A Good Man (II)

[Querida]

[tscii:7be21b2522]
There was Krithi surrounded by all the odd and wonderful furnishing ideas of IDEA. Her eyes rounded at the possibilities that all the abstract and tantalizing ethnic patterns offered, lying displayed in neat aisles. All the rugs, sheets, curtains, fabrics, floral arrangements, tiles, pillows, all of it waiting to be arranged with care in her own humble home. The paisley, teal curtains with crushed silk borders called out to her. Then just as easily as her fingers went to crush the fabric, rustling and feeling the vibrancy of the colour that lay translucent against her skin, her eyes welled up. Sunil looked at her disapprovingly, and she looked back at him shame-faced yet angry that she ended up no better than her mother.

Ma had doomed herself the moment she had pronounced the words, “ I know how to make do” after a lengthy and silent yet seething battle that had gone on between the parents on how to furnish their new home. Their father had as always fallen under the spell of words, this time the real estate agent's and had bought a “swell fixer-upper” and still remained floating on the illusion that he was the handy man to turn this shanty into a sensational dream home. From there on, their house lay in various disarray of half finished projects. Looking each day more or less like it had been burglarized by a considerably, neat robber or a tornado keen on tidiness. Her mother’s dreams of crystal figurines, cherry wood furniture and full window treatments died with the flyers that advertised their discounts on glossy, smooth pages.

Seeing how her mother had bitten back and physically swallowed each wanted item, as if consuming her material wishes would allow her to create the same satisfaction of actually owning the objects themselves, caused Krithi to promise herself she would not be left compromise on her creative instincts.

But here she was looking forlorn, running her fingers along the racks of globular spice jars and shiny metal-lidded canisters waiting to be filled with her kitchen’s spices. The spices she deliberately hid at the back of their tiny kitchen closet, ashamed as she was to be seen in their stained and varied, used container forms. Krithi looked over at Sunil as he looked with great interest at the store map tracing his finger towards the entrance, jabbing his stubby finger at the exit sign marked by a small red x. He looked over knowing she was sizing him up once again, and he knew without words that she was always sizing him up, her liquid eyes calculating all the while about all that she could not afford and would not buy.

He shuffled over to her and poked at her shoulder “You know Krithi, we can buy one thing for one of our rooms and come back each time for something else”, her frown deepened at this, she knew this was like plying an insistent child with a lolly in hopes she’d forget the more expensive toy that had caught her attention. “Well you know I would buy it all for you right now Krithi, but it would have to be borrowed.”

Krithi winced at that word “borrowed”. Ma had long ago instilled the fear of being drowned in debt, especially with their father being the ever hapless victim of pyramid schemes. They would rather beg than borrow and would rather make do then buy on credit. The words “potlucky” coined by her aunty, still terrified her. She remembered how their otherwise solemn aunt, cheerily and grinning too much had explained how if they all contributed an amount each month and drew lots each of them in turn would be able to reap the benefits of the combined efforts. And after Ma cautiously joined in shaking her head in agreement along with her already rapidly nodding father, the phone calls had begun. Her doting aunty at the end of the month would transform into a screechy, cursing woman. She would rant how she never did trust Shukla who drew the winning lot last time and then refused to be a continuing contributor. She would whiningly imitate the various potluckers and their reasons as to why they should receive the lump sum. Desperation sometimes over rode the drawing of lots but not without resentment. And at the end, she would wheeze and remind Krithi that “Mummy-Pappa must be on time with their amount this time, last time too late, too many headaches this was giving Aunty…but it was good, very good for all of us ok Krithi-beta?…Remember to tell Mummy that.”

And all the while Krithi wondered, her ear and hand sweating and hurting from clutching the phone and pressing it too hard to her ear, why her green crayoned message staring back at her looked oddly, menacing. Why her parents’ faces looked so drawn as they motioned with their hands to each other to remain quiet while aunty was on the phone.

To Be Continued...If There is Interest. :)[/tscii:7be21b2522]

[Thalafanz]

To Be Continued...If There is Interest. :)

Yes, please... :)

[Shakthiprabha]

wow Q, i am waiting!

//From there on, their house lay in various disarray of half finished projects. Looking each day more or less like it had been burglarized by a considerately, neat burglar or a tornado keen on tidiness.//

Lovely narration, totally was into it more cause of similar personal exp :contemplating_to_laugh_or_cry: :P

[pavalamani pragasam]

A truthful, poignant portrayal of dreams chased with down-to-earth actuality! Carry on!

[AudazJay]

Please continue :D

:clap: :clap: :clap:

[Querida]

[tscii:f23b97a6d6]

"No, no credit." She would hold onto that credit card tighter than a miser's fingers around his last coin.

Always the trump card. Krithi thought resentfully. “So what now? You want to go see the showroom upstairs?” Sunil sauntered back to the map area. Exasperated and angrily on the verge of fuller tears Krithi looked past him at a window blind display patterned with cherry blossoms, as it blurred to pink and white stripes. Krithi walked ahead mumbling how it was always what happened, she would wait until a long weekend gathering various catalogue clippings and printouts from redflagdeals.com and then make a Sunil’s favourite lunch, Chicken Casserole. Krithi hardly thought this was food, all of it processed; the canned soup, the packaged cheese and rice-in-a-box. The only non-additive thing remaining was the chemically-enriched chicken. But she knew this dish and a good hour nap were the key to rousing Sunil on a “browsing trip”.

Her mission this time had been to transform the “Oatmeal Room”, their study-cum-guestroom. More often than not it had become their “battle bunker” in which they took turns sleeping in after having over-the-top arguments of issues that had long been resolved but uneasily so. The Oatmeal room had come about because of a gift her mother had given her for their second anniversary. It was a small, puffy taupe blanket edged with soft pink and blue squares. It was her mother’s way of giving a subtle hint. Krithi had wanted to hide it at the back of their closet. But ended up adding more swathes of brown and re-stuffing it so now it did look like a patchy version of lumpy oatmeal. To add to that, beige furniture always seemed to going cheap at garage and warehouse sales. The only thing that had added colour to the room were light blue pillows. She had to throw them out after an unsuccessful stint with a trial tube of turmeric-based fair and lovely cream. “I can’t sleep Krithi, that stuff stinks and I have a meeting tomorrow!” Tears and turmeric cream made the pillows glow eerily in the daylight.

Krithi had her reasons ready if Sunil ever asked why they needed to go browsing, and though she couldn’t remember him asking the drive to IDEA was filled with uninterested, slight nods and Krithi reciting “the rug has faded, the curtains are tattered, the furniture is chipped, the wallpaper is peeling…”

The doors shwooshed closed behind them making the neon-yellow flyers littered on the floor flutter and scatter. Sunil paused and bent down to pick up a clear wrapped package of orange plastic hangers left forgotten or unknowingly in haste. He smiled triumphantly, “Ok see, something from the store…aaand it’s not beige, here it’s for you.” Krithi could just about have a meltdown.

She burned with indignation that they were picking up things off the floor, it was cheap and unpaid for what if the buyer came back and asked for them? What if a salesperson spotted them?

It reminded her of when her father would take her to the grocery store. While making purchases he would take small handfuls of nuts or raisins or grapes. He would hold her little hand and slip whatever it was into her palm. They would conspiratorially go to cover their mouths with a mock cough, and pop their little pilfered treasure into their mouths. And then grin at each other. Her Ma would lightly chide them with a smile playing around her lips.

One day when alone she had grabbed a juicy globe grape and had popped it in her mouth when she caught the eye of a grocery clerk. His face registered disgust, and the grape seemed to swell in size becoming painful to swallow. It left a sour aftertaste in her mouth and from then on, she would just walk away from her dad’s outstretched cupped palm with its guilty contents.

They got into the car, “So where to next, Cap’n?” Krithi just stared at him and managed in her annoyance to brokenly mutter “Just leave me be Sunil, ok?” “Nowhere else? Whew, lucky break. Ok back to home sweet home, maybe I can still catch the game.” After all these years living with 2 bratty brothers, and a barrage of male cousins, nephews and guy friends, she knew that Sunil was just getting on her nerves, and that they all seemed to find this an amusing pastime. Krithi thought, any other husband who really cared would have apologized, tried to hold her hand, to nudge her shoulder, given her a hug, allowed her to swat him away and then relent. Sunil paused, leaned slightly forward and put the car into reverse.
-FIN-[/tscii:f23b97a6d6]

[pavalamani pragasam]

Neatly etched gender traits!!!

[Querida]

Some regrets about this attempt:

# Her name was supposed to be Keerthi...
# Krithi ended up crying waaaaay too much :P
# I wish I made Sunil more well-rounded, he wasn't supposed to sound so stereotypical...le sigh...
# I wish I had mentioned they were Thamizh...I kept wanting to add some Thamizh convo/song/movie references.
# I was getting ahead of myself, and so I had the story to work on but more "incident" ideas than content.
# Truth be told I got tired towards the end...driving away seemed like the best closer.
# seeming seemed like a repetitive theme in this story.

[pavalamani pragasam]

No problem!!!

[AudazJay]

[tscii][size=18]

One day when alone she had grabbed a juicy globe grape and had popped it in her mouth when she caught the eye of a grocery clerk. His face registered disgust, and the grape seemed to swell in size becoming painful to swallow.

:rotfl2: :rotfl2: :rotfl2:

[Querida]

[tscii][size=18]

One day when alone she had grabbed a juicy globe grape and had popped it in her mouth when she caught the eye of a grocery clerk. His face registered disgust, and the grape seemed to swell in size becoming painful to swallow.

:rotfl2: :rotfl2: :rotfl2:

No psychoanalytic interpretations please. :notthatway:

[AudazJay]

One day when alone she had grabbed a juicy globe grape and had popped it in her mouth when she caught the eye of a grocery clerk. His face registered disgust, and the grape seemed to swell in size becoming painful to swallow.

:rotfl2: :rotfl2: :rotfl2:

No psychoanalytic interpretations please. :notthatway:

Aiyo, I know I should have been clearer :oops2:

The truth is, I'm guilty of committing the same crime as Kreethi :oops: :ashamed:

Well, I was pretty sure the grocery attendant would have missed my actions...if not for the stupid grape seed sticking on the corner of my lips. :banghead:

[Querida]

Aiyo, I know I should have been clearer :oops2:

The truth is, I'm guilty of committing the same crime as Kreethi :oops: :ashamed:

Well, I was pretty sure the grocery attendant would have missed my actions...if not for the stupid grape seed sticking on the corner of my lips. :banghead:

Thank you for the clarification :ashamed:

Haha I think we have all been there, done that. :D
That and the pressing, shaking, tapping and pinching of veggies and fruits to check for freshness...which was seen as odd in a western supermarket but necessary in an Indian/Oriental market :lol:

[ajithfederer]

Querida

If you can edit the posts to be of non-bold, this piece can be viewed much more clearly. It is causing a strain to the eyes as of now.

[Querida]

Querida

If you can edit the posts to be of non-bold, this piece can be viewed much more clearly. It is causing a strain to the eyes as of now.

glady done.

[ajithfederer]

:D

[AudazJay]

That and the pressing, shaking, tapping and pinching of veggies and fruits to check for freshness...which was seen as odd in a western supermarket but necessary in an Indian/Oriental market :lol:

Tell me about it. My mom swore that the grocers in the local market have started to hide their stock of ladies' fingers whenever she comes around. No prizes for guessing the reason :roll:

[P_R]

Hi Q.

Nice one. Getting a flavour of your style, which - if I can presume an austere reviewer's manner on my part - is picking the elaborateness of inner details that are present in the seemingly ordinary everyday moments.

The memories that are touched upon by the present, that have the shaped the tendencies that come to fore in the present, the disconnect over tria (or so says my male mind !) are all presented quite well. That it is nothing 'major' enough to be considered a big-thing by many is the what makes it intensely personal and difficult to convey. But we will have to keep trying under the illusion of our uniqueness. This is kinda my reading of the story or rather the tangents sparked by reading it.

Some of the memories seemed to be recalled with disproportionate emphasis that it leads us to some expectations of the direction. That is something that gave the story a slightly uneven feel IMO.
So, I would put this a notch or two below your last story, the one set in a streetcar.

Keep writing :thumbsup:

[Querida]

Prabhu Ram,

Thank you very much for your review. :D This is technically one piece of a larger theme...but I am still trying to work up the courage to add its adjoining parts. I was torn between posting all the parts together or writing when inspiration hit. The latter is what you see.

[Querida]

[One]

"Max...Max...listen"

"What is it, Evelyn?"

"Evelyn? Evelyn is here?" "Who are you?...Where is Max?"

"You-you don't recognize me?"

She stared at me blankly. Then she slowly nodded. "Yes, I know you, of course I know you." She closed her eyes. It meant no more questions.

I looked at her lips twitch. She muttered, and then slightly opened her eyes. Licking her dry, cracked lips, she continued to peer at me.
"You're still here? And I know you well, yes? yes. yes. I know. I didn't forget."

"Yes, yes you know me. Good. I know you wouldn't forget me."

There was no use in getting her worked up. She had her good days. The days when her daughters smiled tearfully at her and didn't mind their names being mixed up. What they use to vehemently protest against, now brought a collective murmur of relief, just to hear some familiar name pass the lips of their mother.

[Querida]

[Two]

"Tell you something..."

"Yes I am here, tell me Ev―...yes tell me"

"I-I feel that I have to say this" she breathed deeply, the tears seeping and gliding between the wrinkles that etched her worn face.

"Alright, I'm here"

"I've kept it in my heart for so long, it hurts to put it into words"

"Wel―"

"Stop talking...it's hard enough to say this to a complete stranger, I don't need to be interrupted all the time!"

I winced and hoped she hadn't seen. It was still hard to be confronted with the truth that she no longer knew even those who were closest to her. At first she could recognize us in photo albums. Commenting on how we had changed like we were conspiring to disguise ourselves with time.

Eventually she would just slowly turn the pages without saying a word and finally just pushing the albums away.

"Is Marie here? Is she here? I want her to know that I know more than she thinks I do."

I shook my head no. She frowned and shakily removed her glasses from her face. She set them upon her chest and looked at me. She gave my hand a squeeze. For a moment I thought she recognized me. That she would say my name and be relieved that I was there with her.

"I'm sorry Father, I didn't mean to be rude. There's no privacy here, these lights...they keep accusing me."

[pavalamani pragasam]

Tragic! Profoundly so!

[P_R]

:confused2: Marked for re-reading.

[Querida]

:confused2: Marked for re-reading.

:sigh2: am trying to finish it...have root idea...am wondering how to get it out...and it has been penned I am wondering will it have the wanted impact?...my editor rules over my creative director too much these days :think:

[Querida]

[Three]

I looked at Marie, I derived strength from her ever since we had commiserated on our poor exam results. It seemed that failure was a foreshadowing theme when it came to our relationship. Even now I don't know why Marie and I went to such lengths to torture ourselves. I cannot say it was only because of what our parents wanted. It was as if we were punishing ourselves for going against what our parents had long ago decided.

What had to happen, happened. Evelyn and I were wed. Marie and I from thereon would remain as exchangers of glances. We would raise our voices in the opinions we expressed for one another. All that could be said was said. All that couldn't be said was...well was considered mutually understood.

There were times in which Evelyn herself had to pry us apart from our conversations, so lost we would become in them. After all the sorrow that had passed from our parting, the ease with which we could speak to one another surpassed our awareness of propriety. It was a torture to have Marie so close. But to have Evelyn ever suspect us...I thought until now that could have not been possible.

[pavalamani pragasam]

Poor Evelyn! :cry: An innocent soul caught in the trauma of long-suppressed pangs of neglect and suspicion!

[Querida]

[Four]

(10/05/1975)

Dear Diary,

I have not written to you since my marriage to Max. I know that it is because I felt that it was but a childhood fancy, filled with days of lamenting over how unfair Mummy was in her tutelage of all the various responsibilities and duties of a perfect homemaker. Yet while assuring that I was the very epitome of a good wife to be, Mummy never told me anything of what to do if I were to encounter the sorrow which I have witnessed just a few hours before. I know this was not as any other day since Marie still was refusing to marry Henry. And how quite angry Papa was and how Mother kept wringing her hands just fretting over what to do. I never would have thought Max would be so distraught over her decision.....yet now....I know why he must have been distraught.
Oh diary how I wish I never knew, I would not have to steel myself, I would not have to live with this secret. I would not have to think of what I saw. How am I to forgive the two people whom I love the most in my life, when they have no reason to suspect that they have been found out? I know not what to say, and frankly writing this down has only made it more real. I doubt and hope dearly diary this is the last entry I write within your forgotten pages.

Eva

[pavalamani pragasam]

Pangs infidelity of trusted ones bring can be cruel!!! :cry:
A poignant story skilfully woven!

[Querida]

It lay in his hands all yellowed, wrinkled, faded and crumbling. It must have been crumpled and un-crumpled. Folded and Unfolded so much that the pink of his palms were peeking through the folded lines. Splotches marred the ink. The bottom torn. What did stare back at him was his mother's name.

Eva,

You are making a mistake that will affect your life much more negatively than it ever will mine. You are with child...my child. Yet you refuse to overlook my necessities. A man has his faults, you must live with them. Or like the others be forgotten. I was willing to marry you Eva. Now you have gone and married him....you are fortunate that he is a high-minded fool. For how long Eva? There is still time Eva, I leave

and the rest, torn off. The mother who hid this from him, hardly knew who she was. His real father was as much a stranger to him as he was to his mother now. And the man he had called father all these years, believed it more than he ever did.

FIN

[pavalamani pragasam]

:shaking: What a twist! What a twist! Now, who is to be pitied? Who feels more wretched? Treachery and deceit all the way!!! :angry2:
I feel exasperated! Vexed! Disappointed!
Q, you are a master of suspense! The end comes like a bolt from the blue! A real thunder-bolt! :sigh2:

[Querida]

Thank you PP Maam for your valuable comments :notworthy:...I know it is a negatively themed story but I wanted that "thunderbolt" effect! I wanted readers to struggle when thinking who is the better person or even if there is one...I wanted readers to see the "gray" and not just the black and white. I also primarily wanted to use different forms of communication: dialogue, letters, diary entry....:ty: for faithfully reading this story...it means a lot to me. :D