Friday, February 25, 2011

Mouthful


Headlong I see through the hut. In a distance, from the golden sun, a kettle of vultures descend. He asks one more favor of me. This I’m not sure I should be obliged to. Would I do it if it were a last wish?

I’m married to a beautiful woman and we parent a robust five-year-old. Our first five-year plan, if not anything else, amazed us by falling into place. We’re happy. I shouldn’t say that yet. Then there’s the girl next floor who says I’m her fellatio model – no more no less. Here’s where I should have said we’re happy – very. I’m here to feed the hungry. They got the best dishes packed and I toted it to where the huts are.

The poor boy, though, cannot eat. Overlong he’s starved he lost his appetite. His body is a bag of bones, his face a dish to skull. There’s no one else here. They all moved leaving him behind. Not their fault. You cannot expect those who cannot carry themselves to carry others, children or not. Even the boy wouldn’t blame them. He said so. We grew spork where they grew crops. He said as well. He asked me to bring him out and lay him on the ground. He wanted to see the setting sun. I cannot recall my dream.

Is it our fault they lost their crops? Is neo-colonized an authentic state to be in? I think we should believe in the existence of God for the single fact that there’s the back of our head. We can push as many unpleasant facts as we want into it. If it were to take a form it would be that of a mountain. How does one bring Mohammed to the mountain? Am I just a cog in the wheel of fortune? Can my inadvertent actions affect nations? It's not like I haven't things to worry about. Would my mother's hospice bill put a hole in my five-year budget? What’s the next best car to buy? When’s my 3D TV arriving? My favorite fantasy is not so much the one in which I’m penetrating the girl as the one where she and my wife tribbing when I’m not home. Am I not altruistic? My dream eludes me.

In a perfect world, I would’ve called for an ambulance. What’s perfect? He’s fed and revived. Then what? What if he ends up in the traffic a beggar? What’s a perfect world? I gather a handful of sand and just like he asked me to drop it in his mouth wide open. His eyes close as though for the last time, mouthful of sand. The vultures land. I sense in their movement a Danse Macabre. I see in them my reflection. My dream comes to me. Alongside my company, I feed on the dead. I empty a dish and stuff in it a little meat meant for those of them waiting. A bell tolls and I know it’s that time my wife awaits my arrival - time for church and good company.

Satiated, I tote the dish back to where I came from. In a distance, a politician speaks to great applause: Show me one hungry soul in this district, I will step down. It’s not without proof and reason do I say we’ve abolished hunger.



6 comments:

  1. Grim. Very grim. You've said a lot using very few words. "I see in them my reflection...Alongside my company, I feed on the dead". Applause.
    Reminds me somewhat of a story I wrote long time back: http://ruhisonal.wordpress.com/fiction/the-first-rain/
    Same theme as yours, just a lot less brilliant.

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  2. Ruhi This really is restrained grimness. Thanks for the applause. Did I earn it, I question myself.

    I read your piece and it's truly brilliant (now I know what a humble soul you are). Perhaps similar theme but opposite perspective. I will say, if I may, yours is a prequel to this, more like.

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  3.  The grimness in the writing might be restrained. The impact such restraint has on the reader is well, grim...

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  4. a lot has been said already, but I will add this, it reminds me of Nirala.Raw.Moving.

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  5. Nishkam Razdan  I'm humbly amazed. Thank you.

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