Morning

A reminiscence of my college days and the daily dramas of the classroom came to mind. A random memory made me search for this piece that I am sharing now. It was written one lazy afternoon in the B. A Communicative English class as part of an exercise in Creative Writing. We were given half an hour to write on the topic “Morning”. 

One of my closest friends, Ibrahim Rayintakath, was kind enough to breathe life into the story with his mind blowing brush strokes. He is a student of Art Direction and Production Design at FTII, Pune, a (super) talented artist who is in the pursuit of numerous dreams including saving the world and watching the Northern Lights.

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The merchant stood at the harbor waiting for the cargo ship that would arrive from India bearing spices- rich nutmeg, saffron, cinnamon, cardamom and most importantly, pepper- black gold. It would make him rich- in fact, it would make him the wealthiest man in Venice. The sun still hadn’t risen

The merchant felt a sharp pain in his arm, radiating into his chest. he knew he was dying at that very moment. He thought about his beautiful wife and his young daughter. He thought about the legacy his unborn sons would never inherit. he thought of the spice empire he would never build. But most of all, he thought about the sun that still hadn’t risen, but gave the illusion of morning by casting about a reddish pink glow.
At sunrise, workers at the dock noticed a dead man lying by the pier, with his hand clutching some peppercorns. They threw the nobody into the sea and went about doing their chores in the sweltering morning sun. The merchant’s body stayed rooted firmly to the ocean floor by a heavy anchor that had been dropped by a vessel from India which came bearing spices- the smell of which saturated the heavy morning air.
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One thought on “Morning

  1. merchant o'cynicism March 8, 2013 at 3:48 pm Reply

    Rugged n faceless, blinded by the sun.
    Fresh wounds, yet so old by changing grip,
    Too young to wake up, too cynical to fall asleep
    So unsure, he goes so far for something so sure.

    The protagonist trips into a weary layer of reality swaying along with those waves, tryin not to close his eyes. His wife, daughter and his unborn son’s imaginary legacy are all like tryin to excuse himself,to pretend unconcerned cause voices inside keeps asking him, ‘what if?’

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