When the Gale Stole the Flame!

The half-burned candle struggled to keep its flame burning steadily. He looked sharply into the glowing tongue of fire tossing with the constant caresses of the gust that intruded through the closed window panes. The dark paws of the night straining hard to squeeze the flame into a smoldering wick. The nocturnal jasmine emitted its fragrance wreathing all around switching into a state of inebriation. For the night had already swallowed even the last string of the day like a python swallowing its prey. I saw through the broken window the storm clouds moving hastily in severe birth pangs to bring forth the thunderstorms. Holding his little palms close to the dwindling candle he, attempted hard to immortalize its flame. The aroma of the Palappoo mixed with the aroma of jasmine flowers began filling the room. “If the downpour continues all the night, how will I collect the flowers from the mountain?” He breathed hard to savor the mixed scent of the flowers.

“All the flowers must be scattered all around, some even carried away to the unknown destinations in the arms of the whirlwind.” He sighed in disappointment.  

Outside his little house, the wind began catching up its pace, forcing the candle to meltdown one of its shoulders completely. “Will the flames go out?” He feared the wind and held his little arms close to the flame like a mighty siege. Few tiny rays escaped through his fingers and drew dark images on the white walls around. They looked like huge vultures spreading its wings, and even in the pitch dark their eyes seemed like red fireballs. However, he withdrew his arms with a sudden jolt as the flames began embracing his little fingers.

“Why is this flame so hot?”

He examined his supple fingers closely embraced by the flame while turning them red. Placing them into his wide opened mouth, he sucked it like a toddler suckling on the bosom of his mother. The pain melted away in his warm mouth gradually and vanished soon. Suddenly, a thought breached his innocent mind,

“If this dwindling flame could burn my finger, how much more my father would have felt when he was set ablaze on the pile of wood.”

“But why didn’t my father cry at all?”

When the flambeau was handed over to him to set his father’s pyre on fire, he cried out loudly refusing to burn his father. But people around forced him. When he asked his mother innocently to let him free of this cruel deed, she kept mum, sobbing in tears. His mother’s silence tore his heart, for a while he wished, ‘at least my mother could stop me from burning my father.’ But she stood far away stooping her head down and waling as the flames competed each other to touch the sky in haste.

It was then he desperately wished for a rain, and the sky remained dry and impassive, mercilessly scorching his damp body dry. Neither the people around nor the sky showed him any mercy. As the crowd gathered left one by one, an ember from his father’s pyre peeped him through the ash that concealed it. Mistaking him to his father’s eye, he pounced to grab his charred father.

“The poor boy is hysteric.” The crowd shunned it away with empathy.

Burning his palms and chest alike, he saw his mother flat on the ground.

True, the fire burns, be it his father or a smoldering wick.

There came in a strong wind gushing through the broken window pane, and pushing through his little fingers stole the candle’s flame away. The night won over the room and began its reign with pride. While the scent of the flowers was melted away in the fury of the gale, as he departed to his cozy bed with a heavy heart.