Flash fiction - Twice the fun this time

A general feedback we get for our posts is that they are very long. We see this as an expression symbolic of the 'fast-food generation', which needs immediate gratitification. Gone are the days, when we troubled our parents to tell us long stories, enjoyed reading long letters from relatives and friends and when 'Shantaram' was the perfect companion for a train journey. But today all good things seems to be preferred in small packages and reading as a habit has also been  hit by this bug.

As a result we thought of experimenting with something short. Bhujji had already got her feet wet in writing 'flash fiction' and today I too gave it a try. But we did it in our on style. Bhujji wrote the starting paragraph and then we both improvised and came up with our own second paragraphs for the same opening.  For those who enjoy the short things in life, hope you like it. Now the fun for you is to guess who wrote which endings. You could leave a comment!!

First

It was a hot sultry, summer afternoon. Just the kind of day for the job she had in mind. She cleaned her flower vase, carefully pulling out the wilted flowers. He would have hardly noticed them. But she pondered if she should leave the half dead ones. Perfection was important to her, especially today. She decided to leave them for the day. She arranged her records in alphabetical order, but from the last to the first this time. Last time he had arranged it the other way round. She then remembered her disheveled dresser. She arranged her bottles according to their height all facing the west, West for today. The Yardley tin was almost over, but she wanted it to stay. He had promised to buy a new one and then she can do away with this one. She polished her shoes, one piece had a scratch. It was an unpardonable mistake; she wanted it all perfect today. If only she had two pairs of the exact same shoe as him. She tried waxing the shoes but then she lost som nail paint in doing so. When she applied a fresh coat, the other hand looked dull and needed another coat. But coat after coat both the hands did not seem to match. She removed them all and started afresh with a new colour. This time his favourite- Red. The flowers, the records, the dresser, the shoes, the nails - she tried recollecting her list for the day. Tom was chained tight to the ottoman. He could not move far freely but could pull the ottoman out of the front room window if he wished. The clock struck three and she rose from her reverie. She had slept more than usual. She was late by twelve minutes and that too on a day like today.

She should have been out in the garden by now, exactly under the window sill. She rushed to the front door hoping that the ice cream wagon was also late. She opened the door. The ice cream wagon was turning the corner of the street towards her house. She rushed down the stairs and just then the driver honked. Tom dashed to the window and with his jerk pulled the ottoman attached to his leash all the way, down the window sill and instead of her; D’mello got crushed under the weight. And then she remembered her last item on the list. She was to call to D’mello asking him if he could pick up her favourite flowers at twelve instead of three today.

 Second

It was a hot sultry, summer afternoon. Just the kind of day for the job she had in mind. She cleaned her flower vase, carefully pulling out the wilted flowers. He would have hardly noticed them. But she pondered if she should leave the half dead ones. Perfection was important to her, especially today. She decided to leave them for the day. She arranged her records in alphabetical order, but from the last to the first this time. Last time he had arranged it the other way round. She then remembered her disheveled dresser. She arranged her bottles according to their height all facing the west, West for today. The Yardley tin was almost over, but she wanted it to stay. He had promised to buy a new one and then she can do away with this one. She polished her shoes, one piece had a scratch. It was an unpardonable mistake; she wanted it all perfect today. If only she had two pairs of the exact same shoe as him. She tried waxing the shoes but then she lost some nail paint in doing so. When she applied a fresh coat, the other hand looked dull and needed another coat. But coat after coat both the hands did not seem to match. She removed them all and started afresh with a new colour. This time his favourite- Red. The flowers, the records, the dresser, the shoes, the nails - she tried recollecting her list for the day. Tom was chained tight to the ottoman. He could not move far freely but could pull the ottoman out of the front room window if he wished. The clock struck three and she rose from her reverie. She had slept more than usual. She was late by twelve minutes and that too on a day like today.

Tom was his usual vivacious self, barking and wagging his tail relentlessly, looking towards the door. Maybe he heard the faint sound of the opening of the gate. Dogs can do that, she knew it. She got up from the chair, momentarily looked at all corners of the room and walked towards the door. On the way she released Tom and he galloped towards the door. He started barking as though talking to someone on the other side. It should be him. They both could talk, man and his dog. She anticipated the bell would ring before she reached the door. It didn’t. She unlatched the door and opened it. Tom ran out of the house. There was nobody at the door and the main gate was also latched. She looked around. Not even today, she thought. She went back and reclined on the chair. The door was left open for Tom to come back, who would sniff at the gate, all the way back to the front door, then do the same all around the house, and once he is through with the garden, he would come and lie down beside her legs. She would then go and close the door. 

Pettikaran

I have never warmed up to the idea of shopping. I guess I owe it to my dad's dilligent stinginess and my mom's utilitarian shopping skills. Mom shopped for us when we grew out of clothes ( which did happen quite often owing to her great cooking skills). Dad on the contrary refused to believe his kids grew( "Oh they are small, its just above the knee, no my daughters arent old enough to wear a bra"). Mom had strategic plans for shopping. She shopped mostly at home. 

No !!! these are not days when online shopping happened and we lived in the Middle east ( also known as the Ggulfffu by the proud Malayalees). My mom who could never shop without dad's approval found solace in her magical man ' pettikaran' ( the suitcase man). He was the hero of my childhood days. A pot bellied man with a skull cap and a magnificient beard with few greys, always dressed in lucknowi chicken kurtas or embroidered shirts, that's how I remember the 'pettikaran'

You could call him the modern day self fashioned kabuliwala who came home with a world of fashion captured in his huge suitcase. And mind it!!! these were days when parents did not know the difference between tailors and fashion designers, so pettikaran to us was our family fashion designer. He decided more than anyone else what our options were for the year and the bonus was we could select from his large suitcase- a liberty we never had in dad's presence in a shopping mall.

His suitcase never failed to meet my mom's expectations. It had everything from vests and briefs to dresses and night suits, sarees and hair clips, yardley and brut. He was my mother's accomplice in her secret shopping spree. He smuggled stuff we needed and mom treasured the sarees he supplied which she would then gift her family when we went for holidays to India.

I remember vaguely the pronouncement of the 'pettikaran' which was a synergestic sound with the mix of a goat and camel cry combined at a low note. I still dont remember what exactly he announced was it ' kapde', ' samaan', or something like 'eeeehaaaahhjjkk'. But whatever it was , it was the sweetest sound I had  heard and I longed to hear it on and on.

Times have changed, I have the freedom and luxury to shop from malls but my heart does not skip a beat at the sight of any piece of cloth or accessory, I never feel the warmth from any mannequin or sales girl as I did from the pettikaran. I don't know if it's my status of being an adult or the new found freedom, that deprives me of such pleasures.Or is it the realisation of having to decide on clothes a chore I disliked so much and left to mom, that makes me feel empty in these malls today. And as I slouch and drag my feet making the same old irritating noise with my sandals hoping to hear mom scream from the corner -" walk without dragging"- I inhale deeply and close my eyes and I can hear the 'eeeehaaaahhjjkk' somewhere in the distance and I wait for the pettikaran to rescue me from this chore like  I did for Santa Claus.