Reading Between The Lines

The orderly placed a small chair in the centre of the room, a low stool, cushioned, with no armrests; the wood aging, the paint flaking, the cushion sagging. Onto this very stool, she settled comfortably, slightly sinking into the soft down, and a large book lay on her lap in quiet anticipation; the edges fraying, the cover fading, the pages inside may be yellowing.

The children, they were murmuring, some tittering, one of them was even pointing at her, but she couldn’t tell; they were sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor, most of them at a polite distance from the golden-brown Labrador curled around her chair, placed right in the centre of that room. The orderly cleared his throat, loudly, and the children fell silent.

She patted the dog’s head, looked around, and smiled. That bookmark, sticking out of her worn copy, led her to the story the children had so far heard most of. Her long and nimble fingers delicately caressed the page, and she started narrating the tale out loud, her young friends now rapt in attention, one absent-mindedly scratching the drowsy Labrador’s head.

A bell suddenly rang, somewhere not very far from the classroom, and the Labrador quite visibly jumped out of stupor in response. The room then emptied gradually - the denizens tired and sleepy. She gingerly ran her fingers over the last lines, waiting for when ever that she might be able to suitably finish narrating the story, placed the bookmark, closed the book.

The orderly clipped a leash to the now very impatient Labrador’s collar, handing the other end, and a stout white stick to her. She held onto the orderly’s hand for a second more than just fleeting, in her way of saying thanks. She took a pair of Aviators from her bag and put them on, tapping her way out of the room, the Labrador proudly tugging at the leash.

By:

Sarthak Prakash