Carousel

Dark Wings

An hour of the morning suffices to bring me from the bed to the washbasin where the mirror is painted by heavy drizzling if rigorous brushing of teeth.

I am, fortunately, inside the bathroom for the regular pooing sessions. So peaceful in here. I think it is the best thing to do in the morning. Sometimes, you know, it relieves you. Totally. Added to this, you get more time to think of how you will pursue the day. This is why I don't think it's yucky. Time in the toilet is one fine moment to experience a peaceful morning. A few minutes go by and I am done with it. Pooing, and the list of tasks for the day. The flush growls, and I pull my pyajamas up. What would happen if a person does it so hard that he feels fiery, and finally sits on an iceberg to relieve the burning sensation crawling on his buttocks? I chuckle as the thought transcends into a memory of Granda. 

Today is my English test. I did not study for it much. Probably the tension kept me up at night. But I never get tensed. Well, there are exceptions, like, when I wet my bed. It is a habit, not a weird thing. Somehow, happiness crawls inside my body because of the certainty that I would perform well. 

I take out my school uniform from the wardrobe, enveloped by dust. I still wear that carterpillar-ed shirt, and pants with a slight ink blotch on the left. The mark was caught while battling with some gruesome bullies. The faded mark gives an impression of a footage left in replay. Coming to my shirt, you may be wondering if I actually have a caterpillar on the yellowing thing, but no. I am ten, big enough to sew my clothes all by myself. At least, this is what Elem says. I think it was her excuse to take a break from me. She does half of my work, so it is quite natural for my sister to get easily stressed, or as she says, freaked out. Sometimes, I think adults are creepy people with a high intelligence to blend people. Take a cue. When I resisted sewing my shirt myself, Elem said - "When you do things yourself, there are answers for which questions don't exist." Good convincing power, my sister has got, among others.

I look in the mirror, hung behind the sink, to set my tie. Perfect. Right between the open jigsaw piece of the collar. 

My socks are drooping, and then I smell them. Had I known that my head would ache with the stink, my bringing them close to the nose would be a no, no. I take out a new pair from the wardrobe. Their crispness makes me happy. 

When I sneaked out of the room and slipped to the breakfast table quietly, I bet I looked like a theif stealing in darkness. I quietly sit down, without making the chairs cry a sonata, which is the most basic feature of my hopitality to non-living things. I treat them badly. I'm afraid, that if I show my notebooks, and stationery to you, you may have to die forcibly. Trust me, they are that bad.

I pray that Panda Bear does not see me, because if she does, I don't think it would be happy. My neck, once again, starts scanning the room for Fa-Ther. But he is gone. I wish to wave him a "bye" once. I bet I'll do that someday. Sometimes I tend to forget his face.

Panda Bear has disposed the curtains, so, rings of silver foxes are now creeping in every shadow. She's weeping with the cut onions. My stomach is hungry for food. A grey, gloomy silence at the breakfast table can become a matter of annoyance and worry. I start a spoon and fork fight - the two things that fail to find their way into the kitchen. 

Ugly monsters Fork and Spoon battle for the land of Plate. Spoon bends Fork's teeth, and eventually wins, but Fork has something else going in his mind. He pushes Spoon hard, and, lo! Fork dies. Tragic, I speak in my mind. 

Panda Bear's eyes meets mine, for, like, a second of a second of a second. Too short time. I bet she has the world's best eyes in the world. They seem two pearly crystal balls painted with black. I look at her again. I don't know why, but I cannot resist taking my eyes off her. Particularly, those dainty curls which stop at her waist. 

Fa-Ther, like I said, is in his office. Granda (the only woman I hate talking of!) is in her bed with the facepack on. Elem still requires time to dress up. 

I find Panda Bear still staring at me, and I no longer possess rainbow veins. Her eyes slowly get strokes of red. I don't see them, but I can feel the ire flaming within. Panda Bear starts to cry. I come to know from her breathless weeps that the tears were not because of the onions. They were because of me. But what did I do, that my mother hates me so much?

I try to calm the situations, and bring that meter of anger down. Every fiber of my being is now loosening as the second hand is ticking off its place.

"I need food, Pan..." I stop, and try to engulf the word. I have to call her by something else, or she would go mad. I just give her a ghost of smile; suspicious if she will accept it.

"Don't you dare call me that! I'll chop your lips off , and feed them to the stray dogs if you talk to me once again." She yells at me, and suddenly every elation that helped me to get up from the bed today has been brought down like a house of cards. Opening my mouth for something different to utter was... tough, impossible, courageous.

Panda Bear comes near the table. She has a plate on her hand. When she banged it on the table, I could hear the "asleep" Granda, celebrating :

"Finally the session of a stupid child and his fucking mad mother has begun!"

I feel bad. Very bad. I wish to thrash Granda up. She does nothing, but passes lewd comments on me, Panda Bear, and Elem. I want to stretch her tongue to that awesome length. that it would tie her with it. I swear. Bluey Swear.

"You are not my son! Where is my boy, you impostor? Where did you hide him?" 

Panda Bear says. Heavy sobbing clashes with a silent waterfall of tears. My stomach has now been cut into three halves. She pulls her hair in angst, and messes it up, giving the view of a nest on her head. She fears coming near me. 

I'm a sewer rat.

"Don't. kill me, please don't kill me. I have a family to take care of. I have a thirteen year old daughter. She needs me. I don't want to die! I don't want my child to remain motherless!"

The air does not seem fruity. I'm glad that she is begging me for mercy, because on the usual days, Panda Bear would throw almost anything she held in her hand at me. I look at her, and a wave of pity gushes into my body, and repairs my cut stomach. Her lips ripple in angst, and eyebrows are too tensed to eased down, with skin inheriting grotesque folds. I am on the verge of weeping, but I can't. Elem says that it is only me who can save Panda Bear.

Boys don't cry. 

I pick up the charred bread, stuff it inside my small mouth, and rush outside the home. This is the best way I can help my mother. A drop falls on the ground. No, it wasn't raining.

I ask a question to myself - If I live with a mad mother, will I go mad too?

My body shivers with the thought. I decide never to ask the question again. To anyone. Anyone.

A cold puff of air blows past me. I cross my arms for warmth. My bag is heavier than yesterday. My shoulders pain with the weight, but teachers say that I have to do it, otherwise I'll never learn Future. The burnt bread has left bitter taste of a beedi inside my mouth. 

I open the calendar of the school diary. Today is November 1. Not a normal day. I take out my HB pencil, and put a dark slash on the date.