The Others

I. The oil pastels

Squeezed into the plastic box, they stay there, behind the sheaf of papers, cracked files and old books. Some tall and proud despite fading colors, some stubbed and wedged painfully at the feet of others, some with their covers peeling and adorned with a mass of networking scribbles, and others fairly…alright, they huddle there in the dark like refugees in a camp.

They’ve been like this for a fairly long time, waiting for the sudden bursts of instances where they sensed a slant of light over their plastic home, felt the wretched walls before them being stirred and moved over to the side as the plastic box was pulled out. For the first time in a while, the lid would be turned and they’d see light, and a wonderful view of the cracked ceiling above. They would be selected to show themselves off on a thin sheet of paper, a task they completed very eagerly indeed. And even as they’re placed back into the dark, the excitement and utter pride of the ones who were selected would provide enough fuel for life for the days to come.

And so they sit there, more or less patient, for the only one who had the power to grant them this long awaited momentary freedom. The only one who could crack the rigid walls before them and let them see light.

So they wait, and they wait for her. How much longer?

II. The plastic cup

Holding on to the arm of the metal stand, it watches as the next batch is taken to the sink. There’s plates, pans, saucers and bowls, alongside glasses and cups just like itself, waiting their turn to be doused in the cold water. Some of the cups send fleeting glances of pity, while others remain rigid, their backs turned to it.

It remembered back when it used to be part of this batch, participating in merry clacks, clitters and thuds into the bustling conversations that took place at the sink. Everyone had complaints about their use: being too rough, using too much oil, using too less, being ruthlessly stashed into the rack, jumbled up with others. It itself never took part in this, it never had to. It liked the touch of the small, warm fingers of its user curling around its handle, the sloshing of water to dissolve the orange juice powder at its bottom, the soft sips, the noisy ones with the following burst of cheeky laughter, the unicorn and barbie stickers smothered over its surface. For some time now, though, it’s been hanging from the rack, relieved of its duties. This happened sometimes of course, for a whole month once, but she always returned, sometimes bringing a new sticker to take its place on the pale orange surface. Yes, that must be the case, it thought as it watched the water gurgling over the others at the sink. Yes, that’s it. Then why wasn’t it taken to the sink? And what was this throb it felt, as if something else had happened?

III. The schoolbag

Stashed under the table, it counted footsteps. Footsteps of the people coming into the room, going out.1, 2, 3, 4… Just 14 footsteps today. From three different people. Far too less. It could be wrong. The lights barely came on at night, and it had to rely on sound. During the day, it seemed to be just the maid, dragging the broom behind her. It could be wrong. It probably was. It felt more tired now, slumping here against the dimness. Fully packed, it felt the load of the books and copies inside itself, neatly slotted according to period, the pencil case reigning in its separate pocket. The tiffin box was there too, for a while, until it was taken out a while ago, leaving the water bottle behind. It would be a Tuesday, then, according to the arrangement of the books.

Then why weren’t they taken out?

And why has it been here, for so long, instead of its daily place beside her desk at school? It was confusing. And so tiring, being here, with nothing to do but counting the footsteps. The steps that were clearly diminishing in number. And where was the playful slapping of the bright pink slippers against the tiled wall, the sound that woke it up from its trance everyday? The infectious laughter, the recitations from the books it contained? It all felt so…misplaced. So wrong. It didn’t understand. Where were all the sounds?

IV. The books and the lamp

Something’s been different. Different from the usual difference, that is. They watch as, all of a sudden, the room’s abuzz with activity. Briskly sweeping brooms, washcloths being dragged across the tiled floor, corners of the ceiling being dusted, the film of dust being wiped off the books. As the lamp was hoisted up and had a rag wiped over it, it exchanged glances with the three books lined along the table to be next. For the first time in ages, they felt a brewing excitement. An excitement originating from the unspoken question on their minds: Was she back?

Presently, they took their respective positions on the study desk, the lamp with its craning neck, the books expectant. Yes, something was definitely different. As dusk started smothering the sunlight, the lights were turned on. The already made bed was made again, the windows glossed over once more. The curtains were drawn.

The next time the door opened, someone came in. Someone who hadn’t ever been in the room before. The lamp braced itself instinctively, and the books below it, blindly following despite their lack of vision, did the same.

He flipped through some of them, placed them back. The lamp was turned on, once, and put out again. Hushed, snippets of words were passed. Everyone around him stood rigid, too rigid really, like a brick wall shielding the ruins of a reign. There were some more words, of gratitude, sorrow, promises. Another book was picked up, flipped through. The lamp remained switched off. When the door opened again, and he left, they looked through again, eagerly. Would she come in now? She would, right? The books looked up to the lamp again. Well?

The lamp tried to look further through the door, to catch a glimpse. Just one. The day after, everything was the same again. The days were silent, the nights were dark. A room like a soundless corpse. They exchanged looks again. Well?

V. The calling bell

Unlike many others, it was used. It felt lucky for that, at least. Every few days, sometimes consecutively, someone would lay their finger’s weight on the switch, and it could clear its voice to call out. The switch assumed superiority here, as if it were a means of control. The rest of the circuit went by its whims. For some time now, though, the switch had been quiet. The circuit was glad of that, but they didn’t understand why. Perhaps it needed to be replaced again.

This was often the case. Except this time.

The switch was guilty. It was guilty of what its pride made it think was a crime. The crime of being a witness.

That day, a Tuesday morning as the calendar above the shoebox suggested, it had been a witness.

The girl had just come out, letting the bright pink sandals fly off as she strapped on her school shoes. She was humming to herself, it remembered, tuned words chirping under her breath. This was a daily sight, of course, and the switch itself paid mind to only scrutinizing her for all the noise she made. Then the door opposite opened. The switch wasn’t paying much attention, and it barely noticed what happened next. There was a woman. There was the girl, one school shoe still in hand. She was standing now. She took a few steps, one after the other towards the other door. A pink sandal trailed behind her, as if beseeching her not to go.

The last thing the bell saw was the swish of her dark hair as the door of the other apartment closed behind her. It wondered afterwards, when all the other people gathered in front of that door, amongst the hammering fists and the screams and cries, whether it could’ve done something. The singular slipper, powerless and forgotten, sitting silently beneath it, looked up once. You saw, it said. You saw.

Could it have done something? If it tried, if it really had tried, perhaps it could wake the circuit up to call out. That was its job, wasn’t it. If it really was in control, it could’ve called out. It could’ve made sure the girl came home one more time, one more time she could’ve jammed her little fingers onto the switch for it to call out.

VI. The school gate

It didn’t really have much to say. Nothing changed for it much. The students still came in, went out. Hundreds of them. It couldn’t count. Students holding their parent’s fingers, students fixing their skirts and ponytails, heaving their books, laughing and gushing with friends. There was no difference. No difference at all.

No difference at all, as one sister came in through the gates, leaving the other behind.

VII. The People

They didn’t understand. Like the pastels, or the plastic cup, the stashed away schoolbag, the loyal lamp and the books, the bell switch, and definitely the school gates, they didn’t know. No matter how much they read about it on social media, how many posts they reacted to, how many heartfelt comments they left behind, they didn’t understand. You can’t blame them. Some things are left incomprehensible in this great, civilised, knowledgeable and advanced world. Perhaps these things are best left that way. Perhaps not everything is to be comprehended, and that’s how we manage to forget the absolute horror that happened to a girl, put a cover over it, and call the next day a peaceful one. And we move on. And, well, those who can’t, they are left behind to sit before what lies beyond that cover.

We talk of justice, we shed a few tears, listen to words sprinkled around by the ones in power, smother newspapers with a child’s face who should never have that headline beneath her picture, and perhaps, in the least, are shaken by the fact in the dead of the night that such things are actually possible and repetitive on this Earth.

And a child who’s biggest fear should be the huge spider they saw crawling away under the cabinet, faces something our brains don’t even have the capacity to fathom.

And so, the world remains as it is behind its veil of peace.

🕊 For Ramisa ʚଓ