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Friday, December 9, 2011

Before Sunday

Author note: "Of the writing exercises that I indulge in, one of my favourite is flash fiction. While most of you have read my poetry and encouraged me to explore the craft more, writing short (flash) fiction is another craft I am exploring. Writing fiction in less than a 1000 words is a difficult exercise, which I have come to realise over the first few attempts because as a writer, the first desire is to write everything and anything, in fear that one might miss out on details. However I have realised that we cannot undercut the role of you, the reader, who is intelligent and have the great ability to visualise. So, shorter sentences, simpler words and tighter plots are difficult and I have tried in what you will read below. There are lot of aspects that have gone in the writing of this story, one of which is staying awake when I should have been sleeping, but guess the fruit of creativity is more tempting than the curse it brings with it. Hope you all love the story and please do share your opinions. They help me to write better for you. Thanks again"


I knew it was Monday. I always knew Mondays. They are the busiest and somehow brighter, if you compare it to the lazy Sundays. I love Sunday and I have nothing against Monday either. For a four year old, week days really did not matter much anyway. Week days were important for the elders. They behaved differently on different days and over these young years I have almost come to map the patterns of the ones in my home.

Tuesdays and Wednesdays were almost the same as Mondays. One of them would rouse early, almost sleep walking to the kitchen or the bathroom. The lights of the living room would be lit. In summers, the curtains would be pulled open and bright sun light would eagerly split through the tall windows, resting here and there, lazily changing shapes and positions during the day. Thursdays, the ritual would be almost the same with a slight delay, which I understood led to the louder than usual crescendo of shouting and screaming, doors closing loudly, frantic noises in the kitchen of pots and pans clattering almost as if someone was trying to do voodoo. In between this chaos, one of them would take out a moment to smile at me and speak briefly. I would try to converse, but I am a little slow and they were always so impatient between Mondays to Thursdays. Sometimes they would actually pick up a fight over the time lost over me on these days. I feel guilty and sullen when this happens but always seem to forget it the next day.

Fridays would always arrive with a strange excitement cutting through the air. The best days are when one of them would play music even before the curtains would be pulled open. Over the next few hours, he would hum to the bathroom, dilly dally deliberately till she pushed him in, he struggling playfully. He would sometimes, pull her inside and I would hear her shouting, “No, Rahul, not now,” her protests and pitch oscillating between laughs and verbal struggles. Then it would get quieter, till a while after the lull (the music would be the loudest then) she would rush out of the door wrapped in a towel and he would keep calling out to her.

“Suits you right,” she would shout back, giggling, humming the tune of the song.

“Roshni, please, yaar,” he would keep shouting, his voice getting louder and impatient while she silently would wait outside the bathroom door, smiling to herself till he almost sounded desperate. She would then gently knock at the door and once slightly parted, she would walk inside, only to run out again giggling. A moment later he would follow, laughing and before you know, over the chase, which I also try and join, they would end up cuddling and hugging me. I feel very warm when they hug me and on Fridays, I always get the longer hugs than the usual.

I loved Fridays, as long as they would not return home late. It was not the late part that upsets me. If they were late, it meant more screaming, shouting, doors banging, pots clattering at night.

“Go to hell,” I heard him once shout.

“Fuck you,” she had once retorted “You had a nerve to behave like that in front of my friends”

I could never understand these conversations which seem to have begun even before they enter the room and then continues to the bedroom followed by eerie silence. The silence would often extend to the afternoon of the Saturday. Then, some friends would visit in the evening and they would behave as if nothing happened. There would be music, laughter and I would again suddenly be the centre of distracted conversations. I would be cuddled, hugged, fed made to forget the evening of the day before once again. Sometimes I get mixed up with the patterns of Saturday evenings and Friday mornings, but you can’t blame me for this, can you?

Sundays were lazy, very lazy. We would all sleep till late. In winters, sometimes, this would stretch to afternoons. I never complained (even though it meant lying on the bed) because this meant a lot of cuddling. I would slip between them and over half wake state they would take turns to talk to me, showering me with fond sweet nothings. If you ask me, I would love if time could freeze on Sunday mornings, but I could not compromise the visit to the park in the evening, the drive to the mall and the ice cream at India Gate. By the end of the day, everything would be sundry, lazy and beautiful, just like the setting sun they both loved to spend time watching, murmuring apologies and stealing kisses against the crimson sky. I loved Sunday evenings almost as much as Friday mornings.

But it was, Mondays I knew most. You cannot miss Mondays. They are the busiest and somehow even brightest, if you compare it to the lazy Sundays.

“Honey, I am taking Mojo out for his walk,” he shouted.

“Don’t be late,” she shouted back.

“Here, Mojo,” he ushered towards me as I happily wagged my tail. The week had begun and there are six more days to go before Sunday.

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

Beauty in words..."center of distracted conversations" and his side of life :)

Reminds me of Margaret Atwood's short story 'Underbrush Man' in Guardian.

Well done!

Anonymous said...

Read it again. Love the pace of the story. One cannot for a minute pause on it.

UnApologetic Confessions said...

@Anonymous - Thanks a lot. Its not very good... but yes I am experimenting. More soon...