Garden: A short story by Mukta Singh-Zocchi

Little Brother’s tummy rumbled so loud, it jolted me awake, pulling me away from my dreams. Sleep fled, but my thoughts didn’t. They began to wander, as they often do. “Everything happens for a reason,” they say — but has anyone ever asked me what I think? I, too, have a few things to say.

No one listens, but that doesn’t mean I stop thinking.

Take the heat from a few days ago. It was oppressive, swallowing the air, drying up our throats until they were scratchy, our tongues curling like shriveled leaves in our parched mouths. Little Brother’s cries pierced the silence, sharp and shrill. He wasn’t alone. The neighborhood echoed with similar cries — some near, some faint. And yet, every time he cried, Mama pulled him close, shielding him under her warmth.

“Hush,” she whispered, her voice soft and urgent. “They’ll hear you.” She nuzzled him gently, letting him suckle her dry teat, her eyes half-closed in worry.

Then the heat broke, giving way to a sultry stillness. Like this morning. We learned to grab at the dew clinging to leaves, gulping the tiny drops to soothe our thirst. Sweet fragrances hung thick in the air, swirling around our nest, tucked beneath the spry bougainvillea branches. I stretched my neck, breathing deeply, letting the scents fill me, wishing — wishing! — that they could also fill my tummy.

Dadda didn’t return last night.

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We were hungry. But then again, “we” weren’t as many as before. There was a time when our nest overflowed with life, every inch teeming with warmth, laughter, and movement. Now, it’s just Little Brother and me, a pair of lonely siblings huddled under Mama’s wings. The moment I press myself into Mama’s arms, she starts grooming me. I gaze into her face, so full of unspoken meanings. When I look at her, I see the world.

This morning, Mama’s face was clouded with worry. I saw it in the way her eyes darted, the slight tilt of her head. “Take care of the brood,” she said, her voice firm yet tender. “Don’t step out.”

The brood. That’s what she calls us. But the brood has dwindled, hasn’t it? Little Brother and I — just two. Once, we were many.

On most days, Mama stayed with us. Nights were for play. We’d jump, chase, and tumble, our tiny cries of “Hoi!” and “La!” ringing out as we nipped at each other’s necks. Mama would hush us, but her eyes betrayed her amusement. And we’d laugh harder, louder, until the night dissolved into morning, and we fell asleep, spent and happy.

But those days are gone.

Now, I’m wide awake, huddled close to Little Brother, watching him breathe rapidly in his sleep. I can’t sleep anymore. Dadda’s absence gnaws at me. Each time he came home, he’d give Mama food, settle into his corner, and watch us play. His low, contented booms filled the air, a comforting presence. Now, the silence feels vast.

I rise, unable to bear it any longer. I part the bougainvillea’s sprigs and peer out, stealing a glimpse of the world beyond. Magnificent! The world stretches blue and endless beneath me. It’s dazzling. Why are we kept from it?

I see grapes hanging in festive clusters, dangling like juicy teats. Below, a black cat prowls, her movements sleek and confident, while a dog sprawls lazily in the sun. Envy claws at me.

Flowers sway gently, their colors vivid against the green. I sway too, caught in their rhythm. Is there music? I stretch higher, listening, but only hear the mingled cries of joy and despair.

Then, a woman appears, her voice breaking through the noise. She calls out softly, cradling a little bag in her hands. From it, she rolls out small pebbly things into her palm. The dog leaps up, tail wagging, while the cat pads over, her movements fluid.

“This is for you,” the woman says, placing a morsel before the dog. “And this is for you,” she adds, offering another to the cat. Her voice is musical, its sweetness weaving a spell around me. The pebbles vanish in an instant, but she continues, placing more, her voice repeating the melody: “This is for you. And this is for you.”

My mouth works feverishly, an involuntary response to the feast unfolding below. I fight the urge to join them, my gaze fixed on her gentle hands and lilting words.

A squirrel scolds from the rooftop, snapping me from my reverie. I shrink behind a leaf, heart pounding. The dog growls low, the cat stiffens, but the woman laughs, soothing them. Another figure emerges — a man, carrying a bag and a ladder. He climbs swiftly, filling a gutter bowl with seeds. I imagine the crunch, the taste, and feel my hunger deepen.

What is this place? This glowing haven of warmth and abundance? Is this the mythical land of plenty?

A shriek pierces the air, sharp and sudden. The cat freezes. The dog stiffens. My heart races.

Then I see her. Mama.

The gardener has her by the tail.

A wave of horror crashes over me. The woman shrieks, dropping her bag, while the man stands frozen.

Where are you, Dadda? Why aren’t you here? You’d have fluffed up your feathers, hissed, bared your teeth, and driven him away. You’d have fought for Mama.

But you’re not here.

Life, I realize, can be horrible for no reason at all.

“Rat-a-tat.”

The sound jolts me. I must go. I must leave, take Little Brother, and find a new place — a safe place.

“Rat-a-tat-a-tat!”

I’ll dive into deep waters, burrow into the earth, climb tall poles, and find food. I’ll make a home underground, where no one can harm us.

“Rat-a-tat-a-tat!”

I’ll find a mate, have many pups, and build a new brood. And we’ll live, away from this cruel, beautiful, terrible world.

“Rat-a-tat-a-tat!”

Yes, I’ll leave. I’ll burrow deep, where life can’t touch us. Where we can be safe.

Rat-a-tat-a-tat.