Poetry 2009 FirstPrize Anu Antony

WHAT THE FIDDLE SINGS WHEN YOU PLAY HER STRINGS.

- By Anu Elizabeth Antony

The moment he picked the faded fiddle from her lonely mud-brown corner, she knew she was his. “Will it hurt?” she asked, suspiciously spying his polish-wet hands. She'd been alone so long she forgot how it felt to have her strings plucked everyday. He frowned. Too soon, and her wail would echo in every song. His fiddlestick tickled a happy tune from her, gently teasing till her watery giggles filled the air. She would treasure forever this moment, his gift to her. -- And so it was, till a teeming crowd sprung forth demanding love songs. He paled. “Will it hurt?” she teased, her strings strumming a trusting smile. His fingers tightened over her frame. No it won’t, he said, and played ruthlessly on. From her pain, his greatest gift gushed forth.

FlashFiction 2009 Longlist Anu Elisabeth Antony

I’LL Break Your Back

My bag could make its presence felt, especially when it wasn't there. I'd carried it all around school, happy that it latched on to my shoulders like a rather stubborn child – ironic, considering that despite the weight of the dog-eared books and scraps of paper that would incessantly add up to make me groan and bend, I was the stubborn one. Now that I'd suddenly decided to walk without a slump, the memory of it clung to my spine, its tentacles pushing me lower and lower.

Remember, you have a college interview in a month's time, Mummy would say, can you ever imagine Rani walking that way? I had shot back with the retort that I wasn't my cousin and would never be, but had regretted it when I spotted her worry lines. She loved me, and her voice tugged uncomfortably at my brain even as the whisper in my vertebrae spelled out discouragement to every cell.

My bag was in my parents' bedroom, locked up to fight off disturbances during their afternoon nap. There had been times when I could feel the nakedness of my back through layers of clothing, feel the cool air pierce where tough material and the warmth of heavy books had once touched. In a moment of weakness, I decided that walking straight would break my back more than bending ever did.

When I couldn't summon up courage, I summoned hate. I knew that a straight back would win me an elocution contest, let me perform Bharatanatyam without a whisper of embarrassment, help me say whatever I wanted without looking like I didn't believe it. 

This bag leeched away my pride; the last vestiges of my dying ego. The pain would make up for every rejection loaded over my back, for every insult digested.

Was anyone worth the trouble, though? The deathly squeeze of tender muscle and intricately interconnected bones? The interview would be one moment in my life, after all. Not worth this back-breaking, heart-breaking experiment. My bag, always dead over my back, screamed life in every nucleus of every cell. Over the din of my parents' expectations, an interviewer's derisive laughter, friends' jibes. It kicked, raged, rallied like a caged animal in my groaning, aching body.

I lay on my bed like a dead one, knowing it could hardly break my back.