In the evening, Kaku pasts thick-brown paper on grimy windows to prepare for blackout. He switches off all lights because, “Airplanes can't drop bombs when they can't see houses.” Outside, the moon looks ghostly. Streetlamps don't come on and we eat by candlelight.
When air-raid sirens blast, I scream, dropping rice on the floor. Kaku hugs me, says “They're only practicing.” His tight smile worries me.
My parents sent me from Dhaka to Calcutta so I'd be safer with Kaku. They promised to join me later. I write a long letter to Ma and Baba in the dim light, ask Kaku if we can mail it. He tells me, “The post office is slow these days.” I slide the envelope under my pillow imagine my parents reading my words on our verandah, surrounded by sweet-smelling roses.
In the morning, Kaku says I must go to school to keep things, “normal.”
At this school Sister Flavian doesn't read from Robinson Crusoe. A voice inside my head shouts, “Danger, danger!” when she teaches us to shelter under desks. The girls slam desk-lids shut, slide squeaky chairs against tiles before folding themselves into tiny spaces. Sister reminds everyone to adjust their skirts. I freeze.
Sister marches me to the principal's office for being “recalcitrant.” I receive a knuckle-rap after which the principal places me in detention. The room has three desks, one dangling bulb, no windows. When a siren pierces, my heart flaps the way our Pupul flaps inside his cage when I pop a balloon. No one assures me this siren is for practice. I lay my head on the desk, imagine I'm on our verandah smelling roses. After the bell rings, the principal opens the door, says, “You can go home now. “
I wish-wish-wish I could.
Sudha Balagopal's writing appears in CRAFT, swamp pink and Vast Chasm among other journals. Her novella-in-flash, Things I Can't Tell Amma, was published by Ad Hoc fiction in 2021. Most recently, her novella in flash, Nose Ornaments was runner up in the Bath contest. She has had stories included in Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions and the Wigleaf Top 50.
Vividly scary, beautifully real.
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