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)

About Sahitya - sangrahalaya

We will try to publish as much literary work of different authors collected from different sources. All of these work is not used for our profit . All the creative work belongs to their respective authors and publication. If requested by the user we will promptly remove the article from the website.
This entry was posted in Micro Story and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.