those biscuits were so good’ she thought, while her mother, without bothering to get into the kitchen, droned on – the importance of focusing on the job, ignoring taunts from the aunts, and life in general minus the man. Watching her mother don the I-know-better attitude for the umpteenth time, she wondered if she could survive anymore of this.

It took her exactly three minutes make up her mind. She clutched her purse and stormed out of the house even as the whining continued from the living room. She walked up to the bakery and ordered for a double layered chocolate cake.

“Madam what do you want written on top? Birthday wishes?” he wanted to know, with the cream cone poised over the cake.

“Oh, just write any darn thing, but make those words big and wavy,” she grinned.

The Game

Medicines. Monthly groceries. Electricity bill. Phone bill (this will go). Room rent (this may soon go too). I have been digging into my old files to check if I have any resources left. There were many, in the past. Between the untouched pages of an old dictionary that once belonged to Prithvi, amidst the shiny sheets of movie magazines I kept for collage work, in the deep folds of my favourite novels – a tenner here, a twenty there. No less, no more. I knew the pure thrill of finding these little treasures when I wanted them the most, not knowing when and where they turn up. It was a game I picked from Prithvi. He always hid little notes for me to find while browsing through his things, although, he hated it that I went through them at all. That was him – hating me and yet…

The door bell is ringing; I guess it has to be Lala: the ugly hippopotamus of a man, my landlord. I don’t know what I am going to say this time. I keep still, hoping he will go away. He does, after swearing at his loudest; I can imagine my neighbours sniggering.

My search does not go waste; I manage to gather a few bucks just enough for the day. I get out as quietly as possible yet, I see the neighbours peeking through the windows – life’s little prisoners with their own secrets.

A half an hour of bus ride to the mall is what I get to think about life and other important matters. The cancer was definitely a bolt out of the blue. In his entire life, Prithvi had never touched alcohol or cigarettes. It broke him and our dream of a family. A full-fledged treatment may not be a fitting reply, but that’s the least I can do for Prithvi.

While peering through the dusty window, I remember the half a litre of petrol in the bottle, at home. I have been thinking how best to use it – on me. All these days, I ignored it and it has been sitting there quietly like a leftover cheese, growing more virulent in the corner.

Another completely tiring day at the mall. The same old rusted smile and stale dialogues: ‘please try this on ma’am, it suits you very well, that one? sorry… we don’t have your size. New stocks? probably by next week’. The psycho manager is forever riding high on sarcasm, vying to get into my skin. How long can I hold on? Where else can I go? It is one more week to go for the salary and I am yet to figure out how to survive those seven days.

It is eight thirty, I hope I have not missed the last bus. Night rides scare me – the wolves come out once the moon shines. I get a seat next to a small girl. I see her mother sitting two rows ahead, turning her head often to check on her daughter. The girl is singing something, sitting pretty and looking happy. Pink shoes, peach dress and a tiny bow on the shining hair. She holds a huge plastic flower – a pink sunflower. She looks at me occasionally; I have no desire to be friendly. We pass the neon lit bar signs, hotels with their shutters pulled halfway down and huge billboards. I can see her eager face trying to catch my eye.

“I hate you all stupid children” I silently shout.
“You know what? This is a special flower.” Those bright, button like eyes, inviting me to be part of the world’s biggest secret.
I can be cruel too. I simply stare ahead.
“It is a special flower because God gave it to me,” she persists.
I look at her blankly. What is wrong with this kid?
“We played this in Sheela aunty’s house; every one gets a chance. Whoever gets this flower should give to the other. If you give it away, you become the God and grow powerful.”
I pretend not to hear anything. I have no time to be nice.
The bus is slowing down, I can hear her mother calling out: they will be getting down now, thank God. The girl moves, clumsy with her plastic flower while trying to get a grip. She turns towards me and gives me the flower. I shake my head – I don’t need it.
“Please take it.” I feel very awkward but don’t want to extend my hand.
“I am God now!” she walks away triumphantly, leaving the flower on my lap.

I walk towards my room, swaying my arms, I look up and I see a stupendous sky with billions of stars. Tonight the moon is in hiding; it’s time for the little stars to show off. Somehow, I can breathe easy now. I am wondering to whom I should give the flower – my manager or Lala.

Sunshine

Hello every buddy, here’s a post to mark the two-year journey of Two A Day. Fun eh?

There were hundreds of them – red, blue, gray and jet black. All jumping over one another, trying to get hold of him. They raced around the dirty track, the beaten path, but no one knew who would win. Black appeared to have an upper hand. But, there was someone else peeking from behind.
He paused just for few seconds and then he made a decision. He would not ditch his efforts; he had persevered for so long. She deserved a chance perhaps? A last one, that is.
He walked towards her and they held hands. Heads bent with a silent understanding.

It was that tiny yellow thought, the sunshine kinds, which had finally prevailed.

POV

“How did he get so rich?” the young man wanted to know. He was looking at the man who got out of the big car in front of the café.
The older one smiled – these young ones are so impulsive; any knowledge nowadays amounts to being shortcuts. Shortcuts to name, fame, money, love. Yes, even love. No one knows, or has the time to be gallant, win over the fair maiden’s heart anymore…’ The train of thoughts had to pull over. The young man was already impatient.
“Hmm… let me see, what did he do? Nothing much actually, he had to do just two things – work hard and stay focused.”
The young man gave him a look; clearly he was disgusted. He got up and walked away thinking, what a waste of money and time; so much so for listening to a wise, fortune-teller.