Young Amira rushed into her friend’s house to call her for a game of tennis. She was a new girl in the neighbourhood, seemed to be having interests like her own. This was the first time that Amira had come over to pick her friend Sandra. The door was ajar and no one seemed to be in the living room. A laptop, open, exposed, was placed on the table. Gmail was gaping, naked and bare and an unfinished mail was sitting there on the open window of the laptop, looking utterly helpless and vulnerable. Amira could not help but glance through it. It was addressed to a gentleman called Grover, and the contents intrigued Amira. It spoke of love, unspoken love that lay in her heart for him since their days in college. And now that they had found each other in the ether world, she wanted to meet him in person. Where they were to meet was not mentioned. It seemed as though some very important matter was to be addressed, else such a mail would not be left, lying open.

“Sandra! Where are you? Come on over!”, Amira yelled out a couple of times. No answer. She looked around the room, four coffee mugs, salted peanuts and a plate of cookies was on the centre table. The mugs were all empty. Some people were over looks like, maybe friends of Sandra’s mum. The bookshelf had old newspapers stacked, looked well read. The books were more of science fictions, and detective novels, along with a few coffee table books on art and decor. Pictures in a few frames were of the three as a family and the latest pictures of Sandra were with the lady she assumed was her mother, though to Amira the lady looked a bit older. The man was missing. Sandra had not mentioned anything about her family, except that they had moved in here as the college she attended was close by.

Amira made a mental note of remembering to ask Sandra about her family. Wondering where everyone in this family had taken off to, Amira peeped into one of the rooms. The bed was not made, footwear was thrown around. the dressing table seemed to be dusty, but the perfume and lipgloss seemed to be designer stuff. Fine tastes, she thought.

It was getting late, and just as she thought that she must leave, Amira saw a slightly harrassed Sandra holding the lady’s arm gently and walking her in the house. As their eyes met, and she looked at Amira’s perplexed expression, and clarified hastily, “Ever since aunt has been losing her memory occasionally, it’s been trouble.”

FOOTNOTE: Dear readers, I would like to know what you felt about the characteristics of the person who left the laptop open. What was the person like, her tastes and anything else that you interpret after reading this short passage.



One thought on “Muddled

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