The clock is striking 15 minutes past thirteen. You took that? Well it would have if it were morning but for now it's night here and I'm surrounded by darkness. I lie in my bed as I type this newsletter.
I know I am late again but, I think I should write when I feel like it to express my thoughts and to be able to provide something for thinking and to question. To be able to tell a story that you find relatable.
For this newsletter I would be sharing a short story that I have written. I would very much appreciate your thoughts on it.
Image by Paul Batch
The town is ill, its winds sharp and unbreathable, it's buildings hidden underneath dust, and everything seems nothing but tinged in sepia tone. I cover my face with a cloth and, grabbing my bag, venture out of my father's house to catch the metro for college.
There’s not much difference between day and noon; both seem orange, grainy, and colorless to me.
On the way to the metro, there’s a café called RetroVin. Its signboard features a large dry, fallen leaf 🍁. I’ve never been inside and I don’t believe I ever will. It’s nothing of my concern. What concerns me is the beautiful corner shot I can take with my phone’s camera—the corner comprising two sides of a rectangular ceiling, the tower with the logo 🍁, and the name RetroVin.
I reach the metro amidst these thoughts. The sunlight is particularly good today, and it will remain so until the afternoon. I should get the shot today.
In the metro, it’s always the same people, though their cart may change. I’ve even figured out their jobs, destinations, personalities, and trigger points. There’s a group of girls that goes to Convent, three men who work in different departments at Intercom, and two male and female waiters from a café near the Ichitaku station.
There are two girls who board the metro to my college. One is a classmate, and the other I only see occasionally.
To be honest, I’ve never gotten a good look at her. She always stands apart from the crowd, back in the corner, with her face turned to the side, looking out of the grey glass windows. What little I can discern is beautifully covered by a cloth that winds around her head and neck. We all wear cloths to protect our eyes and respiratory passages, and some girls do it this way. In my opinion, it looks cute, though others might find it strange.
My classmate, on the other hand, is a sore pimple, an abomination to me. There’s no shortage of guys, both from college and outside, who would happily pay for this ride to college and take her out on a date.
What attracts my attention the most is the metro itself. It’s a great place to capture a scene for a short movie I’ve been working on, but I lack the courage to bring out my camera and start filming.
I don’t take the metro back home, as I go back with my friends and we disperse at Ichitaku Station. Adjacent to the station is a large central plaza with numerous cafés, restaurants, and shops lining the road. I head inside the plaza. At the very back, there’s a stationery and lighting shop. From the outside, it seems like the shop spans the entire plaza, but inside, there’s hardly any space to stand due to the clutter of items—mostly second-hand lighting, cameras, and antiques. The owner, Ahmed, has known me for four years and is quite nice and soft-spoken.
“So, who do we have here at this hour, huh?”
“It’s me, Uncle Ahmed. I presume you got the wireless lamp I asked about.”
“Yeah, kiddo. It’s here. Check if it’s to your liking. You can connect it to your phone to change the light color, and it comes with a charger so you can charge it when you’re not using it.”
“Let me check it out... So, how much is it?”
“It’s just 1000 rupees for you.”
“No, Uncle, that’s too much. My friend got one for only 500.”
“Well, you know how things are with increased taxation. Besides, it took great effort to find this piece for you.”
“I know not everyone knows about it, but still, it’s not high in demand.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I can give you 600 for it.”
“No, that’s too little.”
“Okay, 700. That’s all I have.”
“Hmm. Okay, you can have it. Here’s an antique piece as well. It’s your birthday today, right? Consider it a gift.”
“Thanks, Uncle Ahmed.”
“My pleasure, son.”
“You know what?”
“What?”
“You remind me a lot of my son, Abdullah. He would’ve been your age.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s dead. He died on a trip to the mountains with his friends. He loved making films, though he wasn’t good at writing stories like you.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. Our lives are nothing but specks in the great machinery of this universe, and nothing befalls us except what’s in our favor.”
“I see.”
“Uncle, can I ask you a question?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“I don’t think like most people. I write whatever comes to mind rather than telling people what they already read or want. I pursue endeavors without scheduling and go to college for a job I’ll probably leave as soon as I get an easier, more creative one—maybe even start my own studio.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you, kiddo. You just plan too much ahead. You try to see what others don’t want to or aren’t looking the right way.”
“But what if I’m running after a ghost?”
“We all run after ghosts. We all fall in love with things we can’t attain. We all need to be idealists to be realists.”
“Do you think I can ever love?”
“Yes, you can. In fact, you do, I presume. It reflects in your actions. You’re just confused about the things you love and the things you do.”
“I see. Thanks for your advice.”
“No worries. You should hurry now. The evening storm might come around. The weather forecast changed at noon, and there might be strong winds and a dust storm.”
“Okay. I think I’ll take the metro then. Bye.”
“Goodbye.”
I rush outside the plaza to find the wind has already picked up, and the dust is making it difficult to walk. I cover my head and face with the scarf and put glasses on to protect my eyes.
Even taking the next step is hard due to the wind's pressure. The distance that normally takes five minutes from the plaza to the station takes more than fifteen. As I reach the metro and buy my ticket, I see her getting into the metro. I rush, not knowing whether to catch the metro or to be in the same cart as her.
As I stand there, some words escape my mouth: “I love you!” I say as the metro doors close and my eyes shut. There’s a brief pause, only the sound of the dusty storm and the train wheels rolling over the tracks.
“You said something? You meant it for me?”
I open my eyes to see her standing there, the metro out of sight.
“Yes, but why didn’t you get on the metro?”
“Well, I can always catch the next one with the same ticket.”
“Yes, that’s true, but there’s a storm and it’s already quite late.”
“Well, I can ask the same about you.”
“Mine don’t worry the way I would like.”
“So they do worry. It’s good to have people who care about you, right?”
“I suppose, but it also hurts when someone’s care is choking.”
“You’re right, but we always try to hold the people we love closely.”
“What if it kills?”
“It never does, it only makes things unbearable for the time being.”
“Just like the storm.”
“Yes, just like the storm.”
“I’m sorry. I forgot we were standing outside the cover shed. We should probably go in there rather than stand out in the open.”
“Yes, let’s go...”
A strong wind blows over and pushes us close. I cover her with my body as my scarf blows away with the wind. Perhaps sometimes it’s best for things to go away with the wind.
I would love to hear your thoughts and be sure t share the newsletter with your friends. It helps it to grow.
P.S. I have written a short novel as well; I Saw The Devil. Be sure to check out your Subscription Email for the free copy or you can just reply to this post and I would send it to your inbox.
Very nice. I was captured by the very first paragraph. I like the fact that you use the term "carts" to describe some conveyances. This is an unusual term where I live. You did a good job with the dialog, and it wasn't interrupted by too much inner musing or self-congratulatory autobiographical nonsense.
My only problem (and I've edited ten books) was with your short second paragraph: " There’s not much difference between day and noon; both seem orange, grainy, and colorless to me." I'm thinking you meant to write daybreak. And it is a contradiction to say the sky is both orange and colorless.
The first paragraph, on the other hand, describes it as sepia and I think that's a great word to use. It reminds me of the air in Beijing.