|Far From Home (standard:drama, 3672 words)|
|Author: Bobby Zaman||Added: Oct 12 2002||Views/Reads: 1662/1147||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|An excerpt from a novel in progress. A socio-political-alternative historical experiment. Write back! Eager for your comments!|
FAR FROM HOME An excerpt The young girl, Hamida Khatun, dropped out of the bus like an elf, flung the ball of clothes wrapped in a large bed sheet over her shoulder and looked at the city. The city danced in front of her like a forest fire. Cars, trucks, scooters, rickshaws, all in an incestuous orgy, zipping by like scrambling insects, blaring mad shrieks out of metal domes and rickety handlebars capped with tingling bells, thumbs breaking cartilage just to push the rusted lever down and up to make a sound of presence. Bulging eyes, genitals pronging out of them ogled Hamidaís lithe figure under a hot August sun, the bus pulled away the faces carrying the eyes, Hamida blissfully clueless about the thousand volts of blood her form has sent to the loins of the backed up passengers that didnít dare talk to her during the trip, for her lovely autumnal face was besmirched in a frown that could prologue the dashing out of a suckling babyís brains, they stayed away from her, and fondled her with their drooling eyes when the distance was safe. The thrashbang conundrum of the city was different from the sound of her motherís lifeless body, the echo of it still fresh in her ears but not near strong enough to pull out a tear. Her father was back there in the village where people died every night after toiling only to stalk back home with broken backs and empty stomachs, burn energy the only way accessible to them, humping illiterately, and shedding foolish tears when nature kicked them in the gut with another stomach to starve. Her father would make it much better now. Alone. Solitude around him like a blanket and he grinning ecstatically, embracing it with the power of love. He didnít like the city, never wanted to relocate no matter how many opportunities may have shown promise. He didnít stand in his daughterís way when she upped and left. He was through with people, through with living with them, through with having his solitude cut in mid-stream each time someone opened her mouth, wife, daughter, so he bid goodbye to both with the laugh of a vaudeville spectator, and looked forward to the rest of his days and to greet the end without distractions, concentrated, alone. Hamida pushed all that to the back of her thoughts and began taking in Dhaka not in slow and measured inhales, but in large gasping, devouring breaths as if it was evading her and threatening to run away. Rejuvenation had birthed within her and it needed evolution, it needed all of her spirit behind it, every ounce, none of it could be shared, wasted, forsaken on trivialities. The city had beckoned her and she answered the call. Now her own self had had the urge passed on to it and it was courting her attention with all its might and it needed her to run to it without a glance elsewhere without blinking without thinking without contemplating with nothing but emancipation, of which she now had plenty, like her father. The bus eyes had left. New ones filled their void. They filled the world around her, their bodies sliding into invisible capsules like pawns, and yes eyes, eyes enlarging in their faces like tumors and devouring her like unfed sharks. She had never been so devoid of her surrounding as she was at that moment. The village with its contagion of reputation kept her parents on their toes, and subsequently her, no matter how cavalier was her attitude, and in spite of all vehemence she feigned responsibility. Looking into her fatherís face helped. He seldom gave her orders and never expected her to change. It was the cantankerous venomous disposition of her mother that made the old man raise his voice at Hamida when she was younger. When he did, Hamida heard the reluctance in his voice, saw the pain in his eyes, felt the disgust he had of his own existence. Dhaka had the promise of change. To change that. Pull her out of the stagnant cesspool of village etiquette and false pride. She saw none of the equilibrium she had already upset with her appearance. Her unconventionally hazel eyes stalwart against their white backdrop like precious stones, her grandmotherís sari snaking up her body like vines around a Roman column, long undulating tresses falling down her back like a stroke of black paint with a wide brush. Her arms came out of her shoulders like marble sculptures, the feet protruded out form under the helm of the sari like little white mice caught in the straps of her Click here to read the rest of this story (300 more lines)
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