Mohammed Ali & A Red Scrunchy

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story about being a girl in india.

Submitted: February 08, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 08, 2015



Chapter 1:

I remember the summer of 1998, I was 10, imaginative and the world around me was filled with sweet smell of mango and jamun tree. There was still time for my school to begin the next session... the world was waiting for the monsoons but for a child , there is no better time than the summer vacations, these are the days when they truly understand the feeling of freedom.

I spent endless hours playing with my toys, sleeping under a tree, observing the ants that walked in a straight line and listening to my grand pa's million stories. We went on long walks in the evenings, he promised to buy me ice cream. I would sit on his lap while he sat in the park and chatted with his friends, I remember laughing to their jokes which I did not understand. I thought he was the wisest man I ever knew... I still do.I slept next to him to escape the ghosts under my bed and fell asleep to the rhythm of his soft snores. 

When school reopened, I spent a lot of time in school. in tuition and in piano classes, I had very little time for my grand pa. But i remember that just before we could break for Diwali my grandpa fell sick, I remember my parents being worried and speaking in hushed voices near me. After that his room started smelling of medicines.

When I came home one afternoon after my exams with cut lips and bruises all over my body.I fought with some boys who were rude to me...M awayy mother was upset, she reprimanded me for being uncouth and un-lady-like! She was appalled to know that I wrestled a boy to the ground and kicked him twice before I ran to the safety of my home. I ran to my grand father's room and sobbed next to him. In his feeble, fading voice, my grand pa tried to console me. "Don't cry...", he said "you are my Mohammed Ali"... that sounds like a man's name, I said "but I am girl"... "so what?" he said, "you have to have his spirit." I never asked him to explain the meaning of that line, I did not want to seem stupid to my grand dad. I just slept next to him.

After a few months from this incident, my grand dad passed away. His room still smelled like medicined but it was empty and uncomfortably neat. Before he passed away however, he left me his treasure, collection of a million stories, amongst them was the book on Mohammed Ali. This book, those words, changed my life.

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