Two Stories

By Alexa Mergen

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Animal Speak

After climbing the zoo’s iron fence, Cici Tattel followed hoof prints painted on the asphalt road to Grassland Grotto. She had read that the giraffe, Marana, a longtime resident, had given birth to a calf, named, after a contest sponsored by the Star newspaper, Chad.

The rain quit and the clouds cleared to reveal a hump-shaped gibbous moon illuminating the mother and son who stood in a corral attached to their shed. A metal sculpture shaped like a tree provided the only adornment. Chad stood under his mother. Occasionally, she reached her neck around to nuzzle him. Cici could understand their language now, not only the gestures, which resembled those horses use, but giraffe-language, translated into English. To speak, one merely imagined a thought and the other, if willing, receives it. Marana did most of the talking. Cici listened, content on the railing’s edge where Marana told her to balance. She was born in the horn of Africa, Marana told Cici, on the edge of a forest. Once, she said, she stood with her body in the forest and her head on the plain to attempt to inhabit two worlds. She never thought she would have to adapt to such another as this one, where food was brought to her on the end of a fork and she could never gallop again. As she spoke, the spots on her body swirled into paisley patterns. Chad smelled like honey, reminding Cici of peanut butter sandwiches she made when she and her brother Adam played in the woods on late fall days when they were small.

Cici studied the shape of their pen. In eighth-grade, she took Latin until the teacher, Mr. Roman, worn out by the Fester brother’ spit wads,which stuck to his posters of curly-haired men in togas, and their tipping chairs that made him jump when they clattered to the linoleum floor, quit halfway through the school year. Mr. Roman, in spite of or because of his surname, was well-suited to teaching Latin.

One day, he drew on the chalkboard a circle. This is a corral, he told the students. Cici sat up and watched his hand which was covered with brown hair like a bear paw. She had written long sentences about her horses in elemental Latin and illustrated them. She was earning an ‘A.’ Define means to fix boundaries, to draw a circle of meaning, Mr. Roman said standing back to admire the empty “O.” This is how labels come to be. Cici had thought of Jay who was “black,” and she “white” thought neither was a color found in a box. She thought of her mother, labeled “mom,” and her friend’s mother, also “mom,” and how the one seemed never satisfied with her daughter and the other perhaps too much so. She thought of John West who was “employee” but also “friend” and, sometimes “father,” and how that label was officially reserved for Ben, who owned the stable. She thought of Adam, whose name came from Hebrew for “first human,” and Michelangelo’s depiction of the first Adam showing a reclining lazy-looking blonde, man reclining with an indifferent look on his face, receiving, in spite of his bland expression, the full attention of God. She thought the painting defined her “brother,” bound to her by blood and name.

As dawn opened the clam shell of day the mother giraffe told Cici that her species name was Camelopardalis, from Latin, meaning “camel-leopard.” Humans, she said, noticed a long neck and thought “camel,” and spots and thought “leopard.” Really, she was neither and both. Everything is defined against something else. Did Cici know that patterns on giraffes’ fur are unique to the regions they come from? She did not.

The other animals stirred, spurred by a common light no matter their originations, other continents, other countries. Cici heard the gibbons’ ghost-like whoop, the sparrows, who were free animals, sounding exactly like her resin and wood bird call as they sang to the morning, and a bird she didn’t know that cackled from the aviary up the hill.

Before she left, Cici told Marana that her name was Latin, too, for “way for the blind,” and that she was named for her grandmother whom she never knew, and for a saint which was a heavy load to carry. Marana looked at her and lowered her long-lashed lids in a slow-blink. Cici went home to the stable in the park. Her own house and Jay’s were dark when she arrived in the clearing.

She swapped Sebastian’s jacket for a canvas and wool one that hung on a peg, threw a blanket over Moss’ back, and led the old mare out of the barn to let her amble where she may. Cici would delay as long as possible leaving the whispering woods, the birds streaking like shooting stars, and the squirrels chattering their gossip. She could laze on Moss’ wide back, hugging her roundness with her thighs and shins as she gradually reentered this world.
 

Studio

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When Mona pushes open the door to the dance studio she is surprised to see the phonograph and chairs in place. She bends to remove her shoes. The tornado that swept through her life missed touching down in this spot. As she walks, her socked feet shine dust from the honey-colored hardwood. She sees herself reflected in the mirror along the far wall, a small woman dressed in black, closer to old-age than middle, framed by an open door and blue sky. She walks backward, receding from her own image, to close the door that leads to the outside steps.

The dance studio had been her idea but Jack picked up on it. In the twenty-seventh year of their marriage he built the studio above the barn that served as his workshop. The plan hatched on a summer Sunday when Mona read in the newspaper of the closure of Frangipani Hall. “Wouldn’t it be fun,” she said, “to have a dance studio?”

Jack negotiated a deal to rescue the floors from the original hall, driving over after hammering all day on other people’s renovation dreams. He hung a yellow work light from a beam and pried up boards into the night. Mona stayed late in her classroom preparing lessons for third graders, then picked up a pepperoni and olive pizza for them to split. They sat on the tailgate of the green truck eating slices from the box. Tired and full, Mona sneaked into the dark orchard nearby to swing and sway under the branches of the almond trees. Music from the truck’s radio muted the clank of wood piling up piece by piece. Jack numbered each board so they could be fitted together again. Home in bed later, they planned details of the space, propping a clipboard on their knees.

The night before she opened the door to students, Mona called Jack to the upstairs space, knocking on the floor with a broom handle in the code they had devised. He heard the pounding, left his workshop and climbed the stairs, painted white as she asked. The lights were off. Twenty-seven candles glowed in the darkened room. Mona danced for him in the half-light, gauzy in a translucent shift.

Mona crosses to the vacant table. Light seeps through the paned window. A cluster of browned roses leans in a vase, petals fall when she lifts it. Water has dried in the bottom of the container leaving a layer of black. She opens a window and drops the stems to the ground below where they catch in a hydrangea bush. A house finch lights from the plane tree in a flash of pink to investigate. Mona turns back to the empty room.

She stretches her arms above and behind her to touch her fingers to the window frame. She closes her eyes to feel her muscles straining up. She fills her lungs, leaning back, letting the air in her chest soften the knot in her heart.

“I loved you,” she says to the woman in the mirror.

With five quick steps Mona crosses the room’s long diagonal. Running and sliding she polishes an X in the floor. 
 

Alexa Mergen writes poems and essays as well as stories. Her work appears recently or is forthcoming in Front Porch, Nimrod, Passages North, and Prime Number. She is an assistant fiction editor at Fifth Wednesday Journal. 

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Atonement

By Hysop Mulero                    

He told me I can get on board or be left. I looked into his depraved face regretfully.

“Surely this can’t be the only way?”

He kneeled down then stared in my eye.

“I assure you there is no other way.”

     A sessile ride was not intended.

    Though it was comprehended

    If I took that step in

    I would be entering the gates of sin.

  For the father of lies spares no soul

  The malign backbone of life he withholds

  Walking the earth to and fro

  Seeking plights of souls unable to tow.

“No, no thank you.”

The handsome man rose up. I felt externally paralyzed as I stood before him. He shone bright, so bright was his light.  But yonder was not so.

“Okay, suit yourself. In your finest I might add.”

He flashed me a smile and a wink, then took off. I walked along shore. Seaweed and rocks resting on the sand. The freshest of airs breezed by me.  I felt something in my body. A wave of gratitude flooded over me. A part of my inside was rejoicing. Grateful and humble they were. I closed my eyes and kneeled with my arms open. I accepted that part.

  In due time, after the part projected her praise, and settled into a place of peace. I got back up and continued to walk along the ocean. How am I going to get to the other side? Certainly I couldn’t atone by swimming. Absolutely not. That was not my calling. Someone has swum the ocean, but that was not I.

I was beginning to tire, though the sun beams not.

“Hey, are you trying to get to the other side? I know a shortcut through the forest.”

  I turn to my left and see a man less than five feet away from me.  He was average height, maybe  6”; Short curly hair that begged for a wash. He wore a large knapsack, the kind hikers use.  Yes, he appeared a traveler.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, the other side. I was just asking if that’s where you were going.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to appear rude but, where did you come from?”

“Me?  I’ve been walking behind you the whole time.”

“Really? Funny, I didn’t see a soul.”

“Oh, strange.”

He shrugged it off.

“I’ve walked this path many times. I’m a frequent visitor.” “Then it dawned on me that I can just walk a few feet through the trail in the forest and arrive over there.”

He pointed to the opposite side.

“Yes? Oh that sounds really good!”

He shared my enthusiasm. He had a warm greeting and a bright countenance.

But his eyes.

They appeared hollow. Empty, that of a porcelain doll portraying innocence.

Sensing my discomfort, he grew friendlier and anxious.

“Come, we’ll be there in less than five minutes! It’s to our left.”

“To the left you say? No, no I think I’ll stay.”

“Ok. I’m sure I’ll see you there.”

His countenance remained unchanged, and his eyes remained the same.

I was reluctant to agree with his statement. The part held back. He awaited a reply, but I gave none. Why had I been so rude? That was odd of me.

Of my part really.

I continued walking. Suddenly I didn’t feel tired anymore. Actually, I felt good, I felt alive. I let out a breath. Ahh! I feel good. The part pumped in agreeance. I touched my chest sharing her enthusiasm. But then it grew. It seems as if the part was operating as she pleased within her small confides. I felt her send a signal to my knees to bend once more. What was she doing?

“No”. I said aloud.

The part suddenly stopped. I sensed her immediate heaviness.

I shrugged. How many times was I supposed to get on my knees? I mean, I was happy, but let’s not push it. To whom was I kneeling? I can be grateful while standing.

I continued walking. My part had been silent for the past two hours. Which I was grateful for. I smiled at my own humor.

The sun was beginning to set. It was turning a lovely shade of orange. A beautiful sight it was. It didn’t seem as if I would reach my destination that night. Deciding to see the sun set into where it rest, I laid on the sand.

  The left hand path one may know

Is not the right so I’ve been told

The right is neither, oh no

Straight and narrow is the way to go

I’ve heard wonders of the left, oh yes!

Lavish and luxurious is the trail, an uphill trail it is

Up and up to the top

Then down you drop

The right speaks of wisdom and knowledge

Trees that breathe of fortunes unknown

The wind whispers in riddles of what’s to come

Left to their devices they’ll implore you to follow

The elements are connivers, for they have their duties as well

That right path. As long as it may be, will ultimately lead to your last

That I guarantee

“Hi, do you mind if I sit? Or rather, with you?”

Standing in my direct line of sun was a boy. No more than five years old I’m sure.

He was white, brown eyes, dirty blonde hair. The sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. Reminded me of the one I used to have.

“What’s your name honey?”

“First tell me yours!”

“Ok, after you tell me where your parents are.”

“Oh, they’ve gone ahead”. “I like to take my time.” “Never know who you may see.”

“Oh really?” I asked wide eyed and sarcastic.

“Well, I meet a lot of different people.” “I like walking along the line.”

His eyes motioned to the seashore.

“Sometimes I come here just for that.”

“That’s swell, are they all nice?”  Now genuinely interested.

“Huh? Oh, most of them are. I don’t get along well with kids or babies.  They tend to run away from me. My interest lies in adults. They’re so funny and presumably wise. You’d be surprised how much we have in common. There hasn’t been one whom I’ve met that I haven’t remained close to.”

He was grinning as he spoke. For a kid he was awfully charming along with a visible air of arrogance.

“How old are you?”

He flashed me a grin. “Older than the concept of time.”

I laughed.

He laughed with me.

“It must be really early.” The sun and moon were trading places.

“There’s really no time here, miss.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there’s here, there and the line.”

“The line?”

Yes.

“Why is that important?”

Suddenly I felt a pang at the pit of my stomach. It was her. What was she doing?

“Are you ok?”

“Yes, honey I’m fine.”

The part was banging on my insides like a Congo drum. She provided feelings of fear and despair. What’s wrong part? I wondered.

“So where are you going? He asked, trying to recapture my attention.”

“I’m going to the other side.”

“Oh goodie! Me too!”

“Are you now?”

“Yup!”

His smile seem to hold residence of the sun.

“Would you like to come with me?”

“With you? Don’t you know not to trust strangers?”

His gaze left the sea and traveled to my face. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar.

“You are no stranger. Why, I’ve known you my whole life. I’m a part of you, can’t you see? Indeed you belong to me.”

A long shrill echoed in my ears. It came from within.

“Belong? You’ve seen one too many movies honey!” I laughed.

“Well, mommy, we both have to go, let’s go together.”

“What did you call me?”

“I said together. Just take my hand.”

He reached out his little palm.

My heart was palpitating, the part was pleading; almost begging me to refuse.

“Yes, I will go with you.”

And with that the part was gone. As if she never existed.

“How are we getting there?”

His eyes shifted to a boat nearby.

“No no, let’s continue walking.”

His grip firmed. Like that of a man.

Puzzled, I turned to him.

“I assure you there is no other way.”

My body stiffened. The winds and sea came to a halt. Allowing me the privilege to digest my fate.

I chuckled in vain.

We walked hand in hand to the boat.

“May I say you do look dashing!”

I didn’t reply.

I sat behind him as he steered the boat.

“Well,” I spoke aloud.

“At least I’ll enjoy the ride.”

He turned to me and smiled.

“Oh yes, everyone enjoys the ride until they arrive.”

My name is temptation and from me they flee.

But you are not like them I see

You are wise erudite and proud

You are not far from the abominable seven

Unfortunately that list won’t get you to heaven

A word my dear, is all it takes

To cut the line and seal your fate

For by your words you’re acquitted and by your words you’re condemned

Now tell me, wouldn’t you like to play again?
 

Hysop Mulero is originally from Manhattan, NY. She is presently working on a collection of short stories entitled “Soot of Melancholy’s Dwelling Place” that includes “Atonement”, “Wyrd” and others.

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Spring in a Can

By Shannon Ralph

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Sybil loved this time of year when rains pelted the ground and winter-weary soil drank to its content. The trees—barren and gray all winter—exploded with a verdant shade of green that existed only in the very earliest days of spring.

She had lived in the little house on Cedar Avenue for sixty-two springs—first with her husband, then with her six children. As her babies grew up and moved out one by one, Sybil adjusted to the emptying house. After her Ronald died six years ago, the house seemed to grow larger and lonelier with each passing season.

Still, Sybil looked forward to spring. Her garden was her refuge from the echoing rooms of that deserted house. It was her oasis from the arthritis and the rheumatism and the cataracts that were a daily reminder that her best years were behind her. In her garden, surrounded on all sides by new life, Sybil felt like a young woman again.

On this particular sunny day in late March, Sybil sat on a bench in her garden planting tiny seeds for her spring flower beds. She could already smell the echinacea and lavender that would be blooming in a month’s time. She could envision the bright daisies and asters that would soon fill her back yard with color and life.

As she hunched over with her trowel in hand, Sybil heard a voice behind her. “Sybil, you have to come see this.” She looked up to find her neighbor, Hector, peering at her across the picket fence.

Sybil smiled at him. A widower and an avid gardener like Sybil, Hector was one of the few friends she had left. “Hello, Hector. What is it you think I need to see?”

Hector was not smiling. As a matter of fact, he looked a bit disheveled. His thick salt and pepper hair was standing in disarray on top of his head. He was wearing the old denim overalls he always wore when he worked in his yard, but Sybil noticed that one of the knees was newly ripped.

“You look a mess. What happened to you?” she asked.       

“Can you just come and look? I don’t think I can explain it.” Hector gestured for Sybil to come to his back gate.

She shuffled through her neighbor’s gate and found Hector standing in the middle of the garden that covered most of his back yard. He had his thumbs hooked through the belt loops of his overalls and was staring at a patch of dirt in front of him. As Sybil approached, he turned to her, scratching his head with one hand and pointing to the ground with the other.

“What do you reckon that is right there?” he asked. 

Sybil bent over to get a closer look at the shiny object lying in the middle of Hector’s garden. As she reached out to touch it, Hector quickly snatched her hand away.

“Watch out,” he warned. “It bites. Took a chunk out of my overalls and got a good taste of my knee, too.” Sybil hadn’t noticed before that the rip in the knee of Hector’s overalls was caked with dried blood.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I don’t know. That’s why I wanted you to look at it. You know more about plants than anyone I know.”

“But…” Sybil wasn’t sure what to say. “But Hector…that’s not a plant.”

“I know, but it’s growing.”

“Growing? What do you mean?”

“I mean…look.” Hector pulled a gardening fork out of one of the many pockets in his dingy old overalls and poked the object in the side. As he did so, it made a quiet whimpering sound and jerked away from the fork. Sybil saw that it was not just lying on the ground in Hector’s garden. It appeared to actually be growing from roots in the soil.

“But…but how is that even possible?” Sybil asked.

“I tried digging it up. Threw it in the recycle bin yesterday. Then this morning, I came out here to find another one growing in its place. Oddest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”

It was the oddest thing Sybil had ever seen, too. The object—no larger than a soda can—appeared to be a…well, an actual soda can. Rather than bearing the logo of Coca-Cola or Pepsi or any soda known to Sybil, it was a solid sky blue can with a golden star emblazoned on the side. Tiny razor sharp teeth surrounded the rim of the can. There were no other markings to indicate where it came from or how it had ended up rooted in her neighbor’s garden.

“What do you think I should do, Sybil?”

Sybil coaxed a strand of silver hair behind her ear. “How in the world should I know?” she replied.  Sybil had no experience with this sort of thing. She grew daises and lilies and the occasional tomato plant. If she were feeling especially adventuresome, she might plant some rhubarb. She had certainly never grown an aluminum can.

“You want to know the weird thing about this?”

Sybil couldn’t help smiling at Hector. “What could possibly be weirder than a man-eating soda can sprouting from the ground?”

Hector chuckled. Sybil was glad to see the absurdity of this was not lost on her friend. “The can is full,” he said.

“You mean it has something in it?” Sybil asked.

“Yeah. When I dug up the one that was growing here yesterday, it was full.”

“Full of what?”

“I don’t know. I was afraid to pop the top and see.”

Sybil looked from Hector to the soda can sprouting from the ground and back to Hector again. “Well,” she said. “I think we need to solve this mystery.”

“You mean…you mean pop the top?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

Sybil watched as Hector, on her insistence, pulled a shovel from his gardening shed and dug a wide hole around the soda can, careful not to get close enough to give the can a go at his other knee.  He uprooted the can and carefully laid it on the ground next to the newly gaping hole in his garden bed.

He turned to Sybil. “So how do we pop the top without getting bitten?

Sybil thought for a moment. “Oven mitts! We’ll use oven mitts. Wait here and keep an eye on it. I’ll run home and grab some.”

Of course, “run home” was a bit of a misnomer with Sybil’s arthritis and rheumatism. Twenty minutes later, she re-emerged in Hector’s back yard to find him sitting in a lawn chair next to the soda can, casually drinking a Coke.

“I’m not so sure about this, Sybil,” he said.

“It’ll be fine,” she assured him. She handed Hector two oven mitts, a matching carnation pink striped apron, and a set of tongs.

He looked at her dubiously. “What’s the apron for?”

“Well…” She waved her hand in the air as if his question were ridiculous. “One can never be too careful with these things.”

Hector began to protest, but obviously thought better of it upon seeing the determined look on his neighbor’s face. He donned the pink apron, pulled an oven mitt onto each hand and grabbed the tongs from Sybil with the steely resolve of a man ready to go to war.

As Sybil watched from a safe distance, Hector wrestled with the soda can. The oven mitts proved difficult. They limited Hector’s dexterity and caused the can to land repeatedly with a thud on the soft ground. Sybil could have sworn—as the can rolled toward her with each thud—that it was angling for her. Of course, that was crazy, but no crazier than her neighbor’s obscenity-infused combat with a living soda can.

Eventually, covered in sweat and spouting words that made Sybil blush, Hector was able to manipulate the tongs to pop the top on the hawkish can. When he did so, the can gave up all pretext of fighting and relaxed in Hector’s mitt-covered hand.

Sybil was standing at the ready with a glass. Hector poured the contents of the can into the glass and the two friends inhaled its heady aroma. The liquid exploded with color. It consisted of a myriad of shades that swirled and twirled, disappeared and reappeared. Every color of spring—every hue that enlivened Sybil’s springtime garden—was present in the shimmering liquid.

“It’s spring’s elixir,” Sybil whispered. She began to put the glass to her lips to taste, for the first time, spring itself. Hector grabbed her arm.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“We don’t know what this is. We don’t know if it’s even safe. It could be poisonous.”

“It’s not poisonous,” Sybil said. “Did you smell that glorious scent?”

“I don’t like this. I don’t think you should… ”

Sybil straightened her arthritic knees and unfurled her osteoporotic spine to stand her full 4 feet, 11 inches. “Well, it’s lucky for me I’m a grown woman and don’t need your permission.” Sybil once again put the glass to her lips, this time swallowing the resplendent liquid.

Spring’s elixir, as Sybil had so optimistically dubbed it, did not have quite the effect she expected. Sybil thought she would feel breezy and bright, abloom with light and life. She expected to feel young again—rejuvenated by spring’s tender fertility.

Instead, she clutched her throat and fell to the ground.

Dead.

When Sybil awoke from her unfortunate demise, she found herself lying in her garden. Bewildered and slightly woozy, she sat up. She looked around the garden to find that all of the flowers she had planted earlier that day were in full, brilliant bloom. The yellow daisies stood tall and dignified. The asters turned bright purple faces toward the sun. The smell of lavender that wafted from the far end of the garden to land upon Sybil’s nose was nothing short of intoxicating. Spring had sprung in breathtaking glory.

“Syb? Is that you?”

Sybil knew that voice. The sonorous baritone had been grafted into her memory and tattooed onto her heart when she was no more than seventeen years old. For fifty-six years, it was the first voice Sybil heard every morning when she woke up and the last voice to tell her good-night every evening.

She turned to find her Ronald standing at the other end of the garden. “Is that really you?” he asked again.

Sybil stood, painlessly for the first time in years. She walked toward Ronald, wanting desperately to believe that he was real. She placed her hand on his scraggy face and looked into his brown eyes. “Ronald? It can’t be…can it?”

“It’s me, honey.”

“But how?”

Ronald reached for Sybil’s hands and smiled at her. “This is your spring, Syb.”

Sybil didn’t understand. She knew it was spring. Spring had come and gone six times since Ronald had died, and not once had he come back to her. Until today.

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t, dear, but you will. Today is the first day of the spring that never ends.”

“Am I dead, Ronald?” Sybil was surprisingly unafraid.

“Yes, you died, but you aren’t really dead. You are no deader than the trees that turn gray and lifeless in the winter, only to burst with color again in the spring. You died today, but you were also born today.” Ronald winked at her. “Crazy, huh?”

“So what do we do now?” Sybil asked.

“Hmmm….” Ronald looked around the yard. “Feel like doing a little gardening?”

Sybil laughed—an easy laugh. A frolicking, verdant laugh that filled her garden with joy. She felt young again. She felt alive in a way she had never felt before her death.

Spring had that effect on Sybil.
 

Shannon Ralph is a writer of fiction, creative non-fiction, and some of the best Facebook posts around. She is currently working on her first full-length novel between short stories. She is a southern transplant living the dream in balmy Minneapolis, Minnesota with her partner and three children. When Shannon is not writing, she can be found hunkered over her laptop battling an ugly addiction to online shopping. 

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Stihr

By Debarun Sarkar

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On a day just like any other, I read in the newspaper, a death had occurred in Calcutta, just like so many other. An image of a man lying prostrate on the ground, having consumed poison, the mythical hemlock. The photograph held my attention more than the others, more than the text surrounding it, more than the bold headline on top of it, more than the tiny subtitled text below the image.

The room held my attention, the objects in the room, having reduced to mere props on the stage of his death, the man’s death. The room had an unkempt bed, bed sheets and pillows ruffled. Next to the window with iron bars akin to a prison lay the table. Papers, and notebooks lay there. Adjacent to the window laid a massive bookshelf, books and papers pouring out, almost as if one shake would disbalance the whole balance of the bookshelf. There was a table lamp on the table, and a bottle of ink.

I put down the newspaper, for I didn’t want to know more about the individual, I didn’t wish to. For by knowing who he was, what he did, where he came from, I would insult his death, his non-existence. But something in the image held my attention, a book lay beside the dead body, the title of the book was scribbled out with black ink, only the subtitle was visible, ‘An Anthropological View of Calcutta Slums’. The writer’s name was scribbled out with red ink, almost akin to a blood smudge. Images floated in.

                                                                       -x-

In his birth is embedded hopes and aspirations of his parents. He is an outcome of the socio-economic background that his destiny has forged for him. The hero's birth is preluded by a day of storm. His parents' hopes and aspirations are evident, a petite-bourgeois life in the posh South Calcuttan neighbourhoods, taxi rides, and not bus rides or metro rides, fill the screen.

The hospital of his birth is in a high-rise apartment, glasses, the nakedness of the bourgeois existence fills the screen. His parents name him 'Sthir', status quo, equilibrium. They paint a future for him in their mind's eye, a life of stability, of financial and material stability, of ideological stability.

The day of his death is just like any other day, a minor dent in history, a rather forgettable one in the narrow lanes of Calcutta slums. Books abound in his room, his place of solace among the living and bustling neighbourhood with red flags, orange flags, green ones and the tricolor, a jarring amalgam of symbols. His body lies in the centre of the room, forgotten, unnoticed.

The camera swifts across disparate villages and mountains, journeys he was once a part of, places he had once laid his foot on, places he once belonged to, though only ephemerally. After all, life is ephemeral, a minor spark, a minor history among the multitudes.

There among that lost and forgotten room in the slum, the door opens. A woman enters. The mythical mother figure who wishes to forgive him, redeem him. The true mother never arrives, nor does any woman, for that matter nor does any man ever arrive. He is forgotten, he is lost among the footnotes of history. He becomes 'Sthir'. He becomes what his destiny forged for him.
 

Debarun Sarkar is based in Calcutta presently having lived in Surat and Hyderabad before and has just graduated from The English and Foreign Languages University, Hyderabad. His poetry has recently appeared in The Brown Critique.

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