Total Write Off - 1.7 (Home) - finished

pickarooney

Now is the turn of PINK and YELLOW to tell us about Home.

For more details on the competition, see here.

Voting is by poll, with invisible results and open for 5 days. As far as possible, please try and give some feedback for the story you vote for and the one you don't vote for.

Best of luck to PINK and YELLOW

pickarooney

YELLOW

Twelve year old Savita had to use all of her strength to pull the suitcase along. It made a slight scraping sound as she dragged it over the polished stone of the floor. She cursed it for not having any wheels.

'Careful with that. Here, set it down here,' said Mr. Kapoor, indicating a vacant corner of the small room that was filled with luggage, boxes, empty packaging and all manner of general chaos. Even the bed was not spared. The contents of previous arrivals to the festive house had overflowed from cupboards, drawers and dressers that had no more space left as the Kapoor clan had gathered from far and wide over the past few days.

'That's good enough, now, get me a cup of tea, quickly.' He stood, hands on hips, purveying the disorder with an expression of frustration and discontent, tapping the case of his Ray Ban's against the side of his leg. 'It's been a long day.'

'For me also,' said an exhausted Mrs. Kapoor as she pushed the mess on the bed into the centre so that she could deposit her considerable bulk on a corner.

'Ji,' which was a deferential yes that had no direct counterpart in English.

Savita rubbed her small, dark hands together as she walked through the house towards the kitchen, careful to avoid the scattered debris. There was a mild burning there, for the suitcase she had just deposited had been the last of five pieces of Mr. Kapoor's luggage. And like the last one, none of the others had wheels either. Savita had dragged many such suitcases, up stairs and along corridors, under beds and over concrete recently.

On the way to the kitchen she stopped in one of the bathrooms and gathered up a pile of dirty clothes in her arms before stumbling out to the rear veranda, where she dropped them. The washer girl, not much older than Savita, would come to do the laundry in the morning.

Two other servants were already busy in the kitchen and Gopu, a young man who was on loan from a nearby house for the occasion, scowled at her as she entered. 'What do you want now?'

'Bade Jijaji and didi want tea.' She used the words for relatives, aunts and uncles, because they said she was not a servant, more like a member of the family.

'So make it, don't just stand there looking like a tree.'

Savita scowled back at him as she fetched the pot and filled it with water. Gopu and the other girl, Priety, would be gone in a few days and even though she was enjoying the wedding she was looking forward to have the run of the house again.

She carried out eight tumblers of steaming tea into the house. Savita knew from experience that once one person was seen having tea soon others would be demanding it. It was always better to make extra, and sometimes there would be a glass or two left over and she could have it herself.

Most of the family, a gaggle of aunties, were crowded into one of the bedrooms. They were clustered around young Rohini Kapoor, the bride to be. A rainbow of silk and chiffon lay spread on the bed between them as they ooo'd and aaa'd. Some genuinely and others not so.

'God bless you, child,' one of the Aunties said as she gratefully picked up a glass.

'This tea is excellent,' another remarked. Such little compliments filled young Savita's heart with pride.

'Come here dear, take a look at this dress,' Mrs. Kapoor gestured to her. It was a beautiful red Lehenga, patterned with orange folds and with tens of bright, colourful crystals shimmering across its surface. 'Pretty isn't it?' It was only one of several such outfits being examined by the Kapoor womenfolk.

It was pretty. It was also so expensive that it would probably take Savita a couple of decades or three to earn enough to buy something like it with her meagre earnings. And that was if she didn't spend a penny on anything else.

'Are you children just going to sit around gossiping all night or are there any plans for dinner?' Though the words were spoken softly they boomed with authority and a blanket of silence immediately fell over the room. The speaker was Nanaji, the eldest and most revered member of the family.

'Soon Papa,' said Mrs. Kapoor. 'Just a few more things to sort out.'

His lips curved into a frown, creases filling the seventy-five year old patriarch's face. 'Think of the poor girl. She won't get to go home till after you finish your food and everything is washed and put away.'

'Oh Savita is fine, Nanaji. Aren't you my dear?' said one of the aunties.

There wasn't much Savita could do but smile and nod. She also wasn't in any real hurry to go home. The later the better.

Nanaji turned away with a shake of his head, hands folded behind his back and returned to the living room to join the rest of the men watching the cricket match.

It wasn't till three hours later, when the clock chimed eleven that Savita was able to leave, after having served dinner to everyone, feasting on the left overs with the servants and clearing everything up.

Finally, she trudged through the darkness. This was considered a fairly safe part of town and so she felt comfortable enough walking home. There was hardly anyone else out about this time but Savita remained alert though habit. As she turned the corner at the edge of the block a lame dog began to follow her. It looked like it hadn't eaten in some time. Savita picked up a jagged piece of rock from a pile of debris and the dog backed away.

It continued to follow her for a few minutes though as concrete multi-storied houses gradually gave away to the makeshift mud and thatch huts of the nearby slum and the clean, concrete road was filled with potholes and lined by rubbish and sewage.

The dog stopped following her at the outskirts of the slum and Savita weaved her way through the dwellings till she arrived at her home, a small concrete room, divided in two by a mud wall and covered by a tin sheet.

She paused, seeing inside from the faint glow of the television, leaking out of the small glassless window. Her father was there, sitting on the charpai in his underclothes, a half-finished bottle of some local brew in his hand. He was alone so her mother had not yet returned from work.

Carefully, she stepped back, making sure he hadn't seen her and sat down against the wall of the opposing hut to wait, either till he had drunk enough and fallen asleep, or till her mother came back.

A few minutes later a cool and gentle rain began to patter against the corrugated roofs of the slums. Savita hugged her arms to her chest and listened quietly to its music.

pickarooney

YELLOW

He smiled this morning.

Mam had always said that Daddy's smile could light up the whole world. She had shown Laura pictures of their wedding day, where Mam had looked so pretty and Dad had smiled so widely, you couldn't imagine a happier couple than the two wrapped around each other. Mam said that Laura's arrival so many years later had made them complete, the perfect family that nobody could break apart. They were blessed with her, Mam told her, because they'd tried so hard before the angels finally sent her. Laura was eight now, and Mam and Daddy were her sun and stars.

They were going to the zoo that afternoon. Daddy had told her this trip was a reward for getting so many gold stars at school. Laura couldn't wait. She'd drawn pictures of the lions and giraffes, and Mam, Daddy and herself all standing in front of them, hand-in-hand, the happiest family that had ever been. They would have a picnic, Laura decided. Everything would be perfect, and Daddy would be so happy with her that he'd never shout again.

She'd listened through the stairs that first time, as Mam came home late from work swaying from side to side, uneasy on her feet. She saw Daddy meet her at the door, an accusing look on his face. She watched as Daddy shouted and Mam begged for him not to wake the child, to calm down, that they would talk about it in the morning. She'd listened to his bitter words, to him calling Mam a “dirty slut”, “an ungrateful, drunken bitch” and wondered at what Mam must have done to her Daddy to make him so mad. She heard the sickening crack as Daddy's fist met Mam's face, his feet met her ribs. She saw Mam lying on the ground, cowering in the corner, heard Daddy spitting on her. “This is all sluts deserve”, he'd hissed, as Mam cried silent tears, crawling to her feet, wiping the blood from her face.

She'd heard Daddy coming in later, crying and pleading with Mam to forgive him. Telling her he didn't mean it, he was sorry, he just got so angry when he could smell a drink off her, when he thought she'd been with other men. He just got so jealous, she was so beautiful. He loved her so much that he didn't want to share her with anyone at all. He pleaded with her to forgive him, that he'd never do it again, that he'd done a terrible thing and he was so, so sorry. He promised it'd never happen again.

A dozen red roses arrived at the door the next morning, that first time, and Daddy was so sweet and gentle those following weeks that Laura began to think that it had just been a dream. After all, Daddy would never do anything to hurt her Mam when he loved her like he did. Yet it happened again months later, then weeks laters, then days. The flowers stopped coming, and Daddy stopped saying sorry.

Mam would always come into Laura's room each night it happened, reassuring her, telling her everything would be okay – that Daddy was just a little angry that she'd been drinking, but everything was okay, they were safe. Of course they were safe, Laura thought, they were home after all, and Daddy always told her that home was their haven, that nobody could touch them there. He would always protect her and Mam, he said. Always. Anyway, Mam always said it wouldn't happen again, that she had made Daddy mad and that she deserved it, really.

But was home really safe if Mam cried and Daddy roared and Mam was black and blue the next morning? Was home safe when Daddy saw her and screamed that she'd better get back into bed or she'd end up on the floor like her mother, battered and bruised? Was it safe when he finally hit her too, for trying to save her mother from another savage beating?

She'd lie awake each night for hours after it happened, hoping and praying that things would be okay. Maybe it was her fault. Daddy didn't want to share Mam with anyone after all, and maybe she hadn't made them complete – maybe she had ruined that happy couple from the picture. She'd see how Mam would spend hours trying to hide the bruises and cuts the following mornings, taking long gulps from a bottle. Mam would always catch her eye. She'd smile, a little sadly, and say that they'd just have to try harder next time, that they had to keep Daddy smiling and maybe they weren't doing a good enough job. It was important for Daddy to smile, he worked so hard for them and of course he got mad sometimes. It was their job to make him happy, and they were failing. If they could just do better, Daddy would be so proud and he wouldn't need to hurt them.

It had been three days this time, and Laura and Mam had behaved so well since. This time, maybe it really would be alright. Their bruises had almost faded and, really, Mam's limp was almost unnoticeable now, and she was barely drinking that awful smelly stuff that Daddy hated so. As Laura crunched on her cornflakes, she sighed happily. They were going to the zoo, and he had smiled this morning.

diddlybit

YELLOW

Really enjoyed both of these stories and it was interesting to see the similar themes in both, the illusion that home is a safe place and alcoholism.

The different represnetations of home are intriging in Pink's story. Neither place is home, even though she uses familial terms to address her employers, she is still a member of staff. Her familial home is a place of anxiety for her and cannot enter or leave freely. I found the ending very well done, it was understated which I found to be a strength, it is left to the reader to imagine the horrors of home.

The child's narrative voice in Yellow's story gives the story a dimension that would be lost if teh story was from the third person. It reminds us that a child's view of the world differs so radically from ours and that so much of it is formed by what parents do or say. While we enagage with the subject of domestic abuse in a black and white manner, a child's perception flucuates, changing from day to day, incident to incident, or in this case from witnessing abuse to a family day out. I probably would have left the questions in the middle of the story out, and introduced the abuse of the child in another way.

Both really great stories and so curious to see how the common theme has produced so many similarites.

Hrududu

YELLOW

I think Pink conjured up some nice imagery. I like that she is told that she is more like family than a servant but is still hawking big cases and doing the grunt work. The thing I liked about this story was that it was like opening a window into a world and characters that were there before the story started and went on afterwards.

In Yellow I really liked that first transition from happy families into something darker. Where she says that her father will be happy and won't shout again. I think it then jumped too quickly into the awfulness. I think it could have been more powerful if it was only hinted at from a childs perspective. But it was well written and disintegration of the family relationship was well done.

Turtyturd

I liked the imagery and knowledge of Indian culture used in Pink's story. However the understated style didn't really grab my attention, I am sure this style was the writers intention but it was a case of them doing too good a job with it.

Yellow does the complete opposite, where Pink is understated Yellow is very in your face and creates an unsettling picture of domestic abuse from the childs perspective which is a nice touch. Sometimes cliched but powerful stuff.

Blush_01

YELLOW

Pink has a lot of details that either involved a lot of research, or an intimate knowledge (or assumption) of something which is intriguing.

Yellow was less detailed, but more immediately hard hitting.

It's a tough one (yet again).

pickarooney

YELLOW

I felt like I should have enjoyed Pink more than I did. I can't find anything wrong with it as such, but it didn't really draw me in and I didn't feel as though it really began and ended. I think Hrududu was spot on with the assessment that

it was like opening a window into a world and characters that were there before the story started and went on afterwards

and that works both for and against the story. I'm tempted to say I'd like to read a continuation of this in the next round should Pink qualify.

Misery lit is just not my thing and so despite its high degree of technical competency I didn't like Yellow at all. I just don't see the point in a story which is all gloom, all black and white. I'd much rather read a story that examines the grey bits, the genuine good in people who do bad and vice versa. There was a slight glimmer of hope from the narrator's point of view but the reader knows this is false hope so essentially it just makes it worse.

Oryx

YELLOW

Pink's story really drew me in. I liked the depth of detail and the childs voice which had a quiet acceptance. The ending was quiet, understated and beautiful.

Yellow told a very interesting story, but I think in points it lost the childs perspective, or at least for me it did. I didnt feel as immersed within a childs world as with the other story. The last few sentences are wonderful, though, and end the story on a poignant note.

pickarooney

YELLOW

pickarooney wrote: »

it didn't really draw me in

Oryx wrote: »

Pink's story really drew me in.

Nothing like unanimous feedback to help you along

azzeretti

YELLOW

This is a tough one.

I liked Pink. It started off a little slowly I felt, but I became more interested as the story progressed. The ending was strong and I agree that the hint of abuse in this story leaves the reader wanting more. Very well written too.

I didn't like the subject matter of Yellow. That is not to say it wasn't really well written, it was. It just wasn't my type of read. It was a bit cliched but that's the only thing I can fault about it. It was written well and the narrative, from a childs point of view, was strong and suited the story very well.

Like I said, a tough one!

Antilles

YELLOW

I really like the understated tone of Pink. The story comes across almost like a snapshot of the girl's life, with hints of what lies outside that picture. I was a bit wary at first, as I thought I'd miss too many references given the setting, but it really drew me in. The contrast between the two "homes" worked really well and if there was more to this story I'd definitely read it. Yellow was well written too. Unfortunately, I spent the entire time reading it wishing I wasn't. I think that's why Pink works so well. Both stories deal with the theme of domestic abuse but Yellow made me uncomfortable while Pink allowed me the psychological distance to appreciate the story.

Antilles

YELLOW

<--- Vote and review submitted with three minutes left to the deadline. I'm like the King of Procrastinators :cool:

pickarooney

YELLOW

PINK has taken the second-last place in the quarter finals!

Mr E

Damn, never voted on this one, sorry.
FWIW, I'd have gone for pink - a superb piece of writing.

Also Starring LeVar Burton

Mr E wrote: »

Damn, never voted on this one, sorry.
FWIW, I'd have gone for pink - a superb piece of writing.

Ditto.
Completely forgot that the poll ended today and didn't get around to reading them on time, but would've gone with Pink also.