Tag: story

The Broken Window : The scars

The flower-lady was back. The ritual of spreading out her shop on the pavement continued. Carefully placing the basket down from her head and a small broom wrapped around in a polybag and as soon as she could get the dog clear away her area she started cleaning the place.

Settling herself down in the place, she started off arranging the flowers in a particular sequence. Nothing had changed. Nothing appeared to be any different from what it was before. Probably I was in my reverie again when that happened. Or did something actually happen?

I finished my cup of coffee, which didn’t taste the usual, probably because of the milk, or God knows what it was.  I had this urge to go and talk with the lady, not sure why, but I just did.

On the pretext of buying flowers, I went. This was the first time, I actually went there. Of course, she was a regular in my having-a-cup-of-coffee-and–staring-outta-my-window schedule, yet it never occurred to me to go and talk to her. To satiate this sudden urge, I went ahead.

flower garland jasmine

I just handed her a 50 rupee note and took hold of a garland which was arranged in sequential order from the time she had arrived. All I could see were jasmine flower garlands around, wondering for a moment how beautiful they looked. She looked clueless, handing the note in her hand, and staring back at me with an answer. Her faced asked a question but I got lost into thoughts of the scars on her face. I got back from that when she finally asked, “Bhaiyya Change nahi hai ?”  But again, I didn’t have any change.

I showed her my room through the same broken window and told her that I’ll come and get it the next morning. I thought of asking her, how she got those scars in her face, but couldn’t. Way back to the room, the only thing I thought of was those scars.

Only to be reminded of something else from my past, memories which I had always tried to forget.

“Leave Her, please leave her” I shouted as much as I could. Helplessly just hitting him with my little hands. Gathering all the strength I had, lifting whatever I could and throw at him, but only to find that his tall bulky body would resist it all with a hearty laugh.

My cries to the monster fluctuated from being one for being helplessly pleading to him to shouting with rage. But for kid like me, it all looked just like a cry.

I tried brush aside the flashback. The childhood memories were something I didn’t want to recall. Some things are better left forgotten, and this was definitely one of them.

I went inside and lock the door closed.

 

Read what happens next, in the broken Window in the next post.

 

In case you haven’t read the previous ones, here you go!! 

Part 2 : The Broken Window: and she stood there 

Part 1:  The Broken Window

 

An Idiot’s Love story: 500 Words #1

The best part between us has been to not talk about our daily grind, there’s no “How was your day?”, “You had your dinner?”,” what’s new?”, and a similar barrage of redundant questions with rebounded answers that even people part of the conversation know, is just to push the conversation forward, yet at least one of them would keep bringing that up.

For us, me and her, it is not that now. Yes, it’s been Me and Her.

Not that we have a series of other conversational topics that keep us occupied, but something that pushes beyond the mundane outflow of words. There is a sense of tranquility lingering on the onset of these little exchanges; there is an essence of satisfaction from what I get to hear from her in return of my blabber through the course of trying hard not to sound like an idiot. Not at least this second time.

I get this vibe of her knowing about this idiotic me and yet tries to suppress this idea. Just let me stay where I am, of not letting me scale up the ladder to gather enough courage to do something more idiotic? Or there is a flicker of hope down the road which she wants me to travel? Travel along with her.

Yes, I think too much. Too much to build castles up in the air, too much to stress myself out of things that may never happen actually. Portraying me as either an Optimistic would be far-fetched but tagging me as a pessimistic would also be an understatement; which even an idiot like me understands.

It is indeed difficult to understand her, not that I have never tried. Tried for Days, tried for Months and even for a Year, but couldn’t. Just couldn’t. Not her, nor anything from her. What I have only known is about the push which I gave myself, to try and try harder. Again and again. Only to return empty handed on each occasion.

But now, it has come down to a different level, a level where I pull myself from trying anything. Where I contain my urge to again understand her, to get to dive deep into those eyes and gather any glimmer of hope beaming out to be reflected on a future where I can be a part of it.

I don’t want to think now. Neither of trying, neither to look at the prospects of any build-up to what I have now. I just want this to continue. I just want this to not change itself, of the connect that comes through her to me, even though it may be for a little while, before she lets go off this idiot yet again, but I want to savour this moment, these moments binding themselves to remain etched as precious little possessions to be kept for life.

It isn’t love, it isn’t any infatuation either, and it’s something which I don’t understand and something which makes me a hopeful. A hopeful idiot.

As narrated by the Idiot, with minimum exaggerations and enhanced expressions. For further development keep waiting. 

 

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