South Asian Tales for Children - Essay Example

Disclosure: Fatima quickened her pace down the muddy road. Her feet made annoying squelchy noises with every hasty step. The rain had made the earthslick and on her left, tiny rivulets of rainwater, that had mixed with the soil to turn the soft brown shade of lightly-boiled chai; ran alongside her. The trees seemed to cry in relief now that the heavens had finally burst upon them, bowing over in gratitude. The fat crows on their branches shuddered, drying themselves and scattering raindrops on the grass below. The heat of the last few afternoons had finally given way to sudden gusty winds with today’s downpour. She was at Salma’s house when it had started and her mother made Fatima and all the other children stay till the rain had let up a little. It was Salma’s seventh birthday and her uncle had been telling them ghost stories for a treat after lunch. All the children squatted on the floor around the balding man, who from an armchair, began to tell them terrifying stories of witches and shaitans. In spite of herself, she found herself recalling one of those horrible stories now. The woman in the story had teeth that stretched down to her chin, and matted hair that hid her white face. She would steal babies from their mothers once every fortnight, and no one ever knew what happened to them. Fatima’s footsteps further increased in rapidity. She was almost running by the time the bend of her road was visible. Her house was the only one down that road. It was a lonely strip of land. There were plenty of trees on either side and stray wild goats would come to graze, once in a while. But there was a desolate air about the place; it needed human habitation. The moment she caught a glimpse of their rundown green door, Fatima began to run as fast as she could, forgetting the slippery road and her best silk dress which went flying behind her, now spattered with mud. The next day, they met again at school. Salma’s friends were still talking about Chachaji’s stories: ‘And what about that one? The one where the churail, the witch, takes the form of a cat and makes the little girl follow her down to her lair?’ ‘That wasn’t half as scary as the one with the demon with the five heads that sprang up suddenly. I was almost crying for help when he jumped at us like that!’ ‘Really, Salma; your uncle is too good a storyteller!’ Salma smiled while Fatima remained quiet. She wished they would stop talking about it now. It was over now, all that bogus story-telling, why couldn’t they just concentrate on today? She moved away from them with her lunchbox. No one seemed to mind and Fatima spent the rest of the meal time tearing into her stale puris and vegetable curry. After classes were over, Fatima started to hurry home but Salma caught up with her. ‘Wait! What’s wrong with you, Moti-ma?’ Moti-ma or Fatty was something they would call Fatima affectionately because of how plump she was; or used to be till a year back. Fatima tried to smile at Salma, ‘Nothing’s wrong. Why do you ask?’ ‘You tell me! You’ve not been talking to me at all, since yesterday. Did uncle scare you that badly?’ ‘Yes, that’s it. I’m sorry.’ Fatima grinned at her sheepishly. ‘Silly girl!’ Salma replied and took her by the hand, ‘You should’ve told me, na? I would have come and sat next to you, instead. ‘It’s okay now.’ * That evening, as Fatima sat at her table, finishing those ‘endless sums’ by candlelight, her mother came up to her door and knocked. ‘Yes, Amma.’ ‘It’s time for dinner, child. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.’ She came in, looking ghostly in the pale glow of the candlelight. ‘Yes, Amma?’ repeated Fatima without looking up. ‘Is everything okay? You don’t speak to me any more.’ ‘No, Amma, I do. I mean, yes, they are fine. It’s just that yesterday they were talking about – you know’ and she looked up at her mother. ‘Yes?’ ‘Spirits and all that mumbo-jumbo. Ghosts and witches who eat your liver. Shaitans that will sell your soul and make you their slaves. Stories like that.’ Her mother smiled at her and coming closer, lightly touched her hair. ‘As long as I am here, child, you have nothing to fear.’ Fatima smiled at this and ran down to the dinner table. The rains had begun in earnest now. Everyday, it poured after school and the children would have to stay back in class or at the house of whoever lived close by. They would run screaming happily, their books on their heads, as the stray dogs on the street would bark and run along with them. There were overflowing drains, muddy streets and rain-washed houses and trees everywhere. The children loved this season, they would fall sick often and get to stay back home and watch TV or play board games. Their parents weren’t as enthusiastic but everyone agreed that after the sweltering heat, this was a welcome change. Rains also meant hot chai and samosas in the evening; the grown-ups would sit around munching on them in the balconies in the evening, laughing and talking till it got dark. Today they were staying back at Nisha’s house. Garbled voices and sudden hoots of laughter came drifting out to the verandah where her parents and friends were sitting. Nisha was describing very animatedly how their teacher had somehow got white paint on her behind and every time she turned around, Nisha had felt like bursting into laughter. ‘And then she begins to write the question on the board. But all I can see is the writing on her bottom!’ and she again relapsed into helpless laughter with the others. The talk soon turned to their favourite teachers and they began arguing. ‘I used to like Fatima’s Ammu,’ said one of the girls suddenly and they all turned to stare at her. Fatima’s mother used to be a teacher at their school, till about a year ago. ‘Why doesn’t she teach us any more?’ ‘Well, after the accident, you know. Her face got burnt on one side. She doesn’t like to come out now,’ replied Fatima tersely in a well-rehearsed lie. ‘But we would not mind her burnt face, na?’ the girl went on and everyone agreed that she should return to school and begin teaching them again. ‘That is not going to happen,’ said Fatima decisively and stalked off. Even though it was still raining outside, she ran out the back door and began to walk home. Salma followed her. ‘You know we’re getting drenched, right?’ ‘I didn’t ask you to come,’ retorted Fatima sullenly. The two girls didn’t say anything more while they walked back. Both deliberately walked right through puddles and their socks turned a deeper shade of taupe with each one they passed. The way back to Fatima’s house was beautiful. There was a strip of road that went right through clusters of small fields on either side. They grew mostly wheat in those fields and sometimes in the summer afternoons, Fatima would see some bent man at work among the crops with his scythe that glimmered in the sunlight. She would often stop and stare at the sun-burnt, perspiring back till the rest of the person noticed her. Usually she’d get a smile but a more belligerent farmer would often rebuke her for staring and she would have to flee. The familiar bend in the road was up ahead and that was where Salma left Fatima and walked down the other path to her own home. Salma spoke up suddenly, ‘What did happen that day, Fatima? You never spoke about it with us.’ Fatima looked at her and Salma noticed she had been crying. She took hold of Fatima’s shoulders and jerked her, ‘Will you tell me? I can’t stand this. You’re crying but not saying anything. Something is wrong. Am I not your friend; why won’t you tell me?’ Fatima did begin to cry now and sobbed, ‘But it is not normal. What happened.’ ‘Tell me,’ Salma continued, patiently. ‘That day, when I came back home from school, I see my front door covered in smoke.’ Fatima began walking towards her home and Salma followed. ‘You know we have no neighbours. Perhaps that is why no one else noticed anything.’ Salma nodded. ‘Anyway, I walked in and I see my grandmother in her bed, but she looked like she wasn’t breathing. I began shouting for Amma. And then I turn around to see she’s standing there at the doorway of the kitchen, smiling at me. Completely unhurt. Perfectly calm and beautiful.’ Fatima stopped here as they reached her doorstep. Fatima’s mother opened the door and smiled, ‘Come in, girls.’ Fatima and Salma went up the stairs, without a word. Salma was mystified, ‘But you said your mother’s face was burnt.’ ‘What, Fatima? You said that? How could you tell such a lie?’ her mother turned on Fatima. ‘Don’t worry, Salma. Nothing happened to me. I’m fine.’ Fatima didn’t reply but went up to her room. Salma followed and sat down on the bed. ‘You lied to me about that? Why?’ ‘Because I didn’t want you to know the truth.’ ‘What a wonderful answer. Why else do people lie, stupid?’ ‘I don’t know. But I could not tell you the truth.’ Salma realized she wasn’t about to get an answer and lay down on the bed. Fatima’s room had doodles stuck all over the walls. She could draw quite well. The cupboard in the corner was huge, although plain. She could see the sky outside from the window: a clear, pale grey. No clouds hung about ominously as they did almost everyday, lately. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’ Salma said, happily. Fatima nodded and with a deep breath suddenly spoke up. ‘You see, Salma. That day my mother died.’ Salma jumped up. ‘What?’ Fatima looked at her and Salma saw the face of her friend turned completely unrecognizable, it was white as paper and as smooth and creaseless. ‘How can you tell such awful lies? I should hit you!’ Fatima didn’t move or show any form of response. ‘“Children ought to be with their mothers,” she told me and took my hand. It felt so strange. I didn’t know what was happening. I kept asking her. What about grandmother? Why was she behaving like this? But she would not say a word. Just held my hand and tucked me in my bed, although it was afternoon. “Everything will be fine, I shall never leave you while you need me, child.” That’s what she said, my Amma. And she meant it. She still cooked for me, tied my hair; did almost everything as before. But she stopped teaching. And she started becoming different.’ Salma was standing all the while with her mouth open, she sat down now on the bed again. ‘She was only a shadow of the mother I knew. I could not love her as I did my Amma. I don’t even know what to call her. A ghost? But I can touch her, feel her. Everyday, it gets so lonesome at the house. But still I cannot call anyone to the house.’ ‘Why’ Salma asked, her voice trembling faintly. Fatima turned to look at her, her face slightly more mobile now, ‘Why? What do you think? What if someone understood?’ ‘So… So. So, you’re going to kill me now?’ Salma asked falteringly. Fatima couldn’t help a chuckle. ‘Are you mad? Why would I kill you? You’re my best friend.’ A wave of relief swept over Salma. ‘I will not tell anyone, I promise.’ Fatima nodded, ‘I know.’ And then Salma looked around the house again and saw a grey aura about everything that she hadn’t noticed before. There were cobwebs everywhere; the house didn’t have electricity any more. Poor Fatima. ‘That’s why you hated those stories,’ Salma said softly. She got up and hugged Fatima. ‘You should have told me before. You can come and stay with me some nights, if you like. I’m sure your Amma won’t mind.’ Fatima brightened. ‘Yes. I would love that.’ The two girls headed down the stairs again. ‘Bye, aunty!’ yelled Salma from the door as they ran out of the house. The rain had stopped long ago and the sky looked serene. [2, 212 words] Commentary: I wanted to write a short story for the ‘Kahani’ magazine which specializes in South Asian tales for children. They mentioned on their website that they were looking for stories that contained mystery, adventure or humour. They also wanted stories to be based on South Asian themes but without being preachy or clichéd. I would like to mention here that their word limit was only 950, while my assignment required me to write a 2000 word piece. I looked for better alternatives but found this magazine to be the most suitable one, and hence have been compelled to ignore their prescribed limit. But, my piece does deal with their generic interests and thematic concerns. My story revolves around the two children, Fatima and Salma, who are brought together with the disclosure of the event that has tormented Fatima for a year from when the story begins. I wanted to write about a child experiencing the death of a loved one and yet not losing them. I chose the narrative voice of a seven-year old child; a girl belonging to a rural, South-Asian background. Writing from the child’s perspective was challenging because I had to keep it simple, yet not make it boring. As Linda Anderson suggests in Part 7 of her book, ‘Point of View: Trying on Voices’, I did seem to choose this on intuition. A grown-up would not feel the same confusion as the child and would know how to deal with the situation instead. Fatima’s choice of keeping it to herself begins to tear her apart. Confiding in a friend helps lift the burden as she realizes that although unnatural, the situation is not insurmountable. This confidence also reveals a newer shade to their friendship, a promising start to a fulfilling relationship. I also wanted to concentrate on building a detailed, realistic world of the child as well as highlight the difference in the kind of things that adults and children notice. The scenery plays an important part in the story. It aims to allow the reader to picture the location of Fatima’s house, to see (rather than be told about) the forlorn roads that led up to it, the school and so on. All these play an important part in shaping the person Fatima is. Dialogues were another area of concentration. Little school-girls from South-Asian schools are not hard to portray, but I needed to ensure a certain level of universality. Even though the magazine is targeted at an audience that would relate to it, using too much of colloquial language would have been distracting for the European or the American reader. I therefore tried to strike a balance by keeping the English to the simplest possible translation of the vernacular usage. The one-page sample that is available on the site aims at a very young audience. They also require the stories to be read aloud. Hence, to check the oral quality of the story, I read it out a few times myself and changed the words and phrases that seemed to jar with the overall flow. Although prose does not really have a meter, I tried introducing a rhythm that would make it appealing to children. Except for some part of the content that is more mature than the sample they display, I think the overall tone and themes of the piece make it eligible for publication. [562 words] Read More