A Short story
“Why can’t you get it straight?” Profoundly disappointed and concerned, Sakhi almost flung the drawing book back at him.
Exasperated, she got up and paced towards the large French window of her study.
Her cursory glance fleetingly caressed the perfectly manicured hedge before she turned back to Rohan, her 12-year-old son.
To her surprise, he was sitting there calmly, like a Buddha. She looked at him and realised her outburst would alienate him more. She purposefully softened her stern gaze as she walked towards him and settled on the carpet. She retook the drawing book and examined it closely.
“Beta lines are powerful and denote a person’s character. The strength of the line, its impression, dark or light, all makes the line talk. Therefore, every line we draw should be perfect, straight, and precise.” Deep in her heart, she did not know how to make her dyslexic son at least draw a straight line.
“But Mom, our art teacher says that lines have a life of their own and can be of any shape, even crooked, if they…”
“No wonder she is just an art teacher and not an architect,” Sakhi curtly interjected.
“Why are you so disrespectful?” Rohan looked into her eyes. Like always, her guilt made her uncomfortable.
“Why do you have to believe everyone but your mother?” She fought back.
“Mom, everyone can’t be an architect. I want to be an artist and paint; I want a world with no rules, right-wrong, just freedom to express.”
“Yeah, and lead a life of poverty, misery…”
“If money could buy happiness, you should have been the happiest person, right, Mom?”
She got up and walked towards the French window again, maybe trying to hide her half-flooded eyes. Rohan knew he had crossed the line. He rushed towards her and hugged her from behind.
“Mom, God has given us many colours, forms, and shapes. This lack of uniformity makes this world such a beautiful place.”
“If I am successful, is it my fault?” Her voice was heavy with emotions. “I have struggled hard. And these lines, these straight lines, make me stand where I am. And for your information, diversity ruins us; imagine a world of crooked buildings, haphazard roads, zig-zag skyscrapers, and zagged pillars of bridges; this world rests on straight lines; the world needs a form factor, some cohesiveness, some order.” She dabbed her eyes. “This is not a painting of yours where you draw some lines and think you are a Piacasso. To break the mould, first know the rules, play by them and then set yourself free” She was hyperventilating. “And this Gyan of yours… of freedom, a colourful world is only happening as this woman and her straight lines provide you with a comfortable and blessed life where you don’t have to…”
“Did I ask for all this?” Rohan’s expression was distant. “You can take it all back, but even then, I would say the same, and someday, you will see that the world, this life, is not a straight line.” He calmly walked away from the thick air.
**** **** ****
“Still critical, but you can see him for a while.” With an air of professional care laced with nonchalance, the doctor walked away.
Sakhi composed herself and dragged her almost limp body towards the glass partition.
She was still not ready to accept that a boy of nineteen, her son Rohan, could suffer a brain stroke.
Her eyes rebelled against the confinement of the small monitor, its fluorescent, crooked and wavering blue line. “Life is not a straight line,” her mind and ears echoed Rohan’s statement.
She broke down, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Amidst sobs and tears, she clasped her hands, “God, please… I will never ask… please don’t let the line on the monitor get straight, and I promise, I will never draw a straight line all my life; I promise, God, I do; please save Rohan, please God.”
There was an incessant beep, and the line on the monitor went flat, a straight line.
“Doctor, she howled.”
