Mix Salad

(Written for Weekly Writing Challenge : This week’s challenge is to use the aid of an unreliable narrator in telling your story)

“C’mon Jenna, hurry up with my tea, will ya?”

Old Ma hollered down the hallway. Tess shivered. She hated the Thursday of every week. For it meant it was her turn to serve Old Ma for the day – breakfast, mid morning snack, lunch, high tea, dinner and everything in between. The torture was unbearable. Snide remarks, occasional slaps and the volley of curses – she seemed to bring out the worst in that horrible woman.

“Lost in thought again, are you? Are you making fanciful plans of going to Hollywood? Or is it the yatch trip with that despicable boy Jerry? C’mon you daydreaming cow, do you think I have all day to sit and wait for a stupid fluff like you?”

“‘Not that you have a choice,” Tess sighed. She knew Fanny had set the wooden legs afire on purpose. Which meant Old Ma was confined to her room all the time. Fanny was such a lovable girl –always up to some mischief! She always had this twinkle in her eye, as though life was a big joke to her. “Someday I would like to be as fun as her,” Tess thought ruefully, walking out with the meal tray. Shivering from head to toe.

On top of the staircase, she was glad Nyla took over. Nyla had always been good to her. Whenever Tess was in trouble, Nyla would be her saving grace. That girl seemed to worship the old woman. There was a sort of reverence in her eyes that was definitely not fake. She knocked the door and quietly entered Old Ma’s room.

“What a mess this place is,” thought Zenia. She made it a point to leave the room spic and span, and yet every morning the room looked like it had been struck by a hurricane. “What have you done this time Beth?” Zenia sighed. It was true that no one petrified Old Ma more that Beth, but this was getting out of hand now – if not checked in time, she would probably end up killing the old woman. “Not that anyone would be upset about that,” Zenia grinned. She was glad to not be on the receiving end when Beth was in her full blown fury – those angry red eyes would make even the most brave hearted cower in fright.

Old Ma placed the tray on her lap and looked up, not sure who to expect today. Her eyes immediately softened and she clutched the pretty girl in front of her. “Marion! Oh thank heavens it’s you! I’ve missed you my baby. Don’t leave me. Please don’t. The others…the others…they are you but just…just not you.”

“I know Ma, I’ve missed you too.” Marion smiled at her mother. She stared out of the window enjoying the moment…not knowing which one of the others would take over her mind next.

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This Story Has 3 Sides

(Written for Weekly Writing Challenge : This week’s challenge is to tell the same story from two or more unique perspectives in whichever format you want)

 

The scene: Stark hospital room with a female patient.

In a white bed I lie

Revisiting old memories, happy & sad

Clock ticks as life ebbs

Clock ticks as life ebbs

I smile as the end seems near now

A beckoning arises from the beyond

Woman – The one with all the time, all the enthusiasm but no energy.

 —

The scene: Stark hospital room with a female patient, her husband holding her hand.

They say time heals

But it only deepens the sorrow

My love fades before my eyes

My love fades before my eyes

She smiles to suggest she is ok

My eyes smile back as the heart cries

Husband – The one with all the energy, all the time, but no enthusiasm.

 —

The scene: Stark hospital room with a female patient, her husband holding her hand as the doctor hurries to check the patient’s reports.

I rush past my duties

Mechanically, emotionlessly

Need to catch the matinee show

Need to catch the matinee show

Apart from the drama unfolding in the room

This job defies emotional indulgence

Doctor – The one with all the enthusiasm, all the energy but no time.

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Life on the Ebb

(Written for #FWF: Free Write Friday)

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Photo credit – Tumblr

Situation: It’s high noon. Sun blazing. You awake in a field and birds are pecking your skin… GO!

Prick prick prick. Peck peck peck.

I squint in the afternoon blaze. The birds relentlessly stick their beaks into my wasted body.

Hah!, I think sarcastically, do I even have enough left in me to feed you?

Happiness lasted till two week ago, before the mad guy with the wispy hair and stinking white coat decided to subject me to this torture. In one of his fanciful mood swings, he decided to test my resilience against attacking foreign beings.

Though I never understood how that would help his research in discovering the first ever bulletproof vest and startle the world with his invention.

But hey, I’m no scientist. I’m just a rat. But not your ever day grubby rat, mind you. I was born in a lab.

I was fed well and taken care of. My grey coat shone as silver and my bright eyes twinkled like diamonds. The only grouse I had with my upbringing was the daily exposure to those blinding red rays which made me itch for a good hour or two. But it was all for the high purpose that my life had to serve.

I should have known that life is not a comfortable bed of fresh bread. However irrational it sounded to my ears – I was reared to meet a painful, agonizing and humiliating death at the hands (beaks) of this brainless flying duds.

I lie here, helplessly waiting for the last drop of blood to be sucked out, the last piece of skin to be torn and the last heartbeat to be heard. Don’t be fooled my friends, you never know who is using you for what purpose.

Prick prick prick. Peck peck peck.

Food for the Soul

(Written for Weekly Writing Challenge)

It was a cold day.

Little children shivered to the bone as their fragile mothers held them to their bosom, in an unsuccessful endeavour to keep them warm. It had just been two days since the fire had broken out in a Mumbai suburb – killing, plundering and destroying thousands of innocent lives. Two days – but it felt like a lifetime ago. Firemen and locals tried in vain to save the cotton mill, but all in vain. All that was left were burning timbers and ashen faces. Set aglow by the blazing memories of the fire, two nights ago, which caught the fancy of the mill and spread its tentacles across the neighbouring hutments. A merciless orange-red devil which destroyed everything in its wake, sparing no mercy for the kind old blind lady or the wailing child. Nobody knew what had set off the fire. Maybe a naked wire or a heated generator.

Through this ruckus walked Gustav. Untouched by the fire which had taken places on the other side of town, he silently said a prayer for the unfortunate and made his way to the restaurant. ‘Please God, not my restaurant. Not my restaurant!’, he thought. Two nights ago, news of the fire had broken out and Gustav had broken into sweat. What if his restaurant had been destroyed? How would he rebuild his dream of owning the finest Italian restaurant in Mumbai – the land of dreams, aspirations and Bollywood? Would this foreign city be kind enough to give him a second chance? The entire area had been cordoned off and he had no access to his restaurant till today.

All morbid thoughts were laid to rest as he stood in front of “D’ Angelo”. The restaurant was now the only vertical structure in the area which stood untouched. A stark comparison to the dreary surroundings. It’s bright red walls presented a horrible contrast to the sea of burnt grey that swam around. An eye sore. A happy smile escaped his lips – and was immediately killed by the guilt of his selfish thoughts while so many sat listless.

He shut the doors of the restaurant and some of his guilt remained on the porch. He was welcomed by a babble of his staff members, mostly foreigners with a smattering of locals. He tried shutting his mind to the occasional groan that would slip through his panelled windows. But the groan remained. Louder and louder it grew till he could bear it no more.

“We should help those wretched people out there. Get on your aprons to whip some of the finest pizzas and pastas we’ve ever made. We’ve got more than 500 people out there. Let no one go hungry tonight.”

Everyone looked at Gustav blankly. Was he out of his mind – thought most of the staff. He wanted to feed a throng of people who have been hungry for 2 days straight? That would require truckloads of food! After confirming that Gustav was in no mood to answer questions, the group set about the task for preparing the food.

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Photograph by Michelle Weber

Three hours later, the first batch of food to serve 70-75 people had been laid out. Several trips were made to and fro till every last bit of the pizza had been served. As the team got together to make the next batch of food, there was a faint knock on the window. A ragged looking boy having a tear stained face stood with a plastic bowl full of pasta in his hand.

“What’s up buddy? You want some more of that pasta, eh?”, called out a sous chef.

The boy shook his head, placed the bowl on the window sill and walked away without a word. Gustav peeped out of the window and saw several of the homeless people ignoring the food.

“What’s wrong with these people?”, he fumed. “Ungrateful people, is this how they thank us for the food? Look over there – that entire group is sitting with their back towards the pizzas. What is wrong with these people?”

“Sir, may I say something?”, called out the voice of a non-descript  local commis. “These guys haven’t eaten for two days. Their homes have been devasted and it will take a long while before they are able to rebuild their lives. Do you remember what your mother did everytime you felt low?”

“She would make my favourite chocolate pudding”, reminisced Gustav, not knowing where this discussion was heading.

“That’s right sir. Food. When you feel happy you celebrate with delicious food, when you are low, you eat the get-well-soon food. What these people need right now is the kind of food that reminds them of home.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is they need dal (lentils), chawal (rice) sabji  (vegetable preparation) and maybe some roti (Indian bread). Food that reminds them of home. Of a time that they once spent happily as a family. Food for the soul. Not some food that is alien to their culture. Look at those people out there – living life below the poverty line. They’ve probably never tasted pasta in their life. You need to feed them with what they want to eat.”

Gustav got the point. He immediately ordered his team to prepare the required meal under the guidance of the Indian commis.

Next day the newspaper headlines exclaimed “Humanity prevails: Italian chef and his team serves Indian meal to 500 homeless people”

Gustav did not remember the accolades. He did not remember the recipes. All he remembered were the 500 smiling eyes. His day had been made.