The Unread Story (standard:fairy tales, 1953 words)
Author: Rattan Mann	Added: Jun 09 2004	Views/Reads: 5876/3024	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A little girl's story

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

wanted now was to go home even if nobody ever told her a story again. 

One day, one of the big masked cockroaches came to the window and threw
a letter inside. 

" Your mom has written you a story.  Read it silly girl, and don't
pester us with your screams." 

The little girl ran and picked up the letter and opened it.  Her sweet
mom had indeed written a story for her.  But she could not read. 

" I can't read.  I can't read.  Please read the story my mom has written
for me.  She writes very beautiful stories.  Please read it for me.  
Please, please." 

Two masked cockroaches stood still before her window and paid no heed to
her screams. 

So again the little girl stood before the window and cried the whole
day.  But now she always held her mom's story in her hand. Even when 
she slept she pressed the story against her chest. 

The unread story constantly pressed against her chest read as follows: 

Dearest Rashmi, my heart breaks to see what you are going through. No
girl should ever go through what you are going through - last of all 
you.  But darling, hang on for a little longer.  We will get you out 
very soon.  We have tons of money and money can buy everything. 

Darling Rashmi, I know we have not been good mom and dad to you.
Somewhere on the road from rags to riches, we lost you on the way.  We 
should have turned back to search for you.  All we did was leave a 
house-maid behind to find you and make you feel at home even in our 
absence.  Please forgive both of us. 

And please forgive me for a second time. 

I had no time to tell you even a single story at times when stories
meant more to you than food and water.  But now I will make up for it.  
Once you are back I will tell you tons of stories everday.  But where 
do I begin?  You are with evil people.  I don't even know how they are 
treating you.  All I can think of these days is you.  So I will tell 
you the story of your own life - things you do not know about yourself. 
 I hope those scoundrels read it to you.  We are giving them tons of 
money. And this is the least we can expect in return. 

Rashmi, today's pain in my heart reminds me of the pain with which I
gave birth to you.  You are a cesarean.  It was your twin brother that 
caused all the complications.  That silly bum.  I am still so angry at 
him because he left us so soon.  The doctor told us that at least one 
of us will have to die.  But we all three survived. We were so happy 
those days because we were still one family. 

As long as your twin brother was alive you never asked anybody to tell
you a story.  He was your story.  He was your life.  You didn't need 
much else. 

Then one day that silly bum jumped from the roof, thinking that he was
Batman and so could fly like a bird.  He died instantly. It was all my 
fault.  I should have told him the difference between TV and real life. 
 I shouldn't have let him watch so much TV in the first place.  I 
should have stayed with him more often.  But I had no time for him 
because in our modern times time is money.  Please forgive me for the 
third time. 

When we told you your brother has gone for ever and won't be coming
back, you did not cry.  But you never went in your common bedroom 
again.  You said you hated it.  For months you had only one question, 
"Why did he have to go like this?". But we had no answer.  To divert 
your attention we always changed the topic.  But it didn't help. 

To make you forget your brother	we changed town.  That did help. Instead
of asking us about your brother, you started asking us to tell you a 
story.  We were glad that stories had taken the place of your brother.  
The story-bug had bitten you just as the money-bug had bitten us a long 
time ago.  We were no longer a family.  We were just two bugs living in 
a mansion and fighting all the time - the story-bug versus the 
money-bug.  You wanted stories and we wanted money.  We won because we 
were parents and so had absolute power over you.  But at what price? 

We hired a maid for you to tell you stories.  But like us she betrayed
you too.  She was bitten by the love-bug.  Please forgive all of us for 
the fourth time. 

Darling Rashmi, you are a child.  You are not a mother.  You are not a
grand-mother.  You are just a little girl who can't even read.  Not 
much has happened in your life.  So not much can be said about it.  But 
once you are back, much will start happening in your life.  I promise 
you that.  Then you can tell things about yourself to your children and 
grand-children that I can't tell you because they havn't happened yet.  
And when you tell your life-story to them, tell them from me that it is 
not good when innocent people get hurt.  It is not good at all.  But 
don't tell them anything more about me.  Never ever tell them that I 
sold myself for thirteen pieces of gold. 

Sit tight darling Rashmi.  We are on our way.  We have your statue in
gold.  And we will exchange you for this statue in gold.  And then 
everything would be all right.  We will become a happy family once 
again.  We will laugh all day and tell stories all night.  And life 
would be so wonderful. 

Your tortured mom. 

Once again the little girl was screaming, 

" My mom has written the most beautiful story on earth.  Can you read it
for me, please? Please.  I want to know what she has written." 

This time one of the masked cockroaches spoke at last. 

" Silly girl, stop screaming day and night.  Soon you are going home. 
Then you can ask your silly mom to read her silly story to you.  Soon 
we will get our ton of money.  Then you can go to hell or home or 
whatever silly old place you want for all we care." 

But something went wrong while the ton of money was changing hands. 
Shots were heard.  The masked cockroaches started running in different 
directions.  Smoke filled the girl's room. Her eyes were burning.  She 
was crying with pain and fear. But she still cluched her mom's story in 
her hand. 

Then something pierced her heart.  The pain in the chest was unbearable.
She fell down.  But she won't let the unread story go. 

Slowly the pain, the cries, the writhing died down.  She lay still in a
pool of blood.  But even in her death she won't let the unread story 
go.  The story was soaked in blood.  The ink had dissolved and 
everything the mother had written was wiped out. But it was still in 
her hand and pressed against her bleeding chest. 

So the beautiful little girl left the earth for some distant land
without having heard or read a single story - even the story of her own 
life.  Some say she went to a beautiful planet far, far away where tons 
of stories hung from tree-tops, and flowers and birds and butterflies 
told stories to any girl who asked them to. 

The End 

First published in Hobart Journal www.hobartpulp.com in may 04 

Copyright@2004 Rattan Mann 


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