Et Cetera

| school on barapullah road

— JUNE 2016 —

This is a short story that I wrote for English at the beginning of the term. I'm quite proud of it, to be honest, so I do hope you'll all enjoy it.

S C H O O L O N
» B A R A P U L L A H R O A D «
second place in the framjee youth
writing competition of twenty-sixteen

Throughout the entirety of the universe, it would be hard to find such a contrast as that between this young boy's old home and his new one. In a country so vastly different from the one he had previously lived in, everything is a fresh experience. Four weeks earlier, he'd arrived knowing nothing of this place; a place that he'd been instructed to call 'home' for the next five or so years. Even now, he knows very little - every part of India to him seems entirely different to the others.

The street outside his new school is a nuclear explosion to the senses. It is a witch's cauldron filled to the brim with unfamiliar and unique smells, tastes, sounds and sights. Bikes, motorbikes, three-wheeled auto rickshaws - fewer wheels equals less cost for a ride, he's found - and rusty buses fill the narrow street. They blare their horns as if it's the start of a battle, and it certainly seems sometimes that they're riding against each other - "stick to the left side of the road" is a guideline, not a rule. The vehicles are packed together on the road like sardines in a can, taking up all of the empty space the world provides. Somehow, though, people weave a path through the traffic, each determinedly making his way to his own destination.

All in all, it's a stark difference from the polished, monochromatic automobiles and spacious, orderly footpaths that the boy sees back home. Home. He must remind himself to stop calling it that - this is home now, after all.

As far as the eye can see, it's a riot of colour: lime green parakeets and electric blue kingfishers in the tall trees; yellow, white and red Buddhist prayer flags hanging from windows across the street; women wearing silk saris in all the colours of the rainbow. The appearance of every object is even stranger than the last, but somehow they all exist in perfect harmony. An endless chatter blends in with the honking of vehicles and with the birdsong, and only a few ears can really tell which is which. Even when spoken angrily, Hindi is a language that flows like a mountain stream and reverberates pleasantly upon the eardrums.

Here, it's loud - and it smells a bit too - but it's wonderful.

Six years later, he's saying goodbye, and it's completely different again. Perhaps he's grown too used to the colour, or maybe the grey, smoky dust has just drowned it out. Either way, the road outside his old school doesn't seem as exciting any more. The sun glares at the tar and it melts away in fear, making the surface uneven and forcing cracks to appear. This fixing-up of Barapullah Road - which started soon after the boy arrived and hasn't yet been finished - seems infinite. Dust and dirt float up into the air, picked up and carried by the afternoon breeze. It stings his eyes and gets stuck to his clammy, sweating skin, but he makes no attempt to brush it off.

Up above, a few stray birds still lift their beaks to the sky in song. Their half-hearted attempts, however, are fruitless - the music isn't quite as magical without a whole feathered choir to join in. Most of them simply perch, camouflaged in the tall oaks, and watch like spies peeking through closed shutters. Nothing particularly interesting has passed by them lately, and this sad teenaged boy is no exception.

Their eyes follow him as he steps out onto the cracked footpath for the last time, feeling happy and sad and emotionless all at once. He knows he will miss this place, but he will long for what it was before and what it will never be again - not what it is now. Now it is dead and deserted and lonely; a place that people used to love. To outsiders, it isn't worth a second glance.

The trees have grown taller, but not stronger. As they sway and wave farewell, they pretend that everything is alright - but truthfully, they are dying inside, just like he is. Their fragile branches droop down further than they used to, in an impression of crying. Over time, strong oaks have become weeping willows.

He could be imagining it, but it is as if the birds are tweeting a tune of good riddance, the opposite of their once lively symphonies. Deciding that he doesn't care whether or not that is the case, the boy picks up his pace and doesn't look back.