The day was done. After 24 hours of bustling crowds and raucous children crying for candy and teenagers seeking for a refuge from the watchful eyes of the judgmental aged behind the caravans with flaking paint, the original inhabitant of the carnival glided back in, as it did every night. In a matter of minutes, the cacophony of a hundred sounds was reduced to the dull whispering of silence that could be heard in the distant flap of the wings of a bat or the gentle moaning of the wind. The gates of Alfredo's carnival squeezed and creaked shut with as much pomp and noise as the announcement of the arrival of a king would command and as the crowd was ushered out, in came the inhabitant that had been aforementioned. As the people left, Silence arrived.
Tonight, however, the universe had different plans for Alfredo's Carnival of the Magnificent.
Tonight, the silence was not allowed to enter.
Our tale begins in the little caravan of Madame Ara. Garish burgundy adorned the front door that hung on hinges that were now of retiring age, and found themselves afflicted by the arthritis of rust to an extent where it would be easier to break solid wood every time one wish to enter. A sloppily rendered visage of Madame herself was painted on its side, to which she wrinkled her nose every time she passed it, not without commenting that her nose could not possibly be that wrinkled. In its current destitute state, one could surmise that every creak and groan (and there were many) was a plea for it to be relegated to the junkyard for a life of peace and rusting.
The door was left open and the wind decided to make itself at home, shuffling through the papers on the desk and playing with the curtains on the tiny little windows, stained with dust and grime. Madame Ara herself, hardly the wizened old lady her name seemed to portray, was plagued by what only the Young and Sprightly could boast of- raging hormones and a questionable moral compass. She also suffered from what affects only the most beautiful and equally stupid of us, and her symptoms included but were not restricted to waltzing into the arms of every filthy rich cadaver that underwent a momentary lapse of judgement and opened his arms to her. As always, this resulted in an invitation to the young gent's boarding and bed, where Madame's virtue, or what was left of it, was stolen and lost in the rhythmic creaking of bed springs, sweaty bodies pressed against each other and a fumbling stutter of hands as they went about their lascivious job, and she was prone to finding herself in the morning with a ten peseta coin beside her head (misunderstandings having visited and left a calling card) and hopes of escaping the circus life in the arms of her latest prince Gallant dashed to the ground.
Needless to say, the Wind found itself quiet and truly alone in the caravan. Tired of its activity of shuffling through papers and the repetitive testing of the hinges of every door and window that had the misfortune of attempting to resist it, its gaze now rested on the two shapes it spied on the top shelf of the second wardrobe to the right.
It made its way past the creaking bed with the brown sheets that were originally meant to be white, but Madame Ara's neglect had played artist and painted splotches of brown and green onto its countenance. The floor barely creaked under its light step. It made its way past the desk with the toppled ink and shuffled papers and the rocking chair that boasted of a bloodline longer than most people who visited the carnival could admit to, and finally arrived at the epicenter of its attention.
The wardrobe.
It took nothing more than a simple touch for the door to fly open and the handle to fling itself upon the walls where, after a crash and some splinters of Rowan puncturing the air, it lay at rest on the stained carpet floor. The air inside the wardrobe was moist, and in it lay suspended a musty, fungal odor as if the murky corners of the wardrobe were where Madame's virtue had shriveled up and died. The wardrobe itself boasted of three shelves, one lopsided, one broken, and one intact, in contrast to the rest of the caravan. Upon this shelf, lay the objects that had piqued our friend's interest in the first place. Dolls.
Two miniature, beautifully rendered wooden representations of human beings rested on the shelf, one male, and the other female, with painted hand of the male having found its place tenderly upon the female's. The male figurine wore a simple red checkered shirt and brown trousers, and had the faint engraving of a smile on his lips. Red cheeks and big, brown eyes adorned his face and painted lines adorned his palms - all rendered in exquisite detail. Perfect brown shoes complete with grooves on their soles were found on the feet. Right beside him, lay what appeared to be his female counterpart. Blushed cheeks and the same big, brown eyes that lay on her friends face, a paisley complexion and eyes so incredibly rendered that one could almost hear the laughter they exhumed. A wisp of a waistline that had an intense feminine beauty to it, hardly hidden underneath the yellow sundress that lay on her body, it's folds reacting to the Wind much the same as lilies in a meadow, and slender hands - one that lay under her friend's.
This was how the wind found them. Lifeless, and yet so full of life. Dusty, and yet so clean of wooden heart. Tucked away in a dark corner of a dark wardrobe in a caravan that even sunlight thinks thrice about entering, and yet, so bright of smile. There was something incredibly tender of two lifeless little wooden beings staring at the rotting roof of an abandoned wardrobe that most humans of the time could not accomplish. The simple beauty of an eternity spent with hands touching, staring at the same 'sky' and never wanting to leave.
Love, you see, is more or less the same thing. An eternity of hands touching, and trusting that the hand that you touch will never withdraw. Lying on your backs in dark corners, and never losing that smile you have, whether you have to paint it on or not. Yellow sundresses like lilies in the wind and checkered shirts. In that dark caravan, little wooden lifeless dolls represented what 1700 years of humanity still found it hard to understand.
Just as the Wind failed to understand.
It saw the lifeless eyes and wooden faces, and it took pity on the little ones. It thought that their love deserved more than lying in dark corners, and didn't think once that it is only in the darkest of corners that love shines the brightest. It took the little ones in its arms and carried them to the front steps of the caravan, which it decided will be their new resting place, where moonlight would kiss their rosy cheeks and the wind could stave off the dust from settling onto their limbs, and the fireflies could be coerced into setting up dance after dance of their twinkling bodies against the Prussian sky.
The Wind wanted to breathe life into into them. It wanted them to feel and celebrate their love for the entirety of one night, and be alive with it. To have love and life flowing through their veins and into each other without realizing that even though life does not, love flows through them just as surely as blood through veins, and dripped off wooden lips even as they couldn't kiss the other. To have hands not just touching, but fiercely entangled in in each, without realizing that love deals best with tender touches as opposed to fierce holds. The Wind wanted them to love each other in life as they could not in unlife, without realize that to love in life would not be much of a difference.
Oh, Wind, you poor fool.
With a tiny breathe that could not move a petal from a leaf, life snuggled into the little ones. Groaning wooden joints creaked to life and lifeless eyes could see into one another. A little sundress stood up and danced in the wind, and complimenting it stood a red checkered shirt. Hands that once lay upon the other now grew apart as they looked into the sky and grooves made in wooden boots found a grip in the wooden cracks of the caravan steps.
Thus, the little ones came to life. A life that was to last a single night, and the coming morning was when they must go back to the dark wardrobe of theirs. With the skillful cricket announcing the vast emptiness of the circus that was to be theirs for 8 hours, the little dolls looked into what they had in store for them.
Then they made their way back into the caravan.
Helping each other climb the stairs.
Supporting the other as their joins cracked and splinters were lost to the air.
Making their way across the carpet, inch by inch, their tiny steps muffled by the carpet and resulting in a rhythmic thudding that was the loudest sound that was heard in the night. Soon enough, they reached the wardrobe and found themselves at the top shelf. They found where they had been lying through the spaces where the dust had refused to settle, and sprinkling some of it back onto their bodies, little sundress and red checkered shirt lay back down.
One hand upon the other.
Tender wooden hearts made beating by the wind for one night waited for when they would stop beating again, and look forward to another eternity.
- Utkarsh Pathak
Tonight, however, the universe had different plans for Alfredo's Carnival of the Magnificent.
Tonight, the silence was not allowed to enter.
Our tale begins in the little caravan of Madame Ara. Garish burgundy adorned the front door that hung on hinges that were now of retiring age, and found themselves afflicted by the arthritis of rust to an extent where it would be easier to break solid wood every time one wish to enter. A sloppily rendered visage of Madame herself was painted on its side, to which she wrinkled her nose every time she passed it, not without commenting that her nose could not possibly be that wrinkled. In its current destitute state, one could surmise that every creak and groan (and there were many) was a plea for it to be relegated to the junkyard for a life of peace and rusting.
The door was left open and the wind decided to make itself at home, shuffling through the papers on the desk and playing with the curtains on the tiny little windows, stained with dust and grime. Madame Ara herself, hardly the wizened old lady her name seemed to portray, was plagued by what only the Young and Sprightly could boast of- raging hormones and a questionable moral compass. She also suffered from what affects only the most beautiful and equally stupid of us, and her symptoms included but were not restricted to waltzing into the arms of every filthy rich cadaver that underwent a momentary lapse of judgement and opened his arms to her. As always, this resulted in an invitation to the young gent's boarding and bed, where Madame's virtue, or what was left of it, was stolen and lost in the rhythmic creaking of bed springs, sweaty bodies pressed against each other and a fumbling stutter of hands as they went about their lascivious job, and she was prone to finding herself in the morning with a ten peseta coin beside her head (misunderstandings having visited and left a calling card) and hopes of escaping the circus life in the arms of her latest prince Gallant dashed to the ground.
Needless to say, the Wind found itself quiet and truly alone in the caravan. Tired of its activity of shuffling through papers and the repetitive testing of the hinges of every door and window that had the misfortune of attempting to resist it, its gaze now rested on the two shapes it spied on the top shelf of the second wardrobe to the right.
It made its way past the creaking bed with the brown sheets that were originally meant to be white, but Madame Ara's neglect had played artist and painted splotches of brown and green onto its countenance. The floor barely creaked under its light step. It made its way past the desk with the toppled ink and shuffled papers and the rocking chair that boasted of a bloodline longer than most people who visited the carnival could admit to, and finally arrived at the epicenter of its attention.
The wardrobe.
It took nothing more than a simple touch for the door to fly open and the handle to fling itself upon the walls where, after a crash and some splinters of Rowan puncturing the air, it lay at rest on the stained carpet floor. The air inside the wardrobe was moist, and in it lay suspended a musty, fungal odor as if the murky corners of the wardrobe were where Madame's virtue had shriveled up and died. The wardrobe itself boasted of three shelves, one lopsided, one broken, and one intact, in contrast to the rest of the caravan. Upon this shelf, lay the objects that had piqued our friend's interest in the first place. Dolls.
Two miniature, beautifully rendered wooden representations of human beings rested on the shelf, one male, and the other female, with painted hand of the male having found its place tenderly upon the female's. The male figurine wore a simple red checkered shirt and brown trousers, and had the faint engraving of a smile on his lips. Red cheeks and big, brown eyes adorned his face and painted lines adorned his palms - all rendered in exquisite detail. Perfect brown shoes complete with grooves on their soles were found on the feet. Right beside him, lay what appeared to be his female counterpart. Blushed cheeks and the same big, brown eyes that lay on her friends face, a paisley complexion and eyes so incredibly rendered that one could almost hear the laughter they exhumed. A wisp of a waistline that had an intense feminine beauty to it, hardly hidden underneath the yellow sundress that lay on her body, it's folds reacting to the Wind much the same as lilies in a meadow, and slender hands - one that lay under her friend's.
This was how the wind found them. Lifeless, and yet so full of life. Dusty, and yet so clean of wooden heart. Tucked away in a dark corner of a dark wardrobe in a caravan that even sunlight thinks thrice about entering, and yet, so bright of smile. There was something incredibly tender of two lifeless little wooden beings staring at the rotting roof of an abandoned wardrobe that most humans of the time could not accomplish. The simple beauty of an eternity spent with hands touching, staring at the same 'sky' and never wanting to leave.
Love, you see, is more or less the same thing. An eternity of hands touching, and trusting that the hand that you touch will never withdraw. Lying on your backs in dark corners, and never losing that smile you have, whether you have to paint it on or not. Yellow sundresses like lilies in the wind and checkered shirts. In that dark caravan, little wooden lifeless dolls represented what 1700 years of humanity still found it hard to understand.
Just as the Wind failed to understand.
It saw the lifeless eyes and wooden faces, and it took pity on the little ones. It thought that their love deserved more than lying in dark corners, and didn't think once that it is only in the darkest of corners that love shines the brightest. It took the little ones in its arms and carried them to the front steps of the caravan, which it decided will be their new resting place, where moonlight would kiss their rosy cheeks and the wind could stave off the dust from settling onto their limbs, and the fireflies could be coerced into setting up dance after dance of their twinkling bodies against the Prussian sky.
The Wind wanted to breathe life into into them. It wanted them to feel and celebrate their love for the entirety of one night, and be alive with it. To have love and life flowing through their veins and into each other without realizing that even though life does not, love flows through them just as surely as blood through veins, and dripped off wooden lips even as they couldn't kiss the other. To have hands not just touching, but fiercely entangled in in each, without realizing that love deals best with tender touches as opposed to fierce holds. The Wind wanted them to love each other in life as they could not in unlife, without realize that to love in life would not be much of a difference.
Oh, Wind, you poor fool.
With a tiny breathe that could not move a petal from a leaf, life snuggled into the little ones. Groaning wooden joints creaked to life and lifeless eyes could see into one another. A little sundress stood up and danced in the wind, and complimenting it stood a red checkered shirt. Hands that once lay upon the other now grew apart as they looked into the sky and grooves made in wooden boots found a grip in the wooden cracks of the caravan steps.
Thus, the little ones came to life. A life that was to last a single night, and the coming morning was when they must go back to the dark wardrobe of theirs. With the skillful cricket announcing the vast emptiness of the circus that was to be theirs for 8 hours, the little dolls looked into what they had in store for them.
Then they made their way back into the caravan.
Helping each other climb the stairs.
Supporting the other as their joins cracked and splinters were lost to the air.
Making their way across the carpet, inch by inch, their tiny steps muffled by the carpet and resulting in a rhythmic thudding that was the loudest sound that was heard in the night. Soon enough, they reached the wardrobe and found themselves at the top shelf. They found where they had been lying through the spaces where the dust had refused to settle, and sprinkling some of it back onto their bodies, little sundress and red checkered shirt lay back down.
One hand upon the other.
Tender wooden hearts made beating by the wind for one night waited for when they would stop beating again, and look forward to another eternity.
- Utkarsh Pathak