I am going to push the moon behind that, father said, pointing to the mountain across the town.
Son thought about it for a while. You mean the main moon? he asked, familiar with his father’s poetic implications.
Yes, the main moon, father replied, laughing a bit.
Behind that mountain?
That’s the one.
Alright, said the son, getting ready for the story.
In the breezy night of summer, they were on the roof, lying next to each other, sinking in the middle of a hammock-like cot, looking at the dark universe. Breeze from the nearby orchard brought with it just the right amount of familiar fragrance. On the way to moon, there are over a million villages, father said. They are invisible just because they are far away. What looks like dust might as well be a galaxy of villages with their own populations, transportation systems, health facilities, roads and everything.
In one particular village, he said, lives your mother. She has become a witch.
The idea of his dead mother living somewhere-else indulging in witchcraft was awkward. Curious and upset, he nodded asking for more. But not the harmful kind, father added, realising who he was talking about. She just tells futures; good and bad. That’s all.
The story moved on. Father crossed more villages and rivers, describing great wars, famines and sufferings of the people, and the son listened, believing in everything, visualising the encounters, his eyes firmly fixed on moon that could be pushed away anytime now. For a moment it occurred to him that he might be lying with the greatest father in the world, because at this ungodly hour, when all the other fathers in town were busy snoring, sleeping with their extended families, this one was actually doing stuff. Derailed from the story, son started to feel drowsy.
Soon, as a result of the planetary motion, moon dipped behind the said mountain, saying goodbye to its clouds, leaving them with a cold, uniform glow that wouldn’t last either. At that time, father cleverly brought his story to an abruptly subtle ending. How was the story, he asked his son who was deep in sleep. He jolted him. How was the story, tell me, how was it! Son opened his eyes and found the moon already gone. Very good, father, he replied most politely. Then he turned to his side and closed his eyes, waiting for the dreams to come to him and paint everything that he had missed.
Son thought about it for a while. You mean the main moon? he asked, familiar with his father’s poetic implications.
Yes, the main moon, father replied, laughing a bit.
Behind that mountain?
That’s the one.
Alright, said the son, getting ready for the story.
In the breezy night of summer, they were on the roof, lying next to each other, sinking in the middle of a hammock-like cot, looking at the dark universe. Breeze from the nearby orchard brought with it just the right amount of familiar fragrance. On the way to moon, there are over a million villages, father said. They are invisible just because they are far away. What looks like dust might as well be a galaxy of villages with their own populations, transportation systems, health facilities, roads and everything.
In one particular village, he said, lives your mother. She has become a witch.
The idea of his dead mother living somewhere-else indulging in witchcraft was awkward. Curious and upset, he nodded asking for more. But not the harmful kind, father added, realising who he was talking about. She just tells futures; good and bad. That’s all.
The story moved on. Father crossed more villages and rivers, describing great wars, famines and sufferings of the people, and the son listened, believing in everything, visualising the encounters, his eyes firmly fixed on moon that could be pushed away anytime now. For a moment it occurred to him that he might be lying with the greatest father in the world, because at this ungodly hour, when all the other fathers in town were busy snoring, sleeping with their extended families, this one was actually doing stuff. Derailed from the story, son started to feel drowsy.
Soon, as a result of the planetary motion, moon dipped behind the said mountain, saying goodbye to its clouds, leaving them with a cold, uniform glow that wouldn’t last either. At that time, father cleverly brought his story to an abruptly subtle ending. How was the story, he asked his son who was deep in sleep. He jolted him. How was the story, tell me, how was it! Son opened his eyes and found the moon already gone. Very good, father, he replied most politely. Then he turned to his side and closed his eyes, waiting for the dreams to come to him and paint everything that he had missed.
11 comments:
quite imaginative!!
lucid and interesting to the end.....
cheers
i never get this emotion, storytelling. none of my super busy parents would ever tell me a story before i slept. they werent around much. happy read :)
Hmmmmm... a very interesting story and nicely crafted thankfully just like the thought and the plot this story doesn't end abruptly. Godd show Kake lage raho.
Jagjit that is very beautiful story, feels like me sometimes. Just don't have any one to tell my stories, lol. Thanks for sharing this nice inspiring story. You are good writer. Have a good weekend and hope all is well. Anna :)
Very well crafted! This is beautifully told Jagjit!
Hi there!
Anna :)
Hi Jagjit, great to see you writing; very well written. I should say your writing has transformed very significantly; I quite enjoyed the the tone, the music, and the emotion. Lovely.
...and you dont update much, i see!!
come back to the writing world u doucheball
interesting story....also brought a smile because that child could have been me besides my father...who used to tell some of the most fascinating stories.
U made me miss him.
and get back to writing, you are good at it. :)
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