Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Kavitha Punniyamurthi

The Welcome

He walked on. He leapt over the ditch, onto a small pile of leaves. Unmindful of the dried mud and leaves that clung to his body, he walked on. Through the dark and silent night listening to the muffled sounds of his own footfalls and the rustling of leaves beneath his feet, he walked on. Carefully, sidestepping the bigger mud puddles and the slippery moss covered rocks, he walked on. He paused to look at the tree that had fallen across his path—a victim of the storm that raged last night. His head brushed the huge branches sprawled on the ground, sending down a shower of raindrops.

Sniffing the night air, rapturously breathing in the scent of fresh rain on earth, he walked on. He jumped over the culvert that drained the rainwater stagnant on the tar road. He shook himself a little, trying to rid himself of the dirt that stuck to his hair.

He walked on, down the tar road half-eaten by the rain. Mounds of gravel washed away by the water’s impact had collected by the side of the road. He looked up once at the huge black expanse with its sprinkling of stars twinkling ostentatiously like sequins on a woman’s black evening gown. The moon crouched, faintly visible behind the black clouds.

The entire stretch was lined with street-lamps, all of which were broken but for one at the far end of the road. He squinted, trying to make out the dim figures in the hazy yellow light shed by the lamp.

Occasionally, he glanced at the yellow patch in the distance from under his shaggy eyebrows as if to ascertain his proximity to his destination. As the circle of the lamp’s light grew brighter, he quickened his steps, hastening towards the end. A light drizzle began to fall as he reached the lamp post. The light showed the dirty little hovel that stood some distance down the side of the road. The wafts of hot tea drew his attention to the dark outlines of men huddled round a small wooden table, their hands cupped around tea-warmed clay mugs. The smell of food. The faint rumbling of his stomach. He hadn’t eaten since morning.

The light of the street lamp was now behind him. The drizzle was steadier than a while ago and the raindrops became fuller and heavier. He shook himself again and moved to stand under the tree.

Deep in the shadows, he stood waiting. He turned his head to look down the road—the direction from which he’d walked tonight, just like he had done the night before and the one before that—just like he had every night of his life, to wait under the tree.

The rainwater ran in rivulets from the raised surface of the tar road to where, cold and hungry, he stood waiting. The rain came down faster and, through the sheets of rain, he strained to catch a glimpse of the man for whom he waited.

The dark clouds had completely veiled the moon’s face. In the pitch darkness that enveloped him, he stood waiting. With an earnest impatience, counting the minutes that crawled by, he stood waiting. The rain seemed to slow down a bit and he finally saw the familiar figure in the distance, moving slowly towards where he stood waiting.

The frail little figure carried a shapeless brown sack over one shoulder. The left hand held in place a big plastic cover, covering his rags—a makeshift protection against the rain. As he bounded from the shadows, the figure stopped. In recognition the old, tired face became wreathed in a toothless grin—emphasizing its countless wrinkles and wiping out all signs of weariness.

He joyfully leaped up at the old ragpicker, barking his welcome, wagging his long bushy tail excitedly and pawing his master eagerly. He quieted down a bit to receive the fond pats and have his ears lovingly fondled. He then trotted back home by his master’s side, like a bodyguard escorting a royal personage, like any devotedly attached pet dog.

Copyright © 2004 Kavitha Punniyamurthi

About the Author
Kavitha Punniyamurthiis, a 20-year-old writer based in India, is in her third year in Computer Science and Engineering. She moved from New Delhi to Chennai ten years ago. Kavitha has been writing since the age of 9 and has had her articles published in Indian magazines for children. Apart from writing poems, essays and short stories, she enjoys reading, sketching and painting.