Once upon a time in a country called India, Kamala pulls the threadbare sheet to the side. Her almond shaped, dark eyes gaze at the dust surrounding her. A frail cough is let out, a small dog scurries across her hand and into the distance. “Mata?” the sun kissed child whispers. Her vision blurs as she looks across the waves of heat as far as she can see. “Mata, Mata?” she frantically whispers a little louder this time. She looks down at her what-used-to-be teal sandals and her toes hang over the edge; she slips them off her cramped feet and holds them in her soft, fragile hands.
Kamala’s stomach is aching with hunger. She usually wakes up to her mother preparing her a couple of spoonfuls of rice with bread hardened like a cracker. The hot air is oppressing and the girl’s hunger is prominent. She tacks the sheet back to the corner of the dilapidated doorframe, and moves swiftly, as though someone is chasing her. She scurries into the middle of Dharavi; the slum glistens with vibrant clothes laid out next to the water and the smell of spices surrounds her. The pang of hunger in her stomach grows stronger. “Mata!” Kamala’s pace grows faster and faster, her feet searing with pain from the hot rocks and sand beneath her. She holds her only sandals in her hand still, and carries on. “Mata! Mata! Mata!”
Her eyes grow increasingly aware as she rushes past the flocks of women tending to their families. She hears a voice and stops instantly; “Mata?” the frog in her throat mutters. Pure silence surrounds her; her frustration engulfs her emotions and boiling tears roll down her face. They slide through her dusty face and leave a trail to her chin. Her stomach rumbles to the beat of the wheelbarrow’s wooden wheels carrying supplies. “Mat…..” Her lips purse, her eyes widen, and her heartbeat seems to waver. A man in camouflage hovers above her, his sand-colored boots the size of her body, grasp the earth with bold authority. She quivers with fear.
A moment in time passes and they both look at each other with fear; a clear language boundary. The sun beats down on the beads of sweat on his pale face, and the tears continue to flood down Kamala’s. He hesitates only to wipe his brow, but then reaches into his over-sized pocket and pulls out a bread-like biscuit. She gains tunnel-vision now, only seeing the food before her.
Her almond-shaped brown eyes look straight up, only to find this soldier gazing down at her with gentle eyes. His massive hand reaches down to give Kamala the bread. Their hands touch only for a second in time until a woman’s voice shatters the silent gesture, “KAMALA!”
Her fierce green eyes spin around and grab up her baby. “Kamala, you must never leave my side baby.” And the camouflaged man disappears into the waves of heat on the horizon.
By Sarah Kadlec
Winner: 2nd Prize – of the #MyIndiaStory short story writing contest on Tell-A-Tale
(Image source: Toni Lozano used from Creative Commons under a CC BY 2.0 license)
