Flash Fiction, 2nd 500 Words of Story 2. (Chuck Wendig). 18-09-2014
Keeda peeled off the lottery ticket and gave his entire cash to the ticket collector. The guy didn’t even glance at the ticket that was worth two or three trains-full of rides. No one ever gave Keeda a second glance. He’d have to do something about that. Immediately. Otherwise no one would believe he hadn’t stolen the ticket.
Keeda stepped over the masses and ignored the many more heads looking down from the tiers. He entered the reeking toilet, and after doing his business, removed his clothes. Squatting by the low tap, Keeda washed what he parts of his body he could. The rest he scrubbed with his dampened cotton muffler. Knowing that the bullies in the carriage would hoot at him, he stashed the ticket in his trouser pocket and washed his shirt with water, wringing it out as best he could.
The inevitable banging at the door started. “Other people need to use the latrine.” In Telugu.
Keeda pushed past the men, getting yelps of disgust when his wet shirt touched them. Looking at himself in the steel rectangle mirror, he slicked back his thick hair with tap water, using his fingers as a rough comb. It would have to do.
“Oi, beauty queen, you smell sweet as a sewer,” a pockmarked lout jeered in Punjabi.
His friends joined in the heckling.
Ignoring them Keeda returned to his spot. He didn’t feel like squeezing himself amongst the smelly passengers on the filthy floor. His hand on a handrail, Keeda’s eyes followed his nose to chapatti-wrapped potatoes a mother was handing to her children. Lucky them. He was a bastard. Eighteen, still no father had claimed him. He’d been called that moniker all his life that he used it without flinching. Keeda’s grumbling stomach reminded him he had chosen the train ride over breakfast.
“Here, take this,” in Gujarati. A stuffed chapatti was thrust under his startled eyes.
Keeda’s grateful smile vanished as he wolfed it down. Maybe his luck was changing.
“He’s not right in his head.”
Keeda realised she was whispering about him. So he recited the phrases in his head rather than out loud. He jumped off the train when the BMC approached. His heart pounded and his head felt like it would explode. What if they didn’t believe him? How could he prove he was legitimate for the first time in his life?
At the counter Keeda pushed his ticket under the grill and said, “Haresh Kumar.”
The man gap-toothedly grinned at his colleague and said, “Another one.” He didn’t even look down.
Keeda said, “Take this ticket.”
Keeda watched Gap-Tooth listlessly punch in the numbers: his eyes growing from raisins to almonds to pennies. His bald co-worker pooh-poohed it, re-entered the numbers, and gasped.
Keeda heard the dreaded words in Hindi, “Prove you’re Haresh Kumar.”
“You have the ticket. I don’t have to prove anything. Give me my money.”
In India fluent English was a currency; Keeda hoped his language skills just paid off.