Status: Finito.
A Once Superman
The Bonding Session
Ernest Kennedy took the boy to the park. Tomasz, naturally, thrived here – an excuse to bond with other children, coupled with the joys of activity, was never wasted on him, and the mothers all admired him as though he was their own, and – upon glancing back at the unfortunate child who had to live up to such multi-cultural perfection – there was a softly wistful expression, with disappointment glass-clear in the pupils’ reflection.
And then, as day collapsed and its throne in the heavens was usurped by night (underneath which everything seems more surreal), the hordes of coquettish mothers began to abate – gradually, at first, like the seasons, and then rapidly as though Tomasz’s appeal had waned in the blink of an eye or the snapshot of a camera. Eventually, it was Ernest and Tomasz alone, a not-quite father and son, on the purlieu of their first bonding session, marred only by a natural modicum of awkwardness. Tomasz had wordlessly accepted Ernest’s role as his guardian, and the monumental shift in his lifestyle had not affected him a jot – he was mature for his age, and Ernest rewarded him and his silence with an ice-cream. The Equatorially humid night was well beyond the boundaries of bedtime, but the child was so energetic that sleep could not pervade him. Reclining on the bed of bristly grass, next to one another, Tomasz with his ice-cream and Ernest with his memories, they admired the night sky.
It was a smoky bruise of a night. Ernest reminisced; it reminded him of the thin black sari that Divyanshi had owned many years ago, stitched and beaded with diamond stars as random as the constellations, and draped over the less beguiling face of the ugly sister, the daytime sky. That sister will always be fated to be plainer than her svelte, vampish night persona, no matter how pleasingly azure her cloudless companion may be. It was in this quiescent tranquil that Ernest realised that, for the first time since Tomasz had come into his life, he was serene – slothfully clinging to the elder’s flaccid arms. Such a touching gesture elicited rare conversation from his enigmatic custodian, though his conversation was as mysterious as he was.
“I used to ply my trade up there.”
The words melted away into the heat of the shadowy evening, dispersing languidly with the lethargic pollen that had, lazy and bored, failed to stir itself into the air earlier on in the day, dislodged by fat, nectar-saturated bees from endless rivulets of flowers – carnations, hollyhocks, roses, poppies. Silence prevailed once more.
“Pie your tray?” eventually came the less-than-poignant response from the child. The aestival beauty of the moment was broken. Ernest sat up, faster than a man of his fragility should have done, and rose to his feet. The boy followed suit. They walked to his house in silence.
And then, as day collapsed and its throne in the heavens was usurped by night (underneath which everything seems more surreal), the hordes of coquettish mothers began to abate – gradually, at first, like the seasons, and then rapidly as though Tomasz’s appeal had waned in the blink of an eye or the snapshot of a camera. Eventually, it was Ernest and Tomasz alone, a not-quite father and son, on the purlieu of their first bonding session, marred only by a natural modicum of awkwardness. Tomasz had wordlessly accepted Ernest’s role as his guardian, and the monumental shift in his lifestyle had not affected him a jot – he was mature for his age, and Ernest rewarded him and his silence with an ice-cream. The Equatorially humid night was well beyond the boundaries of bedtime, but the child was so energetic that sleep could not pervade him. Reclining on the bed of bristly grass, next to one another, Tomasz with his ice-cream and Ernest with his memories, they admired the night sky.
It was a smoky bruise of a night. Ernest reminisced; it reminded him of the thin black sari that Divyanshi had owned many years ago, stitched and beaded with diamond stars as random as the constellations, and draped over the less beguiling face of the ugly sister, the daytime sky. That sister will always be fated to be plainer than her svelte, vampish night persona, no matter how pleasingly azure her cloudless companion may be. It was in this quiescent tranquil that Ernest realised that, for the first time since Tomasz had come into his life, he was serene – slothfully clinging to the elder’s flaccid arms. Such a touching gesture elicited rare conversation from his enigmatic custodian, though his conversation was as mysterious as he was.
“I used to ply my trade up there.”
The words melted away into the heat of the shadowy evening, dispersing languidly with the lethargic pollen that had, lazy and bored, failed to stir itself into the air earlier on in the day, dislodged by fat, nectar-saturated bees from endless rivulets of flowers – carnations, hollyhocks, roses, poppies. Silence prevailed once more.
“Pie your tray?” eventually came the less-than-poignant response from the child. The aestival beauty of the moment was broken. Ernest sat up, faster than a man of his fragility should have done, and rose to his feet. The boy followed suit. They walked to his house in silence.