Somoshree Palit
“Make a wish.”
Sohini pressed her little palms on her elder sister’s fist, “Make a wish, and you’ll get it.”
“What are you, a genie?” Viyona pursed her lips, her nervousness giving way to a smile.
“Genie Ultra Pro Max.”
The two sisters burst out giggling, as the clock struck twelve. “I want to pursue my Bachelor’s degree in the US,” Viyona said, before quickly retrieving her hand from her sister’s grasp to check her email.
There it was, in bold letters, the words Viyona had always wanted to be real : “ACCEPTED”.
A squeal of immense joy ran across the house as Viyona cried tears of happiness. For a moment, the world seemed to blur, and the only thing that mattered to her were her father’s pride, her mother’s tears, her little sister’s embrace, and the letters written as if welcoming her to her new life. “Accepted”, she said, again and again, under her breath.
“The only problem,” Viyona’s mother stifled a tear, still ruffling her daughter’s hair, “is that you can’t eat over there. Because you can’t cook.”
Viyona groaned. “Are you serious? I’ll learn don’t worry!!”
“Same way you learnt how to peel a banana? Cause newsflash” –
“Yes thank you very much Sohini.”
Her dream had finally come true. “I’ll get you dolls from the US”.
“I am literally 16 years old. I don’t play with dolls”.
“I’ll get you a pink Teddy Bear.”
“Actually, you know what? Scratch that. Get me as many pink teddies as you want”.
“What a baby”.
“You take that back”.
Viyona stuck her tongue out at her sister. It was the happiest day of her life.
****
“Good afternoon passengers. This is the Boarding announcement for flight 89B to Massachusetts…”
Viyona sat silent in her seat, closing her eyes in deep longing. She was going to leave behind her family, her friends, her sister. Fastening the belt, she looked out of the window, and giggled.
“Papa, why do they call luggage in a plane ‘Cargo’?” Viyona had asked her father while loading her luggage.
“What else do you think they would have named it?”
“Err – ‘Plane-go’, for instance?
Several memories clouded her mind. Memories when her dreams shattered like a house of cards. Memories of certain victories that accounted for her rise. Memories of heartbreak. Memories of who she was, what she had promised to be, and what she was going to become.
“Kindness, Love, Compassion” : These were the ideals of morality Viyona had embossed in her heart since she was a child. “Humanity begets religion, and not the other way round,” Viyona remembered Ms. Banerjee, her English teacher in high school, who probably had been the sole reason for her survival through those dire days of her youth.
Funny, how most if not everyone had one English teacher in their younger days who became the sole source of their mental stability.
“Passengers, this is your Captain speaking. Welcome to Flight 89B…”
Viyona closed her eyes, as the plane rushed down the runway, and with a jolt, rose in the air. And soared. She could almost feel the wind brush past her, with the interior of the plane air-tight, she still felt the rush of cool air like the softer feathers of the wings of a jay bird. She felt like a doe sprinting down the lengths of the brooks shimmering through the forest floor, only that she was not exalting in the simple lure of the West wind. With every inch of the sky the plane covered, Viyona inched towards triumph.
Triumph against every injustice thrown upon her face.
A series of events flashed before her eyes, like an entire life playing a rhapsody to a dying man. The plane flew through the mellow clouds, golden in their sunset glory.
It was mid-December. The day of the annual prize distribution ceremony for any student is a day of nervousness, of a tension that would either subside or assume a tempestuous form depending upon individual achievement. The maturing sun half asleep behind the clouds, Viyona had entered the auditorium in their school, full of new hopes and fear. It was their last day in school.
The ceremony ended. The hall was empty. She sat there, in the very same place she had sat on the first day of her school life. She sat there, her entire academic record in hand, beating desperately against the heat of her fist, pounding again and again, that she did not deserve this treatment. That she deserved atleast one prize.
Viyona gazed at the golden clouds. She knew, that when she would stand at the century old gates of Auxillium, her honour would be avenged.
It was a cloudy morning. Viyona walked up to her teacher in-charge of the editorial board.
It was an airy classroom, buzzing with students chattering away in excitement. It did not take a long time for her to proofread her work for the Student Magazine. Her teacher had looked at her, a syrupy sweetness in her smile.
“Why do you try writing when you can’t write?”
It was then a silent classroom, yet the silence was not of emptiness. It was a heavy silence, a silence of denial. Fortitude knew how much Viyona wanted to be a writer; Faith knew how many writing competitions her school sent her to, Fact knew how many prizes she had brought.
Viyona gazed at the ochre-gold clouds. She knew, that when she would sit down to study in the dark beauty of Auxillium, her honour would be avenged.
It was a crisp autumn morning. Three months of rigorous rehearsals and commitment were to bring fruition on that day. Winning this inter-school fest would mean glory for her school as an institution, Viyona thought, as she looked at her reflection on the glass windowpane.
“So sorry to inform you sweetie, but the representative of the school has been changed. You don’t need to go the venue anymore.”
“But – but today is the final day! I have spent months preparing the students and myself for this one day! No you can’t do this!”
“Sorry dear. It is what it is.”
Silence. Viyona had looked outside the window. Birds flew happily in the sky, beholden to no one.
“What was my fault?”
“Oh no no! You haven’t done anything wrong. The teachers-in-charge decided that the class topper in your batch would be a better face as the school leader in that competition. It’s for our school’s good, isn’t it?”
“To send the one person who wasn’t even involved in this from the very start?”
“You can go as her assistant, I’m sure you will be allowed to –”
Viyona had smiled heartily.
A crooked smile has an enormous power of offense, and she was glad it had registered as just so. Financial prowess went a long way as far as school politics were concerned.
“Sleep. It cures all sadness. Sleep. Maybe this is all a dream, and in the morning, you’ll wake up and find yourself high up in the sky, en route to Auxillium, or wherever you want to!” Her father used to say.
Here she was, high up in the sky, avenging herself every moment. Today, the ones who had played a part in her every fall, congratulated her. Dramatic irony, she thought. “Let your revenge be enormous success”, Ms. Banerjee used to say.
She wanted her prize. Auxillium was her prize. She wanted revenge. Auxillium was revenge. She wanted freedom. Auxillium was freedom. She wanted her crown. Auxillium was her crown.
“Albeit there’s no sweeter revenge than this”, Viyona bit her lips and smiled at the scarlet clouds, deeper than the lovely locks of a Viking maiden. Revenge was not her ultimatum. Revenge was her religion. Viyona closed her eyes. She had won. The family that supported her had won. A few moments would bring her to a new life. A life which she was determined to fill with glory and academic excellence.
They were about to land any moment now, Viyona thought. All around her, the sun bathed the knowing sky in crimson, as a Grecian urn, with cryptic shapes and not so ancient knowledge that forged the lands and the waters.
“Do you want a biscuit sweetie?” Viyona looked up. The elderly woman right next to her held up an Oreo in her shaking fingers, a large smile on her face.
“Thank you!!!” Viyona said, letting her mouth fill with crisps and chocolate.
A few more hours to Victory, Viyona thought. She braced herself for a new beginning. This was her first plane journey, and she wondered if landing felt as weightless as the plane’s first steps in air.
“Passengers, this is not your captain speaking.”
Cold sweat. Gun shot. A scream.
“Make a wish”, said a sinister voice.
****