My Place Under the Staircase
Photo: Henry & Co. on Unsplash
Flash fiction: ‘It was grumpy until it greeted me, he could talk; a crab in my house, a crab in my house that could talk; and that too in standard English. I wasn’t dreaming. He claimed that he had lived there for longer than he could remember.’
In the misty morning, in the empty storeroom, I heard myself singing out loud the old tunes of an unknown Indie band. The lyrics were exact, and my voice was loud. In the sunny afternoon, in the empty storeroom, I lifted a filthy pair of socks, to smell, and to wear. From under the cabin of the stairs, I heard a snorting voice, something I’d never heard in this room. I planked and reached for the dark, I found nothing. Then, when I slid my way and crawled under the stairs, I saw a beautiful, shining wooden-coloured crab. I wasn’t aware of the snorting habits of crabs, it had a golden hairline on his head; it appeared aged; it was grumpy until it greeted me, he could talk; a crab in my house, a crab in my house that could talk; and that too in standard English. I wasn’t dreaming. He claimed that he had lived there for longer than he could remember. He didn’t remember his age.
I had found a friend for myself, a talking crab, and that too in my own house. How cool was that? I invited him to my dinner table, but he refused. He said, “I’m too old to move out.” I thought of bringing him food to his place, but he refused again. I felt betrayed; he was living in my house, and I was paying rent for the place, he was not. I still wanted to befriend him, so I asked him about his eating habits. He informed me that he only ate one ant per day.
A town of ants was situated right by his home, which was also under my staircase. The crab was friends with the ants, but the ants didn’t care to talk to me. I felt betrayed again. The crab went on to tell me about his food and that he was old, so he didn’t hunt anymore. The ants had made a pact with him, so, instead of the funeral of a dead ant, the ant would be served to the crab. The crab seemed satisfied with the arrangement; of course, he must be satisfied; the ants, I thought, must not be.
I offered to prepare him a soup of earthworms from the garden, he refused. I felt betrayed again and ashamed too. He seemed so happy at his place, and I was clearly not; also, it was my place, not his. He waved his tentacles to bid me goodbye. I wasn’t in the mood to smile, at least not at a happy, smiling, old, ugly-looking crab.
I searched for the town of ants; it was a prosperous place. I tried to talk to them but they didn’t talk back, they spoke in my ancestors’ dialect which I couldn’t understand. I watched them carry a dead ant from their town to the home of the crab, my space under the staircase. I wasn’t happy at dinnertime, I could have a guest at my table but he was too proud to leave his little hole. I planned to free the ants; they must be afraid of the crab. That’s why they didn’t speak to me.
In the cold night, in the not-so-empty storeroom, I prepared a crab-killing pesticide and sprayed it under my staircase, and then I went to sleep in the hope that the ants would befriend me and thank me tomorrow for this deed of freeing them. In the misty morning, I went to the same place as yesterday. I was happy; it was gloomy today. I bent forward and then slipped myself a little further into the town of the ants. I was hoping for a warm welcome, but it was so silent, and there were no ants today, every ant of the town went out to the crab’s home and was mourning at his funeral. I felt betrayed again, this time by the ants, I killed the crab for them so that we could be friends. They were not looking at me. I thought of trying again. I went to my kitchen to bring them some sugar to befriend them. When I returned, they had left their town too, I was alone again; there was no one else in the empty storeroom. There was no crab’s home, no ant town, but only my home, my under-the-stairs, not theirs. I lived there. I didn’t need friends anyway.
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Shaurya Pathania enjoys poetry, food and sports. His recent works can be read on JAKE, Ink in Thirds, Mulberry Lit Mag, and elsewhere. He is currently donning his flip-flops, and to make him wear his shoes you can find him Twitter: @shauryapathani4 and Instagram: @shauryapathania__.
