Friday, December 16, 2011

Transience

     Opening and closing her eyes, staring in space. No, not dramatic enough. She looked at the small figurine resting on the narrow ledge of her window-sill. Mother had called it ugly, and she had not dared to seek anyone else's opinion. For all she knew, they may think she was naive.
     It was a small bust. Carved in dull black stone. It's nose was chipped off and the bulbous head had a funny texture. It's ears were elongated. She had dug up the treasure from their garden at the age of eight.
     Everything about it was dear. The sharp, broken edge at the base. And the way it felt on pressing the thumb to it too hard.
     But she knew she had to do something about it now. The fifteen year old treasure will now become her memoir. Her mark. A reminder. That she was here.
     Her father would soon turn sixty, and they would have to move. Leave Ash Town forever. The Black Castle having fed it's servants black smoke for sixty years and making sure that their breath smelt of coal for the rest of their lives, and their fingers made black marks on white linen, let them free for an illusive retirement. So, she had really little time. She would hide the treasure somewhere here. Then, she would return after ten years and seek it.
       She would knock on the door, which ten years ago was her home.
         ' Hello. May I come in? '
         ' Yes. But do I know you? '
         ' Oh you will. '
And then she would bring out the treasure from it's secret place amidst amazed eyes. The news would spread fast, like the evening smoke. And the whole Ash Town will ring with her name. Again.
   
     The thought brought a smile. And she looked at the bust. But it was so ugly! So ugly! She almost dashed it into a thousand pieces.

Her fingers must never touch black.


Thursday, December 8, 2011

the night...



                The night for her has had different meanings at different times. When she was young, she would smuggle ‘Famous Five’s to bed and read on till her mother finished her chores in the kitchen and came to switch off the light. Soon she ‘grew up’ and was sleeping alone. In a narrow bed. But it was bliss. She looked at herself as the queen of her territory. Now, she read story books well into the night. And winter was especially her favourite. At ten o clock, when the factory hooter signaled the end of the day shift and the beginning of the night shift for the workers, her mother took the cue to warn her. But the night somehow gave her courage. Made her bold.

            
At the time of her school examinations, she was thrilled to stay up late and study. The excitement however, was somewhat dampened when mother permitted her to do so. Mother’s approval diluted the defiance. Sad and disheartened, she took to early nights.
                Then her nights came alive once again when she had to attend to nightly conversations over the phone. The cell phone was hers beyond 8 pm and she convinced mother of its necessity for serious discussions on problems that she may not be able to solve. Mother, to her surprise, believed her. Those were magical nights. The dreaminess of adolescence and the magic of stolen night-time conversations was an intoxicating concoction.
                Now, however, all these are things of the past. She preserves them in the silver wrapping of innocence. Now, her nights are haunted. She has seen too much, understood too much. The ten o’clock hooter now sounds like the ghoulish howl of some smoky monster, framed against the red sky of factory smoke. Her storybooks are gone. In its place is a fancy, compact net-book, the centre of the present, distorted universe. She stares at its screen each night till her eyes water and sting when blinked. Then she fears if she will soon turn blind like her maternal grandfather. Is blindness genetic?
                Sleep evades her. The night guard strolls by, tonk tonking his stick on the street. She looks back to the bright screen, dislodges her hand from under the chin and googles the question,
“Is blindness genetic?”