My father is a photograph. He smiles in his uniform, medals pinned to his chest, a flag in the background.
He was with us in the living room for the last three years, but when Uncle Jim started visiting Mum regularly, she insisted that I build a shrine on my bedside table.
I told her both of us needed a shrine and not a distraction. She told me that Uncle Jim was not a distraction. I told her that was not what I meant, even though that was what I meant.
Uncle Jim was a mechanic who smelled of gas and I was not particularly fond of him.
He bought me a couple of video games for my birthday and I made sure that he saw them in the bin, when he took the trash out after the party.
We frequented the movies on Saturdays and I refused to sit between them. I didn’t need a false impression of security; I wanted my father munching popcorn in my ear.
Every morning, I would leave the photograph on top of the television and Mum would return it to my room when I went to school.
I have moved on, she said, when I asked her about it. We have to adapt.
I remembered how in the beginning she would cry herself to sleep every night with me holding onto her. It was like those candlelight vigils people held. We did not adapt, we wept.
You will not understand, she said.
Is it because of his face? I asked.
She did not reply.
I caressed the photograph. I kissed my father. His face was charred, his nose was missing, his eyelids were absent and his scalp — the surface of a bloody moon. He was beautiful.
The house felt alien now that there was a trespasser living in our midst. Some nights, I listened to the vast gulf of silence that separated me from the secrets in mum’s bedroom. I dreamt that I was locked in a closet while a creature of fire and smoke, barely visible through the gap in the door, paced my bedroom.
One Sunday morning I was informed that Uncle Jim was moving in, and in response I spat out the piece of toast I was chewing on and went straight to my room.
A few hours later, Mum knocked on the door. She wanted me to say hello to Uncle Jim and help him set up his large screen TV. She said that he was even happy for me to play my Xbox on it.
She banged on the door.
I could hear Uncle Jim say, let him be, but Mum persisted.
The door stayed locked.
I listened to the sound of things being moved, to conversations that were meaningless and irritating because I was considering my unfortunate situation.
What would become of this new ‘space’ that I shared with the intruders and traitors?
I would not join in Mum’s delusions. I was not going to let their fake antics, especially the touching and kissing, spoil the memory of my father.
So later that night, when Mum announced that she was going to drop some stuff over at her friend’s place, I decided that it was the perfect opportunity to express my displeasure. I waited till I heard her drive away. Then I grabbed the can of gasoline from Uncle Jim’s workshop truck and burned down our home.
Strangely, I felt no sorrow for the burning structure that housed my memories. It occurred to me that a home was a creature of change, like a butterfly. A home perhaps at some stage in its lifecycle could be a bonfire for what it once contained and now cannot be revived.
I stood watching the flames, my body bathed in its heat and light, and when I had seen enough, I took the frame from my pack.
My father is a photograph and I am a reflection.
Nikesh Murali’s poems and short stories have appeared in ebooks, ezines, anthologies, journals and magazines all over the world. His works have been translated into several languages. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2007. He has completed his Masters in Journalism from Griffith University, Gold Coast, Australia for which he was awarded the Griffith University Award for Academic Excellence in 2005, and his Masters in Teaching from James Cook University in Townsville, Australia and a Bachelors degree in English Literature and World History from University of Kerala, India. He is a tutor and researcher at James Cook University and is working towards his Doctorate in Creative Writing.
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22 Responses to “THE PHOTOGRAPH • by Nikesh Murali”
Comments
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February 6th, 2010 at 12:24 am
On the whole a well-written piece, though the ending jarred – it seemed a bit over-the-top considering the slow-paced build up.
Also, I was distracted by the typos – ‘even thought’ for ‘even though’, ’setup’ instead of ’set up’, ‘it’ referring to ‘a couple’ of video games’. Then there was the overuse of ‘would’.
Editing considerations apart though, it was a very readable story and held my interest.
February 6th, 2010 at 12:31 am
Thanks for pointing out those typos, Paul. Fixed now.
February 6th, 2010 at 2:34 am
A very readable story showing how people handle their grief in different ways.
February 6th, 2010 at 3:14 am
I was distracted by the father’s picture being so hideous — what happened to him? I can’t imagine a child loving a picture like that, calling it beautiful. Children don’t think like that. Unless this child is disturbed. Why would there even be a picture like that, framed, in the house? The last line saying he is a reflection, implies that the child now looks like the father, i.e., was burned in the fire. So I start to wonder if the child was the cause of the father being burned. Too much unexplained or off the rails.
The writing is terrific, the storytelling skillful.
February 6th, 2010 at 5:11 am
What is the message here? Im mad at mommy so I burn down the house? Nice kid. Give ya one star!
February 6th, 2010 at 7:07 am
For some reason, this one did not impress me. And the ending was, as someone else said, “Over the top.” I understand a child being upset with the circumstances, but this kid came across as “disturbed.”
Also, I didn’t care for the stylistic variastion chosen by the author, to NOT put quote marks on the dialog. Why do this?
February 6th, 2010 at 7:19 am
This story held my interest right till the end, even though I found the ending on the melodramatic side, but that’s just a personal opinion.
February 6th, 2010 at 7:20 am
This story is poetic and beautiful, AND it has a plot – a rare combination indeed. Fabulous!
February 6th, 2010 at 7:51 am
A really good story. I was a little shocked by the ending, but I could see it happening.
February 6th, 2010 at 7:59 am
This story captured the child’s feelings beautifully. While it’s a rare person who would actually burn down the family home in such a situation, many can imagine doing something along those lines when life has goes on after tragedy and they’re still tormented by grief and not at all ready to move forward.
February 6th, 2010 at 8:20 am
Yes, I also wondered why in the world that photo was in the house. Why take the photo in the first place and then frame it? Well, the story is well written. It needs to be proofread one more time. And yes, I would have published it on my blog. So, I guess what I’m saying is I found the piece disturbing but definitely worth publishing.
February 6th, 2010 at 8:25 am
Well written story. Maybe the father did not die in action in the war. Perhaps the ending means that the father destroyed his own house by running away from home after being three years at home from the war, making the son’s destruction of his home parallel to the fathers destructive action of the. This parallel would give the story a strong ending. The son cannot accept the mother’s adaptation to the loss of the father, but somehow accepts the father’s decision, a father to whom he is alike in destructiveness. I agee with Jim Hartley that the kid is, at the least, disturbed, not accepting or respecting his mother’s life as anything but adjunct to HIS father. By the way Jim, the story is written in the First Person point of view entirely and doesn’t require quotes.
February 6th, 2010 at 8:33 am
Some words were left out of my earlier comment. I wrote “parallel to the father’s destructive action” – leaving home.
February 6th, 2010 at 9:06 am
Here is something odd. I read the whole story with the understanding that the child was the daughter. I never considered that the child might be male until I read Roberta’s comment. So, I went back and read it again and then found “Let HIM be, which is the only gender clue I found.
Now, the bad thing is, the story worked better for me as a daughter than a son. I can’t see a son reacting in ways the writer described. i.e… We did not adapt, we wept. and I caressed the photograph. I kissed my father.
To me, a boy would cry not weep, and he would embrace not caress. These are all just little things and I assume since English might be a second language for the writer, these subtle nuances are an easy miss. American English can be quite different than European and Australian English entirely.
I still liked the story, although it was working better for me when I thought the MC was female.
February 6th, 2010 at 10:07 am
Holy Smokes, all those credentials make feel quite inadequate to the task of commenting, nevertheless I’ll give it a shot.
The story flowed nice and smooth, no bumps. The ’stepfather story’ has been told so many times that it’s almost cliche, and I do agree that the horrible condition of the father’s face should be explained since it was brought up. All questions in the reader’s mind must be answered to give a satisfactory read. Perhaps, Father too had an accident with fire and a jealous son. This possibility might add a new twist to an old plot.
February 6th, 2010 at 11:01 am
Good story
about a tired subject!
3 ***
February 6th, 2010 at 12:57 pm
Tough subject matter, well written. The mom moves on with her life, the child’s life essentially stops at his father’s passing. The household becomes a living hell and the last act of the child is is turn it into an inferno. Not everyone heals.
–John
February 6th, 2010 at 3:05 pm
Mickey – In our neck of the woods – the U.S.A. we are known to have males who caress and also, especially while still children, cry pretty heavily when something terrible they can’t control happens. He did not caress his father; he caressed the picture.
C.M. – The picture of his father was as a wounded war hero. Real life usually solves it by a wise stepfather saying something like: “I know I can’t replace your father who you loved very much and who I respected. You can continue to call me “Uncle” but I am your mother’s new husband and I hope I can be a help and friend to you. We will remember YOUR father, my brother, together.”
February 6th, 2010 at 11:33 pm
Knowing the writer personally, my comments will obviously be slightly biased, but I will try to be as balanced as I can…
First, the story centres on a topic that has been covered before, both from literary and visual media. I will say though that this is a slightly different take on the subject matter. Most examples (from what I’ve seen) only cover the conflict based around a child and their step-parent, while the biological parent is seen as an ally. Not necessarily the case from this work, and a welcome change.
Second, the ending really does hit like the proverbial bus – but sadly some have taken such a drastic measure before today. There is an unspoken story as to why the child mourns to such a degree: Regret? Guilt? In fact, the unspoken story is what stood out most from my reading.
One thing that was slightly off the mark was the transition from ‘…displeasure’ to’…burned down our home’ for two reasons: One, it really was too quick, and more emphasis could have been placed on the burning action for dramatic effect (as appears to be intended). Also, the reference to ‘our home’ doesn’t quite fit the character’s view at this point in the story. To me, perhaps using the words ‘their home’ would have emphasised his being alienated or, more generically, referring to it as simply ‘the house’?
Overall, a great read, and one that many will relate to in some way.
**** (4 stars)
February 7th, 2010 at 12:27 am
Thank you readers for your comments, especially Roberta SchulbergGoro for her great analysis
February 8th, 2010 at 2:42 am
Nice one.
February 14th, 2010 at 1:08 pm
I did predict the ending as I was reading it but sometimes the endings that I can predict are the fitting endings to the stories. I felt a lot for the boy and have been in similar but different places in my life where I dreamed of doing similar things but was not brave enough. That is probably why I like stories like this so much. Kindred spirits. 5*s.