FABLE FACTORY

KANGAROO LAND

USHRA
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When the cold December winds blew outside and the trees sat barren singing silent songs of their own, she arrived. Her room was redecorated with the brightest orange lights and gorgeous ochre lamp shades. Her furniture dusted, and the bed sheets freshly pressed too.
Soon the white tiled floor would be covered with cigarette ashes. A direct result of deep exhalations during night-long conversations with the foreign lovers she had left behind. She was back on vacation and the house was always brightly lit and laughter echoed in every stretched corridor. An abundance of food stayed on the tables and people would visit more frequently than Momma ever liked. The maid would find herself making tea for two instead of one, and an extra pile of clothes to fold.  
Nights would pass by engaged in conversations. Momma running her hand through Baby's coloured hair and listening to tales of the kangaroo land.
"You've lost weight" - Momma was so very Bengali in these matters.
"You're twenty-eight now. Have you thought of marriage? Or do you still chase dreams of that PhD degree of yours?" - Ah, and cue another one of their typical fights.
"Marriage."
"A Masters Degree."
"Less alcohol."
"Another bottle of scotch, please."
"Try to dress a little modestly here?"
"I can't find my navy backless. It fits perfectly"
"Stay back."
"My flight's booked, ma."
Momma consumes only 19 cigarettes a day now. We think she's getting better. Amidst all the contradictions in their conversations; the only common variables perhaps were the frequent shameless declarations of 'I love you's. Momma insisted on putting baby's overflowing suitcase away. As if the very presence of the luggage would drive the departure date farther.
Winter meant the weddings would arrive more frequently than sunshine ever did at 6 in the morning. Momma smiled more now. And that was all that mattered – Baby was here for a while.

***

STREET LETHAL

RAYAAN IBTESHAM CHOWDHURY
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I spent a significant part of my life believing that people who go out onto the streets, quite simply, die. Or get abducted by aliens or something. It's just how I was programmed. I was taught to use the car even if my school was a mere 5 minutes from my house walking, or at worst rickshaws would do. Bred into that culture, I always cried whenever a friend said he was going to go down to the local store to load balance on his phone. What if I never saw him again? Why wasn't he taking his car?
Every time I looked out my car windows and saw pedestrians, I silently wept inside. All these people were walking to their dooms. Whenever I wanted to get out of the car or go somewhere alone, my mother would tell me how dangerous threats were lurking at every corner. After a year of this, I resigned myself to a life inside the safe boundaries of my car. The streets were bad. And all these people didn't seem to know it. My heart went out to them.
There was a time a girl in my class made fun of me because of my habits. I sent her a strongly-worded letter afterwards, informing her of the error of her ways and how she would come to regret them in time. And I didn't have to wait too long. Within a few weeks, she stopped coming to class. Others said something about her dad being posted to some other city but I knew better. She had been claimed by the evils of the streets. Another lesson for all those who dared walk or use public transport in lieu of the safety of private cars.
But then everything fell apart on the day of my eighteenth birthday. Mother informed me that as an adult, I was now free to walk on the streets or take rickshaws if I chose. I kindly asked her if she was feeling sick or was under medication of some sort. She then went on tell me that much of the things she had told me were exaggerations and while streets could be dangerous, they were not haunted or full of quicksand or whatever it was that I thought they were full of.
Torn between what to believe and where my life could possibly head from such a dipping point, I did what I had to do. Take a walk. And take a walk I did. Instantly, I saw a nice-looking middle-aged man. I wondered if he needed help crossing the streets. I was new to the whole street thing but I was sure I could help him. But then he approached me and told me, in a rather rushed tone, to hand over whatever I had. I was lost for words. I wondered why he was doing this. Had he lost everything on the streets and needed my money to survive? Was he having a bad day? Was he trapped in some Kafka-esque paradox? Was he enraged about the WWE's new PG era?  
It struck me then that mother was simply testing my faith. And I had fallen into the vile jaws of disbelief and doubt. It all became very clear. Slowly, the folds of my mind began to unravel and I saw where my destiny lay. I confidently walked to my car, got in, turned on the air conditioning, and bade goodbye to walking. I had learnt my lesson.
My driver asked me where intended to go. I told him I needed some painkillers from the nearest pharmacy. He muttered something about broiler chickens needing cars for a 2 minute walk but I was too tensed to pay attention at the moment. Upon picking up the painkillers, it dawned on me that the car had left. Had I been deserted? Was this some social experiment? Were the Russians behind this? I calmed myself before making a break for it. Some of the locals who knew where I lived couldn't fathom why I was sprinting. They didn't know how evil the streets could be. I laughed inside. I could do this. I knew I could. But then I tripped and fell face first onto the pavement.
With my dignity in tatters and still fearing for my life, I felt a hand reach out to me. I looked up to find her: the same girl who had mocked me and suddenly vanished. She was there. She helped me get up. “I will teach you how to walk,” she told me. “No,” I begged. “Do not resist. This must be done,” came the reply. I closed my eyes and prayed that it would end soon. I knew mother would be very upset.