Blessed be Everyone!
I am in one of my 'those' moods. Well, when my inner, serious person wakes up and looks into her heart. Not everything's good in there. Past few days have been crazy. I am confused, conflicted and I don't know where to go or whom to ask. It's like I need a perpetual hug to keep me going. I know, Sentimentality Overdose Alert (!) Sigh. Thank God I can at least let go some of my overspilling emotions through writing. So, here's another not-so-fictional real life inspired short story. I need some motivation and I hope I get it from you all. Thank you for stopping by my Blog and making an effort to see what it's all about. :)
"The coffee mug almost slips from his fingers as he hears a loud 'crack' and a rattle of a vessel from the adjoining dining hall. He holds his breath and waits for something else to follow. Nothing. Piercing silence. A Sob. A woman breathless. He slowly gets up, lest his chair squeaks and peeps from the corner of his room door. There, sitting on the floor, is a disheveled woman, crying with a thrown plate and scattered food all around her, grotesquely decorating her like yellow marigold petals.
A man sits on a chair next to her, staring at her like a starved hawk. Angry, Hungry and Ready to Strike.
'I told you I hate what you cook. Don't bring that piece of s*** before me again! Why can't you cook like my mother! How old are you? 50? Haven't you learnt anything in these many years?'
He is shouting. She gives him a look of utter hatred. A cold and dead look, that would freeze a human being. But this man, this Angry, Hungry and Ready to Strike man, is far from being called a human.
He stands behind the door and watches all this like a mute spectator. Will he be like that when he gets married? Will he treat his wife like that? Hating her and Screaming at her. A shudder passes through him, leaving him momentarily cold. He couldn't watch this anymore. What worst could happen? He comes out of his room and stands at the scene of Oppression and Depression.
'Dad. Why do you talk to her like that? She is old now, like you are! Can't you see how much she does for you?' He controls his temper, hoping to talk like a sensible man.
'What? She has to do all this for me. Who else will she cook and wash and serve for?' The Angry, Hungry and Ready to Strike man looks like an Evil, Leering and Obnoxious man as he says this.
He grits his teeth and lifts his mother up.
'Why Maa? Why do you tolerate this?' He asks, knowing the answer thoroughly in his heart.
'For this.' She says, holding those tiny black and golden beads around her neck that tie her to his father, in a bond of eternity. An Eternity of Suffering and Pain.
'If I were you, I'd have left him.' He says, as his mother cleans the mess.
'It is easier said than done. It's too late. I am old now. I am just waiting for you to get a job and get married. Then I can die peacefully.' His heart lurches imagining his mother dead.
'Maa, I hate him.' He says, expressions blunt and emotions raging. Just like blood oozing through reopened scars. There was no tourniquet to stop this hatred from spilling.
'No, you should not. He is your Father.' His mother says, switching into the immediate Wife of the Angry, Hungry and Ready to Strike man, mode.
'But....why? Don't you hate him?' He asks.
'No...and I don't have a choice. I am his wife.'
'Yes. You are his wife! Shouldn't he respect that. Why don't you say anything Maa?'
'You wouldn't understand Son.' She says, cutting onions for another curry.
'I would. Why do you tolerate him? You should just, just slap him. Tell him, you are not his servant! Throw him out of this house. Bloody idiot!' He yells, angry at the patience and endurance of his mother. It annoyed him and made him feel like a raging blind folded bull.
The hands cutting onions hit him hard on the cheek. He is stunned as he looks down at his mother, who is giving him the same cold dead look.
'You will see me dead if you ever talk about your father like that again. Do you understand?' She says - her every syllable is drenched in anger. He doesn't understand how to react. He just takes a deep breath and walks out of the kitchen, back to his room. Pain makes his eyes sting. But he is a man and he wouldn't cry.
What was the point for standing up for something and becoming what you never wanted to be? He said things when he was angry, things that he hated when his father spewed them from his mouth. Bloody Idiot.
He could smell the cooking of his mother as he shuts the door of his room and goes back to his coffee, finding solace in that dark black concoction. Somethings never change."