Hareendran Kallinkeel

The alley connects our house to the road. And it's a tough bargain to
cross that stretch. With snakes, scorpions and centipedes thriving on
the sprawling lands on either side, nobody fancies landing a foot on
one and getting a sting of venom.

On a table before Mom, rests the usual bowl of sweets. "You should
learn from your stepfather," she says, stressing the word 'learn'. The
uncanny vigor in her voice makes my eardrums throb.

Stepfather owns a powerful hunter's torch, whose beam can traverse up
to a mile. It stays with him like a sentinel.

With the weight of an obese body he flaunts, he needs a light's aid to
tread a dreaded path because if he trips, slipping on pebbles, his
hefty mass can crush a reptile's vertebra, forcing it to strike.

My feet, carrying the thin, agile frame of my body, don't even so much
as make a smudge on earth's surface. But my brisk, fearless steps warn
those vile creatures to veer off my path.

Stepfather hasn't broken any reptile's backbone. But his flashlight's
beam seems to have strayed off, causing him to step on a cobra's tail.

Before he manages to negotiate the alley's remaining half towards
home, he falls dead, the venom displaying its fury as a bluish blemish
all over his skin.

The word 'learn' obliterates itself from my memory. Mom no longer
reminds me why flashlights are important.

Months later, while she reclines on her bed, dying, I stare into a
gaping hole in her right foot.

Maggots eat into her flesh.

I hold her hand, knowing my touch won't nullify her pain. But I'm
wistful my warmth would drive away the worms.

Her eyes, darting toward a medicine kit, lack the determination I'm
used to cringing away from. "Fight back," I mumble.

Maggots keep gnawing, nudging deeper.

Teardrops, swollen with emotions I can't read, burst out of her eyes.

That fateful day, hearing Stepfather's scream, Mom has run into the
alley sans a light.

She's never treaded barefoot. But calamities kick people out of normal
habits. The sharp edge of a pebble is all it takes for a human misery.

A bruise becomes decisive on a diabetic.

I touch her feet, a gesture to express remorse. "Sorry I didn't
control your food habits."

previously published by Chick Flicks, where Hareendran Kallinkeel was also the featured author.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE:

After obtaining voluntary retirement from an elite commando outfit under the government of India, Hareendran Kallinkeel presently works for an online portal, helping college students from the US with their writing projects, and resides in his hometown, Taliparamba (Kerala), with his family consisting of wife, two children, a maid, a German Shepherd and a few mischievous cats. He owns a farm of rubber, coconut, pepper and areca nut plantations, where he also keeps his cows and chickens. He is widely published both online and in print. His stories have won editor's choice awards and also nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2005 and Million Writers Award 2006.

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