A sudden streak of lightning

Short story

I have really done only one thing my whole life. It did not make much of a difference to anyone, it did not leave its mark anywhere in the world, and it will not be remembered, but is the only thing I have done my whole life.

We had just moved into a new town. I had recently lost my baby brother and my mother had disappeared somewhere within herself, always looking into the void where she thought he was supposed to be. As for me, at six years of age, I felt like I was suddenly on my own. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed the freedom of doing as I pleased, but I also understood that not wasting life was my responsibility. If I died, like my brother died, my life should not have gone unlived.

It was in those days that I came across Pratiksha. In the eyes of the world she was nothing much, really. She was poor, she was slow, she was shy of strangers and she stammered. But I liked her from the start. She had long hair, nervous hands and a piping bird’s voice. She was not afraid to make rude comments under her breath. She was unafraid and that evoked in me a wonder I could scarcely contain. It was easy to admire this girl, who seemed to be familiar with all the pleasures of rebellion.

It was one of those days. A Tuesday, I think. The teacher droned on about how monkeys became men. Outside, a never-ending summer afternoon was breaking out. The squirrels gathered fragrant nuts and the cows felt the utter satisfaction of the minty green grass in their mouths and bellies. I became a little red kite, flying eternally in the sky. Even the teacher did not have the heart to snatch from me the peaceful siesta that such an afternoon invariably brought. The kite flew farther and farther away into the haze of other times. Yellow butterflies prancing among strawberries. A tiger cub playing among large red balloons. A trail of sunflowers pointing me toward the first sun I ever knew — warm and soft and round, giving out gentle milk from its heart. A sweet smell of mud in the air.

I opened my eyes, wandering slowly out of my dense and prolonged dream. I was in the classroom, now empty. It was raining. The first rain of the year, and what a downpour it was. Inside the unlovable classroom with its geography maps and grammar charts, Pratiksha not smiling, not serious, sucked on her thumb and watched my awakening with incandescent eyes. Outside, the tremendous rain.

“We have to walk back in the rain,” she informed me.

I felt a sudden rush of irritation at this serene creature. I felt like I had awakened to find myself at the very beginning of time, when the earth was a feverish little thing that had snapped away from the sun. A century of rain falling perpetually from the sky. All the world lying in a lifeless stupor.

I hated walking in the rain and squelching my feet in the mud.

I took off my leather shoes and hideous white socks and stuffed them out of sight.
“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I hate wet shoes,” I answered.

A thoughtful hum from the impudent mouth. An inscrutable expression.
And then her nervous little hands tugged away at the oppressive uniform. A bald pink worm wriggled free from the polyester cocoon and danced about in exhilaration.

Watching her, I realised that I too was bleeding to death in the iron uniform that hung heavily from my shoulders. I too tugged frantically at it and emerged, triumphant and naked. The cool air rushed at me.

And then we were running, shouting and laughing, into the tremendous rain. We plunged into a sea of grown ups with umbrellas, businessmen with sweaty pink heads and briefcases, street urchins playing nameless games. They watched us with their eyes, confused and a little jealous. Only the cows, with their ancient wisdom and deep satisfaction, understood us. They stood knee deep in the wet grass and watched us pass, and then went back to grazing.

We ran through the broken string of drops that fell from the sky and scattered on the earth. We frolicked in puddles. We streaked like comets through a grey road with sad houses that wove garlands for the Gods, leaving a shining strip of happiness in our wake. We leaped over flower pots as big as cars are to a grown up. We awoke old ladies and frightened birds with our mad laughter.

And then she paused, out of breath, on top of a small hillock. I caught up with her. Little red and gold stars burst in front of my eyes. Without thinking I pushed her with all my might. Laughing and shrieking, she half danced and half fell down the hillock. And as if in gratitude, all her hair came loose and whipped me across my face as she fell.

A sudden streak of lightning. Something frightening and tender snapped its wings open. It leapt into a never-ending cliff, only to discover it had delicate white wings that bore it gently away towards the sun. I too rushed madly into the rain.

And then, from the endless sky above, two stone hands grabbed our arms tightly, pinching our flesh. Two furious eyes, insane with rage, like black holes. A malevolent head, leaning into us. A voice pierced into us like nails, “You are NEVER to do that again.

Do you understand, filthy minded children?” I did not understand. I struggled in confusion and the stone hands tightened on us. The mouth opened like a cave and poured forth a stream of abuse that did not register. My pink body withered under the heat and my heart fluttered weakly, trapped like a sensitive butterfly. I was horrified by the jealous eyes, widened, suddenly sucking in all my delight, like black holes. I looked over at Pratiksha. Her eyes were wide and fearful; two big tears rolled on her cheeks and fell heavily on the ground. Only her fierce hair still rebelled, standing in a proud halo around her head.

Life came at us, it always does.

I flipped through countless faces, places and possessions. But the little bird never stirred in my heart again. Perhaps all that was needed to wake it was something as primitive and spontaneous as laughter, but my heart had shrivelled and relegated itself into a corner.

So many years later, I met Pratiksha in a mall. She was dragging a sullen boy by his hand and apparently lecturing him on something or the other. I went up to her and we talked for a while about old times and new. And then she said, “Excuse me, we must leave. My son has his exams coming up soon.” I looked into the eyes of the sullen boy and then into the eyes of his mother. I could not see the wonderful eyes, nor hear the impudent voice, rude and uncanny like a bird. The halo of her hair stood in a stiff braid; it had been tamed into submission. I wondered if her insides too had turned into dust. I felt the irrational fear of death that strikes children when they wake up cold in the middle of the night and find that the lights are off and the house is silent. I could not understand why, but I was deeply grieved.