Life Goes On: Short Stories and Vignettes [Ordis Only]

[Kolintha]

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What this thread is for:

- Short stories about the contemporary lives of people in your nation.
- Historical vignettes, also in the forms of short stories, that aren't part of a longer series of such posts.

[Enara]

The Sadana Family
Part One: Neelam

“Neelam, Neelam wake up.” The boy’s eyes fluttered open for a moment, just long enough to make out the face of his sister Dhirka looking down at him, her hand was on his shoulder, shaking him gently. A grimace fell on the boy’s dirty face as he groaned and rolled over on his side, shaking her hand from his shoulder. He shut his eyes firmly and smiled as he began to drift back off to sleep. He was dreaming that he was the guest of honor at a grand feast- everyone was laughing and cheering him. He had just won the national football match for the home team, or maybe he’d become a cosmonaut and colonized a far-off planet. He couldn’t remember. What he did remember was that everyone he had ever seen was there to celebrate him, even Hadir, the boy who bullied him every day, had come to apologize. Neelam, of course, accepted his apology but also seated him far away from the seat of honor at the table. The table was full of bread and meat and milk and candies, and all of it was just for him. His smile grew large as he dreamt of himself tearing the warm, soft bread from the loaf, salivating as the smells of the feast reached up to his nostrils. “Neelam! Wake up,” the voice came again, less soft this time and yanked the boy away from his feast and back to the real world.

“What,” he whined loudly, sitting up and letting out a big puff to demonstrate his displeasure. He looked around the small room- almost everyone else was asleep. His four younger siblings were all cuddled together not far from where he had slept- he used to cuddle with them but they complained that he thrashed around too much in his sleep. Often his younger brothers and sisters awoke with bruises on them from Neelam’s active slumbers. His parents were gone, as was his older brother, leaving only Dhirka and himself awake. He stretched and yawned, he noticed some dirt ground into the skin on his elbow- apparently he had rolled off his little sleeping map and onto the dirt floor sometime in the night, he tried to bush it off but it was caked into the creases of his arm too well. His thoughts came back to him and he recalled he hadn’t stirred of his own accord and leveled another glare at his sister. “What,” he said again in a small whinny voice.

“Shush,” she said, placing her hand over his mouth, “you’ll wake the little ones.” Neelam mumbled something about it being unfair that they should sleep in if he didn’t get to, but she wouldn’t move her hand to allow him to articulate. “I need you to run into town to pay Mahaad Ajir, can you do that for me?”

“Why don’t you go? I’m sleepy,” he whispered back, though, he thought to himself, that was only because he agreed that they shouldn’t wake up the little ones, not because she had told him to. Dhirka didn’t even sigh, she always very patient with him and the others- though, he supposed, that was what firstborns were supposed to do, take care of their juniors.

“Mummy and father are already at the factory,” she answered, moving across the single room that the family lived in to rummage through the pile of clothing that she and her mother shared- they weren’t exactly the same size, but they had fashioned Dhirka a belt made of rope that someone had thrown away, so now she could wear most of her mother’s clothes, as long as she tied the belt tight around her still girlish figure. “If you want, I can go pay Ajir,” she said, Neelam almost immediately agreed but she hurried to continue before he could speak, “but if I do, you’ll have to go fetch water from the steam.” Neelam sighed and flung himself backwards onto his mat, very dissatisfied, but Dhikra only smiled. The steam was almost five kilometers round trip, and half that with a heavy jar full of water. When she was younger she had tried to only fill the clay jar half full, but then her father had simply sent her back to the stream later in the day. Now she made it a point to get as much as she could on the first trip.

“Why didn’t you go get the water already,” Neelam complained. The sun was already rising, normally Dhikra would go long before sunrise during the coolest part of the day and return before he ever woke up. It didn’t escape the young boy that, had she done so, she would be able to have fetched the water and take the payment to Mahaad Ajir.

“What’s the point of fetching water if there isn’t any bread,” came her sighing answer. Neelam grimaced at that and felt his stomach rumble- but he didn’t say anything about it. He knew it would go away in a few minutes. “Go and pay Mahaad Ajir,” his sister said again, “apologize for the late payment and ask if he’ll wave the late fee. If he agrees, Divines willing, pick up some flour on the way home and I’ll make breakfast.”

“Why are we late?” He asked, it was highly uncharacteristic of his parents to miss a payment date, they had told him for as long as he could remember that bills came first- you ate after they were paid. As his father was fond of saying, ‘better hungry than homeless.’

“There was an accident on mum’s factory this week, they had to shut down production for a few hours. That’s why they went in so early this morning, to make up the difference and earn a little extra incase Mahaad wants a late fee.” Neelam nodded his head in understanding. Dhirka settled on a small scarf that she wrapped around her head to cover her hair for the most part and fetched the heavy clay water jar from near her sleeping mat against the mud-brick wall. “Okay,” she said before heaving the jar up and placing it atop her head, “May the Named Gods look with favor upon you and know your name- Neelam, let them protect and preserve you that you may know their grace.” With the blessing done she began towards the door, stopping just long enough to hold the jar with one hand and blow him a kiss before ducking out of the tattered sheet that acted as their front door.

Neelam waited a few minutes, still sitting on his mat. He looked longingly at the mat and the dreamy feast that awaited him, but pulled himself to his feet. It would need to wait. He walked over to his father’s mat and lifted it up, finding a small bundle of Sikkahs there. He glanced back at his siblings and saw they were still sleeping- the youngest two were too young to find jobs, but he and the rest of them would need to go into work in a few hours. Hopefully they’d go with something in their stomachs, though that depended on his getting the payment to Mahaad Ajir. He was the youngest child allowed to know where the money was kept, father feared the rest would be tempted to buy a sweet for themselves if they knew where the family kept its stash, ‘not old enough to understand sacrifice’ he would say.

He tucked the money into the elastic band of his grey shorts, the only article of clothing he was wearing, and left his home. Despite the day still being young, the hot Enaran sun was already glowering down at the earth and the dirt was hot beneath his feet. Fortunately, years of going barefoot had built up a healthy lair of callouses which protected him. Making matters worse, there streets were already flooded with people. The narrow streets and alleyways snaked between the countless huts, most of which were made of mud and brick with roofs made of discarded tin sheets, some of the less fortunate lived entirely in scrap metal constructions, though those were terribly noisy whenever the rainy season came. He took off running towards the east, squinting as he ran towards the rising sun towards where Mahaad Ajir lived. He didn’t get up until sunrise, Neelam knew, and so if one wanted to speak with him they had to wait until this busier hour.

As he jogged through the congested streets, ducking under older people and the occasional animal who crowded around, he felt the urge to relieve himself. Unfortunately, there was a line dozens of people long one of the handful of public bathrooms across the street. He had been told that when the bathrooms had been constructed, they had working plumbing, though if that was true it had long since failed. Still, it was either go there and use their toilets or take a shovel and walk all the way out of the city to relieve yourself. Fortunately, he didn’t have need for a toilet and so he stopped and peed in an alleyway, in a stinking puddle that one of the second story dwellers threw their filth-jars. He had asked his parents to get such a jar, it would save him long trips, but mum insisted it was ‘unsanitary’ whatever that meant. When he was finished, he pulled his shorts back up and continued to run through the city streets.

As he approached Mahaad Ajir's home, on the border between what was called the 'migrant' and the 'settled' areas of the city, he paused to catch his breath. It was much bigger than the homes he was accustomed to, it may have had five or six rooms and he could see the air conditioning unit sticking out the window, dripping cool water. He wondered if the Mahaad would mind if he put his tongue under the machine. If Dhirka could bring her jar here, she wouldn't need to boil it later, he figured. But, he figured, Mahaad Ajir wouldn't allow it. If he did, soon all his tennets would be lining up to fetch water from his machine, and that would no doubt prove a bother. But that was alright, he reflected as he climbed the steps and knocked on the wooden door, they didn't need to change anything. He and his family had made it this far and, as always, life goes on.