Water water everywhere, not a drop to drink

He lives near the river, across from the good bank. There's a grief looking at the flowing water, for now. It's slipping away, just the same as his mother's memory. The month of Ramzan would become an uncertain battleground. It was him who would now have to remind his mother of the fasts and hide the sweets in the secret unreachable shelves. 

"I have to go outside. The kitchen is locked, don't go searching for the food. We are fasting, remember?"

"Yes, we'll eat once you come back. You don't have to tell me every five minutes."

"See you at 7 pm, mother. Do not drink water." saying this he left for work, his body looking visibly tired with the underbags on his face, refusing to go away. It was hard to imagine that he was a child of just 16. He hadn't had water since 4 that morning. As he stepped out into the heat of the morning, the river mocked him. No splashing and no humidity, just a stiff stern glare stagnant and yet tilting towards a grin at his helplessness. He would have spit at such bullying if he had sufficient fluid in his body, alas, his tired hopeless body braved into the morbid heat.

He met his co-worker, energised and sweating under the yellow world. The plump boy next to the dried prune. "Ah prunes, even dried prunes!" he thought and sat with his numbing mind against the wall. The terrace happened to be one of the worst places to work from. There were no convenient utilities - not that he needed to use any these few days. 

He reached home at 7 pm, hungry as they come, ready to rush through his prayers to drink that glass of water that had been on his mind. As he climbed the stairs to his apartment, he imagined holding the cool glass. Filling it with cold water from the refrigerator. He imagined the number of glasses he would refill and gulp down. And just as his thirst was imaginably going to be quenched he turned the key to his home. The surprise was not so much meeting his mother, it was seeing his sweating mother sitting on the floor, cake smeared on her face with packets of chips, chocolates and juices lying all around her. It was like looking at a kid in a candy store, with no adult supervision. The sweet and junk fantasy of every television commercial. And just as he had suspected the volume of the TV echoed in the background with the melody of Amul Doodh haunting across the river. The tired teenager gave up and joined his mother, whispering the words of prayer into her ears. 

It was the kind of celebration only a mother and child could have. Chini Chips found their way into the house several times, the forgetfulness of respecting the festival was hereditary. Water was mixed in powders of orange and grape flavours. Water was mixed with lemon and generously served and shared with the neighbours. The kind gestures were returned with bowls of soup and helpings of milkshake made from Amul Doodh. Suddenly perspiring hands were exchanging bowls and plates filled with new sweets and meats.  How must one satisfy a hungry insatiable feast?

It was a blasphemous Iftari, if you ask the whispering women outside the door, peaking in, giggling and smiling at the mother and son. "No wonder her husband..." The feast continued, the cooked food had started becoming less cooked. The rawness was mirrored in the conversation of the onlookers. There was a rumour that even banana peels and lemon peels weren't untouched. 

The mother and son were focused on their hunger and the joy they found in the messy giggling and stuffing of each other's faces. It was a joy to dance to "Taste mein best, Mummy our Everest." While feeding your mother. Their munching rate was faster than the rate at which they made the Maggi. Their teeth dug and pulled at every

The meat was about to get over and there were shards of chicken strewn about the floor. Spit was once again flying about the air, the strewn bits of chicken became a game of treasure hunt. Grabbing away from each other. Their bodies clashing as they devoured every last morsel on the floor. There was no sense of what was being eaten, just a sense of energy from a newfound lack of hunger. The food in the refrigerator and all the boxes was over. Uncooked atta was noticed and immediately flung into the other's mouth - Dusty and fluid - oil was mixed and poured into a gaping mouth. "Mix it in your stomach, it will become roti." 

"I can make roti, I bet you can't cook rice in your stomach."

"Let me try before you accuse me of anything more."

"Here are the raw grains."

"They taste salty, and dry. I need water to swallow them." 

The food in her stomach, whispered small prayers as it dragged her towards the floor. The grains merged and merged, laughing at the small space in the dark tummy. Unanimously they voted to drop towards the floor. Taking the woman with them, tingling her heart and her veins, pulling at the strings and messing around with her wires just as she had messed up their brothers and sisters with her canines. This was revenge and she wouldn't survive the wrath she had begged for. Her heart became too weak, weaker than her mind, as she joined the last of the food on her journey to the floor. Hitting the hardness, she shrivelled out of herself and guffawed a loud scream.

"Are you the orphan that killed his senile mother?" the lady with a brown dupatta and a sinister smile on her face asked the starving boy, "You look hungry, do you want to eat some rice?"

He stood there, a shudder running down his spine, "No, thank you. Just some water, please?"

P.S. This piece is not meant to offend any religious or any sentiments. I apologise wholeheartedly if I have in some way crossed any line. The story is purely a fictitious piece about a twisted incident gone awry. Please read it as a fiction piece with good intentions.