She waved good bye as she left for school, trying to manage her raincoat hood and blue umbrella – her own little sky, as she’d always quip. Her tiny shoulders bearing the weight of her school bag and this world.
I watched from the window as she sneaked a peek through her umbrella to enjoy the drizzle. The raindrops gleamed like dew on her face as the sun played peek-a-boo. And she enjoyed a little jig in the air, swirling the umbrella with both hands and boots in the air.
But I saw her stop, look down, and stoop on the ground. She fixed her gaze at something in a puddle. Her face seemed troubled. Like an impatient sun trying to chase away a wandering cloud.
“A worm!” she exclaimed, “It will drown!”
She looked around for help and gave up; perhaps looking for a fallen leaf in a concrete jungle where tall trees have been replaced by high rises and shrubs that lined the sides of the road have been replaced by garbage bins and decorative, concrete fountains that seldom seem to work.
She quickly got her bag off her back, opened it and tore a sheet of paper from her book. She folded it in half and then folded it again. Opened and folded it back again till it was perfect at the edges and seams.
I wondered what she did and what she was trying to do. She reminded me of her father who tore sheets from his science journals to make paper rockets and threw them at me during our lectures in college.
The paper folding looked so intricate, yet she had an ‘it’s-no-rocket-science’ look on her face. But it seemed a lot like how we live – tread on roads that excite us, realize we are not meant for the roads or the roads are not meant for us. Take a different road, wonder where it’ll lead, hoping it will lead to where we want it to lead, till we reach the countryside that lives in a corner of our dreams and say aha!
The folding continued till she broke into a smile and held up a beautiful little paper boat. She quickly got a pen and scribbled “Worm House” on its side before setting it afloat where the worm squirmed. The smile grew wider as the worm wiggled its way up and into the boat. Then she got up, having done her job, having given the worm a home.
And she enjoyed a little jig in the air, swirling the umbrella with both hands and boots in the air.
Dusting her hands and skirt, her bag back on her tiny shoulders, there she was, smiling, walking towards school. A little wet, a little late.
Vaishali Shroff is a freelance writer, editor, columnist, and runs a reading club (www.eikthirani.wordpress.com) for children in Pune. Her work has been published in over 10 titles of the Chicken Soup India Series, her children’s stories can be read at smories (http://www.smories.com/author/vaishali-shroff/) and she can’t wait for her first children’s book to be out.