The Dust

Clouded memories arise, along with cursed dust. A frown sits upon one of the many Lord's creations.The latter seemed to be in the midst of bliss, wholesome, though the young grumbler seemed stuck in the whirlpool of emotions of a typical 7 year old .

Young Arya kicked the dust again, as though it would settle on his shoulders in the shape of a comforting form, and gently ruffle his hair like his mother used to, when he possessed the undeniable characteristics of innocence of a 5 year old. When the dust didn't, however, he cursed it to the extent of his knowledge (obtained from eavesdropping on his grandmother, when her prejudice against the pompous headman was on the extreme side).

He paused, unwilling to let himself curse the said teacher of curses, for taking away ...all that he had .Wasn't it her fault that she didn't look out for his last gift from his grandfather, and tripped? The 'last gift' was a polished wheel, crafted by his delightful grandfather for him...by those clever hands, which often lifted Arya up and placed him in his lap. Those hands were now part of the dust, taken away by the malaria. And Arya had kicked- and cursed- the dust!

Realizing this, he gasped, then uttered all the prayers he knew (again learnt, by listening to his grandmother's monotone chanting) and sat on the dead trunk next to the neem.

He wanted an emoilient, not for his skin but for his sore and wounded heart. His grandmother had not only broken his last memento of his deceased grandfather but also his heart. Her leg was broken, and now no one looked twice at Arya.He had fumed. He had cried. He had helped. He had tried. He tried every single way-..... to make his mother love him again.

A dry sob escaped Arya. The alarmed birds near him scattered, leaving Arya twice as miserable as before. Now even birds don't care for me, he thought.

His mother had sent him to get water for her groaning mother-in-law in bed. She had not even remembered that he could fall down, like last time, and come home with a bleeding gash down his leg.

He remembered his smiling grandfather. He missed him, and his love. The enormity of his death hadn't reached Arya- till now.

Arya broke down, tears spilling down his face, moistening the moss on the trunk. His sobs reminded him of his grandmother, who had broken down twice as violently as he had now. Surely, he thought, surely, for her it must have been harder to let Dada go. Hadn’t she wailed when her bangles were broken? And now her leg. How could I have thought of cursing her, when her troubles were bigger then mine? What are my troubles?

He reflected on his problems, which slowly began to shrink. Ma cannot stop loving me, he thought. I am her son. And I will make her proud to be my mother, no matter how many legs Dadi breaks. Dadi just needs a little more comfort after everything. I will give her it. She was there for me-I will be there for her.

Arya grabbed the pot of water and ran through the narrow path in the woods, the sun's rays warming his burdened shoulders- burdened with the tasks of a 7 year old, trying to comfort his grandmother, and struggling through his 'unloved' emotions.

Some water splashed on the ground, settling the dust.

The dust.

Arya smiled.