Microstory : Anjali’s Father

~Indira Prasai~Indira Prasai

There is a sudden gust of the wind. I drown completely in the summer heat. I
feel shaken, I was thinking of life’s infirmity. The calendar flutters. Today
is the eleventh day of the month. I like this day. But no one has turned the
calendar’s pages. Even my time is lazy. I feel angry with myself. I get up and
tear the pages of the calendar and shove them into the wood fire. I feel alive
today. Today is Magh 11.

I quickly finish the housework and go to the dressing table. I want to look
pretty today. I put on makeup, decorate myself, and look at the table clock.
Half-an-hour remaining. Now I look at the gate. I feel so happy. “You look good
today.” I am startled. Anjali’s father is before me. He looks exhausted. I feel
shy.

He looks at me, sits on a chair, and leans back. “You must be hungry.” I go to
make tea. At night, after dinner, I feel like talking. I finish my work and
enter the room. When I look at him from outside the mosquito net, his shoulders
are slumped, he looks like the weight of the day is upon him. I enter the net,
he is fast asleep. I shake him. He does not open his eyes, he mumbles. I feel
like crying. I cannot sleep.

It is four in the morning. Next to me Anjali’s father snores. I close my eyes
and try to chase away seven years (the marriage ceremony, the fire ritual, and
the short sleep I had towards morning), the fresh memory, the enthusiasm, the
hopes, and the new life that I was entering. I feel a stranger among this debris
of delusions. I can’t sleep at all. I turn to look at Anjali’s father. He is
sleeping deeply. I feel jealous.

Indira Prasai
Kathmandu, Nepal
Volume V:: May, 2002

(Source : Pardesh.com)

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