04. Abandoned — A flash fiction story

Welcome to the fourth week of the Flash Fiction Challenge, where I take the challenge to write a piece of flash fiction in under 60 minutes!
I chose a prompt from the book ‘The Very Short Story Starter’ by John Gillard.
This week’s prompt was: ‘Write a story set in an abandoned location.’

He always wondered how deep the Queen’s Pond was. From where he stood, just outside the metal bars built around the monument, the pond looked ten feet deep. When he turned to Thuldai to fulfill his curiosity, the old man always scratched his pot belly before giving an answer as though all the secrets lay in his thick paunch.

“Probably up to here,” Thuldai said and touched his knees with the back of his palms.

“Is that 10 feet?” he asked.

“No, you ass! If this is 10 feet, then I am a hundred-foot man.” Thuldai gurgled a laugh.

Wasn’t he? he thought. From the way he had to lean his head backward to look at the old man’s face, he thought he was at least that, if not more.

He had heard of the legend of the Queen’s Pond; was fascinated by it. The Pond had been built by a king for his bereft wife who mourned the loss of his son. He had called it Rani Pokhari for a reason. The King had built a small temple in the middle of the pond, which could be reached by a narrow bridge from one of the sides. Maybe the King wanted his Queen to reminisce his son in the presence of the Gods. Maybe he didn’t want her to take sorrow when she reached her death. But she did, anyways. The Queen had drowned herself in the pond, taking with her all the bereft women from in and around the city, mourning various losses. Since then, the doors to the pond remained locked. Apparently, the pond thirsted for sorrowful women. If a woman looked at it long enough, she would have no choice but to succumb to the deadly depths. He believed that’s how his own mother had died as well.

“Kancha!” Thuldai calls, and he deserts his spot in front of the Queen’s Pond to approach the tea stall beneath the flyover bridge. “Take this to the hospital”, the old man says and hands over the tea carrier to him. As he grabs the metal handle, the steam from the scalding milk tea burns his hands, but he doesn’t flinch. He jumps on the one-way road and runs in between the speeding cars and motorbikes to make his way to the opposite building. He goes to the help desk with paper and people strewn all over.

“Here’s the warm tea,” he chants.

He waits as different hands grab the glasses. Different mouths sip the beverage in between the talks. While he waits, he looks around the hospital’s waiting room. He sees that people entering the building look sad while those that are walking out look happy. He thinks of the Queen’s legend again.

How stupid that king was! If his queen was sad, why didn’t he just take her to the hospital?

He scoffs and shakes his head as he grabs the empty glasses from the desk.

“Here, Kancha.” A guy hands him a hundred rupee note, and he sprints back the way he came.

Across the road, he gives the money to Thuldai who then pushes it under his cushioned seat for safekeeping. He then takes the glasses to the tap. Even while he is washing, his eyes don’t stray away from the pond. Many a times, Thuldai had knuckled him on his head, if he forgot to scrub the dishes properly while staring into the pond, where he could swear he saw a woman’s body floating.

“All that witch’s stories are corrupting your brain”, Thuldai yelled when that happened.

But he paid no heed to such words because he knew that once the evening fell upon them and Thuldai moved around to lock the shutters, he would go and stand in front of the old man, palms open, waiting. The old man would sigh and thump a 10 rupee note on his palm. He would smile and, without a word, run along the bars of the pond, towards its locked main gate. There the witch would be waiting for him. He would hand over the note to her, as would a few others, and they would sit cross-legged right there on the street in front of her. Behind her, the Queen’s Pond would glow from the streetlights reflected on the pond’s murky waters, and for a moment, the witch would look ethereal.

Every dusk he listened to the witch’s story about the late kings and queens that lived in the city. And every night he took the monarchs to bed with him, where they held him close as he slept blissfully under the twinkling stars.