Apr 29, 2016 Friday Fictioneers, Original Flash Fiction, Original Short Story

PHOTO PROMPT © Mary Shipman
Word Count:  100 words of text, exactly
Genre:  Semi-realistic fantasy-fiction

Genii
©April 29th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

My husband had died.  My son had taken the house.  My relations were scattered. 

All I was left with now was the shop.   No one wanted it.  By law, it was mine (an old will left by my husband before things soured).

I sat there, my heart in pieces, selling a small thing here or there, just enough to buy food, and pay for my heat.

“How much for that lamp?” asked a bell-clear voice.

I looked up.

A beautiful gray-haired woman stood there.  Her eyes were mist-gray.  “I’m Jeanie,” she said, “I need that lamp.”

I fell in love.

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This is my third attempt.  Bear with me, please!  Something about this photograph calls out to me.

Once again, many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, Fairy Blog-Mother of FF, for hosting Friday Fictioneers, where we get to read the work of some of the best story-tellers in the blogging world.  Thanks, too, to Mary Shipman for that lovely photo-prompt!

 

 

Tags: #Genie, #Genii, #Original 100-word Flash Fiction based on a photo-prompt

Apr 29, 2016 Free Verse, NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry

I Remember All This …
©April 29th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

I remember when I was born.
I was wrinkled and dark,
And quiet, I think.
I remember my mother
Singing to me in her womb.
Her voice shaped me,
Note by golden note.

I remember seeing pigs
Rooting, squealing on the streets
Outside my grandparents’ home.
Squealing in joy, I followed,
Entranced by their wiggly tails.
I remember climbing trees
And scraping knees, like
Maria, she who made me
Want, nay, covet, a guitar
And a home filled with
Clamorous, singing children.

I remember watching green light
Slipping down the polished leaves
Of mango trees, and feeling
Smooth and sunlit from within.
I remember the soft, soft skin
On the back of my hands,
And the shiver it gave me
When I caressed it absently.

I remember the song I sang
At the Museum Theatre,
My first big audience in a big city.
And the mad burst of applause
After a few seconds of nerve-bending
Silence, a silence which terrified.
I remember how everything
Shimmered like a dream,
Like the pale fires of an opal,
And smelt of jasmines,
And bursts of marigolds,
And aging wood and carpets,
And old velvet drapes in that
Old theatre in Madras.

I remember my music,
Born with me, and living
Like blood within me.
Flowing even now, singing
While I think on these matters,
And worry about the planet,
Singing like a river
Flowing to an unknown sea,
Singing without the desire
To be heard, or acknowledged,
Singing, while I write these words.

I remember my father’s mother,
First alive, kind and gentle,
Without personality, without joy,
Without rancour, without rage,
Without a real life of her own.
Then dead, laid out cold and straight,
My family’s living room, lying
Still and large-bellied and sad,
Clad in her death-sari,
Water on the floor puddling around us,
Poured onto her by all the family
A frightening, bewildering custom
I’d never seen until then.

I remember with a shudder
The chilling wails of an
Old, old woman, who appeared
As if from nowhere 
(A relative, I was told),
And keened in ritual mode.
I remember how, after,
She abruptly ceased,
And partook of the sesame
Sweetmeats, and black pepper foods
Cooked for the occasion,
And chatted in banal mode.

I remember wincing away from
Sesame sweets and black pepper
For years and years afterwards.
I remember riding nightmares
All the way into the break of day.
I remember crawling into
My parents’ room, terrified
Of ghosts and the cloying dark,
For I could see all
The spirits ranged around me,
Whispering and pointing.
I remember the comforting
Soft bulk of my father on my right,
The rounded plumpness
Of my mother on my left.

I remember my father
Saying this to me:
“I didn’t cry when my mother died;
I cried when I had to cremate her,
And utter Sanskrit prayers,
Saying, This is the body of
The Mother whose womb bore me,
Whose body nurtured me,
Which now, I consign it to the flames.”
Perhaps, I misremember
His exact words, but that was
The mist, the gist of them. 

I remember my husband,
Staunch and loving,
Dutiful and beautiful,
Full of music and song
Full of laughter and puns,
Full of kindness,
Telling me he loved me
That very first time,
Lo, so many years ago!
And how our love bloomed,
And our life together
Became a work of art
Full of flaws, yes, but
Full of beauty, and still
Shining, despite decades.

I remember when my daughter
Came to be, like a flower
Born of music and love,
Born to music and love,
Bringing sunlight, bringing warmth
Into my swelling body.
How like a goddess I felt!
And I remember watching
Her grow up, and still growing,
And as she grows,
I remember every day,
Every minute, as a pearl
Which I stitch into my days,
Drawing them close and bright.

I remember so much,
Some things of consequence,
Some of no import.
And soon, these memories,
Like my father’s own ashes
When he died – unwilling
To leave my mother until the end,
Despite the disappointments,
Despite the pain, the losses,
He and she had borne, and
With love for each other
Triumphing over all of it –
These memories will swirl
Like his flowers and ashes
In the water, where my
Brother, my sister and I
Emptied the brass pot
Which contained him,
And flow downriver.

I know, I shall remember
This and more, at the time
When I shall be thus emptied
Into a swirling river, flowers and all.
I shall join the Great River, where
All these memories will form the Great Om.
And I shall remember you all, while I sit
Dreaming on a white lotus
Springing from the navel
Of the great Brahman,
All around me, the stars will wheel,
While the planets spin, and the
Universe goes quiet.

___________________________________________________________

Tags: #Brahman, #FreeVerse, #IRemember, #Memories, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #TheGreatHum

Apr 29, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post, Uncategorized

In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:  Curve

From a Lover to A Beloved
©April 29th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

The curve of your ears
The curve of your eyes
The curve of your smile
The curve of your frown
The curve of your back
The curve of your neck
The curve of your mind
The curve of your life
Are the shell of you,
The shape of you,
The song of you,
The home of you.
And you, my love,
Make me smile,
Make me want to curl up
And nestle against the shell
Of you, and feel the
Deep, blue whooshing
Of the waves of the
Sea where you dwell
In secret, away from
The prying eyes
Of a busy world.

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Tags: #Curve, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #TheDailyPost, #TheDailyPrompt