“We tell ourselves stories in order to live” -- from The White Album, Joan Didion
MATILDA’S WORLD
by Nandini Deka
(Continued…)
“So were you being a good boy when I was outside?” Matilda came out of the shower and hunted
her old nightie until she got it, and pulled it over her head. Her room was tiny, dirty; with things
scattered everywhere. She’d have to clean up someday, she thought to herself. “So like I was saying, I
got this awesome idea.”
She sat down by her old type-writer, at the edge of her bed. “I’m sure this time they’ll approve my
story and publish it. It’s unlike any I’ve written so far. You wanna hear it right? Of course you do.
Let me type it first, and read it out for you.”
She put a piece of paper inside the type-writer. She had typed something in it earlier as well, but it
could be re-used again. Of course, it could be. She had re-used the same paper over and over again
already, having told hundreds of stories through it.
A picture of Greg stood in an old photo-frame in front of the type-writer, by the wall. He was the
one who patiently listened to all her stories. Only he knew that the type-writer didn’t have any inkcartridge in it. He was dead, so her secret was safe.
“Warmth” by Vivek Kapoor