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Creative writing - The Disappearance.

Extracts from this document...

Introduction

The Disappearance At first when they heard about the disappearance they didn't believe it. "Why, we saw her the other day at the Ram Ratan grocery store" they proclaimed. "Yes, didn't she wave to us yesterday with her little boy? He looked just like her. We spoke to her the other day, she had that salwar-kameez on, yes she never did wear English clothes." "Terrible" others whined. "Its getting so that nobody's safe here in London these days." Because that's what everyone thought. Crime. It must have been. How else could an Indian woman in a bright flowered lime sari and Nike walking shoes just disappear? So thinking the worst, that maybe Zeneve had been abducted, raped or maybe even murdered, her husband reported her missing that very night. She'd been out for her evening walk he told the police. She took one everyday after he got back from the office. Yes, yes always alone. She said it was her time alone, time for herself. Away from the bubbling curries in their non-stick pans as they hissed on the cooker, away from the never ending chores that had to be done, her own tranquil world where the domesticated wife was non-existent...that's how she had put it to him. (He didn't quite understand that, but was happy to watch his little boy play football with him, perhaps, until she returned to serve them dinner.) "Did you folks have a quarrel?" the policeman inquired with a stern look on his podgy face as he looked up from his notepad. "No" the husband retorted, looking directly into his eyes, "of course we didn't." Later, he would think about what the policeman had asked, while he sat in front of his computer in his office, or while he lay in the bed, which still seemed to smell of her. (But surely that was his imagination-the linen had been washed already.) ...read more.

Middle

The next time his mother queried (as she had ever since she had got there) "Shall I put all those saris and kameezes away, it'll give you more space in the wardrobe?" He responded by saying, "If you like." When she proclaimed, "It's been a year since the tragedy, shouldn't we have a prayer service at the temple?" He said, "Ok." And when she exclaimed, "You really should think about getting married again, you're still young and besides the boy needs a mother. Shall I contact your second aunt back home?" he remained silent, but didn't disagree. So on an inky, starlit night, he walked into his bedroom and sat on the bed. It still seemed to be as though his wife was still there. The chandelier shimmered every colour of the rainbow; her perfumes were scattered here and there on the mahogany dressing table, tall like towers. The cream canopy hung above the bed, embossed with a floral pattern, blending in with the matching bed covers and curtains. The laminated flooring, still the golden colour of sand, gleamed as it took the weight of several plants in ceramic pots. And her scent still seemed to live amongst the smell of his deodorant and after-shave. He ran his hands across the duvet, thick yards of silk ran in-between his fingers, the texture of his wife's hair. The room was deadly silent but if he listened hard enough, he could still hear her steady breathing, still felt her moist lips. Then he felt a lump underneath him...it was coming from the mattress. Perplexed, he stood up and pulled up the mattress to see a bulky, blue book. Pulling it out he saw the word diary written on it in a gold calligraphy style. Why hadn't he found it before? Well, he never did have any idea that his wife would keep a diary. After all, he always though of her as to a woman who didn't have many thoughts and ideas...so even the thought of a diary seemed bizarre. ...read more.

Conclusion

Yes, she had lived three years in fear too. Fear of being found by her husband. Fear of going back into that very world where she had just about escaped from. However, she started a course at college for secretaries and within three years she had reached, what she thought to be her full potential. Now, she worked for a small firm in Manchester as a secretary. With her husband still in London, she was confident he would never find her. With a decent wage she had brought a small two bedroomed house and although not fully to her taste, it was satisfactory. No more salwar kameezees or saris...jeans, two piece suits, trousers, blouses and even skirts. She had discovered her curvaceous body at last that had been hidden for years under baggie, unfitted Indian clothes. But she often wondered that whether what she had done had maybe been a sin. After all she had abandoned her child...who she still pined for. Did her little boy remember her? Had he forgotten her? Did he have a new mother? Or had his father poisoned his mind against her? She would never go back. Never. Even though on countless occasions she had thought about visiting her son she did not have the courage to see her husband. However, her life had changed for the better. Now, when Zeneve looked into the mirror she no longer saw the reflection of an abused, oppressed, domesticated Indian wife in gaudy saris. Now, her reflection was that of an educated, sophisticated, independent, elegant woman...still Indian but westernised too, just how she liked it. Zeneve had fulfilled her dreams now, all of them. She had found her personality, she had found her own identity and most importantly...she had the confidence to live her life, on her own terms. As for her son, who would now be seven years old, she would never forget him. And maybe, just maybe, one day, she would get to see him...and if she didn't, she would live the rest of her life with the precious and everlasting memories that she had of him... 11 1 ...read more.

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