| Mary Tina Shamli Pillay | April 2025 | Flash Fiction |
I knew how much they wanted to be there. It was them all over again. The walls, the gate, the well, the tree. They lived again in the warm embrace of memories etched into every brick securing that house. Shelly threw open the gate, exclaiming, “Come! Come!” as I turned the corner into their street.
The pale yellow house was painted neatly on the bright blue sky. The morning was beginning to sting at my glistening skin.
“You never told us. Surprise, eh? Shelly grinned excitedly, stepping half out into the street over the threshold of her main gate.
“I told you I was coming,” I corrected her.
“Come in,” she smiled cheerfully, ushering me into the tiny living room.
“Where’s mother?” I asked eagerly, my eyes taking in the green walls and thick air hastily.
Noon was approaching and so was the wind—whirling and scorching the supine coconut tree hovering above House 66 from its little corner in the front yard.
“Hello… Then?” mother asked gleefully, walking into the living room—leaving the hazy corridor in her wake—and plunging into the massive recliner set up in front of my chair.
“We cooked your favourite dish for you,” she continued, her shrivelled lips stretching into an unending smile.
“How are you, mother?” I enquired, watching the dried skin on her neck cling to the columns of bones hoisting her powdered face.
She smiled—this time her weathered fingers dancing about her lap and weary gaze punctuating my train of thought.
“Mom is very fine. And smart,” chided Shelly, pulling up a chair close to mother, and rearranging the frills of the crumpled dress resting against her old ribbed chest.
The room was warm with the whiff of toasted peanuts smouldering in a cast iron pan. I followed its lead through the murky corridor before finding myself locked within the sticky confines of what looked like a cooking space. Grime and slime had taken its toll on the rough mosaic tiles cemented into the floor beneath my bare feet.
“I should have worn slippers,” I thought to myself, glancing up at the soot-lined chimney imposing itself on the frigid stove below.
“Victor!” a shrill screech muted itself immediately upon my rushing to the door.
“Yeah?!” I gasped, yanking the door open.
Shelly grinned and quipped, “what is it?”
“You called me.” I stated, looking straight into her eyes.
“No, never. No,” she replied, turning around and walking off into the last room leading out into the backyard.
I moved quickly—after her— tossing the curtains guarding the entrance to the room while Shelly marched onward and over onto the first step outside. A young girl in her mid-twenties stood there. She gazed at my face. Then my hands. My face.
“She washes mom’s clothes,” smirked Shelly, allowing her eyes to linger on the clothes for a few seconds.
I looked away from the girl’s unintended stare to immerse myself in the rosy hue that washed over the yard. Shelly paused. And scanned the pink walls around us for their imperfections. By now I had retreated into the last room and made my way back to the living room.
“Mother must be hungry. Shall…we?” I suggested.
“Worried about mom? She’s already eaten,” Shelly whined emphatically, locking arms with mother before plucking her out of her seat.
Mother staggered into her room aided firmly by Shelly’s iron grip. In the minutes that followed, doors were slammed, voices were raised and threats bandied about—all in an effort to coax mother into getting some rest.
An engine sputtered in the distance, reverberating through the tiny street at our doorstep and shattering my afternoon siesta. As the enormous fan went through the motions—slicing every waking second compulsively—the green walls came to existence once again before all my senses.
Minding my head and treading under the panelled arch of the corridor, time wobbled as it granted me passage through its hallowed space. I reached for the dining table—it stood still in obeisance—throughout conscious of the suspended melody of a song from next door. The curtains to the last room were not too far. Purposefully strolling forth, I flicked them open, only to be greeted by the blushing rays of a warming sun lighting up the yard framed by the cold bars of the metal grill securing me within. There she stood—mother. Focusing on me.
“She washes clothes,” she uttered, her puckered face tinged with the glow from the walls around her.
The hollow from the depths of my stomach held me by my neck, forcing me to stay in the moment.
“Who mother?” I looked deep into her eyes, moving closer till the cold iron grill imprinted itself on my creased forehead.
“What?…” she lisped, turning away with her palm on her chest, and eyes feebly scouring the floor for something that only she knew she was looking for.
Her shrinking toes traced the lines etched deep into the concrete slabs under her wiry feet, pausing at intervals as if it brought to life a flutter of a memory of moments gone by.
“Whose clothes are those, mother?” I pressed her for a reply.
Nothing. No answer. She gazed through me – from some distant place I could not reach, no matter how hard I tried. Because I did not know where she dwelled. I could have said many things that day. But like the melody from next door, I feared my words would remain suspended in that cauldron of emptiness which I was sure I would have trouble accepting. So I chose silence. I remained silent. I accepted silence in return.
The sun had clearly set on the mother we knew. And there was no greater pain than to have her, and yet be filled with a yearning to be with her. Her presence amplified her absence.
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Mary Tina Shamli Pillay’s poems, fiction and art have featured on BBC Radio, Kitaab, The Mean Journal, Blink-Ink, Borderless Journal, The Chakkar, Madras Courier, The Pine Cone Review, The Literary Times Magazine, The Punch Magazine, Shooter Magazine, Artist Talk magazine, Chestnut Review, The Penn Review, Inscape Journal, and Another Chicago Magazine among others. She is passionate about writing, painting, cats and food. Find her on Instagram @marytinashamlipillay and www.tinapillay.com
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Feature image by Outcast India via Unsplash
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