White Woman
by Ajay Nair
Her skin was a deep, dark, shining brown organism — as if someone had taken fresh, wet mud, kneaded it together into a smooth cake, and then sliced off flat slivers of it and rubbed it all over her. It was the colour of health and of beauty, but all she ever wanted to be was fair, to have white skin, skin the women from the city had, and she dreamed of having.
She was a single mother; widowed by a cleaved liver caused by drink. She didn't mind that — her husband was not someone she chose or loved and once she'd given birth, her baby was the undisputed centre of her universe, a tiny little sun that burned inside her.
She had a compulsion to organize things according to their size or colour or according to some other abstruse algorithm that clicked through her mind. She didn't know that this was OCD — living in a village in India meant she was not exposed to the technicalities of her condition. If she were an American girl or perhaps European, she might have let her OCD define her personality — clutching at its convenience and crippled by it at the same time; instead, she just thought that this was life.
Her baby hardly ever cried when she was near her; so when she screamed while her mother was being gang-raped by four inebriated youths, you could ascribe her crying to some intuitive connection between the child and the mother. But perhaps, she was just really hungry.
It was not clear whose idea it was to set her on fire. The fire didn't care as it ate her up. But before she was charred, for a brief few moments, she burned white, a hot, hot white, and if she could have seen herself in the mirror, she would have realised that her dark complexion suited her sharp beauty much better than the white she desired.
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330 words
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Author's Note
The author has not attached a note to this story.
Ajay, this is good stuff. I like the part about the OCD. And of course the last part, be careful what you wish for kind of a thing.
This felt really well constructed. Just enough for us to care, and an interesting character to care about.
Thanks sara and John for the read and comments.
Enjoyed reading this piece, Ajay. Especially like the ending.
Yes, the ending of this horrifying, yet it's written so beautifully. This is a powerful work, Ajay.
What a powerful ending to the story. "Her baby hardly ever cried when she was near her; so when she screamed while her mother was being gang-raped by four inebriated youths, you could ascribe her crying to some intuitive connection between the child and the mother. But perhaps, she was just really hungry." Horrible thought, but a lovely line.
Glistening mud? Yes, that works for me. Earth and water start the story, fire and air end it. White hot mother's love burning inside and out. Did you mean to be so damn clever, or does it just come naturally? :)
this is freaky good.
Ajai, this is incredible. A masterpiece. If I could give it ten stars, I would.
Ajai, wow. That last paragraph is a killer. Nice work.
Sam, thanks for the read and comment, as always much appreciated.
Christian, glad you enjoyed this. Thanks, much, for the fave.
Kevin, thanks for the read and the fave. Glad you felt this.
Thanks Lou. Clever, who, me?
Meg, that's a freaky good comment!
Jack, really appreciate that. That's just terrific to read.
Michael, thanks for reading and commenting.
Ajay, this is almost brutal in its compassion. I guess because no matter how compassionate, we can't ignore our misshapen reality. You remind me how much I want to change the world, no matter how little. This is excellent.
Thanks Beate, for the read and comment. I am glad this resonated with you.
Damn, Ajay. That ending is stunning. And this also has the great ring of truth: "If she were an American girl or perhaps European, she might have let her OCD define her personality — clutching at its convenience and crippled by it at the same time; instead, she just thought that this was life."
Thanks Jane, appreciate the read.
You are merciless to your reader, in the best way possible. Nice work.
Thanks Nicole.