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Walking the Dusty Track

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walking the Dusty Track

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By: prashil

To: Us, the people

The First Part (An afternoon)

Raga walks down a dusty track. The track is covered with loose clay and lots of small to medium sized stones carelessly lying here and there. There is absolute silence in the air except for traffic noises looming nearly half a kilometre away on the main route. On the left hand side of the dusty track the greyish buildings scream desperately for attention. To have a carpenter hammer some chisels in and a painter to wave their dripping paintbrushes on them so they can feel alive for a second time. For a split second raising his head up from the ground, Raga glances to his right. An ancient fragile railing stands protectively on the right hand side of the track. Beyond the railing is a trench almost six feet and at the bottom flows a rather shallow creek. Raga, then gazes continues to gaze through his swollen reddish eyes at his laced black shoes and dark grey ankle high socks under the scorching Fijian sun. A navy blue backpack filled with textbooks, folders, pad paper and a full lunchbox mercilessly exert all their mass on Raga’s teen shoulders underneath the afternoon sunshine. There are beads of sweat around the back of Raga’s neck which Raga wipes sloppily with his light blue cotton handkerchief. As Raga is putting the handkerchief back into his trouser pocket with his right hand, it brushes past the front door handle of a parked Audi. Audis or any other vehicle was a rare sight on the track during the day as Raga had observed promptly since his arrival a few weeks ago. In fact, the dusty track usually appeared deserted during the day. But at night, Audis, Mercedes, Lexus, and other dear foreign selections usually line up bumper to bumper on the same deserted dusty track, changing its status to nothing less than an exhibition platform of luxury vehicles manufactured around the globe.

 

Raga sighs a little as he reaches his front door. He lets himself in. He tiredly, kicks his shoes off to a corner and drops his backpack onto the ground near his shoes. He then walks toward the kitchen space. Raga gently picks up a butcher’s knife left to dry, in the dish drainer. He then walks at an even slower pace with his head slightly bent toward the left, back to the front door and sits down cross legged at the entrance on the wooden plank which divides the carpet of the house from the concrete porch. His watery eyes scan the dusty track lying motionless in front of him. Raga takes a deep breath. He is experienced with holding sickles to harvest. He knows his grasp well and the amount of force to exact for the desired result. He applies his expertise of wielding sickles in the fields towards firmly clutching the butcher’s knife wooden handle. But this time the harvest is different. The cold steel blades with an English name inside a distinguishable logo, embedded near the blade’s base toward the handle make contact with Raga’s thin bluish wrist veins.

 

Raga’s eyes are again filling up with fluid and just patiently waiting for the right opportunity where they would ably fall freely down his cheeks and possibly right onto the cold concrete beneath Raga’s feet. Raga’s dark red vital fluid belonging to his wrist veins is no match. They are ahead in the race to flow. They are oozing freely and much more ably than the water from his eyes, onto the concrete floor after paving their way past Raga’s thighs and trousers.

 

Raga’s eyes are frozen on the dusty track. He blinks slowly. Raga sees lush green fields with never ending horizons and in the midst a farmer with his two children bowed down toward the earth, busily harvesting yield with sickles. Raga’s lips stretch sideways a little bit and his cheeks move. He blinks again, even slowly. This time the dusty track crowded with cars at night appear. Raga’s lips retract and his cheeks lie still. His eyebrows gather toward each other to form linear creases near the top of his nose between his eyes. He blinks again. The dusty track lying silent flashes in front of his eyes for one last time. Raga then feels a strange blackness covering his eyes. Raga voluntarily presses his eyes shut. For good. Forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Visit: http://www.Shakespir.com/books/view/692869 to purchase this book to continue reading. Show the author you appreciate their work!


Walking the Dusty Track

A thought provoking short story. Set in one of the Pacific Islands. The plot touches on the journey of a youth whose life is immensely affected by the events surrounding him and his family. This story enables one to peek into the families of ordinary working class citizens and how they respond to the issues which they face from their economically progressing societies. Written in a thrilling manner which will surely grasp the imagination of many and leave readers in awe by the unfolding events. An excellent read for people who like creative simple reads and have some passion toward the world they live in.

  • ISBN: 9781370093939
  • Author: Prashil
  • Published: 2016-12-30 13:35:07
  • Words: 1643
Walking the Dusty Track Walking the Dusty Track