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Rated: 13+ · Prose · Biographical · #1149004
Inspired by programs on NGC,Discovery. Foreigners mentioned imaginary.Critique welcome
MAYA
An Indian Eunuch

Nulliverse………solecism of human creation…sacrilegious life of non-acceptance, no understanding. All my dreams swirling around this one theme…roan mists coldly lacerating every hope and aspiration…the world to which somnolence draws me each night and the one to which I relegate with every scornfully fresh morning.

The gentle but helplessly hoarse whispers of my comrades
are the tunes to which I am welcomed on awakening. Rustling crisp synthetic saris of all atrocious colors embellishing our atrociously dappled lives sting my vision. I sit up, stiff and sore from the war with the earth trying to swallow me during the night. Another of my glass bangles broken, accosting some more of that cursed blood to evaporate into the inexorable air… puzzling … isn’t this the air that they breathe too? All the lavish landlords who consider me an ill omen, all the sorted people who run when they look at me, all the khaki uniformed guards who brandish stones at me. Well, they cant bear my presence a mile away and now they breathe the air that’s mingled with my blood…the blood that they starved…of food, of love, even of existence. I smile.

Urvashi has a bucket of cold water ready for me to wash, out on the mottled pedestal of broken slabs surrounded by wet straw walls. I can hear the choir already praising God, lugubrious sobs of reminiscence thinking of their childhoods, of blissful ignorance and play, suddenly invaded by insinuations of disaster- the most wretched type, extenuations of friendship, growing acerbity of the people who loved us and the final kick into…Nulliverse.

“Maya”, says Urvashi, holding out fresh jasmine flowers, we have visitors today. Visitors? Not a good sign. I walk into the room crowded with my apprehensive friends, some peeping timorously through the mangled window bars. ” More of those firhanghis, Maya, with big cameras” lisps Urvashi. I feel a surge of helpless ire once again. Why can’t they leave us alone?

I wrench open the door. “What?” The golden-haired girl swallows and the big man in safari shorts winces, perhaps unintentionally. The insect-like bespectacled fellow clutches his camera so hard that his sweat streaks down its polished side. I sigh, having learnt to forgive these reactions ages ago.

“ Umm…are you Maya? The main, uh, the main…?” I obviously understand. “ Yes “, I snap. They fumble… “We are from Great Britain and we want to make a documentary on …special people like you.” Euphemism again.

“ No. Just leave us alone.” I bang the door on their faces. I can see their reflections on the broken glass of the window. The girl looks abashed and the big man so rebellious that I thought he was ready to blow down the door. The little guy with the camera used their favorite four-lettered word. None of them were willing to leave of course. Like all their predecessors, they would stand there and try to entice one of our innocent people into sobbing out their tales of woe. They would edit their commentary to ooze out their pity and concern and at the same time speak of our “hostility” and our unclean lives. Don’t they know that all this will only increase people’s abhorrence for us?

But I have no choice. They will not budge until we let them in. I open the door. I refuse to show any emotion on my face. They are trying to be impassive too but are making a poor job of it. Urvashi whispers into my ears, “ at least they will give us some money. We are running out of food…just listen to them, didi.” She was right. So, hostility to host.

They do not accept any description of our lives except that of utmost regret and sorrow. It is ineffectual to talk of our individuality or sense of honor. For them, dignity has no place in our lives. Only fruitless cries for it are recorded.

We want that money. I cry to them, just like they want me to. My comrades do the same. They, as expected, request us for the famous Indian eunuch dance. They want us to enhance our clapping action- the symbol they have burnt into our lives. They want us to speak of aids and I give my well-worn speech, what the missionary came and “explained” to us. For us, it was all rote of course.

Now, they are satisfied. They are pleased that they have done us a “favor”. They have been very “kind”. They shake our hands, repugnance writ bold on all their faces. She thrusts a huge wad of crisp notes into my hands and I eke out my humble, gratified “thank you, o benign souls, saviors of lives, of us…poor destitute nihilistic NOTHINGARIANS”.

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© Copyright 2006 alchemist (dizzyalchemist at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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