As part of the A to Z Challenge, through the month of April I’ll be posting a story a day based on photographs by Joseph W. Richardson and prompts given to me by blog-friends.
Writing prompt: X for Xenophobics, please use the Trans-species urinals
Provided by: Mary Wallace, friend, fellow blogger, and one of the Magnificent Seven of #TeamDamyanti
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Kirpal, they’d named him, or Kind. According to his grandparents, a Sikh could have had no better name.
Kirpal Singh would head the prayers for the first time today, so he’d washed his long white hair, combed it clean, tied it in a knot with shaky hands, covered it with his pale blue turban. His Kara shone bright, the steel bangle on his wrist reminding him of the continuity of life.
Today he wore the Kirpan, a sword, not the usual dagger– but the Guru’s sword, meant to protect others from harm, defend the weak. He felt its weight as it hung from his shoulder, strapped across his chest.
In a few minutes, he would step out, they would bow before the holy Book, the Granth Sahib. The air would fill with holy song and pryer and incense. The Gurudwara shone today, the white marble floor, the photos of all the gurus on the walls, covered in garlands of marigold.
Xenophobics, please use the Trans-species urinals, Michael’s grandpa used to say, and there are none in Wisconsin, and none in my cafe! He loved them all at his corner cafe, whites, blacks, Arabs, Indians, Chinese, Koreans, the lot.
They all like my coffee and my coffee it’s the same color, he said, and the money they pay is green. What do I care?
But Michael cared, he cared now, ever since those turbaned bastards walked into the cafe and shot his grandpa, blew his poor bald head off, splattered his blood and brains on the brown tiles and the coffee machine. They didn’t care he brought Michael up, that he ran a soup kitchen on weekends, or that he’d fostered a dozen other kids. They saw a white man, and they fired. You don’t fire at a white man in America, not if you value your skin. Michael would show them.
That morning at the Gurudwara, as Kirpal walked slow steps towards his first prayer as head priest, Michael slammed the door of his pickup, patted the handguns under his overcoat, and strode up the steps, without bothering to take his shoes off like the faithful, or washing his feet. Muslims were all alike, washing their feet before prayer, but shooting poor old men at work. What his brother said about Sikhs not being Muslims? Bullshit. They all wore the same clothes, Arabs, every last one of them.
When he was done, and lay gurgling on the marble floor, all he remembered was the old, bearded grandfather running at him. The man had a sword raised against his bullets, shoving the women and children behind him, running at him despite each red splatter on his white clothes, his blue turban. Just the way his own grandpa would have done.
He heard the wail of the sirens, the cries of the wounded, and his ears rang with the shot that felled him. A white officer behind him. He would get that one, as soon as he could stand up. The marble floor before his eyes looked slick with blood. His blood, and the old man’s, both thick and red, slow flowing down the gentle slope towards the gully through which ran the water for the faithful to wash their feet.
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Are you taking part in the A to Z challenge? Do you read or write fiction? Ever write based on a prompt?
Excellent work.
This is beautiful, intense and tragic! 🙂
Thank you for following my blog. You are a good writer.
Have really enjoyed reading ur flash fiction….ur comfortable using so many voices; in any milieu…brilliant!
Thank you for all your kind words. I shall be visiting you all back soon.
Another winner, Damyanti.
A very strong piece!
Just read your blog for the first time. That really got to me even though I could see what was coming, I wanted to shout, “stop”, intervene, anything to stop the slaughter… and that’s the point at the end of theday!
The world can be cruel, but as long as good still breathes, darkness will never fall.
I especially liked the end when joined the gully through which water passed for washing the feet of faithfuls. It really speaks a lot.
Powerful, beautiful and tragic. Great piece.
~Patricia Lynne~
Story Dam
Patricia Lynne, YA Author
What a wonderful story. So poignant. Such impact. You did great. Lucy
A brilliant piece, Damyanti. Very powerful in its impact.
Moving to the point of tears. How we as humanity try to mold the world to our own prejudices; how we try to justify those prejudices with our own version of God. Brought to mind this playful, yet profound song by Gungor: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-WybvhRu9KU
Thank you for sharing this song. If we all had a little more empathy, compassion, and love, the world would be a better place.
A great powerful piece in such a short amount of words 🙂
Reminded me of “The best poem of 2006”,which was nominated by UN as the best poem of 2006, Written by an African Kid 🙂
When I born, I black
When I grow up, I black
When I go in Sun, I black
When I scared, I black
When I sick, I black
And when I die, I still black
And you white fellow
When you born, you pink
When you grow up, you white
When you go in sun, you red
When you cold, you blue
When you scared, you yellow
When you sick, you green
And when you die, you gray
And you calling me colored?
Wow, Satya. That’s powerful.
🙂
when will this hatred stop.. every religion teaches us to be good humans and yet all of us ARE WE..
This is great, really powerful. I like the way it starts off quite calmly, but by the end it’s shocking. I’ve enjoyed reading your flashfiction for this blog challenge. 🙂
Poignant, like Twain’s Huck Finn realising everyone bleeds the same blood.
Nothing short of brilliant Damyanti. Very powerful imagery.
xxx Massive Hugs xxx
Well done. Senseless persecution. Such a sad commentary on humanity.
I just came from a blog that talks about culture and education and then I come to your beautifully written story that really speaks about the issues at hand and how hatred can distort. You wrote this so well
I always look forward to reading your stories. They are deeply woven plots which makes them intriguing to read.
Very impactful! In our pain and fear our ability to see is distorted… You have captured that so well with this piece.