It was a bright sunny day, just like one of the many in the past. Nothing special. Small circular clouds of dust swirled like a mini cyclone, the roads dry and bare. Small homes lined the narrow street, made of stones arranged in no particular pattern, jutting out here and there. Sparse thorny plants sprang out of nowhere near and far from homes, giving no solace to the eye, the landscape as dry as the taps outside these homes. Men clad in ragged shirts and trousers that were almost as old as them, rode on bicycles, slowly, their lunch boxes hanging from the handles of their bicycle in small muslin bags, stained with years. Women walked along both the sides of the road, carrying pots and vessels, coming and going away from the only source of water in the village, some three miles away from the village.
Nothing moved in the heat of the sun, even though it was comparatively early in the morning. The early effects of a city touching a village was evident. Men preferred to go to the city in the morning hours to work, coming back late in the evening, their back strained and aching with the day’s labour, their empty lunch boxes swinging more than in the morning. Some houses had television and a few rare ones even had an antenna for reception of some channels that were broadcasted in the closest corner of the city. Every evening when the men had had their rest and dinner, they would sit in the middle of the village, smoking bidis. A few rich ones managed to buy cigarettes on their way back from the city. Some drank a little. They would sit and gossip, telling made up stories to the children gathered nearby or the women sitting huddled in a group some steps away, their heads bent pretending to be in their own private conversation, though listening intently on whatever the men were talking about, the younger unmarried ones straining to catch the words of the more handsome men of the bunch. On those days when there was a cricket match scheduled, someone would bring out a radio transistor and they would sit in silence, trying to hear the commentary amidst the crackling sound of bad reception. The entire village would erupt into sounds of joy if their team won, or even if someone from their team just hit a six.
On one such not-so-special day, she was returning from the water source, carrying water back to her home. She was young, 14 or 15 years old, though her face was slightly hardened. Her cheeks were plump and rosy and her eyes shone with the spirit of teenage days. Her movement had a dancing rhythm, her skin and face glowing from inner vitality and youth. She knew her mother would be angry because she had taken quite some time in coming back. She couldn’t help it, she thought, blushing from the thought. After all there were a lot of women waiting to fill their vessels with water and on the way back she had accidently caught glimpse of the son of the village sarpanch. Now, that was a rare sight indeed. It was common knowledge that he was the most eligible bachelor in the village, with his dark long hairs and handsome looks. He usually stayed in the city and came back to the village only once or twice a week. It was also common knowledge that he was very rich, compared to all other men.
She had been very fond of him as a child and now in her teenage years, the fondness had deepened into far more that what she understood. Her heart would beat faster, a hot flush on her face, the skin burning with a mixture of embarrassment, fear, happiness and what not. She always ran away before he saw her. She was afraid he might not like her. Often if he was standing looking somewhere else, she would stop and steal glances at him, admiring him, loving him, even to the extent of worshipping him. Today, when she was returning, she had seen him standing inside his house, but visible from outside. He had just taken a bath and was getting dressed, combing his long hair. She had been so overwhelmed that she had stumbled, letting some water spill on herself and some on the parched road. No doubt mother would be angry, she thought, her blush deepening.
It was just another day. Nothing special. Nothing moved on that windless morning. Yet in that barren space, somewhere between her mind and heart, there was a slight quiver of emotions, which she was sure no one ever would be able to reach. And under the bright morning sun, she swore she saw a butterfly with brightly coloured wings, fluttering around, before flying away and disappearing into oblivion.
- Parekh, Pravesh
08:30 AM, 25th June,
2013
Very touching.. Left me smiling for a long time.
ReplyDeleteYou make the reader walk the roads of that village, feel its soul, its people and the lives they live, and then the reader sees this girl, her tender heart, the pure emotions, the hope even in the light of the uncertain reality.
Its lovely! Brilliantly written as always, leaving no shade untouched.
Keep up the great work :)
Subtle. Yet vividly descriptive.
ReplyDeleteIt can take pages altogether to master a setup and begin a story while you on the other hand seem to be an exception at it. You easily mention the tiniest of the details,create an environment and spread a complete image in one short journey. One can walk in,stroll,inhale,feel the atmosphere and yet be content at the end with what one has enjoyed,all in this little play of words. The characters are fiery,but the essence of a juvenile remains untouched leaving one smiling with that familiar sense of innocence,almost as if her craving was half thriving of one's own self.
I love the way you have written about elemental things. Here,a butterfly. Symbolism! Created and displayed wonderfully.
Thank you for the read. Thank you for a journey into the innocence again.