RAG DOLL: a toyish love story

5: FEAR

Sliding the junkie latch of the door Parth pushed the wooden pieces inside. The doors opened with a creaky sound. It needed to be oiled.

The first two steps inside the house, he lifted his hand to turn on the switches fixed on the right side wall but his fingers paused. He returned his hand to his side.

The sudden dazzling of lights could erupt the peace laying inside the awaited darkness.

His ribcage broadly lifted up to make space for the new arrival of night breeze mixed with a touch of chillness, fuggy-moist soil, rusty iron, musty woods, funky door screens and sofa covers, old lazy clouds of dust and stolen childhood.

Closing his eyes he inhaled the warmness of the room more deeply into each element of his body. Seven years had passed since he stepped on the grey cement floor void of any stylish marble.

Opening his eyes he made his route at a lazy pace inside with the help of moonlight entering through the open door behind him.

He believed he could also pace around correctly if the moonlight was not there. After all, it was his house. His home. The home where he was brought with a cradle, scampered on the floor to escape from his mother who used to chase him to feed the pumpkin curry, rolled many plastic wheels of the racing cars which were bigger than his friend's, hid behind any large trunks or Almira to prevent himself from her angry mother's stick. This house was his saviour, his parent and his friend. A companion whom he left for some stupid fascination.

The immobile pieces of furniture, not in the mood to seek their replacement, were blanketed under white pieces of clothes adorning the fine slits of dust over it.

His legs stopped near the sofa set.

Clutching the cloth that covered the furniture he slided it off. The fine particles of dust made him cough thrice. Thrusting his bag to the side he threw himself on the sofa spreading his arms. Retired eyes were closed in a moment. Weariness sipped out by the fabric under him. He smiled an exhausted smile. This was what we called home.

His pulsing ear pinnas and eyebrows started dozing off so as he. The sap of blackness spread under his eyelids relaxing his muscles when a blow of wind scratched his nape as if reminding him to not procrastinate the thing he decided to do as soon as he reach the spot.

Quickly a face splashed behind the blindness of his eyes. They snapped open. That missing teeth smile and baby pink face!

Snapping open his eyes he hunched his head to look back. The room at which his straight eyesight fell was his. He hurriedly sauntered in the direction and unlocked the door. It too needed galvanization.

Now no moonlights supported his view but he didn't want to turn on the lights. They would possibly snatch the shine.

Stumbling on a few things he impatiently reached the spot. Unsteady hands hastily pulled open the small wooden doors of the window.

Again the cheerful moonlight spread all over his face, squeezing his lids. The blowing of enormous trees in the backyard of the house nuzzled his face to relax his raucous heartbeats.

He looked ahead and his eyes softened.

Fifteen, fifteen years passed and he had never seen this much strong build. Though the cottage was more shattered but it was still standing, surprisingly. He could now identify that tree that had stylishly grown on the cracked chest of the wall, it was a mixed branch of peepal and Neem. But the house was living in darkness all these years. He wondered if anyone else made it their temporary home or not. Or if possible she was back here again.

His anxiety rose. Heartbeat went wild again.

Now she would have grown up. Why would she live here in that dumpster? He should be glad she was living a better lifestyle. Did she?