The first short story

(This is my first attempt to a short story, I know its sugar-coated and all, but I preferred to take an easier endeavour to be my first. Most probably, you would not like it, but, if anything you like, do tell me.)

It is an easy story to write. A story about a sailor man and his woman. We have heard such stories so many times. We know their problems, when the man goes out in high winds to distant seas, when his woman is all alone in their hut, patiently waiting, sometimes praying. He returns and the love breaks the inhibitions, they make love in their all soiled bodies. Such is my story too, shall you listen?

Women exist in this world at many corners of life, some come out to claim the limelight, and some recede to the unknowing kitchens and interims of households you shall never visit. But, you have seen some of them, and you may think, all of them, for their lives are apparently not different to you. Amidst the drudgery that is cooking and rearing up children, some of love, some just born by the act of eternal repetition, yet, it is them who have to love each of the younger, to lead them to become what you are today. As you think you know their life throughout, they have known yours since conception. You call such a woman your mother.

But then, you grew up to feel this need for a woman, quite ill-defined in your mind, and mostly driven by the sense deriving its prowess from your loins, you have been driven to them, drawn to exasperation by your affections. You have made love, and you have lain spent, and you have wanted her to come, brush your hair with the sweet sound that is her Nupur. Men know how to love woman, and it is by their love women rise beyond the mediocrity that is life, and yet, it is man’s love that binds, forbids and at extremes strangulates their very existence. For a woman to love, she may have to submit her existence in order to be satisfied of her wants.

It is the story of such a woman, drawn to a man who professed love, love that meant freedom from the trauma that her life was at that moment of time, she felt her wings could be tested finally, her feathers cleaned, she shall soar with him at every juncture, free and happy. She married the sailor for during those days, love lead to instant consummation.

Men love for a very different reason than women. The sailor was working hard, his limbs ached when he returned from the day’s work, his surrounding was harsh, much like the ragged he was, and he looked everywhere, nothing seemed to emit any tune, he wanted a fairy to come and restore everything in his life, he wanted magic to happen. He would see her walking moving gracefully, she looking at him, never though, he could hear her speak.

Did she not want magic too? She did, but this very word meant so differently to both of them, she wanted to express her feelings, tender which were, conceived in the fertile uterus that her mind is, long before her man ever came to her life. She walked with her hand full of flowers she had plucked; she walked to find somebody to give to. Her mind knew songs she would sing, she knew how he would sleep on her lap, she knew how she would brush his hairs, and she knew what she would whisper in his ears. Every man in his life can accommodate only one woman, and the woman who wants to conquer him, shall take care of his child self, along with the lover.

But she came in his life, with the light that she has, his life was not dark to be illuminated, but her hands could impart on everything around her the tune, the music the sailor sought. His life he could call complete now, he would lay long hours on her lap, tell her stories of his journeys, his conquests in far off land. All throughout, she would brush his hair; calm as she was she listened to everything. The sailor went in to a trance, difficult to arise from.

One day came a storm, and destroyed the sailor's boat, and he could no longer go out. He had to work hard now, to accumulate money to build a new boat, suddenly his reality was shaken, he woke up from his trance, and the man in him saw that he had ignored his gatherings, and all lay spread around him now, he needed to act fast and act honest hard, to be back at the level he was before. He rushed out of his house, and started working on a boat borrowed, his hours were spent long out of house, he missed his wife, her touches and music, he looked at the sky and would mutter, “Hold on.”

She held on, to whatever little was available, she held on to the days that they have spent, she remembered everything that he had said, she walked the alleys they had walked together. Her life was now that of remembrance, and there were so many things she was yet to tell him.

Leaves when they fall never make a noise, but in that silence, its death is signified, floating in wind it dances around freer than it has been ever before yet not feeling the freedom, its heart yet was drawn to the tree, immobile and vast. It wanted to cling on yet, its lifelong desire to see the world was being fulfilled now, yet somebody said, “This is not how it should have been”. Wilted in its death, heavy hearted, the leaf gave up the company of wind, settled down on the ground to be trampled and decay.

Women when they grow up see men around them, whom they admire, around whom their heart palpitates a bit faster, that’s not love as they would tell you but when you ask them about what their lovers would be like, they would mention somebody very much alike that person. And our woman, had such a one in her heart, who went far away, lost in tides, in many years nobody had heard of him. On a melancholic autumn evening, he decided to give the worshipper of yesteryears a visit. Man going old would often dig in their past to bring out oysters they have left to brood, to provide a moment of old glitz lost and in those young eyes he will relive, he came hence to collect taxes.

She knew why he came, she knew what he would want and she could not give, but there is this time, when you have to give homage to the God that has been to buy peace with yourself, to clear your heart. She had to acknowledge it; she swore she would go no further. The man was welcomed and treated as best as she could, he decided to stay a bit longer assuming a conquest not far waiting.

The sailor has been away for long, tired of the tyranny his employer dished out, his mind exhausted he returned to his home, waiting for the song to soothe him. Calmly he saw the man holding his wife's hand and reciting something, calmly he walked destroyed everything, vowed never to return again. Such was the suddenness of this entire event, she did not move, never said a word. When he left, she came running after pleading, pledging her own innocence.

“Vile you are, your ways retched, your desire insatiable, never to be satisfied”. With that he walked away, in his mind ran what he saw over and over again. He remembered her making love, she substituted himself with the face he saw, he remembered how she loved playing with him, and he substituted himself with the man he did not know. He walked in rage, to his friends, celebrated with them, drinks galore. Night darkened, the sailor drooled, his mind slept, not in pain any more.

What of the woman, her purity questioned, she ran to those friends, the very whom had celebrated with her husband the day before. They pledged allegiance to her, soothed her, and told her they would do everything they could.

“That whore of yours came to me today, I have sent her back from my very threshold and told her never to come back again.” They would say to their friend who provided the drinks.

Drags on days, longer, harsher, waking up every day, thirsty and tired, the woman decided to evaluate her position, what she said, what was left to said, how she pleaded, how much more she could. Cold in response, her apologies were rejected, empty-handed she always returned.

“Alive yet?” Her man would ask, cold in manner, face red in anger, “go away to those with whom you frolic, what you need from me? Bread and shelter?”

Alive she was, she had to be, for life is something once given, she thought to herself, if no road exist through the mountain, then the road avoiding it, going around must be taken, the journey shall be hard, but it has to be taken. Set out she did, not to apologise again.

The infuriated sailor never knew what he wanted, his fury made him not to look at her, he told all his friends fabricated things about her, and now, his pride swelled and spoilt by the apologies offered could never go back to her, yet deep inside, he longed, for once to talk, for once to love. Yet when she came, he tortured her again, ridiculed her in front of her friend, and told her of the offers he was getting as if to signify what she was going to miss. That was the last he had seen her, she did not come again, why he could not realize. The last time she sent a man, who just said to him, your prejudices are yours to forget.

Days passed and finally he realized, he lost what he could not loose, he ran out again, where to go he did not know ran hither and thither and stopped when dead tired. He went to the man, her last messenger, begged, cringed, knelled and pleaded, “For her happiness you bring her to me, for she never knew how to be happy without me.” The man winced, and asked him to return promising he would talk, but guaranteed no success.

Far away in the foothills of mountain our new man found her, drifting along with unknown strangers. She looked at him and started to run away.

He shouted, “I come here to do for him, what I have already done for you. Give me your time and I ask no more, no answer or promises, nothing at all.”

She stopped to shriek abuses at him, through him to the man she loved, she strayed often digressed much, the man just stood and listened to everything.

(I will live you with his last words to her, for such length is inappropriate for my liking)

I know woman, your pride stops you from accepting what is yours, which you for such a long time wanted when unavailable, yet today when it offers itself to you, and you leave it unattended to go. Your pride, I know should have never been hurt, but then it was, it must lay down its arms. You, my woman may venture beyond and meet many a new man, but all alike, all to be enraged by your freedom, none shall look beyond what is visible, and none shall enquire what it is to be you. I know not a way where you can restore your pride and yet love a man, and yet love has never been sacrificing your pride. It is confusing often, confounding to most. And yet would you like to give it up, give up this, which I do not know whether to be love, whether it is submission it seeks, I do not know again. For a woman to love, perhaps is to wait, to weave clothes which remain unnoticed, to collect gems and decorate the house, and only noticed when you go all missing.