How He Wrote Us into Existence – A Fiction Ch.7

The virus spread from the East. Sun still rises that way. It seems nothing o’clock, Sunday, all days, all weeks.

When Prisha breaks the fifth egg, I ask her why she should add any more. We must count our blessings. And curses.

The cat enters into the household through some cleft. We are haunted now. We know the cat wants to tell us all and fail to give it all the attention. I try to listen to it. Then, if one listens to the cat, the heed spooks the creature. To learn its language one must be its invisible student.

The cat has other things in its mind and belly swelled up like the reflection of the plunging sun in a body of water.

Are we ready to pave the way for a new generation? Elora leaves the breakfast table. Her feet tiptoe on silence. Our discussion seems to have offended her.

These subjects often solve themselves or a cat does.

Poet calls from the basement, asks why there is a cat in the tiny compartment. I come downstairs and observe the blur of a cat in the faint room as it scurries under an ex-table.
This household is writing a Murakami novel. The Poet States and adds that he has not read any Murakami fearing that the style will influence his own. Not that he has anything against Murakami. He says. I nod. Once I and Prisha vacationed in a sea town, and I never even tried lobsters. I don’t think I am allergic to those. They do not revolt me. I do not give lobsters a shot, not that I save a few from being killed by boiling alive.

If anything, our brick house and its menage are an autobiography of a senile man meant to be published by his son as a birthday surprise or a fitting goodbye.

I lower my head to ask the cat if it needs anything. A stifled moaning reduces my enthusiasm. I turn to Poet and ask him to join us upstairs. Perhaps it would be a fine notion to give the cat some amplitude. You can address your chronicle of the woman in that poetry meet. I give him a jog.

The heatwave curve parallels the graph representing the virus spread. They thought this virus would die with the sweltering season. Well, here we are.

My wife offers Poet breakfast. Eggs.

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar words and picture.

 
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India

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