An Orphan's Tale

Once there was a little town called Lorrings. Though the government had officially named it Lalnagar after independence, the old townies were too proud to let go the identity of their birthplace. Hence, the name stuck. It was a tiny town, where most of the houses were bare-walled or with paint peeling off the paper thin walls. There were a few offices and stores, some closed down salons, a club, a newspaper agency 'Lorrings Daily' and a broken down church. It was a town where everyone seemed to know everyone.

And even in this all so familiar town, there was one person who lived as a stranger: a little boy named Steven, who was ironically named after the most - only - famous man of the town Steven Lorrings, the writer. He lived in the broken down church, away from the rest of the town and worked as a hawker for the newspaper agency. He looked like any other boy of that town. Brown skin, brown eyes, black hair and a stubby nose, though his clothes were dirtier and more weathered than the other boys.

But it wasn't always that way. Three years back Steven was one of the richest boys in town. His father ran most of the salons and his mother was a well known face among the socialites. It was a time when he had endless pairs of clothes, lots of expensive shoes and even his own cricket set! Everything was perfect in his small world. That is, until one fateful day. His mother and father were invited by a very influential person to accompany him to London. London! It was like a dream come true! They were to return in two weeks. On Steven's birthday! Steven eagerly awaited their return. Think of all the presents they would get him!

But fate played a cruel game. His parents never came back. Steven vaguely remembered the news of the plane crash, his housekeeper running towards him tears streaming down her face, his house, the salons, all being seized by the "bad people", being shunned out with just a photograph of his parents. He never heard from them again; all his "well-wishers." Steven had not shed a single tear all through this.

Since then, Steven’s life was encaged by the rusting chains of monotony. Time had come to a stand still. He woke up at the crack of dawn, went to the agency, distributed papers and then went back again to get his daily wage. He went to the grocer's store next to get whatever he could from the little money he got. The grocer and his boss were the only two people he talked to, or rather who talked to him. And both of them were not very nice. The grocer never gave him one grain extra despite the fact that he came there everyday. And one day when it was pouring outside, Steven went to the agency 15 minutes late only to be threatened by his boss that he’d be fired and he made Steven swear on his life that he’d never come late again.

That was two months back and Steven hadn’t spoken a word ever since.

One day Steven started his day as usual. There was a heavy downpour outside throughout the day and by the time he got back, he had a terrible headache. The next day he woke up much too late. The sun had already come up. His head felt fuzzy. He made his way to the agency only to find out that he’d been fired. The grocer refused to even acknowledge him. He went back to the church defeated.

From the spot where he slept on a heap of straw, he fished out an old, worn down, fading photograph. Steven took it and went up to a window-sill and sat down. He watched the rain falling on the dirty glass. He looked at the photograph: his mother smiling at him and his father looking tall as ever. He hugged the photograph and began crying. It was the first tear he shed in three years. He cried for all that he lost: his parents, house, his cricket set. He cried for himself, for what the cruel world did to him, for all the misery they caused. He cried for his job, for his broken down church and for his broken down life. He cried at the way the sky wept for him today. Crying he went to sleep.

But never woke up again.