Fiction

A Book Half-Read

Young kids jabbering, mumbling, dancing, confessing, and sharing rumours of the 'cool kids' surrounded her along with the blistering heat. Her skin perspired. Like beautiful, shiny spheres, as the drops rested on her left cheek. The heat didn’t bother her. The people did. She sat on the old, wobbly chair with a book in front of her. The Old Man and the Sea. It was open. Half-read.

With a series of unpredictable events in her desk, she just sat there. She observed the fleeting ecstasy of people, the stories woven by themselves, locked and unaccounted for they are ashamed of themselves. They are the protagonists and antagonists of their short stories, imagining them to be filmed. Some were lost in savouring delicacies of roti-bhaji, packed by mothers. Some sat with gloomy eyes, lamenting lack of opportunities. Daisy loved it. She loved the regular predictable events of the school. Walking down the lanes, desperately in need of stimulation, she never thought about the alternative. The alternative of the routine. The alternative of her future. She couldn’t wait for the bell to ring. When it rang, she could go home. To Ma. She would throw off her shoes, and clothes and hug her. Tight. With the sweat between them. But, she was Ma. The sweat didn’t bother. Much.