Writing – Page 8 – fictionhead

1985

Image of a living room — Photo by Patrick Perkins on Unsplash

In the beginning of 1985, when I had recently moved into my first home, if you had told me that I would be evicted soon, I would have laughed at you. No way! Those walls made me feel safe and comfortable. As if I had, not a care in the world. As if I were floating.

Every morning, I woke up feeling tiny but happy in a universe that loved me. Of course it was rather curious that a house could make me feel that way. If you’ve ever met first-time home owners you’ll know how enthusiastic they are about being domestic. They stay put at home. Talk a lot about food and mention comfort a couple of times a minute. Well, you’ve met me.

I had elaborate meals and shared about them obsessively online. I invested in cleaning agents and was quite proud of my collection. I dreamt of flexing my green thumb. I trolled lifestyle bloggers after watching all their content. On stormy nights, I rearranged the furniture because lightning scared me.

In the afternoons I moved the furniture around and exercised in the living room. After a couple of months, when I began to gain strength, I would attempt handstands. At first I was pathetic. There was a lot of kicking the walls involved. But I now feel capable, as if this is not beyond me. I feel like I’ve grown as a person in these last 9 months.

In early November, I woke up early one morning feeling uneasy. I now know that that feeling was a premonition. But that fateful morning, I didn’t know what it was. It was like the discomfort you feel before puking. As if something were going to happen. I headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on for coffee. I reached out for the jug to get a drink of water. The jug fell from my hand in slow motion and broke, spilling water everywhere. That was a sign.

Walking to the front door to collect the newspaper, I felt a pull as if a giant magnet were attracting me from the opposite side of the street. That is the last thing I remember.

I woke up kicking and screaming on a cold, metal weighing scale. There were noises all around. And people milling around doing things, looking busy. Before they wrapped me up tight, I saw my wrinkly exterior and felt air on my skin for the very first time. I was born, a healthy child at 7.13 am on a Thursday morning in November of 1985.

A Song Is A Song

Image of a swing — Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Beedi Jalaile Jigar Se Piya, Daddy sang softly under his breath to the tune of a popular lullaby. Meera was falling asleep in the crook of Daddy’s arm, worn down by the punishing summer heat; unaware of the nuances of Daddy’s tunes. There Daddy stood, against the door frame staring into the night, dressed in his creased office wear, rocking lightly on the balls of his feet like a nervous novice.

Ammamma sat at the dining table, chopping vegetables for salad, watching with a smile, the happy picture that Daddy painted.

“You caught a good one, Mummy!” Ammamma mumbled in Malayalam, aware that her daughter could barely hear her in the kitchen and that Daddy could not follow.

What was that?, Mummy’s head popped out of the kitchen.

Isn’t Daddy amazing, I was saying… Ammamma paused. He’s such a hands-on parent, helping you put Meera to sleep.

Mummy was yet to put the laundry out to dry and find Meera’s white uniform from the washed pile. The evening was getting away from her and Mummy was in no mood to pander.

“You do know that she’s his child too, don’t you?” she shot back. “He’s not doing me a favour”.

Ammamma wasn’t one to back down. “You know what your problem is? You don’t know how to take a compliment. Forget I said anything.”

“That’s better”, Mummy shouted over the whistling pressure cooker.

Mummy was jumping through hoops to pull an acceptable dinner out of the hat. Acceptable was a relative term in this household. The same Ammamma whose brain could conceive nothing ill of Daddy, often saved her best jabs for Mummy. Ammamma’s scale measured behaviours between Amazing and Atrocious. And then there was the ambivalent Acceptable in the middle.

“Get through dinner. One day at a time. You can do this. Let it slide.” Mummy muttered, expending her anger with a brisk washing of rice.

Thumbi Vaa Thumba Kudathin… Mummy hummed as she tried to calm herself down, washing the rice till the water ran clear. It was an old film song from the 80s that Ammamma used to sing to her as a child. It was picturised around a happy family before tragedy struck. Sometimes Mummy imagined that her entire aesthetic as an architect came from this one song. The grey tones with bursts of colour. The fantastical whimsy, lingering nostalgia and spots of sadness. The lines called on a dragonfly to get on the swing and swing to the sky and back. It spoke of playing with magical horses, listening to celestial music and climbing candy mountains to get amla that wasn’t bitter. ‘Lines from old songs, sweet as honey on your lips…’ Oftentimes, Mummy called upon this particular line from the song to make her feel better. And for a fleeting second she stopped to consider the song that would comfort her child as an adult.

Axe and the Beanstalk

I have every right to be angry! I am the pivotal character in this story and I bet you don’t even know my name. Forget this story, I have been in hundreds of fairy tales, you know.

The sheer disrespect with which they treat me is the reason why the fairy tale industry is dying. Our readers might be snotty but they are a smart bunch. They won’t take well to this discrimination dealt out to characters like me. I will make sure of it.

I got carried away, let me introduce myself. I am Velayuthan, the magnificent axe that chops down the giant green magic beanstalk in one, dextrous master stroke in Jack and the Beanstalk. Jack would be six feet under if it weren’t for me or better still, he would have ended up as the giant’s dinner. I saved him and I saved the day! But what do I have to show for it? Nothing, absolutely nothing. I don’t even have a line in the story or a name. Who doesn’t name their axe?

Wait, wait, wait. Hear me out.

Jack is a farmer boy, right? What kind of farmer boy doesn’t carry his axe around? A…a lazy one I suppose. But I am so useful. If nothing else, I could sit pretty on Jack’s shoulder and make that dimwit look desirable.

Okay, I will forgive him the first time. He woke up, he was shocked to see a beanstalk outside his window, he climbed right up the stalk and forgot about me. Understandable.

What about the next time when he stole the golden-egg-laying hen? Did you see that humongous piece of bread and cheese the giant’s wife gave him to eat? I could have helped him chop it into bite-sized pieces and even carry some back home for his mother. But who thinks of their mother on great adventures, right?

My biggest beef with the writer is that he didn’t have Jack carry me into the climax. Can you imagine, my shiny, chiselled face against Jack’s panicked, sweaty one? I would have looked so handsome in the chase sequence with the giant breathing down my handle.

Oh, the travesty of getting me to chop off the entire beanstalk. I would never do that. I am a big climate crusader, you know. Why did Jack have to cut the whole damn beanstalk? But first, plot. How is it suddenly acceptable for the male protagonist to ask his mother to get his axe? Have they never heard of feminism, hello! She is not a farm hand waiting around to do his bidding. She is the matriarch of the family. Show some respect!

Anyway, if it were me and if he had carried me with him to the giant’s castle, I would have just snipped the top end of the beanstalk touching the sky. Clearly, the giant is not going to risk jumping to his own death for the sake of an autoplay harp that speaks or a even a thieving boy.

That darling plant. Her name was Latha. Gone too soon, and for nothing. Can you imagine the crop from a magic plant like her? It could feed the whole of England. Perhaps end world hunger.

Published by Cambridge University Press

https://www.instagram.com/p/BfaMT_SHBgX

One of my stories for children, Zayne’s Day With The Sun was published in Cambridge English national curriculum (CBSE and ICSE) course material by Cambridge University Press.

It’s been in the works for a while now but I finally got my hands on a copy this week. Since this is the first story of mine to appear in print (although it’s in a textbook), it’s infinitely more exciting than I imagined. Here’s hoping 2018 brings me many more published stories! Wish me luck 🙂

Children’s Story: Zayne’s Day With The Sun

The sun was shining on his face. Zayne crinkled his eyes shut and wondered what the sun was doing in his room!

Wait a minute. WHAT’S THE SUN DOING IN MY ROOM?! said Zayne sitting up in bed!

Yes, it was true. This Sunday morning the Sun had risen in Zayne’s bedroom. Now, too excited to sleep, he jumped out of bed shouting ––LOOK AT THAT!

The Sun himself was just getting warmed up for the day and his soft rays had filled the room. Zayne’s face glowed slightly in its warmth. He had even forgotten his dreams.

“Be right back, Sun”, hollered Zayne as he rushed to the toilet to brush his teeth. BRUSH…BRUSH…OOOH, AAH, EEEH…BRUSH …BRUSH!

By the time he was done, the Sun had slid up the window and was shining brighter. Zayne smiled up at the Sun and his clean teeth sparkled bright! SPARKLE SPARKLE SHINE SHINE.

Zayne looked around his room. If my teeth are shining bright why isn’t my bed, my table, my toys and my books shining, he thought as he drank his glass of milk. GLUG GLUG GLUG GLUG and…DONE!

Ah, because it’s not clean! Right away, he made his bed, arranged his table, lined up his toys and dusted his books. WHOOSH, SQUEAK, DUST, CLEAN.

Sun, who was watching Zayne clean, threw down his rays on the room. And MAGIC! Zayne’s bed, his table, his toys and his books shone and sparkled, just like his teeth. TWINKLE, TWINKLE.

Good work little boy, said the Sun! A job well done!

I know how to make my arms and legs shine too, shouted Zayne as he headed to the bathroom for a shower. SHOWER…BUBBLE …BUBBLE …SHOWER!

When he got back from his bath, the Sun was bouncing off the white walls of his room ready to make him shine. And shine he did! BRIGHT and BRILLIANT!

Quickly, Zayne ate his breakfast and settled down for a day in the Sun!

She Plays Dress Up

https://www.instagram.com/p/BakvKNwH-gu/

She wears the long face of an adult. Worry lines crease her forehead like the easy curves waves continuously retrace on sand. She sits on the couch, slumped. She is a beached whale, giant in her helplessness. She wears her hair in a careless updo her mother would disapprove of. Along the sides of her cheeks, bouncing over her springboard ears fall a silent stream of tears that chokes her. The room is dank, smelling of dust and pointlessness.

Tears on adults is worse than death. Why is she crying? Why doesn’t she know how to deal with the world? Look at how well everyone else is doing. They had seen it all, many times over. Grown women in dishevelled living rooms, struck by tears. She was a statistic to them, at best. They collected her tears in beakers and measured it out. She had overflown her quota. They had a name for her ‘condition’.

She was crying because she couldn’t feel the wetness of her tears on her skin. She couldn’t see the disarray of her hair in the mirror or smell the despair in the room. She was crying because she was drowning in all the tears she had shed but no one seemed to notice. She was crying because she didn’t want to cry.

Nobody told her they would help her. Nobody offered to wait it out with her. Nobody held her hand. Nobody saw her.

But when they came back to tattoo her forehead with her condition, she had changed. She was all smiles. Her eyes were clear and framed with kajal. Warm twirls of rouge danced on her cheeks and her house smelled of hope and babies. Her hair was long, her dress was crisp and she twittered like a dainty bird.

Nowadays her tears run from her head to her heart in an elusive underground river. Her heavy heart is drowning in the merciless liquid as the sun shines, lighting up her face. Being an adult is like playing dress-up, the best look always wins.

Feeling Pure Joy

https://www.instagram.com/p/BMLz7CAAQL9/?taken-by=anjananju

There, far away in the distance, high above the mesmerised heads, on a large dark platform, a light shone bright. It felt like that light shone only for her. It spoke to her, directly, as if in a private interaction. Its tone crumbled her heart into countless crystals but also made them all come alive. She felt its energy ride on the wave of its voice, warming the crowd; now the middle and finally the shy ones at the back.

When it hit her, she was shocked by its power. The light reeled her in but also repelled her. She felt small and naked, shaking in her boots. The light had enveloped her, like a blanket on a cold winter morning, regulating the temperature at cozy, maintaining the delectable space between sleep and wakefulness. She was fully aware of the warmth on her skin and the curve of her spine.

When the light stopped speaking and moved away, its warmth lingered like the thermal aftertaste of ginger tea. She ran towards where the light had been, craving to rekindle that connection. She could still see it. The light was visible but so far away from her that it was feeble. Brilliant yet feeble like a star. She ran with abandon, through the crowd, over them, despite them.

Suddenly the light was upon her. She was stunned by its brilliance. Its energy was dualtone–it filled her with colour and blanked her mind at once. There were no words left in her quiver of languages. Instead, she stared, open-mouthed, her thoughts stardust.

The light is kind. It adjusts its luminance to suit her eyes. Its holding her in its embrace. In its infinite grace, there is only joy. She and all her leaden worries evaporate without a trace. This is what pure joy feels like. Present but weightless and without form.

She has a lifestyle disorder

https://www.instagram.com/p/BL52adcA1jI

Today, the sun is not yet overhead but she’s already fed up. Fed up of not doing. Fed up of the news in the media. Fed up of the grains she eats. Fed up of the thick smog behind her eyes. Tomorrow is a new day, if she gets through today. It could be that rare burst of volcanic activity–cleaning, eating, planning. Or just the usual; another day of procrastination.

When she thinks of freedom she thinks of white doves flying off from the confines of a hanging metal cage against a black background leaving the tricolour in its wake–yes, like all the independence day imagery out there. Along with her drawing sheets, she has also traced that image onto her brain. However, she didn’t realise then that white doves are not alone in their freedom. There are other birds in the sky. A whole lot of them. True that white doves fly in pure, white, sweeping flocks with no room for discolouration. But there are also birds that don’t fly in flocks. And birds that don’t fly at all. You have to be a white dove to fly with the white doves. Not a parrot. Not an eagle. Not a sparrow. And definitely not a fowl.

She was a fowl. A scraggly one with indiscriminately multi-coloured feathers and no distinguishable feature. She found her own dreams of flying laughable. She lived on a farm, roosting in the bushes behind the tree, capable only of flying onto the fence and perching there undecided. Should she go off into the big bad world not knowing where her next meal will come from? Or should she remain cooing in the calm of her familiar routine?

When had they taught everyone else to deal with the world? She felt like she was looking in on a world with rules that didn’t make any sense. She felt excluded and alien. Logic was a squiggly worm just beyond her reach. How do these other fowls know what to do? How do they go about they mundane business as if it were the most exciting undertaking? Why should she follow rules that didn’t apply to males? Why should she pay taxes for trees to be cut and lakes to foam? Why should she bring eggs into such a world? There were no answers. And the questions were reducing her visibility.

She lives in hope that one fine morning, the smog behind her eyes will lift and she will fly up, up and away to perch on a weightless cloud of clarity. This hope sends her to bed at night but also wakes her up every morning to be just another fowl. On some days, the same hope makes her kick indecision off the fence and make a flight of faith. But on other days hope tells her that the trick is in setting yourself up for success. Hope also says that success is in knowing when to let go. Right under the nose all these suggestions, indecision was slowly eating her up inside, giving her deadly ulcers, a lifestyle disorder.

Like this post? Check out the previous one from the She Series here.

She Cleanses

https://www.instagram.com/p/BSAXo3Ggcpe/

She was a hoarder. A hoarder of feelings. Every emotion she felt joined a pile in her heart.

When the heart pile grew too heavy making her heart sink, she compressed them and sent them away to be composted into memories in the minute wrinkles and folds of her brain. She would call on them later with smells, food and music.

She imagined her brain to be an endless landfill capable of infinite tricks. The ultimate resting place where all emotion–vile, virtuous and vain–rolled over each other in deep, companionable sleep. But there are days when these alleyways get clogged by the truckloads of feelings waiting to be dumped. Thankfully, her feelings like her sleep, smell like bedsheets. The fragrance is officially called Linen and Sky.

When the sinews of her brain city get backed up with compressed feeling cubes that smell like designer perfection, some cubes were bound to fall out of the trucks and litter the streets. The delectably fragrant spillage always hypnotised her brain into a dark, brooding mood. And its on days like these that the trucks were rerouted to purgatory to be put away till they could be properly put away.

Down there in the fat cells of her midlands, nothing much happens. Ever. It’s a lot of abandoned cubes sticking out like cacti in the desert sands of time. This purgatory is their hell for now. Behind the backs of calorie-counting cow-worshippers, the hinterland grows lawless and distends accommodating more degenerates. In time, this protruding landmass begins to wobble dangerously.

Each time the belly wobbles, some renegades jump the fence and go hitchhiking across the expanse of her body. It’s not like anyone is watching them. Sometimes in the steep mountains of her arms or thighs, the plateaus of her lower back or along the shore of her ankles, they pitch tent. Wherever they stop and linger, they cause trouble.
Be that as it may, she occasionally comes alive in the torrential rigorousness that rains in sheet after cleansing sheet of wellness from god knows where. Without warning, she begins to wake up early, prioritising exercise and eating healthy. She’s excited about cleanliness, order, art, books, pickling and even talking.
There is a upturn in the air, much like a beach on a bright, summer day in an otherwise cold country. A flurry of activity clears up the brain, reduces the wobbly bulge, balms the aches and calms the mind. When the rain ends, as it must, the cleanse is complete and she is ready for the next onslaught to begin.

Zayne Spends Sunday With The Sun

https://www.instagram.com/p/BMOxpA9giPo

The sun was shining on his face. Zayne crinkled his eyes shut and wondered what the sun was doing in his room!

“Wait a minute. What’s the sun doing in my room?!” shouted Zayne sitting up in bed!

Yes, it was true. This Sunday morning the Sun had risen in Zayne’s bedroom. Now, too excited to sleep, he jumped out of bed shouting ––Look at that!

The Sun himself was just getting warmed up for the day and his soft rays had filled the room. Zayne’s face glowed slightly in its warmth. He had even forgotten his dreams.

“Be right back, Sun”, hollered Zayne as he rushed to the toilet to brush his teeth. Brush…brush…ooooh, aaaah, eeeeh…brush…brush!

By the time he was done, the Sun had slid up the window and was shining brighter. Zayne smiled up at the Sun and his clean teeth sparkled bright! Sparkle, sparkle, shine, shine.

Zayne looked around his room. “If my teeth are shining bright why isn’t my bed, my table, my toys and my books shining,” he thought as he drank his glass of milk. Glug, glug, glug, glug and…done!

Ah, because it’s not clean! Right away, he made his bed, arranged his table, lined up his toys and dusted his books. Whoosh, squeak, dust, clean.

Sun, who was watching Zayne clean, threw down his rays on the room. And magic! Zayne’s bed, his table, his toys and his books shone and sparkled, just like his teeth. Twinkle, twinkle.

https://www.instagram.com/p/BMLz7CAAQL9

“Good work son,” said the Sun! “A job well done!”

“I know how to make my arms and legs shine too,” shouted Zayne as he headed to the bathroom for a shower. Shower…bubble…bubble…shower!

When he got back from his bath, the Sun was bouncing off the white walls of his room ready to make him shine. And shine he did! Bright and Brilliant!

Quickly, Zayne ate his breakfast and settled down for a day in the Sun!

He laid down the rails and the train chugged along happily over the grass green rug. Chug, chug, chug, chug!

By now the Sun was warming his skin with its mid-morning glow.

He played till he grew sleepy. Carefree, he slept with the Sun watching over him. As he slept, he dreamt of colourful rainbows made of marshmallows! Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red.

On waking, he found two birds on his bedstead and a rabbit under the table. “Isn’t that amazing? Will you come and play with me, birdies?” asked Zayne.

The birds chirped in reply and one of them landed on his shoulder. The other sat on the rug among his toys. He shared his lunch with them and they flew around him as he ate all the greens on his plate. Chomp, chomp, yum, yum!

It was now time for Zayne’s nap. He reached out under the table and petted the shy rabbit. “Don’t be shy little rabbit, I’ll be friends with you”, said Zayne! He took the rabbit over to his bed and lay down with it for a nap.

He woke up ready to go out and play. He said to the Sun—”Hey Sun, thanks for coming to my room today. I am going out to play with my friends now, would you like to come with me?”

“Yes of course, I love watching kids like you play”, said the sun and took Zayne’s arm to go outside.

Zayne played all evening as the Sun continued his journey down the sky. When it was time for the sun to go home, Zayne shouted, “Bye Sun! See you tomorrow!“

And the sun shouted right back, “Bye son! See you tomorrow!“

Zayne came home, took a bath and ate a hearty dinner, all the while thinking of his new friend, the Sun. Before he went to bed that night, he looked up at the sky to see the beautiful night sky lit up with the moon and the stars.

And when he fell asleep, he dreamt of all the fun he would have with the Sun tomorrow!

They Fought For Her

https://www.instagram.com/p/BR4jC8TAbiZ

She opened her book and held up her pen. Everyone around her was very proud of her. The table and chair, held hands. Clearly, holding up the writer and her book were crucial to her success. The bottle of water on the table smiled in clear blue. Without me, she wouldn’t be. The half cup of black coffee was furious. You may be a requirement but I am her drink of choice. Two books that were lazing on the table laughed in unison. Together we take her into worlds none of you could ever see. The notebook she wrote in cleared its throat. She shares all her thoughts with me, I am her ultimate confidante. Not without me, the pen butted in. I am the one who turns her thoughts into words for you to store. The multi-coloured pots on the widow sill congratulated the plants that grew in them. We are nature, together our 14 leaves provide the greenery that inspires her. Even the fan in the room gloated over its air circulation skills that kept her at ease.

https://www.instagram.com/p/BO6GGPsgUp7/

Oblivious to the commotion in her room, she sat staring. Her gaze drifted focusing on nothing. Her thoughts were far away from here. They were nowhere. She was thinking of two people who did not exist. She wanted them to have a fight. What would they say? To know that she had to know what kind of people they were. Were they passive aggressive, hiding behind sarcasm and striking with sharp words that hurt? Were they short-tempered screamers who enjoyed a shouting match? Were they silent bearers of insults, avoiding a showdown at all costs? She didn’t know. And she couldn’t force it out of herself. Because it didn’t exist. It had to come to her. And for that she had to think of the kind of holidays they took, their most painful experience, their friends in college, their temperament at work. She imagined this to be the feeling of bearing a child to term. An impatience tempered with humility at the beautiful wonders your body was capable of. Building an entire human from scratch.

She forgot to blink. She forgot her hot drink. The generous fan and the dutiful table and chair were summarily dismissed. The books on the table slipped away too. Though brightly coloured, the plants faded from memory.

https://www.instagram.com/p/BCABbpKpYeH

Now she was in a beautiful, old city, walking beside them, egging them on to fight. And there, in the middle of a crowded foreign bazaar of curios they blossomed into the most colourful of abuses. Once they began, they could not be stopped. They didn’t care where they were. They just accused, cursed, ranted and raved. They fought for her. And all she had to do was to jot it down.