a writing portfolio
[short story writing 271]
there's a jar of blue pearls on the table. and next to it, some string.
nimble fingers pick them up, and one by one joins them in painful matrimony.
when she is finished, she hangs it around her neck; a...
prompt 3: flame of life word count: 820 prompt cue: Using second-person narration, write 1-2 paragraphs about ANYTHING. Make sure you understand what second-person narration is.
It is a normal day at the tea stall. The sun glares down at his subjects; but the customers can order a cool drink or get a boy to fan them. The servers on the other hand—no, they have no respite from their criminal king.
I walk to your table—the one with a rickety leg (that's how we remember which table is which)—and ask you what you wanted. Flies buzz around us, but you make no effort to swat them away—which surprises me. You wear a clean pair of clothes (a dark blue sweater, I think, and a pair of black jeans); your hair is neatly combed and your face is untouched by our King's villainy. You are a rich man; and yet, you do not act like one. In Hindi, you ask me what my name is. I wonder what you would do if I replied in my broken English, but I decide against it.
'Rajan, sirji,' I reply, uncertainly. You tell me you want a cup of tea and a whole packet of Parle-G biscuits. As I walk back to the kitchen, I feel a little too warm. No has ever asked me my name; certainly not a rich uncle. Still in a daze, I call out the order to the cook. I remember someone hitting me over the head and telling me to go and clean the chipped-edge-table; thrusting a cloth into my hand. I adjust my yellow-tinged sleeveless vest, and go to do his bidding. I clean the table; placing cups and plates on to the tray I brought with me. Then I begin to wipe it. But suddenly, the sun is not the only thing boring into my forehead.
I look up and your kind brown eyes meet mine. You smile, but I don't return it. Instead, I look down. Out of respect—I tell myself. I finish cleaning the table; wiping out tea stains and herding runaway crumbs onto my tray. Then I hang the cloth on my shoulder and picked up the tray. My hands wobble, and the sound of clicking glass assaults my senses.
If the tray falls, Danush uncle will make me work twice as much to pay for the damaged glass. Concentrating very hard, I walk back to the kitchen. I don't even look up when Prakash whistles purposely to distract me. When I sit the tray down on the counter, I notice Arjun walk up to your table with your order. Danush uncle doesn't let me deliver food because he thinks I will break something.
Otherwise I would have come back with your food, Sir.
A few minutes later I pass by your table again; and notice that your tea is still untouched. You call me—by my name—and my brows raise up in surprise and question.
"Aja, beta." You say. And then you ask me to have a seat. I sit down next to you, not knowing what else to do. "Have some tea and biscuits," you tell me. When I hesitate, you smile and tell me not to. I am hungry and you are offering, so I eat. I hadn't had anything to eat since morning.
I dip the biscuit into the tea, count to five, and then eat it. The biscuit is sweet and buttery; it melts on my tongue. The tea is warm, sweet and rich—the milky aftertaste will sit upon my tongue long after you have gone. As I eat and drink your tea; you talk to me. You ask me how old I am; ten, where I live; down the road, and whether my parents are rice farmers; yes. Although my answers are close-lipped, something was growing inside my chest. No one has ever treated me this way; no one. No one has been kind enough to offer me food to eat—offer me conversation.
I didn't notice you at first. You see, we don't really look at the people we serve unless they begin to yell at us. We just hand you your tea, fill your plate with biscuits or homemade butter cake—your preference—and then leave you for the next customer. Just like I am invisible to your kind, you are invisible to mine. But, after I did, I wondered how I missed you.
The world is a kinder place than I thought it was. And people aren't as condescending as I thought they were.
I know you won't remember me; I'll fade into the back of your memory like pollen into a summer breeze. Like a card that you remember reading but can't remember who from. But I'll never forget you. Sirji, you've made an impression on me. Inside my chest, you've lit a fire that—despite their cruelty—has yet to burn out.
*** inspired by a scene from the movie tare zameen par (like stars on earth) it's on netflix.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
