Short Story
Mystery Mail
artwork by amina
Things never seemed to go well for Afra. Sometimes she wondered if she was always going to be doomed to bad luck. Maybe it was her star sign that didn't bode well for her. Taurus, the bull! What good was a bullish nature to an attractive teenager? Why couldn't she have been born a Virgo a beautiful, svelte creature? Or Libra, nice and perfectly balanced? Or even Leo, the audacious and courageous Lion? Then again, she thought, her misfortune could all be to do with her name: 'Afra'! She'd once looked it up. Apparently it meant 'dust-coloured'. 'How dull, how mundane', she'd thought, with a tinge of disappointment. Why couldn't she have been blessed with a name like 'Misha', meaning 'pretty', 'Faiza', meaning 'leader', or even 'Farhine', meaning 'jubilant'? How had she become burdened with a name that shed no light on any of her inner qualities? So often people told her she had so many merits: honesty, charm, beauty, wisdom, warmth, style, elegance, wit and even humour. Oh, what misfortune not to have these echoed in her name! She'd frequently wondered if someone had once cursed her. Was someone jealous of her looks, of her numerous talents (music, art, cookery, flower arranging), or even envious of her brains? Since childhood she'd been told she was a mathematical genius, and she'd won many prizes throughout her school and college life. Maybe she was a victim of someone's nozor? Her friends had grace, sophistication, magnetism, allure. She had none of those attributes. Everyone else was so lucky, but for Afra, luck just never seemed to be on the cards. Take today, for instance. She'd been walking away from the private college that she attended with her friends, holding some freshly made chanachoor in her hands. Just as they'd turned a corner a crow had flown so close it had scared her into dropping her chanachoor onto the floor. Her friends had laughed as the crow pecked at the jhaal pieces scattered around her and yes, OK, it was only a minor incident, but it just proved her point. Life was not fair. Didn't her favourite doll get lost when she was a child? And what about the time she'd fallen off the swing and scarred her elbow (a scar she still bore today)? More recently things were going badly too. She'd hoped to come top in her music exam last week, but despite studying so hard and practicing so much, she'd only come second. Mirza had come top, and he'd never before done as well as her; he was just a precocious, chubby little mite! The recent traumas didn't end there. The car had been in a minor mishap on the way back from picking her up from college the other day, and needed to go to the garage as a result; she'd need to get a friend to pick her up for college for the next few days. And to top it all, the maid had burnt a hole in one of her new, most trendy tops! It never rains, it pours, she mused. That evening Afra sat gloomily at her dressing table, brushing her thick, dark bob-cut hair and contemplating life's unfairness. Her mother silently walked up behind Afra and, putting her arms around her young daughter's shoulders while looking at their reflection, she said: 'Ki Ma, ki hoiyeche? Mon Karaap?' Afra looked up at her mother. 'Nothing Ma, just tired I guess'. Her mother gave Afra's chin a loving wiggle. Gently pinching Afra's cheek she whispered: 'Go to sleep now. You'll find everything's fine in the morning.' And with a kiss placed tenderly on Afra's head, her mother wafted out of the room. But Afra didn't really feel tired in a sleepy way…just tired of not being a success, of not being popular, of being such a bore. She couldn't empathise with her mother's joyous optimism. Eager to try and shift her disconsolate mood, Afra got out her little laptop and, sitting cross-legged on her silky blue bedspread, she connected the laptop to the internet. She'd check out 'Facebook', the social networking site that all her friends used. On first logging in, Afra got a newsfeed. 'So-and-so' had sent someone else a kiss, a heart, a cake, a flower. Nothing for her. She looked closely at the random, spontaneous snapshots of her friends, taken at college or at parties, with their comments to each other. 'Shaiza, you are soooo gorgeous, I'm dead jealous' or 'Manika, you look sizzlin' HOT in this pic'. Hmmph! No-one made comments like that about her. Afra clicked on 'profile' and mused over her own profile picture. It was an old black and white passport photo; she didn't really have any recent digital pictures that were good enough for all to see. Maybe the profile picture didn't really do her justice. She couldn't show her dazzling white smile, and her luscious hair had been scraped back into a severe ponytail, making her seem older than her tender years. She'd worn no makeup and looked pale, dust-coloured even! 'I'll have to change that picture', she thought. Still feeling wide awake, Afra decided to browse her friend's profiles. She knew she had 72 friends. But Lamia had 112, and Naila had 133. And Naila even had a friend who had 284 friends! 284? How lucky was that girl. There really was no justice in the world! Afra frowned, producing fine lines on her smooth, blemish-less skin. Why oh why was life so cruel to her? Why did no-one love, admire, or even deify her? Brimming with self pity (or was it with a need to torture and torment herself further? After all, misery loves company) she decided to check her e-mails. Well, no surprise there; just e-mails about course work, timetables, lecture schedules. No party invites, no messages of affection. No one was thinking of her. No one cared. Afra was just about to shut down her computer when she decided to clear out her junk box. Forty unread messages were glaring angrily back at her. A quick scan of senders' names revealed they were from the usual suspects; she ignored them, she knew they were full of rubbish. Dejected, she sighed. Just as she was about to tick each one and select 'delete', she noticed an e-mail from 'tagore'. Her curiosity was aroused. This wasn't one of the usual junk e-mail names, yet she also knew no-one called Tagore (well, no-one personally, of course!). She hesitated. Should she open it? Would it be trash, the catalyst for hundreds of other junk e-mails to be sent to her address? She really should delete it. Her hand hovered over the delete button. But just as her finger touched the edge of the 'delete' key, her curiosity got the better of her. She drew back, stroked her chin, took in a deep breath and quickly double-clicked the message. The message was just one line, in a plain font, with no indication of who the sender was: 'If you shed tears when you miss the sun, you also miss the stars.' What a curious thing, Afra reflected! Who could have sent her that message? And what did it mean? She shut down her laptop, mulling over the message. She would need to sleep on this. Although she had always got top marks in all her English classes, she knew that poetry wasn't her forte. And she also knew that her brain worked well in her sleep; all would soon be clear. Afra reclined back on her pillow. She closed her eyes, gently murmuring to herself: 'If you shed tears when you miss the sun, you also miss the stars.' She lay there with her eyes shut, hearing the faint hum of the air conditioner and feeling its soft, cool breeze on her face. Various thoughts entered her head. Tears. Sadness. Grief. Misery. Melancholy. Gloom. Everything seemed so dark. Shadowy colours rose up around her: Brown, burgundy, umber, myrtle. There was an eerie vision of the sun being split into two behind a razor-shaped, surrealist-inspired cloud. Her heart felt heavy, full of sorrow. She was perched on the edge of a precipice. Something was calling her, pulling her down. She could feel she was sinking. She wanted to cry. Tears would bring relief, she felt. She tried to release those tears, but felt frustrated as they just would not flow. Something was now pulling at her, but this time from behind. She felt her mother's arms around her shoulders. She looked to her side and saw her friends, dressed in silver and gold, laughingly putting their arms through hers. Her tutors arose from behind the darkness, which she realized now was just a curtain, and beckoned with outstretched fingers. He father's mild but sturdy voice was calling out her name. She saw her reflection in a shimmering lake. It wasn't clear at first, and then she saw a bull looking back at her, with huge, kind eyes. Lilting music played in the distance. Afra felt light. Her shoulders, which had felt tight, began to ease. The fragrance of boshonto filled the air, yet she saw soft snow fall in sombre silence around her. Afra put out her hand to catch the flakes, something she had never experienced for real. She looked at her hands and was amazed to see the letters of her name, made of the most fine muslin and lace filigree. Afra stretched out her arms and let the flaked letters delicately float to the floor, each making a tinkling sound as it touched the soft surface. And in the distance she heard a chorus of chorai paaki sing: 'If you shed tears when you miss the sun, you also miss the stars'. The following morning Afra woke with the sun in her eyes. Everything seemed different, cleaner, fresher, more fragrant. Her mother's sing-song voice filled the air. Her sheets felt cool and glossy. Her skin tingled. The world was so wonderful; she was so fortunate! What had she felt so morose about last night? She was young, pretty, talented, bright, admired and loved. She felt full of excitement. The world had so much in store for her! She couldn't wait to get to college and tell all her friends about her mysterious message and amazing dream. Julie Reza is a writer/doctor in the UK.
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