Thursday, November 3, 2011

End of the Voll


Whiz lived up in a punctured volleyball. The ball was punctured, yes, but wasn’t so much shrunk. It retained the shape of what one would call a near-imperfect globe. It had a mouth wide open and the puncture in particular was known as zone hole. Dey Kanna!, who owned the ball, the story goes, hung it midair when he found another ball to play with. From under a guava tree, when it’s time for supper, Whiz flew up and down and everywhere before feeding on a fruit-feeding bat after which high on hot blood in her potbelly she was back again inside what they called Voll, the ball. Whiz and her ilk, the residents of Voll, had sworn never to drink out of the semi-divine Human, near as a Gatherer can tell.

……

Dey came leaping one morn. Clumsy on a diet of five appams, it was obvious he was denied that extra glass of coconut milk. He held a cloth that stank of kerosene. Standing at a safe distance from a swell honeycomb, he draped the ball and struck the match. It was all smoke and the bees buzzed and fled. By then Voll had come down, having shrunk it was burning bright. Dey drank the nectar as much as he could and the comb was flung all over the place. Soldiers went and gathered what was leftover. That was how I came to savor my bite. I myself never went anywhere anymore than go round and round the rim of this rusty plate that I call my open universe. Why because this is far more adventurous than scaling a blade of grass or circling the inner walls of a jam bottle and rather much safer. Dey kicked the smoky ball and it dropped flat not far from the shade of the tree. That, you see, was the end of Voll, once home for hundreds of dear-departed Suckers. I’d like to imagine Whiz was somewhere else still going abuzz and not in there drunk to head asleep.

……

Dey ritually climbs the roof every day, glides the length of the roof and dives on a mound of sand. Sometimes he lands on his feet, sometimes on his butt, sometimes he lands his head stuck to the mound but he climbs and dives over and over even so. When where I’m circling is feet away from where he usually lands, it’s not the fear that at one point he might stomp on me. That he will not for the fear the rim I’m so obsessed about will slit his foot. What if the plate the rim is part of were to somehow topple. What if I was stuck beneath it and he stomped over it. The ground is wet, so it’s soft as cheese, and the last thing I’d wish for is to be squashed in such a seemingly complex plain fashion.



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4 comments:

  1. How do u think like this? from the perspective of little insects..? and not write it in a straight forward fashion.. :) I was confused at first and I think i read it thrice..! :)

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  2. KP Do I know how to answer that, no; but do I feel firm and safe it was only a short, short tale, yes.

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  3. I just totally forgot to mention that I loved reading it!

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  4. I got it, thank you! What I meant to mean was: I would've felt
    unsafe had it been long and demanded three reads.

    ReplyDelete

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