Creative Writing: The Call

Decent Essays
THE CALL The call came at two in the afternoon. It was high summer, a few days after the Vernal Equinox. The grass outside my modest rented house in the town had turned yellow. The jack fruit tree in the front yard bore fruits all over, spreading a rotten sweet odour in the air. A lot of them had fallen down; two three cows had invaded my fence to eat them. A lone cycler pedalled past on the road, making faint creaks. Nothing moved; we were having a siesta. The old phone shrieked, as if in fear. The shrill startled me. I must have been dreaming. My shirt was drenched in sweat. The old ceiling fan snored through its duty like an old sentry. Heaving myself up out of the wood-and-canvas easy chair, I tightened my pajamas and walked towards the small bedside stand. "Hello?" "Hi, Hari. Ibrahim." "Where have you been, you!" "Listen, I am in a spot. " "So what's new?" "You got to bail me out. " He sounded genuinely worried. "Ok, spill." "She is getting married, Hari " "You don't say!" Ibrahim started weeping. I had never found him so emotional. His voice broke when he spoke. "Her brother has come down from Saudi Arabia. Now they are marrying her off. " Nafeesa had tiptoed into Ibrahim's life a year back. It was amazing, to witness a tramp been transformed into a prince overnight. From a Bohemian life, Ibrahim made a volte-face to become a predictable bore. At least, a bore in my scheme of things. To Nafeesa, he was a godsend; he was an artist, he was kind, he didn't care for
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