Sunday, January 2, 2011

Innocence

The earth the kid stood was nature tinted crimson.  Or more precisely the sand upon which his feet rested. The atmosphere a mile from here was hot. Here, it was less so and pleasant. This here is a sand forest where you hunted rabbits at night with the aid of Petromax lamp and it bosomed cashew trees perpetually deep-rooted in it. I found a fruit he said. The dad plucked the nut from it and said Go ahead now. He threw what he plucked very gently near the tree. Why do you do that…always the kid asked. The nuts are valued and belongs to the landowner he said. Valued he asked. What you hold in your hand is the false fruit he said and the nut there is the real fruit. A fruit that is false the kid said …that cannot be. It tastes good. I never once wanted the nut…the real fruit you say it is. He took a bite and savored it like he always did. Here is a town in a country some laden folks pillaged first and then left indelible marks behind on. This here is a town, a village more precisely, founded by a missionary – a good man your grandma said, he rode on horseback she also said, the part you imagined vividly.  A church, hospital, college, schools it owned and this is all that you can ask for. Gender equal literacy rate of 85% the census declared is not untrue. In those days you played football more than cricket and you cheered the team up every time if you were not among the ones being cheered up for. Drop the ball the kid said to dad and kicked before it landed on the sand. The ball took an awkward turn up on the air and rested upon a miniature avalanche. He giggled and was joyed. When I grow up a bit I want to do what you do…when you play, dad…what…that! He stammered. That dribble dad said. Yeah, yeah, dribble, I want to dribble…always he said in anticipation. You sure will, petal, you sure will dad said in reassurance.  Now let’s head home before the sun begins to scorch even here. The kid moved his false bowed legs through the sand, lifted the ball from where it was with his tender hands, and left home this day with dad oblivious and innocent to that future night on which he will bury to hide, not far from here, for want of some more land than he is already bestowed, the disfigured remains of his sister. The spot whence the ball rested emerged womb-shaped, ungainly - the nut, or more precisely:  The fruit of false but delicious fruit.




Find it at Indivine

2 comments:

  1.  Your skill of seamlessly shifting between what are clearly different styles of narration baffles me, and doing it the way you do, makes it a multifaceted panoramic experience.The way you jolt the reader in a neat stroke leaves him numb and senseless for a moment, almost like a ko'an; and the cold detachment is infectious.This leaves an aftertaste hard to forget, will stay on my mind for some time.

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  2. Nishkam Razdan  The styles are there to be indulged in for creative/artistic expression/satisfaction, yes, but only when one is told they have their substance is it truly rewarding. Once again, thanks for reading the way you do.

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