💥 𝓢nap-𝓢horts 💥

Short Walk Shankar

A chilly February day. Shankar heaved on his satchel, dragging his feet to school. He wiped off the vibhuti ash his mother had applied on his forehead. 'This will protect you, son' her soft voice echoed in his head. Shankar's glasses misted. A tear dropped on the quartz-strewn path beside the river; no more...lest he drown the river with his sadness.

The tinkling of a bell beckoned from the ruined temple of Siva.  Mother often took him there for a picnic; she would tell him about father as they waded in the swirling white waters, gasping and laughing. He felt in his pocket for the small black stone he found in the river. 'Keep it safe, it's a saligram to protect you,' she told her little son.

Shankar peered into the shadows. Nothing. Then he almost jumped at the sound of heavy breathing behind him. Shankar's fear turned to laughter, as the neighbour's bull turned away with a snort and a shake of its tail, neck-bell tinkling to return to his grazing in the overgrown temple yard.

Shankar hated school. He wanted to run away and join the wandering sadhus, naked and fierce-looking with their trishuls. That would be wrong: to leave his mother alone to fend for herself.

The army provided a little help, just enough for basic needs. Fend she did, as best she could, teaching the sitar to bored rich kids whose parents often cancelled or forgot to pay her. She also made the tastiest of gulab jamuns, which she took door-to-door, grateful for the few rupees that kindly neighbours gave in return for the syrupy golden-globes.

'Eat, nah', her husband had teased, only to snatch back his favourite mithai and wolf it down, to her girlish giggles. 

And then he was killed. A soldier came to break the news, shielding her from the details of the ambush. Her husband was just doing his civilian job, loading trucks.

But life had to flow on, with Shankar a baby in her arms.

He was twelve now and felt he should be grateful to go to this 'modern and progressive' school that cost his mother all her savings.

They were waiting at the school gates. The usual taunts but he noticed that he was pushed more roughly as the days went by.

'Here eat this, you must be starving' a beef sandwich made with white bread shoved in his mouth and laughter as he struggled to spit it out, pulling off the crumbs they had shoved onto his black curls.

Then they forgot him, chattering away about the latest superhero movie 'White-Flash', planning to truant to go see it. 'Why don't you come with us?' the green-eyed girl teased, 'Oh wait ...you still like those backward god-comics' she shrieked, tearing a tattered treasure from his school-bag . Shankar picked up the shreds, hoping he could glue it together before he returned it to the lending library. The photo of his father loading a truck, smiling. Crumpled. Relieved they did not see it, he tucked it away in his pocket.

He was glad they left him, distracted by their cinema plans.

Lessons over, Shankar hurried home. Listening to Rudra - the Vedic Metal band energised him, he managed to hide his headphones and music from the bullies.

In the sunset dazzle Shankar's eyes glowed like dark amber . A shadow blocked his way and he tasted blood from a punch to his mouth. He fell. And then a kick. And another. And then a scream.

Silence.

Shankar staggered up to his feet, glasses broken.

A cobra slithered its beautiful black length away into the bushes. The bully lay in the dust, the snakebite swelling between his brows, white vomit from his mouth. 

Shankar reached into his bag for his cell-phone to call for help. It was smashed. The body on the ground stopped twitching. There was nothing he could do, Shankar was trembling.

Shankar stepped into the river, the cold blanketing him, feeling the night soothe his dark brow.

Through the matted branches, only the new moon saw a boy walk away towards the snow-capped mountains in the distance. At home a mother waited, knowing he was gone too.

Twenty years later a young monk returned to see his mother off on her last journey. He recited the following verses by the great sage Adi Shankaracharya:

O! my mother equal to none! please pardon me who arrived too late to see you! I did not offer a spoonful of water at the moment of your death; I did not offer any cooked rice as you became a pitru, I did not even utter the Raama- taaraka mantram in your ear as you approached death! I repentfully seek your mercy, my mother!

A/N

This story was previously posted on its own - but now added into 'Snap Shorts' Collection.

Thanks to all who read and voted! Here is a selection of previous comments - thank you!:

'There is a distinct sadness in the way it is portrayed!! I loved your portrayal of the snake and the metaphors!!! It would take a mature reader to fully understand this one!!!'

'Only one word to describe this story: sad. Shankar's return to see his mother off after 20 years was heart-wrenching.'

'I had to find Rudra on YouTube, their music kicks ass  . Great story, tragedies like this always connect with me in one way or another.'

'The way you treat time is beautifully skillful, with the detail of his childhood episode (I hate bullies!!) and then his maybe-not-so-sudden decision to leave. And then time telescopes and brings us to a later scene, leaving some of the intervening time to our imagination. Also love the way the river frames it.'