‘Evergreen forests, cold and sharp, fallen acorns and pines, a distant river…’ , he kept on writing. His roots were from such a place, but having lived away from it for years, writing about it felt slightly difficult.
‘Beautiful broad backed yaks, little squirrels, green slopes stretching for miles and miles on…’ he continued, catching the glow, picking up the distant memories. Memories that cozily sat at the base of his brain, near that ever burning fire called age. That fire, which so warmly, so gently burns these memories that sat near it, was slowly nibbling away at the memories bit by bit, piece by piece.
But of course, he couldn’t complete it. Of course, that rag doll of a boy came out to pluck the flowers and leaves. Of course, he just had to hum that irritating lullaby while destroying the flowerbed.
Everyday that boy comes out, enters the poor writer’s lawn, sits near the flowerbed worth months of hard work, and plucks and peels the poor plants. That ruddy faced boy, with the greasy black hair that he has on his small head and those long, but plump rough and dirty arms and legs. Always wearing a pair of black shorts and a soiled red shirt. That boy, he can never be over the age of seven and he can never miss a day without destroying the flowers.
Ever since the flowers first budded on the tender marigold plants, he had been there, touching, smelling, eating, ripping off any remaining life the leaves could have had. He may be sad or happy, sick or healthy, ugly or hungry, dirty or dirtier- never seemed to have cleaned the oil he has on his hair or the soot looking dirt that has covered his limbs.
Oh and that lullaby, some off tune lullaby it is, and he has to hum it everyday, like a theme song for the destruction of living plants.
And the writer always felt disturbed, out of track and even some anger that seemed to surge from deep within him. So today, just like every other day, he marched out of his house, into his lawn and all the way to the corner where the boy quietly peeled the shiny skin of the leaves with those practiced hands of his.
Even when he stood authoritatively over the boy, the afternoon shadow cast on the boy, the nonchalant boy continued his handiwork with precise measure.
“This is the 366th day you’ve been doing this!” He yelled, waking the dog next door. That dog is known for barking when it’s awake. And the writer’s petty rants were accompanied by the giant bulldog’s barks.
But even with all this noise, the boy only casually looked up at the writer, plucked exactly five more flowers as he does every single day and walked slowly out of the lawn, ignoring the angry grown up’s shoutings and complaints.
“Hey you!” The writer called out, as he did every day.
“This is an unacceptable behavior that I will not entertain! Keep off these grounds or you’ll see my true colours!” The boy yelled back, lazily mimicking the writer’s voice. “Yeah, whatever.” The little boy rolled his big round eyes and walked on the streets, his hands tucked in his pockets.
The writer just stood there, stunned at the boy repeating the words he said everyday. The boy never usually said anything, this was his first time.
