which turned out to be my first Vignette!
After a lot of feedback from a lot of people, I've discovered the reason people don't get this piece of writing is because I labeled it as a "Short story". So I read up a lot on the literary definition of a short story etc and realised that this piece makes more sense as a Vignette, because it's describing an incident, merely stating what's there. Painting a picture, so to speak. No judgement involved and no new ideas are imposed onto the readers. I've also edited it a little. Now, please do comment :)
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There was once a village, where cows mooed and birds sang.
Fathers ploughed and mothers made homes that smelt heady with muck and incense every evening. The children laughed and played, and climbed trees to glimpse at the new "Colour box" through the village doctor’s window. Its peoples came together in joy; and in sorrow, they all wept for the weak and coy.
When Murugan died one dry summer day, the village sat under the Big Banyan Tree.
“He was such a good man”, said someone. “What did he do to deserve this?” said another, shaking his head like one of the cows. A group of wailing women sat next to the body, swathing silk garments and garlands on it, that people brought to pay their respects. Once in a while, someone whispered. Now and then, someone slipped away, to feed the children or water the plants. But they sat there till the sun went down and the cattle returned, tired from wandering and grazing the hills.
An elderly man rose and walked up to the tree. He cleared his throat and spoke grimly: “It is getting dark. Murugan belongs to the Earth now. His soul must move on to a better place.”
“But both his sons are at the war-front!” cried a teary-eyed woman from somewhere at the back, clutching the ends of her sari over her mouth. All heads turned in the direction of her voice and hers quickly bowed down. There was silence.
Many heads nodded, there were whispers all around.
“Do you have a way to inform them, then?”
Silence. The whispering voices now rose like a rising tide.
Another man spoke “Yes, yes. We must do the needful. He lived a respectable life, now we must give him a respectable death. We can only pray that he goes wherever he wants to now."
The villagers nodded in agreement.
The next morning, the grave-digger opened his eyes to a soft breeze and scattered ash.
Outside, the cows mooed and the birds sang.
5 comments:
Very nice! Your story has signs of your poetry in it:
"The whispering voices rose like a rising tide."
I found the mother's anguish heart wrenching and felt her sorrow. I was captured in your story.
My heart filled with sorrow when my mind realized his sons where at the front, fighting without knowledge of their father's passing.
I hope you will continue this thread you have written, weave it into something more. A continuance of sorts. Good story, good read. Thanks for sharing it. :-)
Thank you, Scott. But so far I've been told by some that the plot seems too loose and open-ended. It seems to fall flat. If people don't get what I'm trying to say without me having to explain it, I've obviously failed as a story-teller.
I will probably revise it once I see what's missing :)
Thank you for your comments though. I appreciate it :)
Oh and, what made you assume the woman's the mother? :)
Not sure why I assumed she was their mother. I guess my mind was on the track that tragically, a mother would exclaim in anguish "And what of the sons!" or something like that.
As far as being loose and open ended, were you writing a story or a novel? Like I mentioned, I read it as a poetic short story where emotions are pulled from the imagery, were different people come to different consensus, much like a poem.
I still like it and read it again just now and I think if you are going to fill in some gaps, you be even more proud of your story! ;)
Malgudi Days!! :)
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