The mango people

Short stories

Upon a yellow land

Once upon a time, in a nearby land there was a small patch of yellow. It was not just a shade of
sand or mud which appeared to have a yellowish tinge, like the desert which has been parched
for too long and turns pale under the scorching sun. No, it was distinctly yellow color in all its
glory, like a ripe mango or mustard flowers in full bloom. And so this small place in an ordinary
land which otherwise had no significance, became a source of wonderment, just because of its
color. So, the news reached far and wide, high and low, to and from, and everyone came to
witness and be a part of the uniqueness of this place.
The yellow land, as it was so unwittingly called, was owned by a very ordinary man. He was so
ordinary that even when he was seen standing proudly amidst his land, he just faded away behind
the excitement of the yellow land. He, however, remained oblivious to his commonness and in
his very common ways tried to become conspicuous. Every morning, he would wake up at the
crack of dawn, bathe and dress and come out to sweep and preen his yellow land. He would
proudly strut like a peacock in the patch, his head held high, his eyes darting to see if he would
catch a gaze, a look or a hidden set of eyes, looking at him in his very extraordinary land and
admire him. Each day, his eyes would return satiated, full of joy at being so much sought after.
As the days turned into years, his routine did not change and every morning he began the
monotonous routine with a renewed zest. But soon, the news became old, the eyes became tired,
the excitement wore off and the visitors became less frequent. What did not change were the
yellowness of the land and the fervor of the ordinary man for his one chance at uniqueness

The rain
The sky was pale and hazy and the color undeterminable, neither yellow nor blue. The air was
still and dead as in a room locked for a long time and forgotten. The daisy growing among the
willows looked wilted and lifeless, hanging there slightly tilted to one side. Suddenly a dark
cloud crept onto the horizon, like a stealthy cat moving silently across the wall. It spread and
sparked and the sky woke up from its slumber and woke up with a roar. It yawned and let out a
cold breeze which jangled the willows and the daisy swayed a little. Little droplets tickled the
petals of the daisy and it shivered. The droplets became persistent, drenching the daisy in its wet
kisses. The daisy rolled and swung and moved side to side as if hanging on a thread. The torrent
flooded and peaked and fell and crashed, the daisy surrendered and flowed with it. It finally gave
the daisy one sweeping shower that the daisy almost bent, almost broke, and then it calmed. As
fierce as it came, it faded to a gentle whisper, the last droplets caressing the daisy as if making up
for the storm they blew. The daisy, shaken by the waves, now floated lightly in the arms of the
soft breeze, delicate but vibrant. Gradually, the cloud crept away, as if it were never here, the sky
emerged bright blue. The breeze tucked the daisy in with a lullaby as butterflies fluttered above
to keep it a watchand the daisy slept