Unlike most divorces, this wasn’t ugly. He got custody of his beautiful six-year-old.
He never wanted to sail on the relation-ship again.
He wasn’t just proving a dream date, he was proving a dream guy. He was fine with them splitting the bill, he didn’t get up when she excused herself to go to the restroom, no sly peeks at his smartphone when they were talking, no holding the door open for her – not for the restaurant, not for the car – although he did gesture her to both go in and sit in before him.
Fastening her seat-belt as he started the ignition, she noticed what she had missed when they were on their way here: not a single god’s idol on the dashboard or anywhere around. Wow, could he be the mythical, truly liberal guy? Why, she could go ahead and uninstall Tinder after this.
Hope coursing through her and culminating in a smile, she asked, trying to keep it as cool as she could, “So, how come you don’t have any godly pix or idols like every other car…?”
Smiling, he pulled out a small idol from the recesses of the cockpit, touched it and then his forehead, put it back in, and replied, feeling he had salvaged himself, “Here you go. I just keep Him in here to avoid Him getting dirty and dusty.”
‘Damn,’ she sighed, looking away. ‘Our babies would have ruled the world.’
Years of rubbing the sandal and turmeric paste to eclipse her eclipse-hued complexion, today, she finally found results. Vitiligo.
My first take at fiction, through my eternal favourite subject of animals. And in case it’s not evident, find out what Irfiction is here: About Irfiction.
It finally dawned on him. Why he was fed the freshest, greenest grass the past few days. Why the kids led him – paraded him – down the street. Why the elders came every once a while and felt him up – his belly, his legs, his flanks… And he thought they were petting him.
As they dragged him by the ears presently, toward the crimson-smeared area, it finally hit him. They feed you so that they can feed on you. Horror slowly consumed him. Yet, the last tenacious bit of him – oh, he was tenacious all right, having bounced brazenly from one rock to another on his tiny toes even as a kid – managed to bleat out, his loudest bleat ever, to the next in line, “If… If they do this to us… isn’t there any way… we get back at them…?”
Next-in-Line wasn’t exactly a wise old white one; none of these are – old, that is. And… he was next. As Tenacious was slowly readied for the ritual – first the hind legs were tied, so he wobbled and fell, then the human hands swooped to tie up his fore limbs, then his mouth was fastened, finally two hands each held each of his limbs and mouth and head – as Tenacious was slowly prepared, he kept searching Next’s eyes, lips, face for some redeeming answer.
On his part, Next was trying his best, even as he was slowly started getting paralysed himself. Just as the blade came to rest at Tenacious’s neck – perhaps waiting for the auspicious time, perhaps from some prayers – he could sense some murmurs from nearby, perhaps allowing him one last look – Next, and the humans, turned in the direction of the murmurs. The strains of the TV wafted in, much as the stench from here wafted there: “Hundreds of pilgrims have been reported dead in the holy city… on the eve of the festival. Authorities are…”
Next looked back at Tenacious, and slowly carved out the words through his goatee, “Oh, we… get… back… at… them… alright…”
Gently, Tenacious closed his eyes, even as his ears caught more of the urgent words, “Reports say many more are injured and fighting for their…”