《Grease On My Silver Spoon》


 Introduction

    Skip this chapter if you wish.


    In this world, each and every one of us can think of at least an inconvenience we consider as a pivotal event of our lives. And don''t get me wrong. All of these problems are still problems and will be as long as the Earth continues to breath. But amidst our little frustrations and little worries, i fear that we have become bound in a false reality.


    This reality sprays an oily mist against the world behind us.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    The dead, the living, the suffering. The whimpers of those we have not heard of.


    But yes, sometimes, we as simple beings are incapable of acting against it. But we do. Protesting, fighting, yelling, screaming and burning our rage at the injustices of the world. We already are what we wish we would become.


    But this story, like any of us, accepts the bigger problems of the world. We know it happens, and behind doors, opened or closed, we work to solve them. But sometimes, in our smaller worlds, even our little worries and problems, are problems too. It is the Grease On My Silver Spoon.


    And without shame, i admit the feelings that invade me.


    ~Meera

 Old is Gold

    Chapter 1


    I still remember that day. The only moment of my life such years ago that i can even recollect.


    I said GoodBye to my parents who stood by the school gates, watching eagerly as i took my little steps towards my first day of school. My mother turned her head away as she could see me notice the tears streaming from her eyes, but my father stayed straight and strong.


    He was proud of me even when i simply stood. Proud as a peacock when i took a mere step.


    For him, it wasn''t the day in which his precious daughter would spend some hours away from him. It was the first day of thousands that she would take towards an education, towards achievments and towards success.


    -


    I sat in a group of three or four other children, all around the age of 5. They were all weeping and calling out towards their parents who stood peering through the classroom windows. The thought of crying hadn''t even crossed my mind until i saw everyone else crying. It ruined the whole ''first day of independance'' vibe, and so I too, let my tears flow.


    That was until i felt a little arm make its way around me, in an attempted embrace which didn''t do much to consolidate me but the thought. I slowly looked towards the little boy who stood next to me, his lips bent into a frown and his eyebrows narrowed as if he were comforting me to convince himself he wasn''t upset. It was a funny sight. And so I laughed.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    But his face turned red.


    Of embarassment or anger? i guess i still don''t have much of an answer.


    He shook me violently while i continued to laugh, until a teacher made her way from between the wailing children and questioned him.


    ''She was making fun of me when i was trying to help her!''


    Help me? I thought. How were his baby hands of any help to me?


    I would like to think that i told the teacher what i thought of that but i was a brown girl, born and raised in India, who was now in a foreign country around people who looked, acted and spoke much differently to me. While i could understand them, to reply was not practical.


    A ''no'' would''ve been a realistic guess of how i reacted. Or perhaps, even that would have been too much.


    The teacher didn''t look back at me. Instead, she asked the boy to not lay hands on a classmate ever again and that introducing himself would be a better start.


    ''My name is Thabo and I am six years old.''


    Your parents must not care about your education because us Indians lie about our childrens age so that they can be enrolled in school before they even learn to walk. And here you are, alive for whole six years and still in in Kindergarden.


    Of course that was simply just the thought of a five year old.


    ''My name is Meera and i am five years old''


    We slowly smiled at eachother. And that day, 12 years ago, for the first time, i sat with him, laughed with him and learnt with him.


    -

 Chapter 2

    As time went by, Thabo and I grew up to become very close friends. Some who knew us would disagree to my claim that we were just friends but the assumptions of others are beyond me. My concern and my care.


    Sometimes i would think to myself, if i had met him a few years later, when i was no longer just a naive child, would i still befriend him? The answer to that question creeps up behind the curtain of my conciousness, unaware as to when it should show itself as it never knew if i was ready to accept the truth.


    Because for years and years, i convinced myself ''Yes!''


    He is my bestfriend and most importantly, my comfort. He is there to consolidate me in times of a crisis and there to cry with me in times of worry. How foolish of me to even question him.


    -


    But yes, for years and years we remained friends. Until one day, that was.


    Thabo and I used to walk home from school together as we lived on the same street. My house was a little further than his but he would still walk me home, then back to his.


    It was a friday afternoon in autumn and we were walking down the petalled roadside towards our street.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    ''You should come meet my parents.''


    A little taken aback, i asked why.


    ''I mean, we are best friends. Why not.''


    I agreed and followed him home. There, i was greeted with his parents in a huge house. Between them was also a little dog that they called Pippa.


    The tiles were made of marbles, and carved pillars stood elegantly along both sides of the entrance. Long silk curtains flowed along the wind coming from the open windows behind them.


    ''This is my best friend, Meera'' he told his parents.


    ''Best friends huh?'' his mom winked, nudging him. She too, had long blond hair and blue eyes just like Thabo.


    I hid the arrival of my gut towards my mouth with an awkward laugh. It was second nature to me.


    As i looked up, instead of gesturing his tendancy to vomit , Thabo remained unusually quiet. I quickly smacked his stomach and laughed.


    ''Ew'' i said.


    ''We really are just friends''


    ''If you say so...''


    His mom left to the kitchen and came back with a tray of cookies and coffee. She gestured me to take a seat on their white leather couch and then left with her husband.


    I felt out of place. As a brown individual in a western country, its easy to blame all my difficulties on my race but overtime, i had conditioned myself to disappear in a crowd. I monitored my every movement to ensure that i don''t appear as the dirty, smelly, curry muncher we have been labelled as. I could hardly bring myself to reach towards the tray in fear of tarnishing something around me. I was sitting on egg shells.


    Thabo took a seat next to me.


    ''Is it really that horrible to envision us together?''


    Perhaps it was. But it was even more terrible to envision losing the one i had grown up with.


    And so, that day it started. Not just a relationship but also the days in which i would endure the most lack of self- respect that i had in 15 years of living.