We were painting or trying to paint, really. We scrubbed our canvas’ with colors of life, I tried to measure my painting; scratched my head in a worried mood. I was thinking about Angry Indian Goddesses, a movie in which a fellow girl friend’s mutilated body was washed up on the sea.
My sister waddled up the long staircase to go upstairs to get colors. The basement door was locked. WE WERE LOCKED. My heart thumped a thousand beats as I recalled to my mangled memory the voice of the old electrician and my mother standing near the invertor. My mind conjured up a thousand terrible cases and to the point when I reached the door; I was shaking. I called my mother, her phone was unreachable. Then I tried calling my dad whose phone responded in an eerily similar manner. I crossed my finger and hoped that the worst hadn’t arrived. We knocked on the door; loud and louder it thudded against our feeble hearts and it opened. I half expected a murderous villain to welcome me, but it was only our mother. We were relieved, complained and finally laughed. What a serious story to tell.