And So Burned the Rabbit Hole
Something extraordinarily magical happens to a toad’s voice when a set of chicken wings are attached to its shoulder bumps. Of course you have to do the hard work of ripping the wings off the chicken and thrusting them into the toad.
But once the dirty bit’s over, then the ballads which they sing are worth the labour.
If you haven’t kept your eyes closed, then by now you would’ve noticed the one that hovers around my knees.
His baritone is phenomenal isn’t it?
These are the perfect companions to walk with.
But unfortunately, if you walk too fast then they get squished under your feet.
They can be a real burden in times of hurry; when you’re going to meet your lover for example.
Not that he’s my lover, just a friend.
And no, I am not blushing; it’s just that my face turns red because of the sun.
I know it’s shady, but the sunlight peeking through the crevices in the canopy above are enough to redden my skin.
The golden butterflies that they paint upon the forest floor are beautiful aren’t they?
See, every dreadful thing has some benefits.
Take these banyan trees…for examp…
*Stares away into space*
What? Oh, it’s nothing.
It’s just that these barks...their grotesque folds…they remind me of my father’s face when he had shot my mother in the head.
“Happy birthday little princess.” He had grinned, with bits of bloody skull still stuck on his face.
My life was spared only because my father liked young girls in bed. I had just turned fourteen then.
I have been afraid of the dark ever since.
But it’s OK.
I have nothing to fear in the forest.
No shadows stalk me here – not even my own. Neither are there any alleys where my best friend can molest me once again. And the Sun is never suffocated by the darkness of the night.
In the forest, I walk without dread.
Only butterflies who like to kiss my elbows and the pleasant air which twirls my locks accompany me here.
But I like the company of the stream the most.
If you sniff the air you will smell him in your nostrils. The scent always reminds me of my mother and her cocaine.
See the purple grass on its shores? They always gossip about the stream’s love affairs.
“Those flirty cherry blossoms!” It squeals. “They laugh like witches with ugly warts. I bet they put a spell on him.” And one can literally see them acquire a deeper shade of purple.
There is no reflection whenever I peer into the depths of the stream – it knows that I hate mirrors. In fact, I haven’t seen one in seven years.
I can’t bear to look at my crooked nose and my swollen lips -- it reminds me of my father.
Let’s just talk about something else shall we?
Do you see the marble building up that tiny hill?
I call it the temple – that’s where we are going.
There’s no god to preach in there, but I do pray with my pencil and a paper.
The sound of scribbling graphite reverberates like sacred hymns and the solitude which my words capture is the god that I revere.
Poetry is the only prayer that has ever given me faith.
Do you have any siblings?
I had a brother.
Besides the forest, he was the only one who truly loved me.
I still remember the day he had died.
“Don’t leave me alone in the dark.” He had pleaded.
But I had left him anyway, only to find him dead the next hour.
My delirious mother had attempted to murder me – she was convinced that I had poisoned my sweet little brother. After all, he was a son and I was not.
I had to sleep in the streets for three weeks in order to save my life.
Am I depressing you?
Thank god. Sometimes I get too whiny.
I hope you can climb the steps – they are a bit too much, but the view from above is breathtaking.
And the boy with the paintbrush – you’ll love to meet him.
I remember that I had been aghast when I had found him in the temple for the first time.
The forest had been a sanctuary for me until now – a protective womb away from the fangs of the world. But then someone had penetrated its walls.
I had felt betrayed, traumatised, agonised, vulnerable!
Everything, it had seemed, was destroyed.
But then he had smiled through his long, black hair and I had noticed the scar that transversed his face.
Through his watery, brown eyes I had peered down into his soul and I read a familiar story.
Just like me, he was unnamed, with only his art to identify himself. And he too believed in the same god that I revered.
He never spit on me and he didn’t care that I was black – it was the first time I had met someone like him.
Only seven days have passed since we have met, but I have known him forever.
I am sure you’ll love him too. I mean, as a friend.
Come, mind the marble floor – it’s a bit too slippery.
The pearl curtains are wonderful aren’t they?
Their chimes, when the wind blows, are the most soothing thing ever.
He usually paints in the central room.
The sunlight filtering through the glass dome above amalgamates with the cold air to form a curious mixture which he loves.
Oh, he isn’t here?
Probably he’s decided to paint in the balcony this time.
Not here either.
You wait here; maybe the butterflies will know where he is.
She returns with a face drained of blood – the boy with the paintbrush has left.
The trauma of being abandoned once again makes her collapse.
With suffocated sobs she weeps, her claws digging into the marble.
It’s because of my ugliness, isn’t it?
I should’ve known.
I should’ve never allowed him to stay in the forest!
Suddenly, her wails go silent.
There’s a box wrapped in muslin with a letter besides the easel on which he painted.
With moist eyes she reads the letter.
‘The time for my departure has come. The freedom has always been inside of us.’
The scarlet muslin rustles like a viper in her hands.
The lid trembles as she hesitantly opens the box.
A face stares back from inside.
The crooked nose…those swollen lips…the brown skin…
It’s a mirror!
And…and…she looks beautiful!
***
It’s the first time that night has descended upon the forest.
Engulfed in the blazing inferno, it glitters like a fiery sun in the indigo darkness.
The grassy fields are probably scorched out of existence by now and I can see the banyan trees being devoured by the flames.
Can you see the temple? It must be blackened with soot by now.
Beautiful, isn’t it – the fire and the night?
It’s been seven years since I fell down into the forest. Finally, I can return back home.
By the way, did I mention?
My name is Precious.
THE END
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