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Whenever Manori passed by the white mansion standing taller and statelier than any house on that particular street, she felt a strong pang of discontentment. She could not help but wonder who could afford to live in such luxury, and compare it to her own little home. She knew that those professionally painted walls and the towering, heavy black gate outdid hers by a long way.She felt so embarrassed when friends from better homes visited hers. They would keenly survey the unpainted block house and the rusty old gate and ask, “When will you finish this house?” she hated that question, since she never knew when.
And she was quite acquainted with her husband’s answer, but she always asked again. He would wipe his sweaty brow with his work clothes, for he was always busy and hardworking, and cheerfully answer, “Manori, my Manori, it takes a lot of labor to feed and clothe a wife and child and pay off the money with the interest for our new motorcycle. See, I am very thin.” And he would laugh, or at least try to, while Manori tried to be grateful and content as a good wife should be.
Months passed, discontentment arose. Every time she saw the mansion there was a great longing for a beautiful home.
One day, as she was passing the house to go purchase a few vegetables at the Sunday fair, the gate to the luxurious house was open. Manori’s heart almost stopped. Never in her young life had she seen such a gorgeous paradise of a garden. It was many times more beautiful than she had ever dreamed. She had to tear her eyes away from such awesome grandeur to buy the vegetables. When she returned, warm and sweating from the scorching heat, the garden was swarmed with people and expensive vehicles.
“Is there a party here?” She asked one sarong clad old man, who leaned against the wall.
He spit betel juice before answering. “You don’t know who lived here?” he looked bewildered and so did she.
“No. Who lived in such a beautiful place?”
“Just a young couple. I worked as a servant here. They had much wealth, but were always arguing loudly. During an argument the man stabbed his wife and son, and hung himself afterwards. This is their funeral.”
Manori shook her head in unbelief, as she gazed at the mansion. But not with a longing of admiration. The big building seemed hollow, empty, and lifeless. She dropped her gaze to her feet and for some unknown reason began to cry.
When she neared home, she could see its surroundings. The rusty, old gate seemed strong and protective, and the gray block walls strong and secure. The flower garden was more colorful than ever and the air she breathed filled her with a new sense of life and joy. Her heart danced when Tharaka, carrying the half – clad baby, met her at the door with his sunny grin.
“Oh, you are home finally. That is good!” Manori was about to explain as she handed the vegetable bag to him. But instead she took the baby into her arms and squeezed him extra lovingly as she exclaimed, “Yes, I am home. And, oh, husband! It is very good!”
| Flash Fiction This time’s Flash Fiction explores a much explored theme: the link between wealth and happiness. This story overcomes being merely simplistic by the innocence and freshness of its voice. |
Rebekah Angela Fernando