The Priest was late. Someone said he had had to stop his motorcycle to fix a flat tyre, and that he was still more than seven kilometres away.
The Army Cook was on vacation. He was surrounded by a few of his childhood friends, who hadn’t made the cut at the recruitment camp, and a bunch of kids spellbound by the tales from the battlefield he was dishing out.
Twenty feet away on the other side of the house sat the young Contractor, success clearly visible and shining on all his eight fingers. While he toyed with an unlit Classic cigarette between his fingers,the Tea Ladies, both young and the not so, offered to refill his cup more frequently than was necessary.
In the makeshift outdoor kitchen, the potatoes were overcooked. According to the Aunt From Siliguri, the aloo dum was going to be the worst the village had ever seen. So embarrassing with so many of her friends expected to arrive. And, by the way, where was that kitchen expert who was supposed be looking after the potatoes?
Behind the cowshed, a cigarette was lit. And from the crack on the door of the shithouse,a pair of eyes watched the Army Cook’s wife take a deep drag of her post-lunch cigarette.Classic.
The Priest arrived just as the clock in the living room struck four. He was two and half-hours late. His once-pristine white cassock was covered in the black-stuff-that-gets-you-whenever-your-vehicle-breaks-down. As he wiped his hands on the living room curtains, he suggested to no one in particular that they go and bring The Mother home. They would find her about six hundred metres away, near the Army Cook’s house, on the dirt track that led up to the house, trying to scoop up two kilograms of sugar from the ground with her bare hands. Paper bags have weak bottoms.
That was when the Mute, his only child, who had been keeping vigil by his cheap plywood coffin for the last twelve hours, began to weep for him.
Twenty feet away on the other side of the house sat the young Contractor, success clearly visible and shining on all his eight fingers. While he toyed with an unlit Classic cigarette between his fingers,the Tea Ladies, both young and the not so, offered to refill his cup more frequently than was necessary.
In the makeshift outdoor kitchen, the potatoes were overcooked. According to the Aunt From Siliguri, the aloo dum was going to be the worst the village had ever seen. So embarrassing with so many of her friends expected to arrive. And, by the way, where was that kitchen expert who was supposed be looking after the potatoes?
Behind the cowshed, a cigarette was lit. And from the crack on the door of the shithouse,a pair of eyes watched the Army Cook’s wife take a deep drag of her post-lunch cigarette.Classic.
The Priest arrived just as the clock in the living room struck four. He was two and half-hours late. His once-pristine white cassock was covered in the black-stuff-that-gets-you-whenever-your-vehicle-breaks-down. As he wiped his hands on the living room curtains, he suggested to no one in particular that they go and bring The Mother home. They would find her about six hundred metres away, near the Army Cook’s house, on the dirt track that led up to the house, trying to scoop up two kilograms of sugar from the ground with her bare hands. Paper bags have weak bottoms.
That was when the Mute, his only child, who had been keeping vigil by his cheap plywood coffin for the last twelve hours, began to weep for him.
