A Murine Love Story

There was a loud crash in the hallway.

The carriage burst in just as the grandfather clock in the parlour announced the hour of midnight

At the twelfth sounding of the gong, the spell came apart.

The white-liveried coachman became a cat and the five white horses her litter of kittens. 

The grand carriage went back to being a pumpkin. 

The bejewelled gown gave way to one of Cinderella’s stepsisters’ old cast-off dresses, complete with the grease stains that came from cooking the day’s supper and the grime from scrubbing the floors. 

I, Raton, only lately a high-heeled glass slipper, too assumed my natural form.

Within seconds, we scampered away to the safety of the scullery that Cinderella called home. Except the pumpkin, which Cinderella had to carry in her arms.

Pumpkins don’t scamper. Not even in fairy tales.

By the time the old harridan, Cinderella’s stepmother, showed up, the house was as quiet as, what is that phrase? As quiet as a mouse.

Silly phrase if you ask me. I am a mouse, but I was far from feeling quiet.

I had realised that Chuhiya, my love, was nowhere to be seen. How careless of Cinderella to lose her!

We had both been transformed into her glass slippers. Our services had enabled the Fairy Godmother to deck Cinderella out so finely. All she had to do was to return home before midnight. Was that so hard to do?

The outcome of all that Abracadabra had been good for Cinderella. She’d had a chance to waltz the night away with the Prince.

The cat family had had a good time too. What is that they say? A cat may look at a king.

And the pumpkin had come home in one piece.

But what about me? I had lost my love and I hadn’t even told her that I loved her. 

Meanwhile, the one who had blighted my happiness snored gently on the scullery floor, no doubt dreaming about strolling with the Prince around some scenic pond, with maybe a lone, beautiful hibiscus flower serenely floating over the still water.

What a stupid dream! I would have dreamed about Chuhiya and me feasting on the garbage.

But that was not to be. Here I was, writhing in helpless misery, while Chuhiya was trapped in the palace? I was too agitated to think about what state she might be in.

I hoped she was still a glass slipper. The thought of her regaining her true self only to be stamped underfoot or be snared in a trap was horrifying.

It was a long, dark night for me.

*      *       *

  

The next morning, I overheard the harridan telling her daughters that the Prince had fallen in love with a glass slipper and was visiting every household in the kingdom in order to find the foot that had worn that slipper. And marry it too (The whole person, not just the foot. This language will be the death of me.).

My heart skipped a beat. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Chuhiya was alive, though trapped in a glass slipper. How would I rescue her? I had no idea. What were the odds that no other foot but Cinderella’s would fit the slipper?

All day the house was abuzz with excitement. Cinderella cooked and washed and cleaned, but there was something different about her.

I recognized the feeling. Like me, she was infected with hope.

At long last, the royal entourage showed up at our doorstep. The harridan’s two daughters tried their hand at wearing the slipper (Or should I say, tried their foot?). But neither had any luck. Desperate, the harridan tried to shove her foot in. But she had no luck either.

I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown by now.

And then the Prince wanted to know if there were others in the household. Only the maid, he was told. At the Prince’s insistence, Cinderella was summoned and ordered to try the slipper.

It was a delicate moment. Our fates hung in the balance.

In a moment, the Prince vowed eternal love to Cinderella. But what of my love?

Was I destined to prowl the trash alone? My Chuhiya entrapped in a glass slipper until the end of time?

Dejected, I shut my eyes.

The grandfather clock began sounding the hour of 12 noon. At the twelfth sounding of the gong, I heard them scream.

A shrill and horrible sound…broken by the mellifluous squeaking of my Chuhiya.

(There are numerous versions of the classic Cinderella story. I wrote this story, my own original variation, for Yeah Write # 143. Incidentally, Raton and Chuhiya are Spanish and Hindi for mouse.)

The Fisher-woman and the Pretty Young Thing

The Pretty Young Thing boarded the sparsely crowded BEST bus headed towards the north-western suburb of Borivali and heaved a sigh of relief. There was just one vacant seat left, a two-seater, and she lowered herself into it gratefully, placing her Hermes imitation bag next to her to deter anyone else from sharing her seat. 

The sudden call for strike on the part of the Taximen’s and Rickshawmen’s Union could hardly have come at a more inconvenient time. With the suburban local trains bursting at the seams, the bus seemed the only way to reach the studio in far-away Film City where, her roommate had informed her, some talent scout was conducting an audition for a Bollywood film. The role was that of a lead dancer in an ‘item’ number.


Should she nail this audition, the role would be hers. It was only a five-minute song sequence, but if the dance movements were good, she would attract attention and a fan following. It might pave the way for a more substantial role, possibly the heroine’s sister or best friend. She would be able to rent a pad on her own. No sharing with other girls.

Her airy dreams were suddenly invaded by the stench of fish. To her dismay, a robustly plump fisher-woman rudely shoved the Hermes lookalike bag aside and plonked herself on the seat next to her. She smiled, displaying pan-stained teeth. 

The Pretty Young Thing cringed. Searching inside her bag, she pulled out a white kerchief and held it to her nose. She was being rude, she knew. But how dare this fat, ugly woman sit beside her and mess up her day, particularly when she had an audition to go to? Couldn’t she see that the seat was already taken?


Now she’d go to the audition, smelling like a can of dried fish. The fragrance of the Chanel Coco Mademoiselle, gifted to her by an ex-boyfriend, was all gone. All her hopes of impressing the casting director with her attitude and personality were fading fast.

The woman turned to her and said something. The Pretty Young Thing looked out the window, pretending she hadn’t heard. The kerchief was still stuck close to her nose, and she only took it aside occasionally to breathe some fresh air. The woman ignored the slight and continued to chat on, about the weather, the strike, the cost of living.


The Pretty Young Thing longed to shut out her neighbour’s tiresome voice, to hold her palms against her ears and block out the elderly woman’s annoying chatter. But she didn’t do it. It would mean breathing in that foul smell that cling to the woman, to her sari, her faded plastic bag.


Dark thoughts filled her heart. When it was time for her to get off the bus, she would teach her a lesson. She would knock her on the head with her bag. She could make it look like an accident, and smile her apologies profusely.


The conductor neared. “Ticket, ticket,” he called. The fisher-woman took out a 10-Re note and handed it to the conductor.


The Pretty Young Thing pulled out a 100-Re note. “Chhutta do (give me change),” the conductor called out. She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. She had enough 100-Re notes to fund a trip to the studio by taxi, but the Rs 12 that the conductor was asking for, that she did not have.


“If you don’t have change, get off here,” he declared somewhat combatively, calling out to the driver to stop. His mood was sour. He had just had a run-in with another passenger.


The bus driver slowed down.


“You can’t make the child get off in the middle of nowhere. Look at how deserted the street is. I’ll pay for her,” an unexpected voice piped out.


The conductor asked, “Are you sure?”


“Of course,” the fisher-woman continued. “Here it is.”


The conductor took the money and handed over the ticket to the Pretty Young Thing, who meekly extended the 100-Re note to the woman. “Arre, zau de (let it be),” the woman said, gently thrusting the girl’s hand aside.





The Pretty Young Thing, now totally shamefaced, smiled her gratitude and put the money back in her wallet. 

Peeking out through the folds of the wallet was a white kerchief.


It wasn't needed anymore.

The Pretty Young Thing and the fisher-woman began to chat.

(This post has been written for the Ultimate Blog Challenge, October 2013.)