The Christmas Present

The seventh short story submitted to the TOI Write India competition. For the other stories click here

Β Author Prompt

It was the first thought that came to her as she woke up. He was gone. And, soon, this bedroom, the house in whose eastern corner it sat, and the tiny garden outside with its gnarled old red hibiscus and the half-grown mango tree they had planted together, all those would be gone as well. It was the strangest feeling ever. by Jaishree MisraΒ  (For more about the contest/rules click here).

The Christmas Present

Daddy wasn’t going to come home ever.

It was the first thought that came to her as she woke up. He was gone. And, soon, this bedroom, the house in whose eastern corner it sat, and the tiny garden outside with its gnarled old red hibiscus and the half-grown mango tree they had planted together, all those would be gone as well. It was the strangest feeling ever.

 

Rhea closed her eyes, trying to shut out the present, the past, the pain. But no matter how hard Rhea tried, the memories came flooding back. Her hiding in the dark, pressing back against the shadows, stifling her scream, of her father’s low menacing growl, β€œAre you hiding in here Princess? I can hear you breathing.”

Rhea clapped a hand over her nose but it was too late. A hand reached out and plucked her out.

Rhea squealed and protested even as she threw her puny arms around him. β€œNot fair Daddy! If I hadn’t got a cold you would have never found me.”

β€œWell, that’s your fault isn’t it my little Princess?” Jason pulled her button nose as he strode off with her in his arms. β€œRemember what the doctor said? It’s because you don’t eat properly that you keep falling ill.”

β€œOh but I do eat! Do you want me to eat like an elephant?”

Jason laughed. β€œBut that doesn’t mean you eat like an ant!”

β€œDaddy do you know how strong ants are? They can carry load up to 50 times their weight.”

Jason put her down and got down on his haunches beside her. β€œAre you 6 years old or 60?”

Rhea sighed and put her hands on her hips. β€œHow would I know Daddy? I was just a baby when I was born wasn’t I?”

Jason cracked up.

β€œCome on Daddy, it’s your turn to hide now,” Rhea pulled him.

Chuckling Jason got to his feet. β€œLater. First have dinner.”

β€œNo! First you hide.”

β€œAfter dinner, I promise.”

β€œYou are cheating!” Rhea walked off in a huff.

Jason caught up with her. β€œCheating?”

She looked at him knowingly. β€œYou are trying to trick me into eating aren’t you?”

Jason clapped his hands together and bowed. β€œYes Granny!”

Please and flattered, Rhea condescended to nibble at her food. β€œMummy, after dinner you also come and play. It’s my turn to be the den.”

Gia smiled and pinched her cheeks. β€œMaybe if you finish all the food on your plate.”

Rhea rolled her eyes. β€œNot you too!”

Gia looked at Jason, whose shoulders were shaking. β€œBeware Gia, that’s not your daughter. That’s my Granny – isn’t it?”

β€œYes!” Rhea frowned and tapped him on the knuckles with her spoon. β€œCome on now, eat your food quickly. Wash your plate and don’t forget to brush your teeth.” She dropped her serious veneer and giggled into her hand.

Warm rich laughter erupted and broke over the clatter of cutlery.

It was her turn to find Daddy. She hunted for him high and low, upstairs and downstairs, outside and inside but he was nowhere.

β€œDaddy? Daddy! Daddy!!!” She woke screaming.

Gia held Rhea close as she blabbered. β€œβ€Where’s Daddy? Why doesn’t he come home? Is he angry with me Mummy? I promise I will eat up everything Mummy, just ask him to come home. Tell him that I lost the game Mummy. Please Mummy.”

β€œShush my darling shush. It’s okay dear. He has just gone on a long flight, somewhere very far.” Gia wiped her face and consoled her. β€œYou know he is a pilot right? It happens that sometimes he is gone for days on end? Well this time it is just taking longer than usual.” Her voice broke and she turned away to hide her emotions.

β€œBut why are we staying at Granny’s house? When are we going back home? What if Daddy is home? What if he can’t find us?” Rhea was getting hysterical and Gia had no answers. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Rhea the truth – her beloved Daddy wasn’t coming home ever.

β€œSoon sweetheart, soon.” Gia mumbled as she rocked her to sleep.

β€œDaddy will come home for Christmas won’t he Mummy? Will you tell Santa I don’t want any gift for Christmas? Just that Daddy should come home.”

β€œYes darling.”

But days passed as did weeks and months but there was no sign of Daddy. Rhea stopped asking about him but she continued to wait for him, starting with every car that turned the corner, every knock on the door, every ring of the telephone.

And then one day, Gia stowed their bags in the car and said, β€œCome let’s go.”

β€œWhere are we going Mummy? To Daddy?”

β€œHush. It’s a secret!β€œ

β€œWhere’s Granny? Aren’t we going to say bye to her?”

β€œShe…She’s busy.” Gia hurried her into the car.

β€œOh!” Rhea squealed in delight as she spied the red blooms of their hibiscus, β€œWe are home! Daddy, Daddy!” Rhea tumbled out of the car and stopped short.

A stranger stood at the door.

β€œCome Rhea, come in and meet your new Daddy.”

Rhea stared at the tall man. He wasn’t at all like her Daddy. She didn’t want a new Daddy. She wanted her old Daddy.

β€œDidn’t I tell you that Santa always listens to good girls?” Gia’s voice was shrill.

β€œWho is that?”

β€œThat?” Gia’s laugh was forced. β€œThat is your new brother Ron. Say hello to him dear.”

Rhea looked at the scruffy grumpy boy standing a little off. He ignored them and stared determinedly at the PSP in his hand.

Rhea’s eyes swung back to her mother. β€œAm I going to get a new Mummy too?”

β€œNo!” Her mother’s voice broke on her laugh. β€œWhy would you need a new Mummy? I am here aren’t I?” She paused. β€œBut I am Ron’s new Mummy. Hello dear,” she held out her arms.

β€œI am 9 years old and I don’t need a new Mummy.” Ron stomped out of the room.

β€œHello, I am Jake.” The tall stranger bent down.

Rhea stared at him unblinkingly. β€œI am 6 years old and I also don’t want a new Daddy.”

β€œFair enough. Maybe you would like a new friend?”

β€œI don’t make friends easily.” She warned.

β€œGreat! I do. So let’s play a game shall we?”

β€œGame?”

β€œA game to see who wins – you at not making friends or me at making friends.” Jake held up his hand.

Intrigued and almost reflexively, Rhea gave him a high five. β€œGame on!” She grinned at him confident of winning.

β€œAha!” Jake pointed a finger at her, his eyes twinkling. β€œBe careful, you are smiling; you could lose the game.”

Rhea hurriedly straightened her expression but it slipped. She pressed her lips and turned away. β€œI am going to my room Mummy.” She cast Jake a sidelong glance.

Jake grinned. β€œI am going to win just you wait.”

Rhea stalked off with her nose in the air. She spoilt it by turning back to check if Jake was looking at her. He winked. She giggled and ran off.

Rhea was in a fix – she liked Jake but she didn’t want a new Daddy. Neither did she want a new brother.

But where was he?

Rhea peeked into the guest room. Ah, there he was, glued to his PSP.

She pushed the door open. He ignored her. Encouraged, she entered. β€œYou are staying in this room?”

β€œDon’t ask stupid questions.”

β€œThat means you are just a guest.” Rhea’s voice dripped with satisfaction.

Ron sent her a withering glance.

Unfazed Rhea carried on. β€œWhere’s your Mummy? Is she also a pilot?”

Ron glared. β€œMy Mummy is dead do you understand? Like your father is dead.”

β€œMy father is not dead. His airplane got lost and he can’t find his way back. When I grow up I am going to be a pilot. I will find him and bring him back.”

β€œDon’t be a fool. Your father is dead. He can never come back.”

β€œWhen I become a pilot, I will hunt for your Mummy too.”

β€œGet out of my room leave me alone.” He slammed the door on her face.

Rhea knocked on the door until he opened the door. β€œWhat?” he snarled.

β€œMy Daddy isn’t dead. He is playing hide and seek with me. He is doing this to make me to eat. I try very hard but I still can’t eat. No matter how hard I try, it all comes out. That’s why Daddy is still hiding from me. But he can’t hide forever can he? Did your Mummy play hide and seek with you?”

Ron’s throat worked. β€œNo. She used to tell me stories. After I finished my homework.”

β€œDid you do your homework?”

β€œNo.”

β€œOh but then that will only make her angrier. Maybe if you did your homework…”

β€œStop talking nonsense will you?”

β€œMummy also tells stories. Shall I ask her to tell you…?”

β€œNo! I don’t want your Mummy to tell me a story. Go away and leave me alone.”

β€œI also know many stories. Shall I tell you a story?”

β€œOf Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty? No thanks.” He turned his back to her. But then he turned around again and burst out. β€œJust becoming a pilot won’t help. When people die they become stars. And pilots can’t reach the stars. But what would you know?” He scoffed.

She stood there beaten, but only for a moment. β€œAstronauts can reach the stars. I will become a pilot and you become an astronaut. Together we will find them.” She clapped her hands. β€œThis is better than hide and seek.”

β€œGet out.” Ron pushed her out and closed the door.

She looked up to find Jake staring at her.

β€œGive him time.” Jake said. β€œLike you he also takes time to make friends.” He grinned. β€œNot like me.”

Rhea turned away but he called out. β€œI was just going to eat mangoes and then plant the seeds.”

Rhea stopped.

β€œWould you like to help me?”

Rhea nodded.

β€œGreat! Let me call Ron as well.”

Gia peeped in to see all three of them, elbow deep in mango, peels on one side, and seeds on the other.

β€œReady to plant some seeds?”

β€œYay, let’s go!” Rhea scrambled up from her chair and ran out into the garden. The others followed sedately.

It was hot, sunny, and messy but a lot of fun. There were five seeds and each planted one.

β€œLet’s plant the last one together,” suggested Jake. So, with great enthusiasm (Rhea) and a show of reluctance (Ron), the last seed was planted rather ceremoniously.

β€œWell well! Just look at all of us!” Jake laughed. Rhea looked down at herself. There was no denying it she was the muddiest of the lot. β€œOh! It will take ages to clean up. And Mummy will scold me for dirtying the bathroom.” She pouted.

β€œHmm.” Jake tapped his cheek thoughtfully. β€œLet me see. How about this?” He picked up the hose and swung it towards her bare mud-caked legs. Rhea squealed and jumped. He leaned towards her. β€œCome on now it’s Ron’s turn.”

Rhea’s eyes widened. She grabbed the hosepipe and together they sprayed Ron top to toe. He gave a yell and jumped into fray and soon it was a free for all session, even Gia wasn’t spared. Shrieks, screams and laughter cascaded over them in healing waves.

Rhea was sporting enough to accept defeat and accept Jake as her friend if not her Daddy. Ron remained aloof and insisted on maintaining his distance. But that didn’t stop Rhea from pestering him. She would wait impatiently for him to return from school and then sit with him while he had his lunch. She would weave exotic and far-fetched plans to bring back her Daddy and his Mummy quite oblivious of his silence and rejection.

Until one day she didn’t come to sit with him.

Restless, Ron sought her out. He found her curled up in her chair, clutching her Daddy’s picture.

β€œWhat happened?” His voice was gruff.

β€œYou were right. My Daddy and your Mummy are dead. They have gone away to a place where no pilot can go.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

β€œHow do you know?”

β€œMy teacher asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. I told her I wanted to be a pilot so that I could bring back my Daddy. She…she laughed at me.” She sobbed. β€œThe…the whole c…class laughed at me. Nobody can bring back my Daddy or your Mummy.” Rhea was quite inconsolable.

Ron stood there feeling the familiar helpless rage creep up on him. β€œOf course you can’t. Didn’t I tell you that long ago? But don’t worry when I grow up I will become an astronaut. I will bring back my Mummy and your Daddy.”

Rhea’s tears dried miraculously. β€œReally? Promise?”

Ron looked at her with foreboding. β€œOnly if you don’t nag me. And you can’t tell anyone about this. It has to be our secret.”

Rhea nodded. β€œCross my heart and hope to die. And I promise I wont even come and sit with you when you have lunch.”

Ron coughed. β€œYou can sit if you like. I don’t mind.”

Rhea threw her arms around Ron. He let her hug him before pushing her away with a ferocious frown. She dimpled at him. She had another friend! He would bring her Daddy back. She skipped away to her Mummy.

β€œWhy are you packing Mummy? Are we going somewhere?”

β€œYes we are soon going away from here Rhea.”

β€œWhere? To Daddy?”

β€œNo, to a new house.”

β€œBut why Mummy? What about our mango tree? The one we all planted?”

Gia shrugged. β€œWe are now shifting to Bangalore where my new job is.”

β€œAll of us?”

β€œNo just us. You didn’t want a new Daddy or a new brother…”

β€œThat was before Mummy. Santa was right. I…I like my new Daddy. Ron too.”

β€œIt’s too late now. They are also leaving.”

And today Ron was gone. Jake too. They would never return, just like her Daddy. Ron would grow up and forget his promise. He would find his Mummy but not her Daddy. She clutched her pillow to crush out the pain in her chest. Ron was just a little boy but how could Jake do this to her? Hadn’t he said they were friends forever?

A paper fluttered. She picked it up. A smiley stared up at her holding a placard –Friends forever. And underneath it was a phone number.

Rhea’s heart gave a leap. Jake hadn’t really gone away. She could phone him anytime!

But…but why hadn’t Daddy left his phone number? Daddy was mean. So was Mummy.

β€œMummy, you are mean too. You let Daddy go. And now you let my new Daddy and new brother go too. This time for Christmas I am going to ask Santa for a new Mummy.”

***

Yup, this one didn’t make the list eitherΒ  – how about you telling me what you think – the good, the bad and the ugly…

But on a positive note – my blogger friend Ramya won the first prize for this prompt πŸ™‚ My heartiest congratulations to her! If you like, you can hop over to her blog for some awesome stories.

Click here for more Short Stories or here for more information About the Blog

Β 

The Denouement

This should work as a standalone story but for best results, please read this first blushing

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(c) Rich Voza

The Denouement

 

β€œShouldn’t you be on the Mumbai flight?” Angel asked.

Laksh shrugged. β€œA brief detour.”

β€œWeren’t you dying to meet your sister?” Angel was still smarting. Just my luck – one decent guy in the batch and I look like his sister.

β€œYou can resuscitate me.” Her heart fluttered. If only.

It was a fun flight back to Delhi. At least they were friends.

β€œBye.” Angel said.

β€œThanks for your company.”

Despite herself, Angel blushed. His eyes were warm. Too warm.

β€œMy Namaste to Didi.” She reminded herself.

β€œDrop me at the Departure gate?”

Angel stared.

β€œBy the way, I am an only child.”

***

Β Words: 102

Written for the Friday Fictioners (flash fiction in 100 words or less) hosted by Rochelle – thanks πŸ™‚ For amazing stories on this prompt, click here.

Do leave me a note…

And in case you didnt read the earlier post, feast your eyes on pictures of doors –Β  ornate doors.

Fans of IPKKND and readers of Silver Streaks please visit From DM's Desk for more πŸ˜‰

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FFftAW #71: Crush(ed)

photo-20160620054715745 As Angel entered the library, her pace slowed and her breath quickened. She cast a quick glance at the corner seat. It was empty.

β€œCheer up! Your crush will soon be here.” Divya teased.

β€œMy crush?” Angel sneered. β€œI couldn’t care less.”

β€œThere comes Laksh.” Divya grinned. “Your fan is cute.”

Feeling her color rise, Angel sat down and opened her books.

She sensed his eyes on her but she kept hers determinedly lowered. Until curiosity overpowered her. She looked up to find his eyes trained on her – an intense yet pleading look in them.

Embarrassed, she gathered her books and trotted off.

To her horror, Laksh followed her. β€œWait!” he caught up with her just outside the door.

Red-faced, heart thudding Angel wondered what she would say if he came clean about his crush – dared she also…

β€œExcuse me?” She stared.

β€œI said I am sorry I didn’t mean to stare. You look exactly like my elder sister, a mother to me, miss her so much…”

***

Words: 167

Psst if you want to know what happened next click here

Written for the FFfAW – 71st challenge (100 – 175 words). Thank you Priceless Joy for hosting it and TJ Paris for the photo prompt. Click here for awesome stories on this prompt.

For the readers of Moonshine, here’s Chapter 70 and a little something for the fans of Calvin πŸ˜€ Click here for more Short Stories or here for more information About the Blog

Fans of IPKKND and readers of Silver Streaks please visit From DM’s Desk for more πŸ˜‰

 

Ornate Doors

This is in response to the Daily Post’s Discover Challenge on Doors. The City Palace (built between 1729 – 1732 AD) at Jaipur, India has these 4 magnificent doorways. The four gates (known as Ridhi Sidhi Pol) are adorned with themes representing the four seasons and Hindu gods.

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The Northeast Peacock Gate (with motifs of peacocks on the doorway) representing autumn and isΒ dedicated Lord Vishnu.

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The Southwest Lotus Gate represents the summer season and is dedicated to Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati.

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The Rose Gate with repeated flower pattern representing winter season and dedicated to the Goddess.

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The Northwest Green Gate, also called the Leheriya (or wavy) gate. The greenery represents spring and is dedicated to Lord Ganesha.

SPF: Dead Meat

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β€œHi! The whole gang here?”

β€œJust about.”

β€œWho’s getting the booze?

β€œVijay is supposed to get it from the Army canteen. It’s real cheap over there.”

β€œGreat! But where is he?”

β€œTalk of the Devil. You are late!”

β€œYeah sorry.” Vijay slunk in.

All eyes turned to him. β€œDid you get the booze?”

Vijay flushed. He shook his head.

A groan rose.

β€œWhy not?” asked Raghav the aggressive and rather bloodthirsty kinds. β€œYou said you would. We gave you the money too.” He looked suspiciously at him. β€œDid you keep it for yourself?”

β€œErr, not exactly.”

Raghav grabbed Vijay by the collar.

Aman, the peacemaker, jumped in. β€œRelax Rags. Vijay, tell us what happened.”

β€œI bought the booze.” Vijay said. β€œI was on the way here when I saw Dad coming.”

β€œMajor Rawat?!” The boys chorused. β€œWhat did you do?”

β€œI hid the bottle in the bushes.”

β€œGood thinking.” Relieved, the boys laughed.

β€œI thought so too.” Vijay looked glum. β€œDad didn’t suspect anything and I walked on ahead with him.

The boys stared. β€œDidn’t you go back and collect the bottle?”

β€œI did. But…I couldn’t find the bush where I hid the bottle.”

***

Words: 196

Written for the Sunday Photo Fiction (less than 200 words). For awesome stories on this prompt, click here.

Readers of Moonshine, here’s Chapter 69 and Calvin. Click here for more Short Stories or here for more information About the Blog

 

FFftPP #25: Nemesis

bird

https://pixabay.com/en/parrot-bird-fly-animal-wildlife-316217/

Nemesis

β€œWhy did you buy the parrot?” Mita waited until her husband had finished his dinner. β€œAnother mouth to feed. More work.”

β€œHow much will she eat? I thought the children would like her.” Deep said.

β€œBut…”

β€œShe’s no ordinary bird. She can talk. And her name is Muniya.” Deep’s face glowed.

β€œBut…I…we can’t call her that!”

β€œWe can call her Ma and the children – Dadi. It will be like before, as if mother was back home.” He folded his hands in gratitude.

β€œBut Ma left for Kashi. What will she think when she comes back?”

β€œI understand your hope Mita!” Deep sighed, β€œbut we have to be realistic. It’s been two years since she disappeared. I went so many times to Kashi to look for her but…” His eye fell on Muniya. He brightened. β€œMa.” he crooned. β€œHow have you been Ma?”

β€œDon’t ask Deepu. Don’t ask.”

Deep started, exchanging glances with Mita.

β€œMa! What happened?”

β€œAsk your wife.”

Mita gave a shriek and fell back.

β€œAsk Mita? But what?”

β€œHow she killed me.”

Words: 175. Written for the Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. For other stories, click here

By the way, I made an unscheduled photo post on Saturday. In case you missed it, click here – Weekly Photo Challenge: Curve

Click here for more Short Stories or here for more information About the Blog

Have a super cool week ahead and dont forget to leave me a note πŸ™‚

A Curvaceous Collection

This post is in response to the Weekly Photo Challenge: Curve

On the track of the curve

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A simple curve

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Woody curves

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Stony curves

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Singadh Fort, Pune

Arched curves

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Organic curves

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Ganesh Pol at Amber Fort Jaipur built in 1611 -1667 curved gate painted with vegetable dyes still retains its originality

Intricate curves

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Sheesh Mahal, Amber Fort Jaipur made with Belgian glass

Bejeweled curves

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Hairy curves

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A camel gets a designer haircut at Bikaner, India. A whatsapp forward deserving of a larger audience

And finally the curve(s) that sets everything straight πŸ™‚

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PS: If you would like to see more of Jaipur, please click here and here

Story Club # 1: Life of a Writer

Hello everyone! How’s the week going so far? Hang in there, half done anyway πŸ™‚ If you remember I threatened promised to begin the Story Club today. Until yesterday, the going was slow. But now Story Club is officially on with a slight change. Instead of a weekly event, it will be a fortnightly activity – 1st and 15th of every month. I shall take the first step today and Yvette will do The Open Boat by Stephen Crane on the 15th of July. If anyone is interested in doing one on the 1st of July please do let me know. Otherwise I will take Yvette’s advice and go for a monthly event.

All set? Great – let’s begin!

For today I have chosen a story by Lorrie Moore, a contemporary American award-winning writer known for her brilliant, funny and yet poignant short stories. I was spoiled for choice but I finally settled on How to become a writer, or Have you earned this clichΓ© from the book β€œSelf-help.” I do apologize for not announcing the name of the story earlier but to tell the truth I wasn’t quite sure if this was happening or not. Besides, this is not a story – story but more of an insight into the life of an aspiring writer.

Β How to become a writer is a vastly entertaining read but more so if you are not a writer. Yet, it’s the writer who needs to read it the most. As the title suggests, this is a guide about how to become a writer or more like what you should be prepared to face in case you want to take up writing, particularly as a full time job.

I would go so far as to suggest any aspiring writer to read this piece and use it as a sort of an acid test. If you feel more of a sinking heart than a desire to burst out laughing – writing as a full time job is probably not for you.

Through Francie, our guide to the world of writing, Lorrie leaves the aspiring writer no scope for any sort of delusions or hallucinations regarding the β€˜glamorous’ life of a writer – with dollops of cracking humor.

This is how she begins:

First, try to be something, anything, else. A movie star/astronaut. A movie star/ missionary. A movie star/kindergarten teacher. President of the World. Fail miserably. It is best if you fail at an early age – say, 14. Early, critical disillusionment is necessary so that at 15 you can write long haiku sequences about thwarted desire. It is a pond, a cherry blossom, a wind brushing against sparrow wing leaving for mountain. Count the syllables. Show it to your mom. She is tough and practical. She has a son in Vietnam and a husband who may be having an affair. She believes in wearing brown because it hides spots. She’ll look briefly at your writing then back up at you with a face blank as a doughnut. She’ll say: ”How about emptying the dishwasher?” Look away. Shove the forks in the fork drawer. Accidentally break one of the freebie gas station glasses. This is the required pain and suffering. This is only for starters.

This kind of sets the tone for the piece – witty, funny and hard-hitting. The aspiring writer with the slightest bit of delusions about the grandeur of his or her work (and future) is in for a huge shock. She goes on to say:

Experiment with fiction. Here you don’t have to count syllables.

In creative writing seminars over the next two years, everyone continues to smoke cigarettes and ask the same things: ”But does it work?” ”Why should we care about this character?” ”Have you earned this cliche?” These seem like important questions.

On days when it is your turn, you look at the class hopefully as they scour your mimeographs for a plot. They look back up at you, drag deeply and then smile in a sweet sort of way.

The seminar doesn’t like this one either. You suspect they are beginning to feel sorry for you. They say: ”You have to think about what is happening. Where is the story here?”

There is simply no let up – she continues unrelenting:

Thank god you are taking other courses. You can find sanctuary in 19th-century ontological snags and invertebrate courting rituals [….]Be glad you know these things. Be glad you are not just a writer. Apply to law school.

Begin to wonder what you do write about. Or if you have anything to say. Or even if there is such a thing as a thing to say. Limit these thoughts to no more than ten minutes a day; like sit-ups, they can make you thin.

Lorrie goes deep into the life of a writer and catches it by the heart. She then proceeds to unveil the mystique behind the writer’s life, handing out punch after punch – her biting humor the only respite.Β  The entire subtext of the piece underlines the hard work, patience, grit, persistence and unflagging unwavering commitment that a writer must have. That rejection, discouragement and frustration are par for the course.Β Β In the entire piece there is only one bit from where aspiring writers can draw some hope:

You spend too much time slouched and demoralized. Your boyfriend suggests bicycling. Your roommate suggests a new boyfriend. You are said to be self-mutilating and losing weight, but you continue writing. The only happiness you have is writing something new, in the middle of the night, armpits damp, heart pounding, something no one has yet seen. You have only those brief, fragile, untested moments of exhilaration when you know: you are a genius. Understand what you must do. Switch majors. The kids in your nursery project will be disappointed, but you have a calling, an urge, a delusion, an unfortunate habit. You have, as your mother would say, fallen in with a bad crowd.

Lorrie Moore not only has a remarkable control over the language but a neat turn of phrase which I can only marvel at. Here are a few gems and my personal favorites from her other works:

Love drains from you, takes with it much of your blood sugar and water weight. You are like a house slowly losing its electricity, the fans slowing, the lights dimming and flickering; the clocks stop and go and stop.” ― Lorrie Moore, Self-Help

Forgiveness lives alone and far off down the road, but bitterness and art are close, gossipy neighbors, sharing the same clothesline, hanging out their things, getting their laundry confused.” ― Lorrie Moore, Self-Help

Β Her voice was husky, vibrating, slightly flat, coming in just under each note like a saucer under a cup.” ― Lorrie Moore, Birds of America

Reading her work makes me wonder about mine. Perhaps I should get back to doing what I have been trained to do. But then I wasn’t doing particularly brilliantly there either. So it’s a toss up between doing something that I am supposed to know and well, like doing or, do something I don’t know the basics of but yet feel almost obsessively compulsively drawn towards. In fact, it’s almost like a disease. Interestingly, Francie described writing as β€˜a lot like having polio.’

In that case, once infected with the writer virus, one is doomed for life – awesome isn’t it?

Coming back to Lorrie, in an interview she was asked, β€œWhat kind of eye do you cast on your earlier work?”

Her response is liberating to say the least.

β€œI don’t go back and look at my early work, because the last time I did, many years ago, it left me cringing. If one publishes, then one is creating a public record of Learning to Write. My first two books, I know, are full of energy, and there are sentences I still like here and there, but mostly they are chock-full of mistakes of judgment and taste and sensibility. I did not have the skill to take on some of the material I took on, even when the material was fairly stock or meager. But that inadequacy, or feeling of inadequacy, never really goes away. You just have to trudge ahead in the rain, regardless.”

No doubt she is being modest and self-deprecating but it is heartening to know and hold on to the thought – it happens to all of us, no matter how good or bad one is. So without any further debate, I shall continue to write (hey! I saw those eyes roll) – for writing is something I not only want to do, but need to do, have to do, regardless. With the hope and prayer that I get better at this elusive craft.

Anyway got to rush, I have to, simply have, to read Self-help now!

Thank you for reading and don’t forget to leave me your notes, suggestions and thoughts. If anyone has another perspective to share on this story, please put up a post on your blog with a pingback here so that we can all hop over for a read.

Is anyone willing to host a Story Club on the 1st of July (or any other date)? Do let me know.

Rules are simple – advance announcement of story name ((I already apologized!) and date. Bloggers should post on their blog while non-bloggers can email me – mysilverstreaks@gmail.com

Quote of the day: β€œA short story is a love affair, a novel is a marriage. A short story is a photograph; a novel is a film.” ― Lorrie Moore

Readers of Moonshine, here’s Chapter 67 and Calvin :- Poor Susie :(Β  Click here for more Short Stories or here for more information About the Blog

 

COB #25: Believe It or Not

Yoohoo – it’s me again πŸ˜€ Sorry to disturb you again, but Cee’s Odd-Ball Photo Challenge (again thanks to Irene) got me thinking.

But first a little backdrop for the photo πŸ˜€

Some years ago, my parents had gone for a picnic not knowing that the place was owned by monkeys. As they sat down to eat, a monkey dropped in from nowhere and snatched the sabzi (cooked vegetables) bowl and climbed a tree. He sat there eating and occasionally making faces at those staring up at him. He licked the bowl clean and was considerate enough to throw it back.

Later, when my mother narrated the incident to my then 4-year-old niece, she listened in silence. “Granny, are you telling me a story or are you lying to me?”

She put is quite succinctly didn’t she? A few years later, we stopped here for tea. Like long lost friends, they turned up to share our cuppa tea. Nothing to go with it thank you – an empty packet of chips fluttered down from a tree πŸ˜€

The simian has been languishing unseen in my gallery for long. I thought he was deserving of a larger audience – dont you?

Notice the drip marks? Poor fellow couldn’t quite drink from the cup. He tried his level best before pouring it over the bench and licking it up.

We have been honored at other instances too – take a look πŸ˜€

Squirrel
Overnight squatters without so much as if you please…

We dared not open the window until the babies were all hatched and gone. I did have a snap of the babies as well but mama squirrel seems to have snitched it on her way out…

This was perhaps the fourth time we were playing nursemaids. On a couple of occasions we had to be cruel to be kind – building nests in the most precarious places, one gust and the whole thing was bound to come tumbling down. A council of war was held – we bit the bullet and got rid of the nest – better the nest than with the babies.

Another squirrel with more exotic tastes, was particularly impressed with the exhaust fan in the washroom. She set about nibbling at the blade without any further ado at odd hours of the day and night – giving me nightmares. What if somebody switched on the fan?

During my hostel days, I had in a moment of kindness, allowed a pigeon to make it’s nest over the cupboard. The chicks hatched and chirped – they were so cute! It was time for them to learn how to fly. Mama pigeon would by catch them by their beaks and pull them up, forcing them to flap their wings – everyday – at 4 am.

Yet the worst was when I entered late one night. I switched on the light and fan – there was a flutter and the pigeon lay beheaded on the floor. I don’t remember anything more. Another true story.

We got rid of the aspiring exhaust fan resident ASAP.

Another day it was raining heavily, when these two looked in – I am afraid we weren’t renting πŸ˜‰

Monkeys
Room for rent?

Did you read about when we had a cat-burglar? Seem like too much of a circus or a zoo?

Less than what we had in our childhood – frogs, snakes, leeches, jackals, elephants. Again all true.

We lived on the banks of the Ganga – elephants often dropped in for a bath, jackals howled as they are known to, frogs crept inside during the rains and the snakes followed suit.

Those were pretty exciting days. One morning Mother called Father to take care of a snake – almost ready for school, we watched with avid interest. Half asleep, he asked for a stick. Mother handed him one but it turned out to be a dried sugarcane with no backbone. There was uproar – the snake left us to our petty squabbles.

Another time, the dining table was out in the backyard as the house was being whitewashed. Father had just left the table while Mother was on her last bite – she looked up to see a snake sitting on the chair across her with its hood raised. She froze and sat until the snake got bored and slithered away.

Among the locals it is considered bad luck to kill snakes – apparently snakes have a camera in their eyes. They can capture the image of the last person they see. Their mates use this image to identify the murderer and take revenge. So the protocol was either to burn the snake immediately or (preferably) offer it some milk and wait for it to go away on its own.

While playing on the fields, we often saw small, yellow and black colored snakes and leeches too. In retrospect, we were pretty mean as children – we got morbid pleasure out of putting salt on leeches and seeing them melt. I also remember watching unflinching and with a clinical eye, the slaughter of a hen.

The youngest and the late entrant of our group had a particular liking for bees – oh yes beehives and wasp nests lurked in every nook and cranny, sometimes even inside the house. Coming back to the brave young one – he insisted on a deep study of the bees that infested one corner of his house. And what better way to investigate but to taste it?

Poor chap couldn’t even drink milk from his bottle for a few days.Β  The unfazed little pugilist continued to flash his adorable, albeit lopsided smiles. Undaunted, he turned up the next day with a swollen forearm.

Oh goodness me! This was supposed to be just a-one-photo post! Hope this doesn’t violate the photo challenge rules. Memories are amazing – you think you don’t have any but once you start…see I forgot about the dog we had (not me, my little sis) and the wingless parrot pet.

That reminds me – the parrots were the worst. They ate up all the mangoes leaving only the seed hanging from the trees…

Enough about my memories and time for you to share yours! Surely you too have some wonderful memories? Do share them πŸ™‚

Have a good day all of you and catch you all tomorrow, again πŸ˜€

Thanks for reading!

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