Bloggerstock~

Thanks to Nyx for this fantastic bloggerstock post!! Mine will be on Syrah's as soon as I finish it.




The prompt was to respond to a picture, that I can't link to at the moment. I'll have it up here asap. Just belive me when I say this story captures the mood and content beautifully!

Hey all, Nyx here. This month’s bloggerstock was interesting – write a story about a picture! Not as easy as it sounds folks.

Anyways, here’s my humble contribution. Like what you read? Check out my blog at Notions. Also, major thanks to Alex for putting this all together, and to Daisy for hosting me!

Seriously. I cannot compete with this level of awesome.

Without further adieu….



Alyssa’s hair glinted in the sunlight – flaxen strands of gold, gathered under a pale pink hat. A present from her great-aunt, it kept flopping over her brow as she wandered the city in search of her next big adventure.

She was not supposed to be there.

The child’s mother was in Italy on a business trip to discuss an important merger. They had family in Italy, and so she had left her daughter with them while she attended the meeting. No television, no gaming systems. Alyssa was wont for something to do, and so while her great-aunt was busy cooking, she slipped through the back door and set off to explore.

She had, at first, made her way through the city, and had decided in a most definite way that there was nothing there for her. That was, until, she had come upon an old ramshackle building. Finding a hole in its outer wall, she slipped through and made her way into the courtyard. It was, of course, overrun with weeds and debris. She was certain that at one point in time, this place had housed a garden of some sort, but years of neglect had turned it into something wild and untamed and absolutely magical.

Meandering her way through the garden, she giggled as a butterfly flitted from one colorful bloom to the next. Enchanted, she followed her new friend, watching as it delicately landed from one petal to the next, dancing a ballet of sorts. Alyssa could smell the aroma of the flowers as it wafted past her, and she could hear the birds singing their songs overhead. Somewhere a bee buzzed, and Alyssa decided that it was a happy sort of sound – the type of sound one made when one was truly contented with life.

It was while she was sniffing a flower that she saw it. A rabbit, white and pure, hopping under a nearby rosebush. Stepping lightly so as not to startle it, Alyssa slowly crept closer to it. She thought she caught a glimpse of something metallic – a pocket watch, perhaps? – before the creature saw her and sprinted away. She ran to catch up with it, but alas – it was to no avail. She wound her way through the gardens, slowly going deeper and deeper. Before Alyssa knew it, she was lost. Her shoes scuffed on the cobblestones as she looked around, bewildered but not frightened.

Turning to her left, she caught a flash of white go around the corner – perhaps it was the rabbit! She crept over to the wall, and slowly peered around it….

Kumari's cup

"Don’t take that. It’s Kumari’s cup.”
I set down the small clay tea cup I was fingering and for a moment brood the loss of such a fine little thing. Though inexpensive, I find its earthiness charming. I am disappointed I would have to put off my next use to some indefinite time in the future. Or, depending on how severely my mother thinks Kumari is tainted, I may never drink from its delicately shaped rim ever again. But then I am smarted by shame.
“Mom, that’s ridiculous. Should I be avoiding her shadow, then?”
“It’s not like that!” Her sudden response suggests that she did not intend to sound like a stuck-up Brahmin who unrelentingly follows the groupthink of the caste system. But she becomes quiet and reflective.
Kumari enters the kitchen and wordlessly signals for us to leave. Her mop traces half circles, again and again, across the short distance to the washing room. When she gets to her sink, she rinses the mop and ties up the small garbage bag—her garbage bag—that has been accumulating vegetable peels since yesterday morning. We re-enter. My mother goes to Kumari’s sink and makes a few discriminating sniffs in the air.
“You have to understand, they have different standards of hygiene. See here. She clearly has an incontinence problem. We’ll get sick from being stupidly idealistic! Don’t just stand there—smell it!”

But all I can acknowledge is the lingering smell of the trash.

My mother continues her lecture, casually gesturing to sixty percent (according to my History teacher) of the world’s second most populous country as she talks about “their” water, “their” bathing habits, and “their” eating utensils. By the time the country gained independence, “they” actually had a multitude of names: dalits, shudras, untouchables. The most patronizing one of all was coined by Gandhi—harijan, meaning “child of God.” But in our house, none of these names are used. After all, “that” isn’t what we’re talking about.

I was very sick only last week, but exhausted our supply of mugs in pampering my throat. Kumari washed them as she gabbed on about her family and attempted to draw gossip out of my mother about the other building residents. Kumari knows how to slip in a request for an advance or a hint that she will not come in to work the following day. My mother says her sly little monologues have to be heard out, however tedious.

When I was studying world history in sixth grade, my grandmother told me that you could always tell the difference between a Brahmin and a non-Brahmin.
“We have a certain neat look,” she said in her usual cluelessly vain way, to which my mother always rolls her eyes.
“You mean, we dress rich and they don’t, right?” I asked.
“No, no. Even without finery, you can just tell. It’s perhaps in the face—certain features. You can tell if you have been in India for a long time. You are young, so you don’t understand right now. But when you grow up, you’ll see that there is a difference.”

Indeed, there is.