For the last seven days, the scorching heat of the sun had already taken its toll on several things and lives. Just as Rye was sitting on her couch in the evening, she thought to herself, "what if things had been different?"
Her bruises were still visible. The bite marks on her shoulders and on her lips were evident enough. She was in pain, sobbing day and night, sitting all by herself. Her mother would often come close to her and sit by her and try to talk to her. But she wouldn't say a word. She would stare into the void and keep on thinking to herself. If only things were different. If only she wasn't the one.
Many people have told Rye's mother to take her to a psychiatric aid. But she wouldn't go. What was most remarkable was that not only she showed no interest in getting better, but she also resigned herself from the world so much that she wouldn't even talk to her mother, probably the only person who she must have trusted. All her relatives loved her very much. In her childhood, all of them would often say, that Rye was the princess daughter they never had. But now, things were different. Everybody knew what happened.
Rye kept on looking. She looked at the bronze medal she had received after winning the sports competition around twelve years back. She looked at the books on the bookshelf. These were the books she used to read in her leisure during her school days. There weren't tears in her eyes despite the agony. The school certificates were keenly framed on top of the shelves by her father, who died in a train accident when she was only fifteen. Since then, her mother had been the moral force of the family.
Sometimes, Rye felt as if her father died at the right time, otherwise he would have to commit suicide to see his daughter in such trauma. She missed her father just as she did when she used to go to her maternal grandfather's house in the summer holidays with her mother.
She kept on looking at the meaningless laurels to her name. She looked at her mother's photographs with her. She and her mother used to pose in front of her father to let him capture them in good and bad times. Then she looked through her window. There were kids playing cricket on the road. The urchins, the middle school goers were selecting teams of six. Stacks of three bricks kept one on top of the other formed the wickets on both the sides. The stout and the most strong amongst them started the lottery. A small kid was chosen and he closed his eyes the stout boy ordered him to pick a name one by one, all the while, he would just change the number of fingers to either one or two randomly. This would actually distribute the 12 boys into two groups of six boys in each. Although the stout one claimed that this was the most plausible way to choose teams, but almost every other guy knew, he would change his fingers depending on the names of the boys called. Therefore he built up a stronger team than the opponent.
Rye keenly observed this imbalance and sympathised with the weaker team. Quite obviously, the team with weaker members lost every time. These boys played a nine overs match at the end of which, the sun used to give way to the dusk. And slowly the orange would change its magnificent hue to a sombre night blue. Rye would observe the changing colours of the sky. She would listen to the chirps of the fatigued birds retreating to their nests silhouetted against a dim dusk. She would look through the iron rods of her windows to see the smoke from the factories creating a blur in the distant sky. She remembered how Ramu had to burn her father's body for the last rites, the smoke that came out had brought tears in her eyes. She wasn't allowed to perform the last rites because she was a girl, so, Ramu, a street boy was hired for the purpose.
She looked outside her window, writhing in the agonizing pain. With tired and dry eyes she kept on thinking to herself, "If only I could be free. I could go out and play cricket with them. Things would be different. If only I were a boy."
Her bruises were still visible. The bite marks on her shoulders and on her lips were evident enough. She was in pain, sobbing day and night, sitting all by herself. Her mother would often come close to her and sit by her and try to talk to her. But she wouldn't say a word. She would stare into the void and keep on thinking to herself. If only things were different. If only she wasn't the one.
Many people have told Rye's mother to take her to a psychiatric aid. But she wouldn't go. What was most remarkable was that not only she showed no interest in getting better, but she also resigned herself from the world so much that she wouldn't even talk to her mother, probably the only person who she must have trusted. All her relatives loved her very much. In her childhood, all of them would often say, that Rye was the princess daughter they never had. But now, things were different. Everybody knew what happened.
Rye kept on looking. She looked at the bronze medal she had received after winning the sports competition around twelve years back. She looked at the books on the bookshelf. These were the books she used to read in her leisure during her school days. There weren't tears in her eyes despite the agony. The school certificates were keenly framed on top of the shelves by her father, who died in a train accident when she was only fifteen. Since then, her mother had been the moral force of the family.
Sometimes, Rye felt as if her father died at the right time, otherwise he would have to commit suicide to see his daughter in such trauma. She missed her father just as she did when she used to go to her maternal grandfather's house in the summer holidays with her mother.
She kept on looking at the meaningless laurels to her name. She looked at her mother's photographs with her. She and her mother used to pose in front of her father to let him capture them in good and bad times. Then she looked through her window. There were kids playing cricket on the road. The urchins, the middle school goers were selecting teams of six. Stacks of three bricks kept one on top of the other formed the wickets on both the sides. The stout and the most strong amongst them started the lottery. A small kid was chosen and he closed his eyes the stout boy ordered him to pick a name one by one, all the while, he would just change the number of fingers to either one or two randomly. This would actually distribute the 12 boys into two groups of six boys in each. Although the stout one claimed that this was the most plausible way to choose teams, but almost every other guy knew, he would change his fingers depending on the names of the boys called. Therefore he built up a stronger team than the opponent.
Rye keenly observed this imbalance and sympathised with the weaker team. Quite obviously, the team with weaker members lost every time. These boys played a nine overs match at the end of which, the sun used to give way to the dusk. And slowly the orange would change its magnificent hue to a sombre night blue. Rye would observe the changing colours of the sky. She would listen to the chirps of the fatigued birds retreating to their nests silhouetted against a dim dusk. She would look through the iron rods of her windows to see the smoke from the factories creating a blur in the distant sky. She remembered how Ramu had to burn her father's body for the last rites, the smoke that came out had brought tears in her eyes. She wasn't allowed to perform the last rites because she was a girl, so, Ramu, a street boy was hired for the purpose.
She looked outside her window, writhing in the agonizing pain. With tired and dry eyes she kept on thinking to herself, "If only I could be free. I could go out and play cricket with them. Things would be different. If only I were a boy."
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