#WithoutThisPlace7

The auctioneer’s hammer knocked the worn podium and he yelled “Sold!”  The relief in the crowded room was palpable as buyers heaved a collective sigh of relief. The agent who had won the bidding war against powerful investors wiped his brow and made his way first to the desk for the preliminary formalities of acquiring Lot 31: a painting titled simply “Portrait of a Mother”.  

            The posthumous price of this particular artist’s works had more than quadrupled in recent months, ever since some invisible corporate raider had started bidding ridiculously high sums of money at auctions in important art sales the world over. Every sale, concluded via telephone or in person by agents or representatives, was reported breathlessly on Society pages and TV channels.

            Today’s lot was the crowning glory of the artist’s oeuvre. The agent looked at the back of the vast gallery, he smiled at the figure hunched in a wheel-chair. The two men exchanged satisfied smiles.

            Later, in the privacy of a room in the art gallery, he showed the painting to the old man, whose hard-earned money had paid for this celebrated painting. Wordlessly, the old man stared, then reached out and touched the frame gently! His cheeks streaked with tears, the millionaire orphan stared at his mother whose charms were laid bare on canvas. He whispered, “Without this place, I would never have found you!”  (230 words)

#WithoutThisPlace6

Sumukhi stifled a sneeze and then a cough as she looked around her with some trepidation. She had dared to enter this closed, dusty room in direct contravention of the house rules – “no-one must go to the third floor unless accompanied by an adult!”

            Today was her turn to slip upstairs, snoop around, and return with some trophy item as proof of her daring escapade. Within ten minutes, she was emboldened to touch some of the boxes she found in the room. Of course, she chose the prettiest box in wicker. Inside was a bunch of loose sheets of paper bound by a pink ribbon. She shook off the dust. The rising cloud choked her slightly, and she coughed!

            She started to read. It was a diary written in the 1940s by her long-dead aunt. The one sister her father never mentioned at all, although Sumukhi had heard that she herself had been named after the departed aunt by the grieving grandmother. The contents of the diary she found extraordinary, for they told tales she had never imagined possible in the family. It was clear that Sumukhi the Elder had not been the paragon of virtue her parents would have wanted.

            After an hour of reading, Sumukhi felt a connection with the other girl. She regretted not having known her, and resented the fact that the girl had been declared persona non-grata by her own family! Sumukhi felt a tug at her heart. She looked around the room that had been the other Sumukhi’s private domain, and silently sent a prayer: “Without this place, I would have never known you.”  (270 words)

#WithoutThisPlace5

His hands shook with excitement as the stooped man opened the rectangular box. Yes, there were the documents he had expected and hoped to find! For well over 30 years, he had looked for verifiable sources about the library of al-Sīmāwī, a 13^th century expert on alchemy and magic. But in vain. The old man’s dogged determination had led him to Cairo, to Istanbul, to the Vatican, trying to sleuth an ancient ‘paper’ trail.

            He had painstakingly established that while al-‘Irāqī’s 13th-century autograph manuscript was now lost, one source of his illustrations was recognised: the Book of Images. It has been traditionally attributed to the 4th-century Egyptian alchemist Zosimos of Panopolis and preserved in a copy made in Egypt in 1270!  And today, finally, he had been allowed access to the vaults of the British Museum where a kindly academic had led him unerringly to this section of treasures.

            The old man examined the contents of the box carefully, his heart racing. There was the familiar drawing of three men with their hands raised as if in surrender! There was no doubt any more – this indeed was the source for the drawing he had found in the book written centuries later!

            A lifetime’s quest had just been fulfilled. Slowly, the old man looked all around him. Thousands of boxes in the vaults held the past in sacred trust – waiting for mankind to rediscover what had gone before. Zosimos of Panapolis and al-Sīmāwī smiled, as it were, from their places in the Universe. The old man whispered to The Book of Images, “Without this place, I would never have found you!” (270 words)

#WithoutThisPlace4

The bell rang out, calling the faithful to prayer. She finished dressing in her Sunday best and hurried along with others, getting to the appointed place just before the appointed time. Once inside the cool interior, she looked up at the magnificent stained-glass window and marvelled yet again at its rich colours and radiance.

            Overhead, the high ceiling and ornate carvings calmed her down further, and she walked slowly to her habitual place. Her eyes sought out the one face she longed to gaze upon, and she lost herself when she found it.

            For the next hour, she was in a strange, calm mood, quite unlike the torment she had suffered in earlier weeks. For she had now reached her decision, she knew she had chosen the right path for herself for the rest of her terrestrial life.

            At the end of the hour, as people trickled outside slowly, she came to the heavy oak door. She communicated her decision to the official who congratulated her. They decided to meet later that week for all the administrative details to be sorted out, her departure to sequestration had to be planned.  And she was ready to leave, her momentous decision had been finalised.

            Turning around for one last look at the crucifix before she left the church, her eyes moist, she whispered to her Lord, whose benevolence she had long accepted, who she would now serve happily and diligently as His servant, “Without this place, I would have never found You.” (250 words)

#VeryShortStories #WithoutThisPlace2

As the music faded at the end of the evening, people trickled out of the cavernous dance hall. Soon, the hum of voices died out and a strange calm settled in. The ‘quiet’ time for the nightclub had begun, after hours of raucous music and noise and merriment! 
Cleaning staff fanned out, each to their appointed portions of the establishment. They were armed with various gadgets to clear the room of the detritus of human enjoyment – glasses, used napkins, straws, melted ice cubes in puddles, and cigarette-butts! Some with lipstick marks on them, most without. 
In a dark corner, the heavily built janitor wheezed slightly as he bent to sweep around a table. There was a bad stain he could barely see on the carpet, so he peered closely at it. Yes, it was a wine stain. It seemed as if an entire bottle had been spilt! In ordinary light, it would have stood out starkly against the carpet it sullied. He made a mental note to mention it to the carpet maintenance service on their next visit. He stood up, creaked away from the corner, and thought no more about it!
Soon, there was silence and darkness as the cleaning staff finished their round.
The wine stain settled further, more comfortably, onto the bosom of the carpet and murmured: “Without this place, I would never have found you!” (230 words)

#VeryShortStories #WithoutThisPlace

#VeryShortStories #WithoutThisPlace

WithoutThisPlace… The wind blew hard down the coast, blowing sand and beach debris in spirals that rose upwards, swirled around, and sometimes crashed back on the beach. The muffled roar of the wind competed with the rolling surf, and the waves crashed onto the rocks further along, joining in a nice contretemps to the ongoing music.
The old page from a newspaper had travelled quite a distance since it was tossed by a beggar after he had eaten off it! Oil stains marked the spot where some kindly soul had perhaps packed some fried food for the beggar.
At the edge of the beach, where the ancient fence was now in shambles, the newspaper got caught in a wooden post that bore scars from romances past –mainly names and hearts and arrows carved into its gnarly surface. The years and shifting winds and sands had tilted the post so that it now leaned comically at an angle, like an old man valiantly trying to walk upright upwind.
Quite by accident, the newspaper sheet shuddered to a stop at the foot of the post, and a quirky gust of wind wrapped it around the foot of the post quite firmly. The upper edges still flapped around, but the bottom portion was held fast … almost in an embrace!
Wearily sinking its head onto the post, finally finding some solace from the buffeting it had received, the sheet whispered, “Without this place, I would have never found you!” and crumpled to the ground, holding on tight to the old wooden beam that was no longer upright.
(264 words)