Waves of Stories and Poems

The Story of Why I Wrote This Story

There were two people on the fish; a man and a woman. Or a boy and a girl— I couldn't tell, they were too far away. It was a massive fish, or so I thought: it should be anyways, to hold two people. It leaped over the waves and back into the ocean, flipping and somersaulting, over and over again—alongside a yacht—while the couple calmly held hands and stared into each others' eyes. And with one final leap and dive, they were below— man, woman and fish —going down and down, and down into the deep blue depths; while a voice could be heard—Vivek from the yacht—" I wanna see a laptop too!". Wait, what? I probably misheard.

Back to the fish. But the deep blue depths weren't deep blue after all, it was light blue and getting lighter by the second: then I noticed the trail of glitter left in the wake of the fish's path. The fish was still dancing, and then I realised, it was dissolving. Man, woman and fish- all- were dissolving into glitter until glitter was all that was left in the light blue depths: and then I was on the shore.

From behind me, Robb Stark— or I thought it was Robb, the memory is fading— threatens to shoot me if I move; warns me not to go. But go I do, towards the pretty vintage house with an ugly structure, of black metal railings and steps and platforms, in front of it.

And then Robb shoots, but I don't die, in line with my mutterings: that a man cannot be killed, and that he only dies, say, in an earthquake, but fire beats an earthquake because it burns, which is in turn beaten by (death by) drowning: and I'm suddenly at the top of another structure of black metal railings and platforms. Not the one in front of the house, another one, off to it's left. I had changed course whilst giving my speech.

And I continued, while a sense of euphoria and invincibility burnt like wildfire inside me, and jumped on the railing. 

"Death doesn't kill a man" I said, and leapt again, over a distance of six feet? Seven?- it is hard to be sure in a dream- this time onto the black metal structure in front of the house; and again, farther and higher than before; then landed and balanced myself on a high metal rod; and looked at the world, proud and short and straight; at Robb,

"It is humiliation that kills".

Speak of the angels and hear the rustle of their wings, goes an ancient Arabic proverb. Suddenly the wildfire burnt out, and shame and humiliation drowned me : I lost my balance and fell (Or was toppled by the wind, not that the tiny detail matters anyways). And what happens when you fall in a dream? You wake. So I woke.

I stumbled out of bed and stumbled to my table (sleeping really makes me tired). It was a good dream, and fresh, and I planned to make a good essay of it. I began, and the bell rang. There were foreigners at the gate.

Once inside, I had to repeat many times for them to sit and when they finally did, most of them sat on the same chair— a tight fit considering their sizes.

There was a big white man, definitely the father of the family, and many children of many ages. The elder ones were big in size as well. But only the father spoke.

By the time mama* came, followed by Umammah**, he had asked me something many times, to no avail. He had a thick accent; so thick that his words drowned in it before it reached my ear.

It took some time but we understood that they were tourists waiting to catch a train, and wanted to get to the railway station. We helped him sort it out and I hurried back inside to get something to serve them. They may have just dropped by to ask directions, but we couldn't just let them leave! What manners would that have been!

On the dining table inside, was a delicious dish being served. Mehran aunty        (who wasn't really an aunt) was just pouring a brown purée on top of it. It looked like Kokis***and waffles combined, light beige, and delicate to the touch. All sense fled an I ate some. It was as delicious as it looked— more, if possible.