Village

The few things we forget among our billion distractions. What would you learn if you could spent some time with your conscience?

Our footsteps echoed across the long corridor. Surprisingly little had changed since the last time I visited the place. The floor tiles were still mostly there and the walls were still distinctly blue. Yes, the tiles had cracked here and there and the blue of the wall wasn’t as blue as it used to be. But I knew better than to dwell on it. I wasn’t there to stay. He was. Holding my hand, keeping himself to within the seams of my shadow he walked hurriedly to keep pace.

Out of the quiet, I asked him,

“Tell me, why does this place remind me of my village?” 

I heard his giggle. It was innocent, it was also hideously honest. I couldn’t bear it.

He interrupted my thought.

“If you really wanted to know, we wouldn’t  be here now.”

I pulled him harder. We had somewhere to get. He had been with me too long. It had to be done. By his own admission, he loved to break my bubbles. Like an obsessed gardener, he would cut through my thickets to expose the termite hills. He would turn the soil up and toss away the chrysanthemums because they wouldn’t grown on my soil. He would prune the shrubs because they sucked the ground dry. What he did not understand was that I needed my thicket and my chrysanthemum miracle and the neighbor’s envy at my full shrubs. He cared too much about the garden to know what I loved about the garden.

At the end of the corridor, an iron gate came into view, and along with it the strong stench of rust. I pushed open the door to lead us left along another corridor. I felt my palm growing wet, the shirt collar reined itself around me tighter, and I wondered how to tell him this was going to be his new home. Yes, I could not stand him any longer but he was still my gardener. His palm rested easy in mine as we walked past the cells, each with an inmate dressed in white. None of them spoke, or screamed at me. They walked up to the cell doors and smiled at me, like old friends. We neared the cell I had got ready for him. As I turned around to face him, he let go of my hand, walked across me to the door and smiled. I gave him the key and watched him walk into the cell and turn the key on the lock. Tossing me the key, he added urgently,

“I am here. If you ever need me.“

I turned around and walked. I peered into my own face in cell after cell. There was the kid who couldn’t stop playing, the gypsy who couldn’t stop travelling, the friend who couldn’t be alone, the boy who couldn’t stop watching her, the lover who couldn’t stop hoping and the man who couldn’t walk away into the woods. He called out from behind,

“Do you really want to know?”

My legs tiring, still facing away, I replied weakly,

“What?”

“Why it reminds you of your village”

I offered silence.

He continued.

“What is the place that you own, hold so close to yourself but never can find enough time to visit? When you do go, you don’t complain, because you feel guilty. You don’t want the road to be broken, you don’t want the trees to be cut. But you know you haven’t been around. You are scared if you stay long enough, you will have to stay and fix the road, and save the trees. You know you could do better. So you stroll by. It is the place where it all began. And that is all it is now to you. Like this place. Your mind. Locked in these cells are all you, all those you couldn’t be; all the trees you could save. But you are not here to set it right, you are here only to show your conscience that you came by. Just like your village.”

I listened patiently. A lone teardrop hit the ground. I raised my head.

From behind the wrought iron cell door, I saw him in the cell right across. And the silhouette of my form disappearing at the far end of the corridor.

Author's Note

Please feel free to be scathing with your comments ;)

Reviews

[Kevin Moldenhauer]

Hi Sharan,

I found it interesting. It was very descriptive and well written. I'm not entirely sure of the point of it is though. It sounds like the beginning of a great story and like it should go on. If it is just an intro to a further story then I don't think you need to draw out a point right up front, you can develop it in further writing.

[Sharan Suresh]

Thanks Kevin,
The purpose really was only to deliver an image of that confrontation. But yes, I agree it goes somewhere and stops going. Feels more like a snippet, to myself. I'm not sure how to categorize it in its present state. Mostly I write when I get an image and once it's reached, it doesn't compel me anymore. Should stop losing the drive then and take it somewhere. Lots to learn, and doing it as I go.

Thanks again for the valuable feedback, will work on it, for my own sake ;)

[Stonz P.]

Hello Sir,
I too have the same thoughts as Mr. Kevin before me.

"Some things are better left unsaid" :)

As for the piece, I liked the imageries and immediately caught on, what you wished to express.
Cheers,
Utkarsh.

[Stonz P.]

I just re-read the description and bang on, sir!

What cannot one learn spending time with their consciousness.
I am glad to see like-minded thinking in a person I know nothing about.
There, yet is hope in humanity.

[Sharan Suresh]

Hi Utkarsh! Thanks for the feedback. Like I said to Kevin, I completely agree it could, probably should have been taken further. But some times we are slaves to the voices in our heads, and they beg to be put into words. Have taken the point, and will certainly be mindful of it in the next piece I write. For my own sake ;)

Thanks for the appreciation too. I'm glad it came through to you. Nothing more exhilarating or rewarding as finding that another soul could see past the embellishments and feel the same you did. Indeed that's probably all I write for. Cheers!