A Mouldy Orange

The lunch at the temple was sumptuous. “It has to be another donor bribing the Gods”, he thought, as he licked the last crumb of khichdi and chilly chutney from his aluminium plate. Lunch was always a sumptuous affair. One or the other devotee walked into the temple’s premises, barefoot and to offer their prayers, flowers and substantial amounts of food. The Gods didn’t have much of an appetite for the rations; the pundits didn’t mind giving away few scraps to scavengers like him. Dinner never mattered much. The meagre sum he collected from passer bys everyday was enough to buy some cheap intoxicant, which made him pass out before dinner time.

The temple had been his abode for nearly two decades, after he escaped from the lair of the brute who housed people like him. He was lucky to have only his left arm amputated; others like him had been robbed of their legs and even sight. Life hadn’t much to offer him eversince, neither good nor bad.

So, when the little girl looked at him with her big brown eyes he felt as if an angel had looked straight at him. She wore a snow white dress, silver shoes and a pair of synthetic butterfly wings on her back. She stared at him, a strange calm in her eyes. Clasping her mother’s hand, she took a few unsure steps towards him and offered him the orange she would have otherwise eaten herself. He extended his aluminium plate and accepted the orange with all the gratitude in his heart. The angelic face burst into a shy grin, and almost instantly vanished from the spot leaving him alone to enjoy the orange.

Flavour was a concept, unknown to him, his tongue been accustomed to the temple’s leftovers and cheap nicotine. Any other man would have thrown that orange straight into a trash can. For the orange was mouldy, its very presence added a pungent stench to the air. But, to him it was simply like biting into a slice of heaven. His eyes filled with tears of bliss as the juicy pulp melted inside the dry cavity of his mouth. He took his time, to peel the orange, taking in bit by bit into his craving maw and relishing it till his tongue had licked off the last driblets of the sickly sweet juice from his right arm. For once in life, in his entire two and a half decade of existence, he knew, for the first time, what heaven would be like, what heaven was. When the sun had set in, he was too exhausted from his ecstasy. He took a few puffs of his customary smoke and transcended into the familiar delirium, soon taken over by a concluding slumber.

The public service doctor covered his nose with a large handkerchief. He held the corpse’s wrist, checked for his pulse and confirmed his death. The ice cold body lay lifeless. The doctor’s associates busied themselves with the necessary paperwork to obtain the homeless dead body for the medical school morgue. Poking the stinking vomit with a stick, the doctor removed the handkerchief from his nose and said, “This happens all the time. A regular case of food poisoning, the poor chap must have eaten something stale.”

 Author Profile

Susmita Bora juggles between being the mother of a one year old little girl and as Officer at IDBI Bank. Although a science graduate she has always felt a stronger inclination towards English and Assamese literature. An avid reader Susmita likes to explore her sensitive side when she writes. A Mouldy Orange is her first date with Flash Fiction.

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