Twenty- five Seven

Personally speaking

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  • My little white car

    Day Twenty: The Things We Treasure

    Today’s Prompt: Tell us the story of your most-prized possession.

    It’s the final day of the challenge already?! Let’s make sure we end it with a bang — or, in our case, with some furious collective tapping on our keyboards. For this final assignment, lead us through the history of an object that bears a special meaning to you.

    A family heirloom, a flea market find, a childhood memento — all are fair game. What matters is that, through your writing, you breathe life into that object, moving your readers enough to understand its value.

    Today’s twist: We extolled the virtues of brevity back on day five, but now, let’s jump to the other side of the spectrum and turn tolongform writing. Let’s celebrate the drawn-out, slowly cooked, wide-shot narrative.

    No one can understand the special love I share for her – this gorgeous forty year old beauty that has pride of place in my garage. Looking at her you’ll wonder why I love her so; what is so attractive about this piece of rusting junk. But, she wasn’t always this way. In fact, even though there were hundreds of little cars like her speeding down the city roads, my little car was different, she was distinct and everyone recognised her from a mile away. My heart would soar when I heard people say ” We saw your little 282 the other day. I think we were going to Snowman’s for an icecream when we saw you zip past.” Was it her white paint that distinguished her from the normal cars? Or was it her special horn that frightened everyone into thinking she was a fierce truck making its way down the road?

    I can’t really say. But that car had character and that  car could move. Of course in the city she wasn’t allowed to go her full speed but I’ll never forget the way Lena clung to me as we sped down the highway. She was too scared to open her mouth but as the needle slowly moved to 120, I could feel her nails press harder into my arm. Ah ! Those were the days when cars were few and the roads were narrow little tracks.

    I had never expected to get a car especially since my father always told me I’d have to earn it. I was lucky. I went to pay my respects to my grandfather early in the morning and as I bent down to touch his feet he blessed me and asked, ” So boy, what did you get for this special day?”

    “Nothing,” I replied, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. After all, I was a grown man now – 18 and well past the age of getting birthday presents

    “Nothing?” thundered the old man.”That’s a shame. How can you start this momentous year without a momentous present? Here”, he said putting his hand into his pocket and fished out a set of car keys.

    “But grandpa, those are your car keys! Are you sure you want me to have it?”

    “Of course! I’m not stupid. I know what I’m doing. I want you to have my car. Now go and take her for a spin.”

    My grandfather came from a time when licenses didn’t matter. ” But,” I stammered, ” I don’t even have a licence.”

    “You didn’t have one two years ago did you?” he reminded me,” when you and your cousin used to bully the drivers into letting you drive on Marine Drive?”

    Drat, I thought, those drivers were stupid squealers. I never realised that they would rat on us, but I suppose they had a job to do.

    “And don’t worry about the licence,” he told me ” Sathe is getting your  learner’s licence this morning.”

    “But what about you? ”

    “Do you want the car or no, you idiot!”

    I quickly thanked him and ran down before he changed his mind and took back the keys. He was eccentric enough to do that.

    My heart beat fast when I saw her – I couldn’t really believe she was mine. From the minute I put my foot on the clutch, I could feel the gear move in satisfaction and when I released the pedal, she moved like soft velvet, smoothly and without a hitch. She seemed to understand my very touch and was happy to be mine.

    For forty years that car has been part of my life – accompanying me to college, to picnics and parties. She’s taken me to my first job interview and seen many dates go through my life. She brought home my wife after our wedding and drove the children from the hospital. She was a tough old bird who has seen me through thick and through thin. She had her share of break downs and flat tyres but always chose the right time to do it – just near a petrol pump or garage close by or even in the compound so that we could push her back in.

    Today she is no longer road worthy – with a steering that is not powered and gears that are not on the floor. Her windows are not powered nor can she be auto locked but she is a relic from the past. A relic from my past and even now when I press the clutch and shift the gear on the stick, she purrs with delight as we hit the road.

  • So is all this Blogging getting me anywhere?

    Day Nineteen: Don’t Stop the Rockin’

     

    Day Nineteen and I’m already a little tired. Garrett of CoSchedule had once put up a post where he said that frequent posting and regular posting doesn’t necessarily reflect in increased traffic. I’m afraid he’s right.

    The month of April has been a really busy blogging month where I undertook two simultaneous challenges , one of which required posting everyday except Sunday on topics literally from A to Z. The second challenge was the Writing 101 which I thought would be in the month of May.

    I enjoyed both the challenges and learnt a lot. From the Writing 101 I learnt to vary my style, become familiar with conversation, try out and possibly find my voice – valuable insights that will make my writing more varied if not interesting.

    With the A to Z Challenge I learnt that it isn’t easy to wing it and if I had spent more time thinking of a theme, the writing would probably have been easier. But then again, I also discovered some bloggers hitting a dead end with difficult letters like X and Y and Z that gave them little or no choice because of the themes they chose. I also learnt that it is important to think things out and even though this post asks for free thinking, it doesn’t always come out coherent.

    Does this make any sense?

    Writing 400 words of free flowing thought isn’t really easy. Even if you have all your thoughts in order, they do tend to come out in one garbled mess when you decide to pour it all out without any thought. And to put all that I’ve learnt in 18 lessons into practice is quite hard. Vary sentences. Vary the length of sentences. Try out a new voice. Won’t that sound a bit schizophrenic in one piece?

    But more than anything else, I’ve been disappointed that my stat counter just hasn’t moved. I know I should write for the sheer joy of writing but it is a bit disheartening when I find that no one is reading. I know none of the stuff is earth shattering or mind blowing but surely there’s someone out there who is interested in at least something I have to say?

    As they say, there’s no fun driving a Mercedes when there’s no one to watch you drive by.

    Will I drive this Mercedes in isolated splendour ?

    Or will I go out grandly into the sunset?

  • Evicted

    Day Eighteen: Hone Your Point of View

    The neighbourhood has seen better days, but Mrs. Pauley has lived there since before anyone can remember. She raised a family of six boys, who’ve all grown up and moved away. Since Mr. Pauley died three months ago, she’d had no income. She’s fallen behind in the rent. The landlord, accompanied by the police, have come to evict Mrs. Pauley from the house she’s lived in for forty years.

    Today’s prompt: write this story in first person, told by the twelve-year-old sitting on the stoop across the street.

    “What are you doing there ?” Screamed my mother from inside the house. ” Come inside at once!”

    I picked up Pussy, the stray who had adopted me and sighed as I went inside the house. Things were just getting interesting when she called me in. Father was right, mother was always the spoil sport. Mr. Joseph had just come in his shiny black Ambassador with a police Inspector and two policewomen. There was a rickety police van trailing them. I was shocked out of my twelve-year-old mind. This had never happened before and the entire neighbourhood was slowly gathering around to see what would happen next.

    “Ma, things were just getting fun,” I grumbled “Mr. Joseph has just come and I had a ring side seat. How could you call me in?”

    “It’s not nice, what’s happening, ” said Ma. “Poor Mrs. Pauley. Living here for forty years. Six boys, she brought up with no help from her in-laws or her parents. And now just because the rent is six months’ late, this rascal is throwing her out?”

    I couldn’t understand what was wrong in that. “But Ma, didn’t you always say that you should neither be a borrower or a lender? And don’t you always insist on paying your bills exactly on the first of every month? So why can’t Mr. Joseph expect the same?”

    “Don’t talk like that! That is different,” continued my mother in the logic that only she could understand.”

    “What’s different?”

    “Mrs. Pauley is not a beggar. She will pay. Her sons will send her the money. They are not like that.”

    I couldn’t really understand my mother’s line of thought. If the boys were so concerned about their mother, where were they all this while? Why didn’t they send the rent after their father died?

    My mother guessed what went on in my mind and she said ” You won’t understand. Mr. Pauley fought with all his boys. He didn’t want them to do what they are doing. But what is wrong I ask you? They are all working hard in the Gulf.”

    ‘Working in the Gulf’ was a phrase I’d heard all my life. Every second home had someone working in the Gulf and suddenly, the family’s fortune seemed to change. But not the Pauley home. It continued to remain the way it was, neatly painted and well maintained. No ACs sticking out. No shiny new tiles.

    Our little neighbourhood was the last pocket of the past. At one time it was the only part of town with proper houses – small verandah in front, proper tiled roof and neat little garden at the back. But with everybody slowly leaving for jobs in the big cities, the homes had acquired a look of abandonment. Now only old people lived in the houses with their old memories. Sometimes there would be sounds of laughter – when the grandchildren came to visit. Otherwise, the street was so quiet you could hear the flies buzz.

    “Let me see Ma??” I pleaded. This was too good an opportunity to miss. It was better than all those soaps she used to watch on TV.

    Without waiting for her reply, I ran back to my prime place on the steps of our verandah. There was a lot of noise coming from across the street. I could hear loud sounds of people arguing. Then the door opened and Mrs. Pauley was brought out by the police women, her hair a higgeldy piggeldy mess, her hands gesticulating wildly, as she was taken away kicking and screaming, ” You’ll regret Joseph, ” she said as a parting shot as she was shoved into the van.”

    There was a nodding of heads as everybody watched the van go down the street. Mr. Joseph got into his car with the Inspector, looking embarrassed and slightly defensive as the people raised their fists and shouted “Shame.”

    My mother came out then and stood behind me watching the crowd slowly melt away as the car roared away.

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