Jane and Jen

We are Janus.  We came into the world together, two faces one mind.  I am she, and she is me.  Our parents call us Jane and Jen, but they never know who they’re talking to.  Jane and Jen born in June.  We toy with them.  We have played this game for as long as we can remember.  We tried it first when we realised that they could not tell which of us was Jane and which Jen.  Now, even they call us Janus.

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The Gods of Thunder

Day 1:  The thunder gods are angry.  I can hear their rolling rumble, building to a climax of house-quaking booms.  Everything pales next to their fearsome temper.  Surely, they will punish our transgressions.

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And So It Goes

Their eyes met, her heart beat a little faster, “hi” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“You’re the one. The one I’ve been searching for all my life,” she said.

He smiled quietly.

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Arranged Marriage

Priya, how will MummyDaddy react?

Radha, do you want me to go through with this arranged marriage and spend my life in misery?  You’re my cousin-sister.  I thought you’d understand.

We have maintained the lie till now, but we both know that by morning, I will be gone.

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Durga Puja

Om Ayim Hreem Shreem…

Eyes closed, palms together, I give in to the murmurings of the meditative mantra.  Wisps of sandalwood incense invade my nostrils, transporting me to the innumerable other times that I have sat like this, blanketed in the bhajans and bell tolls of a temple celebration.  Aromas of soap, talcum powder, hair oil, and human bodies band together with the usual temple smells, seeping into every pore until they become a part of my own odour.

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Letter to My Sons

©Asha Rajan

My Darling Sons,

Today, in the aftermath of a violent, unhinged man holding people hostage in the Lindt chocolate cafe in Sydney, killing two, causing physical injuries to more, and unseen psychological damage to so many more, I am heartsore.  In the aftermath of a young, unarmed African American man being shot to death, ostensibly for changing lanes illegally while driving, by Houston police, I’m searching for the humanity in human beings.  In the aftermath of the Taliban attack today on a school in Pakistan killing 141 people, I am despondent.

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A Suitable Bride

 

The cacophony of clamouring cars, inching and nudging slowly forward assaults my ears.  Poised pluming tendrils of dust and diesel fumes lurk in wait for any exposed airways.  I pull the edge of my sari tighter across my nose and mouth, then flick it over my head to cover my ears.  An arm snatches out, grabs my elbow, and yanks me sharply backwards away from the barrelling lorry, horn blaring, tattooed in garish yellow-red-blue paisley prints, sign in three foot letters announcing its ownership.

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Number Crunching Life Choices

“They’re offering me a job in the US,” he said.  My wanderlust choir harmonised in the background.

And so began our jarringly brief consideration of the pros and cons of an international move.  We have never been ones to allow the dust to settle on us, and we were in the seventh house, in the third city since we got married, when this came up.  Just a year prior, we had toyed with the idea of selling our house, buying a boat and sailing around the world.  We had seriously considered this a viable option.  So, the possibility of an international move wasn’t as confronting as you might think.  We’d talked about the potential for many years, but somehow, this time it was more immediate, more certain, more urgent.

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Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor

Tin Soldier

The old man, eyesight failing, peered intently over the glasses perched at the tip of his nose. His hands were steady and gentle. He turned the tin soldier over. People no longer bought such trinkets for their children. It was all plastic in garish colours with accompanying instructions, now. Children had lost the ability to use their imaginations.

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Prophesy

Larni’s fingers grip the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. Nanna didn’t sound well on the phone. She sounded old and tired.

A large shape on the road catches her eye. A full-grown wedge-tailed eagle picks at the bones of a mangled carcass, the latest road-kill victim of a hurtling road-train. She doesn’t have time for this.

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