Page 7 - Fiction Vol 1 No 2
P. 7
FICTION
THE LAST SUPPER
By Charlette Barry
Night falls in Paragange, and darkness envelopes Suddenly she’s distracted by the sound of chatter
the city. Cicadas sing in chorus, a cacophony and laughter. She turns, searching fiercely to find
piercing the air. The moon is suspended in a sea of the thief who has stolen her quiet contemplation.
coal, insulted by the suggestion of dawn; and the Then she sees them, a family on a roof terrace
balmy air is filled with the ubiquitous scent of nearby. She watches them interacting, engrossed
jasmine rice and delicate spices, old friends who in conversation, probably about the day’s events
visit often. she imagines, passing food
across the table, dishing
Vendors peddle their goods generous helpings onto their
down rust coloured roads, “ Cicadas sing in chorus, plates. It was like watching the
homeward bound, with the scene of the Last Supper
meagre takings of the day. a cacophony come to life.
Cows mooch in the streets,
rummaging through mounds piercing the air “ She finishes her meal then,
of garbage, and beggars after washing her hands in the
contemplate their next meal sink nearby, she sits down
while nearby eateries serve again, tucks one leg under her
their last for the day. chin, and wraps both arms around it like a child
embracing its mother. She cocks her head to one
Mamaji sits on the roof top terrace coddled in a side, then fighting off the weariness that has
blood orange sari, dappled with a golden spiral overcome her, a weariness not just from this day,
motif. She tilts her face forward and closes her but from many akin to it, she closes her eyes and
eyes, immersing herself in prayer. She clutches her invites the thought that, soon, it will be her last
mala beads tightly and utters some words in Hindi, supper.
then tucks them into her sari when she’s finished.
7 Independent Media Inspiring Minds Independent Media Inspiring Minds 7
THE LAST SUPPER
By Charlette Barry
Night falls in Paragange, and darkness envelopes Suddenly she’s distracted by the sound of chatter
the city. Cicadas sing in chorus, a cacophony and laughter. She turns, searching fiercely to find
piercing the air. The moon is suspended in a sea of the thief who has stolen her quiet contemplation.
coal, insulted by the suggestion of dawn; and the Then she sees them, a family on a roof terrace
balmy air is filled with the ubiquitous scent of nearby. She watches them interacting, engrossed
jasmine rice and delicate spices, old friends who in conversation, probably about the day’s events
visit often. she imagines, passing food
across the table, dishing
Vendors peddle their goods generous helpings onto their
down rust coloured roads, “ Cicadas sing in chorus, plates. It was like watching the
homeward bound, with the scene of the Last Supper
meagre takings of the day. a cacophony come to life.
Cows mooch in the streets,
rummaging through mounds piercing the air “ She finishes her meal then,
of garbage, and beggars after washing her hands in the
contemplate their next meal sink nearby, she sits down
while nearby eateries serve again, tucks one leg under her
their last for the day. chin, and wraps both arms around it like a child
embracing its mother. She cocks her head to one
Mamaji sits on the roof top terrace coddled in a side, then fighting off the weariness that has
blood orange sari, dappled with a golden spiral overcome her, a weariness not just from this day,
motif. She tilts her face forward and closes her but from many akin to it, she closes her eyes and
eyes, immersing herself in prayer. She clutches her invites the thought that, soon, it will be her last
mala beads tightly and utters some words in Hindi, supper.
then tucks them into her sari when she’s finished.
7 Independent Media Inspiring Minds Independent Media Inspiring Minds 7
