The Glen by Parvathi Ramkumar

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‘Eat. I'll bring you a cup of milk.'

Sniffling, Saraswathi walked to the dining room, and pulled out a chair. She munched grumpily, and was forced to savour the taste of the food. Her grandmother was the best cook in the world. The lump in her throat soon vanished, and she was able to swallow more freely.

Setting down a steaming cup before the child, the old woman pulled out a chair for herself.

‘Tanya said,' began Saraswathi with much deliberation, ‘that I looked like an urchin.'

‘Now what do you expect from an ignorant little girl?'

She began to smile. ‘But they say she's a genius. The teachers. Tanya tops the class. Tanya sings. Tanya dances. Tanya writes the most beautiful stories ever.' The anger had returned. ‘I hate Tanya!'

‘Now, now. Relax.'

‘I hate her!' Saraswathi was getting a headache from repeating herself, and still she went on. ‘I write too, grandmother. But do you think they notice? They ignore me, and it's all Tanya, Tanya, Tanya! She, and her stupid flunkies!'

‘Flunkies?'

‘Flunkies!' Saraswathi declared, feeling much better.

The old woman said nothing.

Suddenly, Saraswathi sat back as if she remembered something. ‘There is a competition. A short story competition. Next week.'

‘Well?'

‘I'm signing up!'

‘Good girl!' her grandmother beamed.

‘You think Tanya'll win? They're going to laugh at me tomorrow when I register. Yes, they are! We've to submit three sample stories, and of course, our teacher's going to tell us how to improve, so that we've better chances at the competition.'

‘So that your school has better chances?' her grandmother asked, watching the girl sip her hot milk.

‘Yes...' she mused. ‘I'll get right on it.'

She grabbed her bag and went to her room. It was a small, rectangular space, with a broad bed, and a writing table, on which rested a computer, old and a little cumbersome, but all that they could afford.

But Saraswathi liked to write. She quickly changed, and reached for a notebook and pencil from the table. She found a blank page, and sat down on the chair, thinking.

Two hours later, she hurled the book on the bed, frustrated. She had written no more than half a page. And she had to submit her first sample story tomorrow.

The deepening skies outside fascinated her, and she peered out the window. Behind the house was sprawling woodlands, and she saw the darkening shadows form shapes. She thought she saw a timid rabbit scurry through.

The skies turned purple, and then deep blue, and Saraswathi was still watching. Suddenly, she caught sight of a pale light in the distance.

Excited and a little frightened, she clambered out the window, hoping to follow it. It was a soft glow, golden hued.

She tore after it, and each time she thought she had neared it, it glimmered and moved away. Before long, she realized that if she went any further, she might get lost.

She returned to the house.

But by now, she was brimming with ideas, and her story was finished.

Mrs. Kurien, the English teacher, read the submitted stories one by one the next day.

And she paused at Saraswathi's.

What is this? She thought in amazement, reading line after line of musical, almost mystical prose.