FOR THE SAKE OF A STORY
Photo credit: octaviolopez from morguefile.com
He was residing in the locality for years now. History has it that a family had fled from its roots and had settled there with their meager savings. That was the time when the destiny of the country was shaping up. Flags of revolution and cries of change was the order of the day. Those were also the days of unrest and trepidation. But in spite of everything the family survived in their thatched roof, in the midst of big houses. Their little battle would begin in those chilly winter mornings when the mother wrapped in the attire of family responsibilities would give a stern call to the children to put water to boil in their petty shop, that served as the only means of their livelihood.
Often,the children would forget to do so and more often than not the big brother would protect his little sister from his mothers scoldings.Their shop would serve nice kulchas and parathas to its customers along with other delicacies that were most uncommon in that part of the country. .Of course,the brother would get rewarded in the evenings when his little sister would stand on the top of two oil containers after placing them one on the other and with difficulty reach the oven to bake those parathas for him. He would return the favor by helping her with her studies and escorting her everyday to the community vidyalaya.At the end of the day, the family would assemble after closing the shop and would count the earnings of the day. It also provided an opportunity for them to relive the day that had passed and pray in anticipation for the day that was about to come.
Days passed, seasons changed. The monsoons affected their business more than anything. Few customers turned out and it became increasingly difficult for them to serve the customers well in the open as sudden downpours would play a spoilsport even to the most timid of the gatherings. In addition lack of extra space was always a problem. But their caring nature and examplarary attitude mastered their limitations and their shop soon earned the goodwill of the people. Gradually the income increased and the brother too enrolled himself in the nearby school. Now they hired men to work for them, do the servings, cook and even manage the washing chores. But the children still found happiness in managing their activities-after all the shop was their mascot, medallion, a token of pride and also a forum of self identity.
He was residing in the locality for years now and he was also a silent witness of the changing times and situations for the family. The separatist movement was gaining considerable ground and the slogans were becoming louder by the day.
One day when a group of people were having their dinner, the place was raided by the forces. In no time, in their attempt to get their hands on their prized catch, they ransacked the entire place, destroyed the small hut and tortured the family suspecting them to be deep down in the conspiracy. What took years in creation and conservation was set ablaze. A dream, a struggle vaporized like miniscule droplet of water from the surface of a pan put to fire. The forensic team arrived at the scene the following day and collected everything they thought would serve as evidence. What evaded their list, were those empty containers of oil, which lay segregated, almost crooked, isolated in the debris.
When the waves subsided “he” reached the spot too to pay homage to those imbibed moments.
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