May 16, 2011

He could not be called normal. One look at him and you could say that. Was it his longish hair? Or his pockmarked face? Or the fact that he always roamed alone? What was on his mind? What was he always contemplating about? Did he ever talk to anyone?

His parents were long dead. He lived with his Aunt. Nothing much to say about living with a 70 year old Aunt. She seldom talked too. Did they talk to each other? The neighbourhood wondered. Did she cook? Did he cook? Who did the laundry? Why did he not attend school? Why did the old lady never venture outside? Was there a conspiracy? Was he with the terrorists?

Word around was that they were black magicians. The old lady was a witch. She performed arcane rituals with the boy. They drank blood. They were cannibals.

Word around was that the old lady was not his Aunt. She was his grandfather’s mistress. His grandfather was a deceased Lieutenant. The boy was his daughter’s illegal offspring.

Word around was that the boy was on drugs. That explained his sunken eyes. That explained his want for isolation. The poor lady was said to be oblivious to the doings of her nephew.

Who were they? What was their source of income? Postmen never knocked their door. Maybe the old lady was rich beyond anyone else. Maybe the boy was her heir. Was there any way to measure or claim their wealth?

Then, the old lady died. As simply as I said. She died. The funeral was a lonely affair. The boy, the undertaker and the body. The funeral service lasted barely ten minutes.  The neighbours tsked as the boy entered the gates of his lonely home.

They watched as he shut himself in. And with it, all the answers to their questions.


4 Responses to “Curiosity”

  1. Sastha said

    May be a few odd thoughts and him, a wanderer, ever seeking the lonelier way. Good one indeed. I appreciate the brevity of words.

  2. Very profound. Short & Crisp. Liked it!

  3. ladykedi said

    @Sastha and Low Funda Boy Thank you.

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