Yearning

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The fireplace crackled to life, glowing a fiery orange and spreading much needed warmth in the living room. The chimney of her little cottage puffed out smoke that soon blended with the dark stillness outside. Esther donned her apron and got busy in the kitchen. She had done up the house with holly wreaths, bells and fairy lights; in a corner stood a beautifully decked Christmas tree.

Occasionally, she stole glances at the window. It was snowing heavily outside and the streets were empty. Had she just seen some one at the gate? She wasn't expecting any one but she couldn't stop herself from hoping. Her husband was long gone, leaving her to raise their only son who ended up featuring in the “Wanted” list of the state police. He spent his life moving in and out of their village, dodging the cops playing a never ending game of hide and seek.

Her thoughts lingered around her child, refusing to dissolve. Darling Danny. The one with blue eyes that easily melted mama’s heart. She felt a sudden yearning for him on that Christmas Day. There was no way she could reach him. “That could prove dangerous for both of us” he had said when they met a few months ago. Nevertheless she laid the table for two and made his favourite dessert.

The wind chimes sang into the night as she sat down to have dinner all by herself. She had been staring at the empty chair in despair when she heard a soft knock at the back door. “Merry Christmas mama!” he whispered and hugged her tight much to her joy. “You’re home at last, Danny!” She couldn't stop the tears as her fingers felt the warm wetness of a fresh bullet wound.

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Queasy

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“Ma, I can’t do this!” Megha paced the kitchen, irritated that her mother had not informed her earlier. She was just not prepared for this sudden decision by her parents. It irked her that they had gone ahead with their plans, being indifferent to her feelings and wishes. She had just begun working and had many dreams waiting to be turned into reality.

Her mother seemed to be composed and nonchalant. She dismissed her daughter’s concerns saying she was being immature. “Give it some time, you will be absolutely fine. What’s wrong in meeting Ankit and having a chat with him? Remember that we always choose the best for you.”

“Ankit may be the best guy in the world, Ma. But…”

“No ifs and buts. You are meeting him.”

The thought of meeting Ankit when she was already in love with Sunil made Megha queasy. Her parents had known this, but were not willing to face the questions of family and friends. She felt sick as she opened the door of the cafe where they were supposed to meet. She took a seat opposite to Ankit determined to send him packing with her well-rehearsed lines when Ankit caught her by surprise.

“You know I was forced by my parents to meet you. To be frank I’m not too keen about this.”
Megha was delighted by the rejection. Her uneasiness faded away as she said a polite goodbye to the stranger and thanked him in her head.

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Moody

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My parents are concerned about me. They are worried sick that I may have a serious problem. They don’t like it that I keep to myself these days. They tell me not to me so moody, spending so much time behind the closed door of my room. Painting and poetry befit people of gloom, I am told.

But within the comfort of my room, I am myself. Nobody to be compared with, none to compete with. I spend my time reading, writing, painting and dreaming. I enjoy the slow pace of life here. My mom sees this as a danger signal. She thinks that I’d be better off doing the things she has planned so meticulously for me.

Strangely, those are the very things I loathe. Being dragged from piano lessons to dance class to martial arts to public speaking and debate clubs. Participating in endless competitions. Bringing home shining golden trophies that will be showcased in our living room. A spectacular display of my failure. Failure to freely do what I love.

Sometimes I want to scream. I want to tell my parents that I am not one bit excited about their plans for me. That I find solace in the silence of my room, putting my thoughts into words. I want them to know that I am not insane just because I prefer to be on my own. How can I tell them that it is their plans that suffocate me? Plans where I don’t belong.

As we sit with the psychiatrist, my mother goes on and on about how I am so downcast in spite of them being such encouraging parents and me being an achiever. As usual I keep waiting for my turn to talk knowing that it will never come.

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Love

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Being in love is the most amazing feeling I have ever known. Just a fleeting thought of my loved one brings so much joy and hope that I feel I’m living a dream. I have heard of love at first sight, friendship that turns into love, love that blossoms during adversity and so many other kinds of love. But this, it is so very different. Can you think of being in love with someone you have never met or known?

Well that’s the kind of relationship I am in. Love that took just a few seconds to happen. And once it did, I fell headlong into it. Love that grows day by day. Love that needs no words or gestures. Love that needs no proof. Love that keeps hopes alive. Above all, love that is truly unconditional.

My heart beats for him; he fills my thoughts throughout the day. He is in my dreams at night. He fuels me with optimism. He knows each and every breath of mine. I am his world and he is a part of me. Whoever said that falling in love makes you fluttery inside was not lying.

I am in love with the little one I cradle within me. I am in love with this journey to motherhood. I know for sure that this love will last forever. 





P.S:- All my posts for the A to Z challenge are works of fiction. Please don't congratulate me after reading this post!! ;)

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Euphoric

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I nervously paced the deserted corridor that smelled of disinfectant. This was my first time and I didn't know how things would turn out. I said a silent prayer and wondered what it felt like to be on the other side of the curtained glass door. I was clueless and that made me feel left out. I wished I had someone to keep me company to reassure me that everything would be fine.

Would you like to come in?” A head popped out of the glass door.

“Is it allowed?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there. What if I screwed it up and fainted instead of feeling happy and proud?

“Come on in.” She said with a smile.

I changed into a green gown. I could hear my heart pounding and my mind suddenly went blank. I walked up to my wife who was propped up in an awkward position, and held her hand. She was happy to see me and managed to smile even between the bouts of severe pain that made her scream.

Her grip tightened, her face turned red and she let out a blood curdling howl. I watched as a tiny head and then a dainty body pushed its way out, into our world.

“It’s a girl. Congratulations!” Someone had said after cleaning up the baby and swaddling it before handing it over to a delighted me. It was one of the best moments in my life as I looked at her face staring back at me. I kissed my wife who beamed as she held our little princess. I couldn't stop the stream of tears.

“How does it feel? my wife asked me.

 "I am a dad!!! I feel euphoric!!” I said.

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Brave

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Her heart swelled with pride as she watched her daughter picking vegetables from their small but well-kept garden. She thought of the little one as the greatest blessing in her life, her sole companion. They lived in a very small house amidst the lush greenery of a small village in the Western Ghats, but even with the limited resources, they lived a life of happiness and endless love.

She ran a small tailoring unit where she sat for hours together, cutting up cloth and making garments along with two other women she had employed. She grew vegetables, kept a few hens and taught neighbouring children in the evenings. Her daughter too pitched in to help though she was all but twelve.

It had been brave of her to stick to her decision of keeping her baby knowing that the journey of an unwed mother was going to be an arduous one. Her parents had cajoled, threatened and finally disowned her to save themselves from embarrassment and public disgrace. Her boyfriend had asked her to be practical. But she knew she was a fighter who would never give up. Not even if it meant the end of her education, luxurious life and the comfort of loving relationships.

She never regretted her choice. In fact she was even more determined to build a new life from scratch with her daughter. Her mind never once wavered even upon being tortured by wagging tongues. She fought her way through life like a brave warrior, without doubts, never turning back.

As her girl came in with a basket full of freshly picked greens, they shared a hug and headed to the kitchen. There was work to be done.

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The Offering

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With hope in her heart, she climbed uphill to the temple that had given her solace for two long years after her daughter went missing at that very place. Walking past the familiar sights of beggars lined up along the path and hawkers selling idols, trinkets and flowers that people gave as their offering to please their deity, her eyes resumed their quest for one particular face.

A tiny girl with a tear stained face in tattered clothes walked up to her and tugged at her sari, pleading for alms. Normally she never paid heed the dirty creatures and their calls, but not today.

As a strange kind of realisation snipped off the threads of hope that had held her shattered self together she quietly placed the offering food and money meant for the lifeless idol, on the girl’s palms and proceeded downhill.

P.S- This is my first attempt at Five Sentence Fiction.

This piece of five sentence fiction is written for the topic 'Offering' at Lillie McFerrin Writes.

Participating in the Ultimate Blog Challenge.

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Queen of my Heart

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The balm to my soul, my mother

like your soothing presence, there’s no other,

your loving smile and precious tears

string together memories for a thousand years.

So special is the love we share

that with ease our hearts we bare

to each other, lifting heaviness

wiping weariness, ushering happiness.

A child again cradled in your arms

absorbed, enchanted by your charms,

I want to sleep undisturbed once more

loved, caressed, wanted like never before.

The world may change within a blink

snapping apart many a strong link;

do remember, queen of my heart

even death cannot make us part.

P.S: I fall short of words to express my love for my mother, the woman who taught me to be soft yet strong, simple yet beautiful in my own way. The miles that separate us physically is a painful exaggeration of the distance between our hearts. She is the definition of pure, unselfish love.

Participating in the Ultimate Blog Challenge

How I became a mother

My first year as a teacher. Another hectic day at school. I sighed deeply staring at the hillocks of books in front of me that awaited scarring by my red pen, hoping to dispel all my worries through that single bout of strong exhalation. There was lot to be done. I checked my diary:

1) Prepare worksheets

2) Correct notebooks

3) Prepare flash cards and other teaching aids

4) Arrange the class cupboard

5) Mahalakshmi

I was in no mood to correct books, clean the cupboard or make charts and flash cards. Those could be done after school hours or even at home. My thoughts drifted to the tiny little girl in my class who always smiled (sometimes for no obvious reason), never did her homework and had a pathetic attendance percentage - Mahalakshmi. Too complex a name for a girl who struggled to read even two letter words properly at Grade 3. Mahalakshmi, the lazy girl who always wanted to visit the loo, blow her nose or drink water when I gave the class some written work.

 It was the last week of August and we were three months into the academic year, yet this kid was a mystery to me. She missed the very first week of school and that was just the beginning of the endless red “A”s I marked against her name in the attendance register. She hated reading, writing, and arithmetic. Kannada classes were a nightmare for her. Every teacher worried about her laziness and inability to do a simple sum, write a simple word, recite a simple poem or answer a simple question that most others in the class could do with considerable ease. Her grades in each test were deplorable. I watched exasperatedly as she ran up happily to collect her answer papers which always indicated zero marks. What was wrong with this girl? She didn’t want to study, was punished most of the time, never scored decent marks but loved coming to school! It was truly puzzling. What was it she enjoyed? What made her happy? What was she good at?

I got my answers on hot sunny afternoon as I climbed up the stairs with a handful of cardboard sheets, paper, sketch pens and other stationery to find a silent corner in the corridor to make some display charts for my classroom. The staff room was too noisy to let my stubborn creative juices flow freely. I heard some children screaming excitedly as they played games in the playground. I looked down and saw my class enjoying their P.E period. About to turn away and resume my work, I noticed a few girls poised for a running race. As the P.E teacher blew his whistle, all I could see were flailing pigtails and fluttering pinafores. Tiny feet kicked up the loose red dirt and clouds of dust rose creating a brown haze that glistened in the sunlight. Suddenly, I saw a tiny figure dashing ahead of all the others to reach the finish line. Mahalakshmi!

She declared to the world that she was the winner. She saw me leaning from the parapet, smiling and applauding her victory. I could see her blush, even from a distance. She was hugged by her friends, Vani and Kalpana. The trio ran around the ground hand in hand, celebrating her victory. For the first time, I saw a confident and determined Mahalakshmi and forgot all about her failures in the classroom.

 I decided to help her. I sat with her during classes, reading her stories teaching her numbers and the alphabet while her friends were busy writing essays and solving complex numerical problems. Gradually we became friends. She was happy to get a lot of attention from me, and I was glad I was able to help her. This continued for a few weeks and I felt the need to check how much she gained from this association. I tested her spellings by giving her easy 2-4 letter words and asked her to write a few number names. I was confident she would do well as both of us had put in tremendous effort. I was shattered when I saw her answer paper. Almost in tears, I marked a big red zero on the paper. It was my biggest failure.I checked my diary again.

5) Mahalakshmi

The remedial teacher had given up on her after two months of trying. That was after my big failure. Since no one knew what the problem was she was labelled” lazy and playful”. Some of my colleagues asked me to “leave it” and “not to worry about it” or “be happy that I did my best”. With a class of 31 students 10 of who had some learning issue or the other, it was difficult to give individual attention to an extent where it resulted in improved grades. I did not know what her problem was and I was against labelling children with fancy words like LD, ADD, ADHD, Special Ed etc. It sickens me to think of my children as problematic. In reality it is a problem with us adults/teachers if we can’t identify the interests and needs of a child and teach accordingly.

So totally clueless of how to teach her, I decided to find out a little more about the girl. Not to dig into the history of zeroes in her exam sheets, but to find the real her that unfortunately got smothered by worksheets, tests and projects. I got to know that she was under the care of her step-mother and father. She had a half-brother, who she had to baby sit when her mother was away at work. Her parents were labourers, illiterate but nursing big dreams about their daughter. From our conversation I realized that Mahalakshmi missed her mother terribly. She was still searching for shadows of her dead mother in her step-mom. She loved her brother a lot. Though she loved coming to school to play with her friends, her parents would often go to their native place, forcing her to be absent from school frequently. She was often bullied by other children as she was academically weak. She was still searching for answers to many questions in her personal life. Silly for others may be, but really important as far as she was concerned. I never imagined that a tiny tot could have such a heavy heart and so much emotional baggage to deal with. And she was braving all this with a sweet smile.

I realized that day that for some kids, coming to school was just to stay away from problems at home. Standing in front of me was a girl so emotionally troubled, searching for love, a mother figure with whom she would feel reassured and safe. And what did I do? Tried to help her learn spellings and to count when it made no sense to her. Tried to push her to do as well as others.  In the process I failed to see her outstretched hands, calling for help, calling out for a little love and care. From that day I never pressurised her to do anything. During my classes, she would sit beside me, help me distribute books, erase the board and do similar chores she liked to do.

Gradually, she started asking me for kindergarten level worksheets and would meticulously try and solve them. I would reward not her performance, but her effort with stars and smileys and stickers. I don't know if I did the right thing but she seemed to be a lot happier with this arrangement. As the year progressed, we shared a special bond. I encouraged and appreciated her when she won medals in sports. Isn’t that what I was supposed to do? Why test her Mathematics and English skills, when I already know she struggles in them?

We talked a lot during lunch breaks and she opened her heart to me. She cracked jokes, felt my dupatta, examined my earrings, gave me cards, sought permission to put jasmine flowers on my hair and sometimes kissed my cheek when no one was looking. She didn’t want the boys to tease her. I did not do anything to improve her academic status. I just let myself be her friend. We became so close that once she even demanded that I wear sari to school.

The academic year was coming to an end. There was no miracle. As I filled in Mahalakshmi’s report card with “D” grades in every column, two tender hands covered my eyes.

“I love you Vidya Akka. You are my Mummy. You HAVE TO be our class teacher next year. Otherwise I no talking you.”

The final bell rang and she left after the usual peck on my cheek, leaving me speechless. I stared with wet eyes at the tiny figure bobbing up and down as she merged with an ocean of students outside.

But I wasn't THAT type!

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She heard voices far away. They were so familiar. Was it her mother? They became louder and louder. And louder until her ears ached. “Please stop it!” she begged. But the voices continued. What kind of a cruel joke was this? She felt tired and her body felt sore. She wanted some peace. She wanted to sleep, curled up inside her mother's womb. But these voices!

“Don’t speak or laugh loudly.”

“Don’t whistle.”

“Sit properly with your legs close to each other.”

“Wear loose clothes that don’t reveal the shape of your breasts.”

“Don’t mingle too much with boys.”

“We are expecting guests, go and wear your dupatta.”

“Don’t ask too many questions, just do as you are told.”

“Better learn to cook, sew and clean the house.”

These were just few of the strict instructions Meera had received from her mother and aunts through her growing years. From that day. Yes, the day she first saw that bright red streak of blood as she prepared to shower. Little did she know that it would change her life forever.

For a few days, perhaps even months she felt very special. She could join her older cousins Lavanya and Namita in gossiping and sharing  secrets. Earlier, they used to speak in hushed tones while Meera was around because she was just a kid. She even felt elated that some of the boys in class had begun to look at her differently. She enjoyed the attention secretly but never forgot her mother's words. “Wow! It really feels special to be a girl” she thought, as she browsed through her wardrobe unable to decide what to wear to the party that evening. She liked being her parents' little princess, she felt protected and vowed never to disobey them.

Her mother kept feeding her with lots of dos and don'ts. Why not? She was a girl, like a burning splinter, dangerously placed near fuel. The only solution was to douse the splinter. Sometimes Meera felt they were appropriate and at other times she would ask her mother to stop nagging her. She was a good girl, she would never do anything that would make her parents upset. So she was safe unlike those bad girls who wore short skirts, who had boyfriends, who conveniently forgot their dupattas at home, who roamed the streets after dusk and sat carelessly with legs apart. She took pride that she was growing up to become a well mannered and respectable young woman.

She woke up with a start. Her mouth was parched, her feet cold and her head felt heavy.  Then she heard other voices.

“Hey you! Beautiful.”

“This won't take much time.”

“Come on, don't do anything stupid. Or you will regret.”

Then after a long pause, “The bitch deserved it. Come on let's leave.”

 Her eyelids could no longer contain the outburst of sadness as her entire body wept. So did her spirit. She felt her mother's warm hands caress her tear stained cheeks. What went wrong? For a second, her gaze met her mother's. With utmost pain she realized that there was no answer. With a sigh she closed her eyes again hoping to slip into another world where she would truly be a princess.