The cries pierce every corner of the warm cosy house, but the jostle of the marketplace outside gives no notice. The milk did little to satisfy the hunger; the blisters from the rash further irritated, urging a scream for help. Finally, the child’s grandmother came and the ensuing embrace calmed the stubborn cries, cooing it to little sobs.
Rain seeped into the house. River-water and rain met, flooding the little stories in a small cramped room. The stories that makes the child smile are now drenched in the flood. The lines from which formed and gave image are now smudges of colours, undistinguishable from one another. One by one the stories became nothing more than a mass of soggy paper.
The child awoke in the stark room. Walking silently in the creaking wooden floor, chatter from below the landing can be heard. The child climbed down the wooden stairs with hangings of oriental maidens in promenade. People were gathered in front of the stove cooking and chatting. The child is not allowed to join in the conversations.
The water tower stood high and unyielding. The child was sketching beneath the shade of a tree, cooled by the steady breeze of the sleepy afternoon. The grass swayed lazily as the child marched towards the tall tower ahead. The child grasps the rusty handles of the rickety ladder, climbing steadily and nonchalant. Fear, courage and pride swept the child in successive turns yet the child did not know it then. Night came and the stars above the indigo skies glisten as if in salute of the feat while below the chorus of the various chirps and buzzes breathed through the silence.
Various palettes of colours in little round cases from sweet melon to glittery pinks are the child’s most kept secret. The child hid those in a green bag with torn straps carefully sewed back together by the loving grandmother. The child brings these little secrets to everywhere the child goes to. The other children found the little secret; they tried to keep it for themselves. The other children rubbed the powdered colours onto their faces. Spume of anger waived and the child shook. The other children dropped, ruined and spoiled the pretty colours; breaking the little cases so it couldn’t be closed any longer. The other children broke the strap of the little green bag.
The winds were strong lifting debris wherever it goes. The rain harassed the tall grasses in the field beyond. Lightning sashayed from the sky in quick successions. Thunder roared in sonorous unison with the fear it brings into the hearts of those who listens. Outside of the paint-less house the child holds onto the pillars, awaiting the onrush of the powerful gust of wind. The child feels like flying whenever the wind swoops past the child; again and again try as it might the wind cannot move the child whose hold onto the pillar is tight.
Rain made drip-drop sounds beyond the window’s screen. The child awakens with the whistle of the child’s own breathing. Chest clenched from an unseen binding and an intense itching from the bites of little critters while in slumber, the child set out from the green-greyish unfamiliar bed.
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