Seeking Acceptance from those Around Me

By
Cscope Staff
-
0

Author – Gulraj Singh Bedi

Acceptance-from-those-Around-Me
Image – Pixabay

While scrolling down a page titled ‘The Idealist’ on Facebook, I saw a quote recently:
“If you wait for the world to accept then you’ll surely die rejected.”
I’m quite disappointed with myself because it took me a long time learn this lesson.

To be very honest, I’ve spent the majority of my life as a people-pleaser. As a teenager, I was an annoying student, who always preferred to sit alone. I was quite popular with the other students. Not because I was the stud of the class, but because I used to help people complete their assignments. I used to do it just to please my peers in the hope that it would make them love and respect me.

Nothing changed after I completed 12th and started college. When my friends or batch mates were busy bunking classes in college and being up to no good at college fests, I was busy playing mind games. Whenever the teachers taught in class, my peers would be busy gossiping but I used to be busy taking down notes. I used to complete all the assignments and tasks assigned to me well before time. This time, I wasn’t a popular guy among my batch mates.

Well, I was popular with my batch mates but only when I helped them complete their assignments. I remember the day when as many as 15 people came to me with a request to complete their practical files. I had to stay awake the entire night in order to complete it as not even a page was complete. But, for some unknown reason, all these acts did not make me very popular with my peers. I stayed up many nights in order to ascertain the reason behind that.

I remember when I started my first job as a news copyeditor, my sycophantic ability wasn’t intact. I never really opened up with anybody over there. I hardly ever had chats with my colleagues. A majority of my time there was spent either editing the copy of the news stories or writing useless blog posts.

During my stint as a copy editor, I realized that craving for attention makes one feel vulnerable. Moreover, no one is there for you because at the end of the day, when the chips are down, everyone else is busy protecting their own selves. So, you got to be your own hero. It was here that I decided not to stick my nose into other’s affairs. You can’t even imagine how liberating it was. From that moment onwards, I completely refrained myself from pleasing people. I decided that the only people I would care about are my family members (I could afford to do that).

I stopped being charming and endearing. I was polite as far as it was possible, but I couldn’t offer anything apart from that, in addition to honesty. During this time, a very good friend of mine offered me a glass full of scotch (I’m a teetotaller but he didn’t know that). I didn’t say yes in order to please him and decided to tell the truth instead. I told him, “Thank you so much, but I don’t drink.” He appeared to be a bit baffled for a fraction of a second, but then he laughed and said, “You are quite honest about your feelings and opinions.” And strangely enough, there was no thunderclap and the skies didn’t fall down. We are friends to this day.

That Nostalgic Farewell Card from Friends

By
Caleidoscope
-
1

Author – Ishant Arora

Nostalgia

There is a feeling of nostalgia that dwells within every one of us. Nostalgic memories are like boxes of sweets from which you can never pick just one. You need to take a dozen at once and relish their sweetness in some corner of your mind and heart. Sometimes it happens that some of our old stories, memories, and bonds tend to open a thousand windows to our past and then we are left amazed. The real treasure we own is the treasure of being nostalgic.

From the day we step into our school, we start making memories. If you think you were having fun, this was not the case, since you were actually making those sweet memories which would become a major part of your future life. Those corridors where you spent hours and hours sitting with that one good friend and sorting out those trivial problems were, in reality, nothing compared to the hurdles we face as we grow up. The food we shared, the trips which made us independent and brought friends closer to us, the care, the concern, the laughter, the tears and every second we had been through in school ends up in the summation of memories.

The commercial money-minded contemporary world cannot weigh these precious moments with paper notes. They are born with us and will fade away only when our brain dies. While today everyone is running a rat’s race and has no time to even look after their health, these nostalgic moments can free us from all the stress and anxieties we come across. Some bring a wide smile on our face and some makes our lachrymal glands hyper secrete the gems we have in our eyes – tears.

The difference between now and then is that when we were little kids we were totally dependent on our heart for our actions. But as we grow up we come across the harsh reality of the world and the function of the heart is taken over by the mind.  It is of no doubt that the functions of both are exclusive. Nostalgia resides in the heart but memories dwell in the mind. Logically, nostalgia is that bridging junction between the heart and mind. Without this we would have been unfeeling robots which this mechanized world is making us.

One of the incidences I remember was from the time I had taken admission in a Pharmacy College as I was unable to get into a good medical college. That one year in my first-ever college inculcated a lot of memories in my mind. I had made friends who were just like family. After a year when I was successful in obtaining admission in a good medical college I was very hesitant to leave my people and my college but whether it is destiny or not I had to go. My friends had arranged a sweet little farewell and I was gifted a card with all my close ones’ wishes scribbled on it. Sadly, I have not talked to them for four years now. I miss them from the core of my heart but that farewell card – it’s still stuck in my journal and whenever I go back to it, I travel back to a time when things were simple and pure. I feel so nostalgic about it.

Coming to agents of nostalgia, they can be numerous, the most common being the diaries and journals we keep. They are the true witnesses of all the good and bad times we go through in this journey. They tend to capture all of our joyous moments; from the collection of those bills we had paid on a day out with friends to those key chains our pals bought for us to make us feel special. They carry the fragrance of nostalgia with them so that one fine day when we are burdened by the stress and pressure of our careers we can go back to them and be lost in the gala tales of our past. Those journals we write are a mere reflection of our heart and not the mind.

Finally, friends form the pillars of nostalgia. You dig out and sow the seeds of love and trust and they promise to flower. This is how the cycle works. Leaves or flowers might shed during some seasons but again in the spring they are back. Such is the nature of human friendship. Because we don’t form friendships in our mind, we form them in our heart and they reside there.

So, in this journey from heart to mind, the one thing that never alters is nostalgia. Keep it, appreciate it, but most of all live it.

I Stepped into My Father’s Shoes

By
Caleidoscope
-
0

Author – Virender Singh Rawat

I-Stepped-into-My-Father’s-Shoes
Image – Pixabay

It feels good right?
It feels good when you turn 18; when you are an adult.
Finally, the moment for which you have been waiting so long comes to pass.

Most of us are literally on cloud nine at this time. Your social media is full of well wishes. You post a picture with a caption related to you being an adult now.

You are allowed to vote. So you post a picture, showing the mark on your finger, captioned voted for the first time.

You are allowed to drive. So you post a picture of you in a car captioned got my license today. You are allowed to drink. Few daredevils will post a picture of them boozing too.
A new world opens up for you.

But this world is full of responsibilities. Few realise it sooner and few realise it later, what being an adult actually means. I realised it sooner.

It was the 21st of August when I turned 18. I did what I was expected to do. I partied for a week, treating every friend, big and small. I got a lecture from my parents, a watch from my sister, a card from my brother, and many gifts (including a kiss from my girlfriend) and many well wishes. I was happy and everything was perfect.

But just a few months after my birthday, my grandfather passed away. Everybody was crying – my mother, aunt, uncle, younger brother, elder sister, a few relatives and myself. I never understood the concept of relatives; consequently I despise some but love a few. They stand with us in our good and bad times, at least a few of them do, I think.

Everybody was crying except two people, my grandmother and my father. Grandma was mourning. She wouldn’t say anything and stayed like that for a few days. I saw other women removing her bangles, her sindoor and her mangalsutra. As for my father, I could see his eyes were red like he’d burst into tears at any moment but he didn’t. He has always been like this, never sharing grief, never crying, being strong, being patient, being my idol. He always stood perfectly calm, like an old wise tree that is trying not to lose leaves, knowing he’s empty inside but let others rest in his shade anyway. Now he was the head of the family. He was carrying the burden of keeping everyone together under his shade by not losing his leaves. It’s not easy to provide a shade. You have to burn in the sun by yourself to provide a shade and that’s not easy at all.

The janaza started to move towards the ghat and as it was lifted I could hear louder cries. They echoed in my ears for a long time. My father was in front carrying a pot. I was moving alongside my father lost in thoughts of my grandfather. I have many beautiful memories with him and so I wondered what father must be feeling. My uncle called my name and told me to give shoulder to the janaza.

I did.
It felt heavy.
It felt like I had been handed a great responsibility. I was carrying my grandfather to the place where he could rest for eternity. It felt like he was passing down all his responsibilities to the ones shouldering him to the ghat.I could feel the weight of the responsibilities. As if he was whispering, “take care of them all”.

My younger brother was also walking with us. I saw him sobbing. He was sobbing all along. Nobody handed him the janaza for shouldering. He and I are the same. We were both grandchildren of the same person.

Why not him?

I soon realized I was an adult now. And it doesn’t mean you are 18. It means you are now responsible. You have a responsibility which you have to carry all your life. They say you are a grown man when your feet fit in your father’s shoe.

I guess that’s right. They fit mine perfectly now.

Shooting Star and Colour Red

By
Caleidoscope
-
2

Author – Shalini Kotnala

Shooting Star and Colour Red
Image – Pixabay

Mummy, daddy, chocolates, balloons, gifts, beloved fairy dress and yummy delicacies, dressed in their best garnishing, waiting to be gulped down, sitting quietly on the table- remember your childhood?

After leaving the state of infancy a child starts acquiring knowledge in its uncorrupted form. Most of us relate our childhood to images of vivid colours and adulthood to a sense of unrestricted freedom and the burden of responsibility. I, on the other hand, relate it to the images of an unforgiving cruelly shining sun, hurricanes of sand and the favourite shoes of my Abbu- half burnt and half smeared with blood. It was his only belonging that I could take away from the memory of my happy childhood-my memento, my souvenir.

When I was a child, I didn’t get the chance to read about the fight sequence between Captain America and Iron man, I rather saw it happening live. I saw people taking revenge and the revenge of the revenge by massacring hundreds on a daily basis. Barrel bombs, rockets filled with nerve agent Sarin – my story is one in which death offers life and darkness offers light.

My earliest memory is of my Ammi jaan, terrified upon seeing a shooting star. While I closed my eyes to make a wish, she threw me away from her leaving me parched for her tales of Zinns and queen Zenobia. The shooting star and I fell simultaneously with the sound of dhammmmm! One of the fallen ones produced smoke cloud, the other – dust. Bruised, breathless and blinded by tears I geared up my strength, shivering and sobbing, just to be able to look once and for all, backwards. Behind me I saw something which looked like a hand taken over by corrosion – half black, half red. I wished to find Ammi and Abbu but I couldn’t find one full human being. With horror on my face, I realized that I was the only living soul left. My tears started running down. My throat choked and my body was paralyzed. I couldn’t move, speak or even hug the ground.

I don’t know for how long I kept standing there thinking that red is not just the colour of sharbat but blood too, that Islam was not just about Eid and Ramadan but jihad too and that sometimes shooting stars grant death without even making a wish for it. Once again I tried to search for my parents to say goodbye. Every other scorched body looked the same and then I recognised Abbu from his shoes. Those were his new favourites. As soon as this thought hit me I glared at the sky, carried my hands in front of my face to pray for the charcoaled and never to be cremated bodies. I rubbed my face to clean off the shed tears and then went towards life.

I lived in starvation and alienation, deprived of money and education. Encountering all of them in the simple day to day life; I kept my wobbling feet walking…walking towards mercy, kindness and hope. For me to stop believing in love was hard because I didn’t have any other option but to believe in humanity for my survival. To face all the odds is part of a growing up process.

At the end of the day, after body tormenting labour, unrelenting remarks on your lineage and your theft of the living of indigenous people, you choose what you want to see in people – love or hatred, howsoever remote or evident it may seem. When you realise that sacrifice and sufferings are the only two do’s for an adult, you become an adult yourself regardless of the age you are.

Acting Lessons from Inside the Actors Studio

By
Caleidoscope
-
0

Author – Annalakshmi

Acting Classes
Image Source

Do you remember watching your first awards ceremony? Your favourite actors and actresses dressed in beautiful clothes, standing on stage holding an award and giving their acceptance speech. Wasn’t it thrilling to see the stars you idolized and wanted to be like? I was no different. I even took drama classes as a child and made my father take me to an agent so that I could be discovered. I playfully pursued it well into my teenage years, going to acting classes and auditions. And like most teenagers, as I got older, I opted out gracefully from my unfulfilled dream of becoming an actress and pursued other avenues for my career. But there are those who are passionate and determined to succeed at becoming superstars so that they too can get on stage and hold their award for best actor/actress.

Advice from Hollywood

I’ve heard countless interviews of famous Hollywood actors who hardly had any money in their pockets before their road to stardom started. Take, for instance, Halle Berry, who stayed in a homeless shelter, during her lowest times, or Jennifer Lopez who slept on the sofa of her dance studio before she got her big break. Even James Bond actor Daniel Craig slept on park benches in London during his struggling days as an actor. But, don’t jump to the conclusion that if you are broke, you will be discovered.

I’ve also seen numerous interviews on ‘Inside the Actors Studio’, a TV show, where actors emphasize the importance of acting lessons and how beneficial it was for them. Using real life experiences to draw upon, when you need to do an emotional scene, is a commonality among all successful actors/actresses. Another piece of advice many have imparted is to never give up and to keep trying even during your bleakest moments. Because if you are sincere and passionate about acting then you also need to endure the tough road ahead of you before you find the door to success.

Secret of Indian Actors

In India, you will find similar advice among the superstars, but there is of course a huge difference between the superstars of India and the rest of the world. Rajnikanth, for instance, is idolized and worshiped by many of his fans. He has an international fan following and his movies are released worldwide, even Japan, where he, surprisingly, has a huge fan base. We also have Shah Rukh Khan, from Bollywood, who is loved and admired by thousands.

Many young aspiring actors dream of achieving this kind of success. These two unconventional actors, who are not your typical good looking actors, have made it to superstar status. So, how did they achieve their level of success and gather such a phenomenal fan base? There must be something else, aside from talent and luck to make it to such super stardom levels. What did they have that set them apart from the rest? Aside from your acting skills and professionalism, what you must have is your own style or flair; something that sets you apart from the rest of your colleagues who are also trying to make it big. For example, Rajnikanth became famous for his cigarette flips in his movies. It continued to be his signature move until he quit smoking. But by then he had already reached superstar status.

Advice of Successful People

The advice is the same, no matter what country you come from or what language you speak, hard work and perseverance are the keys to making it in this field. But once you do get that chance, you must have something unique to offer on the screen, which makes the audience fall hopelessly in love with you. Develop or find that special something that will reach out and grab the attention of the people and capture their hearts. This is the reason why many actors and actresses emphasize the importance of acting classes. Study amongst your peers and learn tips and techniques to help each other discover yourselves, your talents, and your potential. Use the several methods available to you in your acting and drama classes, such as the art of improv, acting on stage, street plays and acting for the screen.

Explore every avenue available to you, so that you can unravel your own potential and discover your unique style that will capture the hearts of the nation and perhaps the world. Why not dream big and work towards owning a Filmfare Award, National Award or even an Oscar one day?

Annalakshmi Author Bio: Annalakshmi is a modern “traditional” Tamilian, brought up in Canada, who resides in Pune, India, with her husband. She draws upon her life experiences, when writing, having been exposed to the lifestyle and cultures of both countries. She loves to dance to decompress, but mainly for the joy and bliss she experiences from dancing itself. She is simple, fun-loving and deeply passionate about reaching out, through her writing, and propelling positive changes in people.

Image of Truth: Take Me Back

By
Caleidoscope
-
0

Author – Aparna Negi

Short-Story-Contest-Image-of-Truth-Take-Me-Back
Image – Pixabay

The birds they sing so cheerfully. Oh! I love their voice. I am flattered by their mesmerizing voice. But now they do not sing. Where are they? Where have they been?

I love the smell of the rain. I love it when they touch my gentle skin. I love to watch the peacocks dance. But rain no more showers on me and neither do I see the peacocks dancing. Where are they?

I love it when all of my family sit together and have conversations over tea and snacks. But now we don’t. Why don’t we?

I love it when I get lolled in dust while playing and the day just flies away so quickly. But now I no more get dirty. Why don’t I?

I love it when mom puts me to bed and kisses my forehead while singing a lullaby to me. But now she doesn’t. I wonder why?

Where am I? What have I become?

The room is dark and everything is faded. A glittery image I did see!

I went closer and there was an ‘Image of Truth’ mirror there.

Aghast! I see my fully grown body. Hands all black from the hard work. No more are my hands soft. The tension over my forehead has created deep marks. I am no more a ‘child’. Wrinkles are ruling my body now. For the first time today I felt like an adult after seeing the truth of me.

Happy were those early days, when I shined in my angel infancy!

“Be a child again,” a voice cried.  “Be sorry if you have done something wrong, cry for the things you love, be mad, be wild ,flirt, giggle, do all the insane things at once , take a nap, chase the animals, play hide and seek, get punished, cry and then forget it at once.”

It continued, “Where are you? You still do exist. It’s all the shame you’ve stored and the aggression. Don’t be so proud. You’re already dead. The day your curiosity died, you died at that very moment. Just flip through your mind and recall the wrong you’ve done. This wealth is not going to give you anything. Ask your soul what does it long for? Go back to the place where you belong and embrace your memories. Love yourself again and distribute it around. Apologize to those whom you’ve hurt. Apologize to yourself and live your life again. For to become a child you need not turn back time but only live that very moment again. Live it by spreading smiles across the faces of thousands of kids. Spread innocence.”

The voice faded away.

At once, all of my questions were answered. I longed to go back. Why did I ever wish to become an adult? A child is all I want to be today. Take all of my wealth. Take all of it but …

Please take me back.

This story submitted as part of our Short Story Contest

Change of Game; Let’s Play James Bond

By
Caleidoscope
-
0

Author – Lakshmy Das

Short-Story-Contest-Change-of-Game
image – Pixabay

Amma went back to the house we were staying in; the workers had asked for more drinking water. The construction works of the new house was progressing well. The roof was yet to be done, but the structure stood awe-inspiring already. The house would be gigantic on completion, a symbol of Appa’s legacy- years of sacrifice made into a fine piece of building; to be remembered, by us.
The masons were on the other side of the building as I and my brother play hide-and-seek in the unfinished rooms. They couldn’t hear our giggles, not even our screams.
***
He gets bored very easily. And hide-and-seek could entertain his twelve year old soul only for half an hour.
“Change of game; let’s play James Bond,” he declared.
That was his favourite detective game. Me, the forever obedient one, agreed as usual. We found a safety pin from the scrap, the item to be detected upon one of us hiding it. It was a small one; a bit rusted. Surely, it was one Amma had lost.
As always, I was the first to seek. And by some faint luck I found it under a torn carpet. Next, it was my turn to hide the pin. I had hidden it safely, but as always he found it in a few seconds. Now it was again my turn to seek the rusted pin, which, by then, I had named Rusty.
He had hidden it well. It was nowhere to be found with my naked eyes. Before my slow brain started working, Amma came in with her usual announcement.
“That’s enough! Go, take your baths both of you. It’s time for tea.”
We nodded in agreement. And she nodded approving of our agreement. Amma left, as was the usual custom.
My humble brain slowly detected a signal from the bathroom of the building. I ran. And he ran behind me. But like always, he didn’t push me out of the way to prevent him from losing the game. The way he stood there calmed me a bit. I was searching, full-fledged and vigorously; and he stood there, observing the smallness of the space. The bathroom was small and clearly private in a bedroom like that.
“Munnu, here is your clue,” he says, “it is nowhere below.”
Eyebrows raised and half-smiling, he stood by the door. I hunt every brick hole, every small corner and to reach the ventilation hole, I even hopped onto a brick beside the wall. I was desperate to find Rusty.

His being near was never a thing to be sensed; he was always near. But his hands, the slow unusual movement of them heading towards my ‘not-to-be-touched-by-others’ part of the body was something I could sense. And that was an unexpected thing. No one had ever taught a ten year old how to stop her brother from clearing his doubts on how the other gender’s body felt like. No one!
***
As it felt then, even today’s shower feels painful. Now I cry, for I allowed the man I love to feel the woman in me, letting him know the wound I bear. I cry, for I finally let it go. I am washing away a lot of things.
I bath twice, or he would sense the change. The smell of this skin is way too familiar to him, my brother by blood.
***
In a week, it is his marriage and that too with the girl of his dreams. Fearless, bold, daring – the manly attributes that made a woman more beautiful; Neeta was all of it. And on every note of comparison he makes, I scream within, “It is you who shattered the faith I had in this world.” His mocks bring spit to my mouth, for it was he who instilled this kind of a fear in me, rendering me incapable. Sometimes I can’t help but smile, wondering about the meaning of life. He could have been forgiven if it was a mistake and it was never repeated! But he deserves punishment. And I know, he will be punished somewhere.
***
A week after the wedding ceremony, my sister-in-law enquired, “What does he like the most?”
“Leg!” I reply and in a second I add, “of lamb.”
And I smiled.
An adult I have become, burying inside a thousand secrets that shall die with me!
***

This story submitted as part of our Short Story Contest

Caught in the Paradox of Growing Up

By
Caleidoscope
-
0

Author – Arunima Arun

Short-Story-Contest-Paradox-of-Growing-Up
Image – Flickr/Rakesh JV

Whenever I cavorted in mirth to serendipities gifted by strangers, my mother used to scold me to grow up and realise the world.

Whenever I asked to clear my doubt on advertisements of sanitary napkins and its use, my elder sister used to scold me to grow up and understand by my own.

When I opposed my neighbour for touching my thighs, he told me to grow up and understand the change.

When I got frequently cheated by my sycophantic friends, my companion used to scold me to grow up and understand people.

When I asked my teacher about the concept of contraception, she asked me to grow up and learn sensibility.

When I screamed seeing muliebral specks of puberty on my skirt, my aunt scolded me to grow up and understand my body.

When I fell in love with my best friend, and confessed to him, he scolded me to grow up and understand the value of friendship.

When I found my soul mate and introduced him to my family, my father scolded me to grow up and to be more selective.

When I asked him to breakup and forget, he scolded me to grow up and understand others’ feelings.

When I agreed to marry the person arranged by my family, my friend scolded me to grow up and to learn to make my own decisions.

When I became pregnant and informed him, he scolded to me to grow up and abort the child.

When I found him to be a sadist and questioned him, he scolded me to grow up and quit from his life.

When I gave birth to a girl child and pampered her, my husband scolded me to grow up and abandon my child.

When I threatened him for ogling my child, he scolded me to grow up and accept my fate.

When I hit him with a hammer for molesting my child, nobody scolded me to grow up and understand my fault.

While spending years in imprisonment, I talked to walls to drive away lunacy. My cell mates never asked me to grow up. After I was released from prison, neither my family, nor my society asked me to grow up. When I set up a woman’s cell to help deprived and molested women, nobody asked me to grow up.

When my venture soared as an organisation of woman empowerment, nobody asked me to grow up, because I had been growing from the moment I was asked to grow up and understand.

No one from my mother to my husband ever found me sensible. Actually they should have grown up to know the dos and don’ts. Nobody corrected me, nor did I correct them. I was growing up from the moment I understood that the people around me were not. Growing up is not an age-based criterion, it’s all about sanity and sensibility to understand masked people who pretend that they have grown much.

Even after attaining puberty, they never wanted to call me an adult or a child.

When I enjoyed myself and amused others with my childish pranks, nobody was rapt in my enjoyment; rather they warned me that I’m no more a child.

When I acted serious, and opined in major decisions and discussions, they frowned at me saying it’s not child’s play and asked me to clear-off from the discussion table.

In the middle of the dilemma to decide whether I am a child or an adult, I lost a crazy ride from my childhood to adulthood.

I’ve grown or not? This was more tricky than any maths problem in academics.

In fact, when I understood that I was already grown in the middle of a ‘society not grown’, that was the moment I felt like an adult.

This story submitted as part of our Short Story Contest

Stepping into Adulthood Before Time

By
Caleidoscope
-
1

Author – Madalsa Poddar

Short-Story-Contest-Adulthood-before-Time
Image – Flickr/ILO

Growing up in different cities, the boy resisted one day, “How often are we going to change locations Maa? I have to leave my friends every year.”

To which a malnourished old lady, with eyes bulging out responded, “The land owner doesn’t let anyone live in one place longer than that beta.”

Upset but determined the boy promised his mother, “You’ll see Maa, one day I’ll start earning and then we’ll buy a pakka-house.”

On his fourteenth birthday, instead of taking him to the river bank and spending time together, his father told him they would go to a new place.

“Somewhere you’ve always wanted to go, but remember to put on the worst of your clothes,” said his father.

Surprised but excited the boy runs to his mother to tell her that father had finally agreed to show him his workplace. Tears rolled down his mother’s eyes. He thought it was because of happiness but the mother knew the truth beforehand.

At his father’s workplace, the boy got excited on seeing hundreds of kids like him, all his age.

From that day onwards, his father would take him to work every day. But the child managed to finally understand how he was trapped when he was stamped as ‘permanent’. That was when he finally stopped dreaming. He realized that river banks were way more peaceful than construction sites.

Seeing his friends play every morning when he left for work with his father, he learned what it meant to be a labourer’s boy.

“I grew up way too early,” he would think every day on his way to work.

The morning breeze which earlier had put a smile on his face, calling him to play with his friends, would now bring sorrow with them. Physical barriers were broken, but he was getting barricaded by social norms because of the profession into which he was dragged. Those kids playing on the streets, who were earlier his friends, they were now his haters, envious of him since he was supporting his family. Little did they know about him!

He would be repulsed every morning when it was time to go to the site where he was once very eager to go. His mother’s food, which he used to run away from, was now as delicious as anything else.

He spent every day questioning himself, “Why me? Why is it that the sand with which mother used to stop me from playing is now everywhere around me to the extent that I smell like it? Why is it that my father had to do what my grandfather did? Why do I have to do what my father does? What if all the windows I broke with my flying shots actually meant that I could be a cricketer some day? Why did I grow up into an adult so early in life?”

Another dream died, another dreamer died, another excellent player died. And with that, his promise to his mother to build a ‘pakka-house’ also died.

This story submitted as part of our Short Story Contest

When Life Threw Me a Curveball

By
Caleidoscope
-
0

Author – Siddhi Sehgal

Short-Story-Contest-When-Life-Threw-Me-a-Curveball
Image – Pixabay

I enjoy making a meal for my family. The tender green vegetables, the flavoursome spices, and the colourful dishes were my source of excitement in a predictable and normal life. Snacks and sandwiches were too simple a task for me, but when the sound of the lighter rang out, I was sure to hear a call.

“You are not doing that alone,” mom would say.

“Your hand can burn,” dad would worry.

But that day there was no call of care. Mom was on the left and dad on the right.

‘”They have typhoid,” the doctor said. And that day, as I entered the house with them, I entered a new phase of my life.

Should I sit beside them?
Should I go to study?
Or should I shut the door and cry out loud?

A recipe of emotions, feelings, and hard tasks was shoved up in my face, leaving no clue of what to do. However, the thought of reciprocation crept into my little mind; so accepting fate, I did it all.

The sweet, fresh mornings-waking up to mom’s good morning, the light teasing from dad – all were now past memories. The mornings remained the same; the only thing that changed was waking up to the call of birds.

A terrible feeling! How would a young teenage girl handle the lot that had suddenly befallen her?

Morning till night, it was just work. Even though you had domestic help, who could work like a superhuman, one needs to be up all the time; this is how I had seen my mother and this is what I tried to do.

Household work was one thing; the tougher task at hand was proper care of my parents. Healthy food, medicine on time, complete rest, love, and happy surroundings was what would cure them. For some time, I experienced the effort and pain of my parents when I fell sick. Today, we had exchanged places. The pain was on both sides. If I was facing an early responsibility, they had to see their child working all day long, doing work which they never wanted their princess to do.

For a few days I was troubled. There was anger too, and irritation was high. But that one dream, the dream of that fortunate night, changed it all. The situation which I abused for having come to me, I now saw happiness in it.

The following mornings were much brighter. It was not challenges but victory, not sorrows but joy, and not an end but a beginning. I was excited to do all the household chores- cooking, dusting, ironing and everything else, everything that my mom had been doing perfectly for so many years. Definitely, the same perfection was not achieved, but it was close to hers. I was happy to take care of my ‘big babies’, who would be either in bed sleeping or staring at me.

New Picture (1)

The thought of old age disturbs everyone, the fear of loneliness stares at you. It happened to dad and an unstoppable flow of tears followed.

“What would we do when they both go?” Dad would say.

It is no surprise when people say that father and daughter share a strong bond. We are two sisters and we are both our dad’s princesses. Day and night he stood for us, so once if we can be there for him, it would make him happy.

Life had taken a complete turn for me. The satisfaction was that nothing was lost, but only gained. Today, when we all sit together and remember those frightful days, we laugh at those moments of joy in sorrow – whether it was dad’s crying baby face that made us laugh, or my first chapatti (kind of triangular), or the oldie look that my mom wore, or the hard task it was for my sister to cut a fruit.

Now I am out of my teens, ideally an adult now. But it was then that I had become an adult, a mature one, and an unusual confidence had developed in me. I learnt a lot. I got the happiness of seeing my parents back in health and now when they say, “Siddhi made us stand”, there remains no guilt. I have proud parents.

Life gave me a chance to say, “I have grown up early!”

This story submitted as part of our Short Story Contest

1...184185186...245Page 185 of 245