The Skeletons who would be People

The Skeletons who would be People

Ayesha came flying into the room like an Indian projectile aimed at an army post that had somehow become sentient and decided to attack civilians instead. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered like rhinestones dressing up a brown velvet jora. It was obvious she had been running, because the frosting of baby fat that covered her stomach continued to wobble for several seconds after she’d come to a halt, indicating that momentum had been built up.

No one paid any attention to what she was saying; they were too busy marveling at the fact that she had been running. For the last year or so, ever since she had entered the gulf stream of puberty that dissects the ocean of emotion, Ayesha had taken to sauntering around the house at a speed that, at the best of times, came close to that of a nesting slug. A foot slide here and a foot slide there, here a slide, there a slide, and everyone met happily at the dinner table.

Ayesha waited till the shock waves of her movement rippled through the room and settled against the wall, there to rest until another motion revived them. She raised her right hand and pointed to the book it clutched. “It says here” she began.

“Why were you running?” inquired her mother, a master of the art of inverted interruption, the cardinal rule of which is that it’s ok for an adult to interrupt a child, but not vice versa. Apparently the world comes to a standstill if you do the latter, and the offending child is whisked away, never to be seen again by strangers. Until she’s married to one.

“It says here”…Ayesha tried again

“Your mother asked you a question,” (insert sound of fleshy palm striking fleshy cheek here as Ayesha absorbs the accompanying imagery) snapped Ayesha’s father. “Is this how you talk to your elders?”

“It says here”..Ayesha was exhibiting a determination beyond her years. Whatever she was thinking of, it made parental wrath seem a tiny spud in a basket of potatoes perched on the head of a hawker who was, at last count, several hundred thousand miles from the house.

But approaching.

“Ayesha! Abas’s talking to you!” mother tried to steer her onto a set of different tracks so the approaching train of thought wouldn’t decapitate her.

“”There’s a line” Ayesha held on to her thought with all the strength in her twelve year old mind, the taut lines of her body indicating the tension beneath. As she stood in the center of the room, her words began to string together. “itsayshere” she managed, before stopping to breathe. If she said it all together as one word maybe they wouldn’t interrupt because so far she’d managed to get at least three out before they stopped her so maybe she’s be able to say the whole thing it might not work but there’snoharmintrying.

“What is the matter with you child? How dare you ignore what we’re saying? “

“It’s that girl that she’s friends with, I knew she’d be a bad influence”

“Haven’t we taught you to pick your friends?”

“Is this what they teach you at school, how to insult your parents?”

“I would never dare speak to my parents like that”

“Hamaray zamamay mein to aisa nahin hota tha” (what at first glance had seemed to Ayesha to be a malevolent carving of a saber toothed tiger turned to be Ayesha's dadi, come back to life so she could add her two bits)

“Honestly jaan we’ve got to do something about this”

“I know, she can’t continue this way”

“ I’m going to call that girls mother.”

Ayesha watched in horror as her mother rose and made her way across the room. “ButIjustwanttoknowwhatitmeans” escaped her mouth, froze in the scope of her father’s gorgon-like gaze, shattered into icicles that melted into the floor and began running together. First in threadlike streams, then pulsing rivers, and finally raging torrents that beat against the wall in frustration as even that release was denied them. The torrents ceased their “senseless prattling” (words from her mothers mouth hovering over the handset trickled into Ayesha’s being and set up base camp, preparation for the conquest of her psyche) and morphed into figures. Hunched like old tree at the bottom of the garden, calcified like butterfly, shrunk into themselves like mother when father touched her (kids watch you see, with naked eyes) the shriveled word figures froze, whimpering in relief only when the ghost of her momentum lapped gently at their feet.

“There,” said her mother as she turned away from the phone, “it’s all taken care of. They won’t be meeting after school any more”

“Thank god,” said her father, “maybe now she’ll behave herself.”

“Do you think I should talk to her teachers, make sure they don’t sit together in class?”

“Yes”

“Or should we give it a week and see if her behavior improves?”

“Yes”

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

“Yes”

“I don’t think you are”

“You don’t think I’m what?”

“Never mind”

“I hate it when you do that! First you complain I’m not listening then when I do you say ‘never mind’. Why can’t you make up your mind!”

“Fine. I do mind.”

“What do you mind?”

“I mind that you don’t listen to me.”

“I do listen to you”

“I have to make a scene first”

“Which gives you double the pleasure for half the price”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means”

“If I did why would I ask you”?

“It means that you like making scenes”

“If that’s what it takes to get your attention I shall continue to make scenes”

“You have my attention whenever you say something important”

“You and I obviously don’t agree on what is important”

Ayesha watched as her shriveled stick figures were obliterated by newer constructs, bigger ones with claws and teeth. The words flowing out of her parents mouths froze and shattered till the floor was littered with melting icicles and instead of threadlike streams and pulsing rivers there was just an apologetic puddle that spread across the room. At the corners where it lapped against the walls it rocked the skeletons of her parents words, and flesh came up to embrace them. Not the healthy pink of healing wounds, but the rotting red that coated the mouth of carrion eaters.

“I just wanted to know what it meant,” she whispered.

Two pairs of carrion eater eyes swiveled to meet hers.

“Haven’t you caused enough trouble already?”

“Put that stupid book away”

“No, give it to me, I’ll give it to your class teacher tomorrow and have her return it to the girl”

“Who knows what kind of home she comes from”?

“Her parents obviously don’t have time to teach her manners”

“Wo idhar kyoon nahi aa sakti?” (tiger tiger burning bright in the forest of the night)

“That’s an interesting idea!”

“We could keep an eye on both of them”

“Ayesha, would you like your friend to come here and play?”

“If you don’t break anything in the TV-lounge we might let you take her to your room”

Ayesha had a sudden vision of her friend walking into the room and seeing the skeletons laid out along the walls, the stagnant pool beneath her feet waiting to be stirred into motion.

“No” she whispered, “I should spend more time studying”.

“That’s my girl!” roared her father, and she saw the tiger pushing through his face, pulsing beneath his skin, waiting to be brought into the world. Her mother, the mid-wife, beamed at her.

Ayesha turned and left the room. She had resumed her normal speed; anyone watching would have seen the awkward gait of one as yet unfamiliar with her body. Perhaps her friend, the book girl, would have seen instead the pools and flotsam she moved so carefully to avoid.

As she moved she whispered, for comfort, the words she’d come here to understand.

“Rage” she whispered “rage against the dying of the light.”

References:

The line "tiger tiger burning bright, in the forest of the night" is taken

from the poem 'the tiger' by William Blake.

The line "rage against the dying of the light" is from 'do not go gentle

into that good night' by Dylan Thomas.