Garuda
Couldn't help myself and got distracted of my weekends activities by someone's story writing challenge. Also needed to go sleep so I set myself the one hour limit.
Found the challenge at: Inner Minx's blog, and it was started by: Skint
As I only had an hour I didnlt really edit it :S but then, I am not a writer and not a native English speaker, so deal with it! :) Hope you enjoy! (wrote it yesterday night 10:45-11:43 but the internet connection was faulty...)
Maybe one day I'll have tome top illustrate the story.
Garuda
Yes, it was a wheel. Debris in the form of long pieces of grass, discarded pieces of cloth and half a plastic water bottle stuck onto it, but it was definitely a wheel.
Suddenly Arun saw a way. He was going to ride that race. No one could tell him otherwise, he was going to be part if this.
He ran home to tell his friend Miri who looked at him questioningly when he laid out his plan.
“And you want me to come and help you pull out what you might think is a whole betajk, fix it up and race it?” he asked incredulously?
That was exactly what he wanted.
It took them the whole afternoon, pulling, digging pushing and turning. But when night set in a silhouette of an old and broken betjak could be clearly seen against the darkening blue sky.
Some people had accumulated, of which some had left again shaking their head, and some had stayed to see what the plan was. It was too dark to see the glow on Arun’s face. But he was filled with a pride that only those with a vision have. His Race, his Betjak.
There were some jeers from the side about the old broke betjak, but he didn’t hear them. There was a man who tried to buy the betjak off of him as he saw a future for the instrument, but to Miri’s great dismay he declined.
It didn’t take him that long to replace the missing wheel, and the slight bend in it didn’t matter. They were the same high and the betjak moved. It was big. Bigger than he had anticipated, and so he found some blocks to stick on the pedals so that he could reach. The one block was slightly thicker then the other, but it didn’t matter. He was capable of riding it and that was what mattered. He rode it everywhere, and soon most people knew who this boy was and what he wanted to do.
The reactions were still the same: Older people shook their head and left, the youngest ones stood in awe, the rest laughed or jeered. However Arun held his head up high and rode on.
He found some yellow paint and took to painting the whole thing yellow. The orange and red pieces of cloth he got from the lady at the market who had left over scraps and who found herself rejoice in the boys enthusiasm and determination.
He bound them to the back so they would dance in the wind.
“I am like the sun!” he yelled at her and she smiled…
On the day of the race the man at the track looked at him and laughed.
“you wanted to ride in the race” he asked.
Arun eagerly nodded his head.
“Well that will cost you 5.000 Rupia entrance money then”
.
His world seemed to shatter, but only for an instance for it only took him an instance to come up with another idea. “What if I started later”, he asked, “no one has to blow his whistle for me.”
The man at the entrance box shook his head at this nonsensical boy.
Who would want to start the race later then the rest? “You can’t win if you start later,” he said, but the boy persevered:
“Would it be free if I started after everyone has started off?”
In a way the man felt sorry for the boy with the yellow betjak which looked like it might not even make it to the start… would there really be any harm in letting him start late?
“Sure it would be free”’, he said, “but make sure everyone has left before you start”.
Arun hurried to get his betjak. It wasn’t like he didn’t have chance still he thought. He had trained hard and his calves had hardened from his trips to the market and down the dirt road along the river. He was ready and very excited.
There was a clutter of betjaks at the start, all different colours. Some new and fancy ones, some very old but made to look as if they were going to ride the stars of off heaven. The start sign hooted, the gas running out before the sound had fully well come to an end, whichmade it sound a bit pathetic.
Arun had stalled his betjak right next to the entrance. You could barely see him there unless you knew that there was someone there. Someone eagerly waiting for his chance to ride.
His muscles tense with excitement, he stepped down on his peddles as hard as he could. He was young and he felt he was catching up. His concentration was such that he didn’t hear the noise and laughter behind him. He paddled most of the way without losing sight of the other contestants, his betjak cracking and squeaking.
But the other betjaks were superior to his and the different higt of the blocks was wearing out. When one side came crashing off it heeled over to the other side precariously, but it still moved, and he kept on.
He had lost sight of the other contestants and even though he knew his race was overand he had no chance to win, he was riding this race because it was his dream, and he kept going.
When down by the river the end of the race was neigh, the boys that had been jeering at them earlier stepped out on the road.
“you move like an old donkey!” They called at him
“No I fly like a bird he shouted back.”
And like before, his excitement could not be diminished.
When they threw the can of oil which lit up all the red and orange streamers, the yellow paint turning a flaky black, he came to a halt, and slightly before the finish his betjak gave a last loud eerie squeak and slumped as if an old man who could go no further. Arun watched it burn, the left over he gave a shove, back into the river which ate it with a slight hissing sound.
Earth to earth, dust to dust, and betjaks back into the river
There would be another race next year
And there would be other old betjaks in the river.
For those of you who didn't know: Garuda (Phoenix in Sanskrit) is the mystical firebird which is considered as chariot of Hindu God Vishnu.
Found the challenge at: Inner Minx's blog, and it was started by: Skint
As I only had an hour I didnlt really edit it :S but then, I am not a writer and not a native English speaker, so deal with it! :) Hope you enjoy! (wrote it yesterday night 10:45-11:43 but the internet connection was faulty...)
Maybe one day I'll have tome top illustrate the story.
Garuda
Yes, it was a wheel. Debris in the form of long pieces of grass, discarded pieces of cloth and half a plastic water bottle stuck onto it, but it was definitely a wheel.
Suddenly Arun saw a way. He was going to ride that race. No one could tell him otherwise, he was going to be part if this.
He ran home to tell his friend Miri who looked at him questioningly when he laid out his plan.
“And you want me to come and help you pull out what you might think is a whole betajk, fix it up and race it?” he asked incredulously?
That was exactly what he wanted.
It took them the whole afternoon, pulling, digging pushing and turning. But when night set in a silhouette of an old and broken betjak could be clearly seen against the darkening blue sky.
Some people had accumulated, of which some had left again shaking their head, and some had stayed to see what the plan was. It was too dark to see the glow on Arun’s face. But he was filled with a pride that only those with a vision have. His Race, his Betjak.
There were some jeers from the side about the old broke betjak, but he didn’t hear them. There was a man who tried to buy the betjak off of him as he saw a future for the instrument, but to Miri’s great dismay he declined.
It didn’t take him that long to replace the missing wheel, and the slight bend in it didn’t matter. They were the same high and the betjak moved. It was big. Bigger than he had anticipated, and so he found some blocks to stick on the pedals so that he could reach. The one block was slightly thicker then the other, but it didn’t matter. He was capable of riding it and that was what mattered. He rode it everywhere, and soon most people knew who this boy was and what he wanted to do.
The reactions were still the same: Older people shook their head and left, the youngest ones stood in awe, the rest laughed or jeered. However Arun held his head up high and rode on.
He found some yellow paint and took to painting the whole thing yellow. The orange and red pieces of cloth he got from the lady at the market who had left over scraps and who found herself rejoice in the boys enthusiasm and determination.
He bound them to the back so they would dance in the wind.
“I am like the sun!” he yelled at her and she smiled…
On the day of the race the man at the track looked at him and laughed.
“you wanted to ride in the race” he asked.
Arun eagerly nodded his head.
“Well that will cost you 5.000 Rupia entrance money then”
.
His world seemed to shatter, but only for an instance for it only took him an instance to come up with another idea. “What if I started later”, he asked, “no one has to blow his whistle for me.”
The man at the entrance box shook his head at this nonsensical boy.
Who would want to start the race later then the rest? “You can’t win if you start later,” he said, but the boy persevered:
“Would it be free if I started after everyone has started off?”
In a way the man felt sorry for the boy with the yellow betjak which looked like it might not even make it to the start… would there really be any harm in letting him start late?
“Sure it would be free”’, he said, “but make sure everyone has left before you start”.
Arun hurried to get his betjak. It wasn’t like he didn’t have chance still he thought. He had trained hard and his calves had hardened from his trips to the market and down the dirt road along the river. He was ready and very excited.
There was a clutter of betjaks at the start, all different colours. Some new and fancy ones, some very old but made to look as if they were going to ride the stars of off heaven. The start sign hooted, the gas running out before the sound had fully well come to an end, whichmade it sound a bit pathetic.
Arun had stalled his betjak right next to the entrance. You could barely see him there unless you knew that there was someone there. Someone eagerly waiting for his chance to ride.
His muscles tense with excitement, he stepped down on his peddles as hard as he could. He was young and he felt he was catching up. His concentration was such that he didn’t hear the noise and laughter behind him. He paddled most of the way without losing sight of the other contestants, his betjak cracking and squeaking.
But the other betjaks were superior to his and the different higt of the blocks was wearing out. When one side came crashing off it heeled over to the other side precariously, but it still moved, and he kept on.
He had lost sight of the other contestants and even though he knew his race was overand he had no chance to win, he was riding this race because it was his dream, and he kept going.
When down by the river the end of the race was neigh, the boys that had been jeering at them earlier stepped out on the road.
“you move like an old donkey!” They called at him
“No I fly like a bird he shouted back.”
And like before, his excitement could not be diminished.
When they threw the can of oil which lit up all the red and orange streamers, the yellow paint turning a flaky black, he came to a halt, and slightly before the finish his betjak gave a last loud eerie squeak and slumped as if an old man who could go no further. Arun watched it burn, the left over he gave a shove, back into the river which ate it with a slight hissing sound.
Earth to earth, dust to dust, and betjaks back into the river
There would be another race next year
And there would be other old betjaks in the river.
For those of you who didn't know: Garuda (Phoenix in Sanskrit) is the mystical firebird which is considered as chariot of Hindu God Vishnu.
posted by Nooy at Saturday, September 16, 2006
3 Comments:
Don't ever tell me again that you can't/don/t write - you just have!
So much in here, you paint as well with words as you do your art. I love the word 'Garuda'as inspiration for this piece, sometimes that is all it takes, one word, one tiny piece of information.
Grow this one Meike, illustrate it - and be proud!
once it was forecasted that I would have one very very special child;
for quite some time I do believe that child is you, but you are even more special, artful, creative, inspired and wise than I could ever imagine. This story is another proof!
heb je ook een gewoon email adres waar ik iets naar toe kan zenden?
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