My first story

This was in response to a writing exercise on S&C Writers' Network on Ryze.

DOLL HOUSE

Light slanted into the room. Dust swirled up once more. Why did it not bother me? Normally, I'd have been sneezing by now. I could see her enter the room to clean. What clean? I said to myself. She only makes an excuse of cleaning, this maid! I had observed this ritual for the third time in three days that I had been a prisoner here, in the store of our ancestral house in Kota.

The store room had odds and ends representing all generations that had lived in this huge house. Cartons upon cartons stacked so high against the back wall that they even covered the high window. Three wooden boxes had the name of my grand father and his address written in ink along with his berth number of the ship he took from London sometime in the beginning last century. Next to the cartons were huge broken photo frames which may have held the pictures of our large extended family once upon a time. On the other corner there was a pile of diyas, used earthen lamps. The newer generations' contribution to this store had been a rusting tricycle with two wheels intact and a work bench belonging to my uncle who liked Carpentry. His "productions" had made their way near their mother bench. One wooden jewellery box with three drawers; one stool with two and a half legs... Dadaji's broken rocking chair said a few things about his personality. Near it stood Dadi's mother's old dresser sans mirror. It would have fetched a great price in the antique market had somebody bothered to come in this room for decades, I thought. How strange, I thought further. All those who had used these things had gone away. But the things remained. Do things really have a longer life span than man?

There was plenty of time to think and reflect upon each piece in that room. Towards the front of the room, closer to Chachi's studio, stood the dolls. Recently, she had started making life-size dolls. Anupam chachi made dolls for a living. It had been a hobby earlier, before her husband died. She used to stack her dolls in the available space of the store, using it as her godown.

I had come to Kota to help Chachi transport one of her entries to a Museum in a town near Kota. I was to drive the life-size doll in my car. I had come down to get the doll. Nobody was home except buaji, who slept on the second floor. I was to pack the dainty doll, a Rajasthani beauty in metres of bubble wrapping. I was thinking to myself how the dolls looked like real people. Only their hands gave away the fact. I looked at my own hand to compare. Hand? Why could I not move it? What was this feeling creeping up my back? Was it paralysis? Oh God!!

I was frozen. I could easily pass off as one of the doll people Chachi had made for a republic day parade tableaux.

That was three days ago.

Do things have hearts? Do they think? These were the kind of thoughts I had been passing my time with. A fresh one came to my mind. Do things smile?

"Yes," came the answer to my question. The doll next to me, the one wearing my own mom's old sari was smiling at me.

She opened the bubble wrap sheets and began wrapping me.


(c) Smita Rajan
October 2005