The Inherited Custody

CHAPTER IV

That night, he couldn't sleep.

Thoughts wandered in his mind like insects crawled over cold tiles. His consciousness lurked along the roof of the house and then the walls of the tiny room and then outside the window. He didn't really understand what kept him awake, only that he felt as if something was not making sense.

Through the cold light of the moon, he sat up straight, and let his legs dangle and dance lightly, leaving them loose and tired and almost lifeless. He'd forgotten to brush and had lied about it before going to bed. He couldn't gulp his dinner down for some reason, too- even though there was chicken korma with cumin rice.

Unfortunately, the face of that couple in the garden hadn't slipped off his mind yet. In fact, he kept replacing those faces with his parents, looking into each other's eyes with affection, holding love in their eyes, and then holding hands and giggling like young, lost children. Like Gatsby and Daisy. Like Romeo and Juliet. Like love, in love.

Even from where he sat on his bed, he couldn't see the waters climbing up the earth. But at the quiet of the dark, he listened to them carefully, soothingly, every drop rushing like a pull on the string of a guitar. He looked at the stupidly lit-up night-ball that stood mighty in the sky, and it smiled back at him.

Do fishes sleep at night, too?

And then he again thought of his parents, whether in their sleep, they dreamt of each other. But of course, they didn't. When they couldn't bother even to spend a day together, what would make them look through the night? Sleep is such a self-indulgent act, a rightful moment to be selfish and lost, and at peace. To go and remain gone for hours and hours, until life resets itself like an alarm clock.

He went to his dresser and, from a rectangular plastic box full of pencils and pens, removed a small candy wrapped in thin plastic. He couldn't even see it but remembered that he had kept it in there so he could eat it later. And this seemed to be a good time. So, very silently, he tore the wrapper from one end and pulled it down, until the candy was out, and it looked dark brown- reflecting the mild, wavy rays of the moon. He put it in his mouth and let the sugar melt slowly, stickily, and it lurked throughout his mouth, but he kept it there, under his tongue and for the first time in his life, indeed, naively prayed to the stars outside- for anything.

He only went to bed when the candy was no longer solid, and his mouth was sweet.

•~•~•~•

What does it mean to grow?

Does it mean growing from a plant to tree- when the branches branch out reaching in all directions, becoming leaves and fruits and flowers, digging roots so deep that one shouldn't be able to fall and enrich oneself and even after death, stay and linger?

Or does it mean the shedding of leaves, letting things go one by one- like fruits falling, behaving on seasons, letting time take each part of you, piece by piece, preparing for a funeral of a tree completely drying out and forgetting it's life and duties and standing still?

Or does it mean staying the way things should stay- like a stone, not bothered by time, moving only when moved like a lifeless life, unbothered?

Or does it mean to flow like a river, changing the course of lives, letting things linger with it, taking moments with it and flowing- just flowing for the sake of it, for destiny; for every flow should have a destiny of becoming a part of something bigger, meaningful, into the sea?

•~•~•~•