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.)

Bagging a Lesson

Generally, I spend New Year’s Day, thinking of resolutions.

This year I spent it cleaning up my cupboard. It was an activity I’d been putting off for long.

Going through my cupboard, I realized just how much stuff I had gathered. Items that had attached themselves to me, things that I’d once taken a fancy to, and forgotten about. Things that I couldn’t throw away. What if I needed them the day after I threw them out?

With the Husband watching me, his hawk eye on high alert to make sure that the to-be-discarded items didn’t claw their way back in, I had no choice but to spring clean as if I really meant it.

And then I found a bag that my younger brother, M, had bought me from London. It was his first trip abroad and I was touched that he would think of me.

The bag was large, roomy, and voluminous. I could have carried my entire world in it.

When I first laid my eyes upon it, it shone. Bright. Glossy. Burnished to perfection. The two bag straps were made of three long strips of faux leather interlaced together to resemble thick braids.

That bag was a thing of beauty. Had there been a beauty pageant for large roomy bags, mine would have won, without having to make a speech about world poverty.

It was so chic and stately, I couldn’t bring myself to dilute its appeal by treating it as just another bag. There had to be a right occasion that would allow it to exhibit its exquisiteness.

Until that right occasion showed up, it would stay in storage, biding its time, like a debutante waiting to be properly introduced into Society.

I packed the bag in a polythene bag, and placed it in the cupboard, and forgot about it. For months it lay there, as life and its compulsions overtook me.

When M asked me whether I liked the bag, I told him that I loved it. It was the truth. When he asked me why I didn’t use it, I told him that I was waiting for the right occasion to flaunt it.

An occasion did present itself, along the way. But it wasn’t of the scale of grandeur that would befit the bag. Or so I thought. So I let it lie. This New Year’s Day, I unwrapped the polythene covering, to have a look at my priceless possession. 

Shedding bits of skin, it looked wasted and sickly.

For a desperate moment, I wondered if I could still carry the bag around. What if I held the damaged side close to my body? But that was not the solution. The bag was once a thing of beauty. I could not subject it to a life of shame, as if it, not I, were to blame for its mottled, moulted skin.

I emptied the rich mahogany shavings of bag skin into the trash can, and gazed at the bag.

At my request, the Husband took a picture of the bag. 

I needed a reminder to live in the here and now, not to wait for some ephemeral date in the future when I would relish life. I needed a wake-up call to use what I had, things, talents, abilities.

Who knows how much time we have left?

The stuff we have must be used or else it will be ruined.

Our physical and mental abilities must be nurtured or else they will atrophy.

Even when it was unusable, that bag taught me a lesson.

I just hope I remember the lesson through 2014.





(This post has been written for the Weekly Challenge at Yeah Write.)