This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 33; the thirty-third edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is 'Celebrations'
This fiction won Silver in Blog-a-Ton 33. A warm thanks for all the readers who voted for this post.
The Tale-
“WOW”
The twelve year
olds gasped as the bottle rocket leapt up into the sky, drawing an arc of
glittering sprinkles and burst into a million lights. The inky night’s sky
carried around the echoes of the bloom, still reverberating on the lucid eyes
of the playful lot, as they stared up into the void waiting for the next
dazzler. Anticipation welling in their chubby faces.
He looked at his street peers and sighed to
himself as he walked to light the next cracker. He couldn't help his chest
swelling a bit in pride, with each and every fancy cracker that he set ablaze,
with the swirling showers that bound forward into the celestial heights, the litany
of colors that shot out of his hand held sparklers, swirls, twirls and the
light pearls, the middle of activity and celebrating frenzy. He let loose
another bevy of fireworks and turned to look at the fascinated faces of the
street kids. Pink, Violet, Amber and Magenta – a bunch of curious eyes followed
the myriad lines cruising from the spilling sparks seething unbridled into the
darkness of the night.
“Burst some
more!! Burst some more” the street kids shouted.
He sighed
melodramatically pleased with himself, at the magnificence of the firecrackers
that he was bursting and at the bevy of requests that piled up at him for his
consideration. He smiled and responded. Once again, the street exploded into a
plethora of colors brimming with incandescence and life. The poor kids jumped
with their hands up, floating up along with them; their faded clothes raised
and riveted, its torn rims scuffling in the passing wind, their dirty hair
puzzled but still pandering to their delighted leaps, their lucid voices
tethering in jubilation. Somewhere beneath their bare bucking legs laid
forgotten the dirt sack- filled and tied tight with all the thrown away pieces
of clothing and the bits of recyclable plastics, still rank with lurid
fungus, an assemble of things that they thought was worth something from the streets and the occasional dustbin, their bag of scavenge, the bag that was to pay for their latter supper,
if they were to get one.
But then, when in
bliss now, why bother about later.
And just when the
volley of crackers went down, he took out the real big ones, the 1000 walas*
and held it out to them like a showman magician putting forth some object of great
mystical value and a brief proud smile glinted down his lips just for a moment.
And just as he sprang to the middle of the road to light the crackers, the kids
scampered with frantic cries and hushes to a safe distance,
just safe enough to be at the foot of the excitement. And the crackers did not
disappoint. Even as he scuttled away with heroic sweeps of his legs after he
lit the fuse, a jumble of drums rolled pitching and patting ripping out from a
litany of lights skewing the borders of fun and festivities.
The Snap-
And then finally,
he brought forth his last show piece for the day; His most favorite of the lot;
the last pack of bottle rockets; with special double shot; ones that exploded
not once but twice in the sky sending out reels of lighted petals. And with
each and every whoosh, boom and boom of every single rocket, he savored with vigor
the fireworks, all the attention sweeping around him, the joy he threw open for
everybody and most of all, just the bumbling binge of life that pumped around
him.
After bursting all his crackers, he turned to his house with a dazzling smile and walked in, his strides smart and confident. His
mother was in the kitchen cooking, his father as usual in front of the
television with the news channel playing, its volume tuned up.
“Papa….” He whined
“I want to see cartoon network…”
“Not now chotu*”
his father retorted “Don’t disturb me. You can watch your cartoons later”
“P… L… E…. A…..
S…. E….” He pitched up his voice dragging raw the bare legs of those syllables.
And just as his
father turned at look at him, with irked lines crossing his face, their home
went dark; A power failure. His father cursed to himself, got up and went out
to look at the fuses. The house shone a melancholy amber, bathed in all the liquid light
that the array of Diwali lamps put up; its hallowed luminescence drawing
sweeping arcs of their shadows as he went along with his father to the front porch. And just
then, he heard sharp jubilant laughs and yells coming from the street.
He went and
peaked outside the courtyard gate.
Amid-st the dust
being kicked up and the bunch of legs that warred with each other, a rough
version of football was being played by the rag-picking kids. They pushed about
each other trying to get their ball into some invisible goal, their ball that
rolled around with gusto, their ball that clinked and rattled with each and
every bounce, their ball; the bottle, his bottle, his own bottle, the one he
used for lighting the fuses of those rockets, the one he got from his father after
quite some tantrum, the bottle he simply forgot and left in the middle of nowhere, skittered
across the street bumping from one tiny feet to another, chased and paused by
the same bundle of feet.
And just then,
the bottle rolled and landed right in front of him, kicked by one of those kids
still soaked in the slime of their celebrations. They turned and looked at him,
their brown limpid eyes expectant.
He looked at them and at the bottle and felt himself torn with indecision. Some part of him wanted to get his bottle, his
bottle from these kids. Some part of him urged him to kick the bottle again and
join in the game. But how can he?? It’s not like he hated them or don’t want to play with them.
It’s just that, it felt somewhat awkward, him playing with them, the rag
pickers. He stood there caught in a rut vacillating, his heart pounding in
his ears, licks of sweat lining his underarms; his fingers pulling tight his
shirt tails.
He looked down at
his bottle once again, his bottle, his own bottle and then at the kids. It was not
like he needed the bottle. But, why should he give it to them? He was not there
playing. He was not there in the middle of things. He was not even involved. Of
course, he was the one who forgot the bottle. But then it’s still his bottle.
Right? And he doesn't really need any permission from anybody to take back the
same bottle? Does he? Why shouldn't he?
He started to
edge towards the bottle; measured steps; One eye still on the bottle; one on
the street kids. The bottle shimmered alone in the distant light of the diwali
lamps. Its once smooth contours, now a parable of scars and lines, its fine
features chipped and nipped in countless places, the bottle kept its silence
for once, maybe it sensed the drama unfolding around. And just as he got near the
bottle, he heard the clear voice of a girl from the bunch shouting.
“KICK”
He paused and
looked blank at the bunch of kids staring at them; as blank as a deer caught in
the severe lights of a racing truck. He just stared; lost for thoughts. The
kids, like the kids they were jumped into the band wagon and chorused “KICK…… KICK…… KICK”. Their eyes
alone shining in the darkness, along with those few diwali lamps still left
with oil to continue burning.
Their throbbing
voices flooded him in waves, their joy, their openness, their friendliness and
the easy invitation to their game. He suddenly felt beaten, ashamed. He had wanted
deprive them of their ball. He had wanted to stop all this fun, all this delight and
rejoice, all this warmth and games; Just because he wanted back his broken
bottle, his old wasted, broken bottle; His bottle that was going to end in the
dustbin anyway; His bottle that was a another piece of litter for him; his bottle that he did not really have any lasting interest in, His bottle, his own junk bottle but
their coveted ball.
His throat
clenched with emotion and his young eyes welled up. He looked at their them warmly. Their eyes alone shone in the darkness, sparkling with rapture and exalted delectation. A fete embellished and garnished with innocence and life. The kids were wanted their balls. It was their ball. He took
a deep breath and moved forward to kick the bottle to them and to join them in the game.
And just then,
the power came back on. The front porch lights blinked suddenly illuminating
the expanse of the street, replacing the kind and warm lights of diwali lamps
with the harsh and static shine of electricity. The new brilliance spilled the
realities that the diwali lamps had kissed and missed; The torn dirty ragging
clothes flapping free in the wind, their dry dejected hair, their dingy bare
feet with nails rimmed with grime, their noses dripping with phlegm and their bundle
of dirty rags left to stink in the corner of the street. And as he hesitated, in that
split second, he heard the sharp voice of his father calling for him.
“Chotu*, where
are you?”
He turned and
walked slowly to his father, leaving the bottle right where it stopped in the
first place. His strides thoughtfully slow.
“Hey… Why the
long face? What happened?” his father quizzed.
“Nothing” he
said.
“hmhm .... Really!!”
“hmhm hmhm” he
nodded.
“Okay, come on”
said his father as he led him by hand into the house. “I am hungry. Let’s see what your
mother has made for dinner.”
And as they went
inside hand in hand, he could help but hear the rampant jubilation of the street kids and
their game of football, still celebrating Diwali.
Fin
*1000 walas - a firecracker that is made from 1000 smaller pieces and it very famous in India during the celebrations of Diwali
*Chotu - Colloquial call name for kids. (translates as small one in Hindi - an Indian Language)
Author’s note-
When I first
contemplated this tale, I was thinking of giving it a happy ending with the kid
joining in for the football game. With Diwali celebrations ahead, I wanted to
write something that will uplift the moods of everyone reading this post. My
sister, my first critic – did not like that ending. She simply told me that you
cannot sacrifice a good story, in order to provide a happy ending and a cliched one at that. So, I revised the story – to work in a more practical manner and
that gave me this bitter sweet ending. Hence, I share creative credits of this story
with my sister.
Also, I take immense
joy in wishing a very happy and a memorable Diwali to each and every one of my
friends, reading this post and their families. I bid you guys’ good health and
great spirits in this festive season. And ample luck to all my buddy - blog-a-ton participants. Hope you guys have a great time blogging this holiday season.
PS-
Diwali is an important festival of India that usually comes around in November. It is celebrated with bursting crackers, exchanging sweets and savories that are home made and decorating nights with rows and rows of Diwali lights (trust me, you should see the resplendence of the them. Its from these lamps that Diwali also gets the name as Festival of lights ).
In my native, Tamil Nadu- the festival marks the victory of Lord Krishna over the Demon Narakasura. It is said that the demon himself when dying at the hands of the Krishna, requested to him, that he did not want to be forgotten and would like for his death to be celebrated with the bursting of noisy crackers(the tale as told by my grandmother). There are several other origin stories for Diwali and to know more about them and to know more about the festival itself- Kindly visit the given
link.
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