tales of Suchita

Mr. Metson looked up when the door opened and shut with a violence unknown to the tucked into a corner – where only those seeking its doors could see it – library. It was Mrs. Agarwal, red in the face, panting, flapping her hands in front of her face to cool herself down.

Today, she was dressed in a white and blue kurta with white leggings. Her long hair was braided and she had so many silver bangles on her left hand as to almost reach her elbows. She didn’t seem to notice the books cramped into every available surface but Mr. Metson didn’t take it personally. She had been visiting him since she had been a wee baby and after a point, the sheer number of books that were stuffed into the library ceased to amaze a child.

“How are you my dear?”

Mrs. Agarwal’s wide eyes turned to him, then to the shelves and then to the neat stack of books that was kept next to his computer. The stack was for her, she realized with a jolt. They were all her favourites and Mr. Metson still made a pile for her, giving her first dibs on the latest arrivals.

She smiled and Mr. Metson could sense she was coming back to herself, her body recognizing that there was no need for fear now that she was inside the library.

She said, “I’m well uncle, thank you. How are you? How’s the hip?”

He shrugged. He was seventy so it was no surprise that something or the other kept going wrong with his body. He had made peace with it. Just like he had made peace with the fact that he didn’t need to go to extraordinary lengths to get patrons to his little hole in the wall library.

“It is what it is. How can I help?”

Her eyes narrowed at the question. Mr. Metson raised his hands. “You have to ask. I made a promise.”

She rolled her eyes. “Is Rain here?”

“You know he is. He knew you’d come looking for him and has asked me to tell you to please leave him alone. He has also asked if you could pack him a small bag and add his red hoodie, not the one you’re thinking, the other one. He doesn’t want to live at home anymore. He wants to live here.”

Despite the hilarity of the situation and the casual way Mr. Metson had shared her son’s “I’m running away from home” message, tears stung her eyes, forcing her to turn away. Mr. Metson was no stranger to tears, hers or anyone else’s. He was much like a benevolent Gandalf in front of whom one could weep and later be offered tea.

Things at home had reached a boiling point. She and Brijesh were fighting more than ever and even though they were fiercely protective and supportive of each other, they could not stop having screaming matches. They had thought to send Rain to his grandmother’s for a week so they could sort out their jumble but he had overheard and ran away.

It was lucky they knew exactly where he’d hide. Otherwise, the two of them would have been on the road, screaming themselves hoarse.

She gave Mr. Metson a small smile and he patted the chair kept next to his desk. He said, “Why don’t you sit, take a breath, compose yourself.”

She took his advice because her knees had begun to tremble. “I just need him to understand,” she whispered as she took the glass of water he offered.

“He will, once you explain.”

She nodded, arriving at that conclusion herself. She couldn’t expect him to understand if she didn’t explain. “I better go find him.” She kept the glass on the table and went to the section that housed his favourite pouffe.

Mr. Metson smiled benevolently as he watched her go. Had it been Mr. Agarwal, he wouldn’t have been the nice Gandalf. He would have been the fearsome grey wizard who had fought the Balrog of Morgoth.

He knew he had been right to send her along when the mother and son came out twenty minutes later, tears hastily wiped, clinging to each other. Rain had a book in his hand which Mr. Metson knew the boy had read at least a dozen times.

“Checking that out?”

Rain nodded as he gave the book over. Mr. Metson added Mrs. Agarwal’s pile to it and put down the details in his computer. Mrs. Agarwal picked up the pile, leaving Rain’s for him to pick up.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

Rain gave a half smile. “Bright and early to read The Hobbit to the kiddos.”

Mr. Metson did not point out that he was the youngest of the kiddos. He just saluted, like he was wont to do with his young readers. The way Rain and Mrs. Agarwal turned to each other, whispering as they stepped outside the library told him that Rain wouldn’t be running away from home.

Oh well. He could always run into books until then, he thought with a chuckle, going back to his own book that he had read a dozen times.

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Song: Far over, the misty mountains cold by Clamavi De Profundis

Check out the other posts for 2023 here. Written as part of #BlogchatterA2Z