Short Story: My Arms Are Killing Me?
In an effort to distract myself from the pain, I began to mentally go through my favorite scenes from Harry potter, but even the thought of my favorite book couldn’t keep my mind off my discomfort for long. Huffing, I lugged the water-filler bucket uphill, careful not to spill too much of its precious contents. That would mean another trek downhill and I’ve had enough of that for one day.
I brightened up when I neared my destination- a simple hut made of mud and clay, its thatched roof glimmering under the morning sun. Hastily slipping out of my mud-caked sandals, I hurried on to the little veranda and set my burden down with a soft thunk. Heaving a sight, I stretched my aching hands up and arched my sore back, my toes digging into the now-familiar clay floor, the cool sensation it provided a welcome relief to the blisters adorning my feet.
Sparing a cursory glance at my nondescript surroundings, I ducked inside the home I was to occupy for three weeks. It was a two-roomed affair, housing a family of five. My first …show more content…
The Marai were wonderful hosts, going out of their way to make me feel at home. Mr. Marai, the head of the family, works at a nearby tea plantation and thus, I rarely saw him other than at meal times, but when I did, he always had a kind smile to give my way. Mrs. Marai is a small woman in her mid-forties and despite her strict demeanor, had made tremendous concessions in allowing me to perform important chores around the house, no matter how slow and clumsy I was, and had patiently explained how things were run in the family. She usually stayed at the small outbuilding that functioned both as a kitchen and as the community hub for neighbors, cooking, gossiping and in her free time, sewing. Mr. and Mrs. Marai had three daughters: the nineteen year-old Nitya, the twelve year-old Nupur and the adorable five year-old Nargis. It was in their company that I spent most of my stay